compulsion

in the rounds of repeated thoughts, all meaning was lost

future knocked
present off the ground
past took wind
and squeezed into a furious little ball
the moment
which, weakly protesting, might as well throw in the towel

carpe diem, and the day was seized,
pounded, thrashed, kicked and buried,
masticated like beef jerky

all the photos reexamined for their significance
evidence of life been lived, oh curated life

pause. and read the newspapers.

but then the cries begin again
flash, the signs carried by smiling, oiled bodies
the bell, the blood, the whispers to begin

again, begin again

but already we know the scores.

yet like a battle cry, the performer flings his paint
throws his life blood, against
the ideas of life, the ideas of blood

to fling oneself against one's ideas of self
and in the bubbling
battleground, lose one
or smash the other

you read.

the disemboweled words can be no recognition
the vanquished lies in the arena, basked in sun, ready for all
the tiger sinks in its cage, the crowd lifts up its thumbs
the winner stands in a pool of blood
everyone endures their freedom

but still
the scores had already been published
yesterday
the ink had melted the press
and you
were sitting in the editor's chair
all this time, wondering what to do with your life

anthropophagique

pandora opened her mouth
and that was the hole out which came hope
and those were the words, the phantoms, the 123456
that became language
that became bibles
that became all of this

sounds, uttered in the eating of man
chewing, tearing, hunger became the words
which is all nothing except the spit, the shit, the spit, the shit of society

what we call society
what we call 10000000000000000000 human beings
who have idea enough to call themselves human beings
and language enough to utter those sounds
and people enough to propogate

it

ii and then t
w and then h and then aaaaaa
tell it to me like i am a baby
tell me the ha the ha ha the halves that become wholes the ho the hope
tell me the rhymes that become rhythms and castles that become law

all of the molecules
tell me about those molecules

i am the hole between the words
you are the hole between my thoughts
we are the space between our lives

the true
le trou

i eat
and i eat
and i eat
and i eat
and i eat
and i eat

i eat myself into me.

What I Know About Jack

After dusting off his glasses, he realized that there was no dramatic change.

His living room is the color of shit. And his face blends perfectly into it.

The white girl was still dancing the Arabian dance, three songs later, and that's cool with him. He had already run out of Kahlua, and now relied solely on repetition to keep high.

Buddy Jack lied on the couch next to him, asleep. The green cathode light of Arabia reflected off Jack's shiny little face, mirrored the movements of water, and incense, and plaid skirts. This girl Jack met on Facebook, who was supposed to meet up for real, with all her many girlfriends, never showed up. (Who the hell meets up with strangers from Facebook - that's what I asked Jack.) But Jack didn't listen to me, and now he's all Jacked-out, asleep.

Such is life, again.

I peeled away the brown paper of the Kahlua bottle. I tossed the bottle against the dirty frat wall. I imagined a smash, a splash, and all the glass shards like rock and roll on the brown carpet, but instead the bottle bounced, in tact, twice, and rolled limply on the floor, next to Jack's feet.

(This disappointment was too great for me, and I left the apartment. Two steps to the door, and no one noticed.)

Meanwhile, Jack's friend was still sitting on the couch, watching the Arabian girl who was now eating popcorn and grinning at her naked girlfriend. He, jealous, too was disappointed - this night of broken promises, and facebook pokes. Jack began to snore, and Jack's friend took a tissue paper and snuffed him out.

This is how Jack died.

At the funeral, his high school friends had a lot to say. And some underclassmen who never knew him, but heard of him from friends or was friended by him on facebook. And Jack would have been happy to know that overall, he was a well-liked man. His creepiness was attributed to his friendly spirit, and his acne was attributed to his incompetent doctor who didn't know jack about skin conditions.

His friend, who accompanied him in his death throes, swore to a fantastic ending: white girls in Arabian dresses that they met in a club downtown, and partied with all night long until they crashed at Jack's room, from exhaustion.