Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

Not smart enough.

Not straight enough.

Not fake enough.

Not big enough.

Not poor enough.

Not rich enough.

Not gay enough.

No label.

Pressure pounding,

get in where you fit in.

Feel a freak.





Addiction always accepts applicants.



Never mind pharmaceuticals

on every corner,

every billboard,

every commercial,

smiles for tears.

Never mind the food industry

your dinner full of chemicals,

years upon years.

Did they really think this wouldn/t change things?

Not alter physiology?

There is a disenfranchised army

of genetically altered mutants

wandering the streets these daze.

Terrifying the machine.

They can start it.

They can contain it.

They can lie to us about it.

They can throw us in


But they can not




You are a small part

of a great-big

divine consciousness.

Do not ever forget:




Maybe 2012 was the end,

of a programmed-bullshit-commercial-reality,

fed to us intravenously,


permeating pores.

There are no beginnings without ends



A curled-up mutt,
on the side of the road,
waiting to die.

Nursed to health by the kindness of others.

People that had every reason to spit.

As much in our hearts to care as it is in our nature to hurt.

Power sleeps in our hearts.

Many feel powerless;
everyone & everything,
has a say in the direction of life,
but those whose life it is.

The corporate community wants a world without spirituality.

Without hope.

To all look & think the same.

Unable to do anything for ourselves.

Needing the corporations to do it for us.

This ultramodern-social structure being imposed is unnatural.

Individuality fades away.

In this some are thriving.

They don/t want to rock the boat.

Why would they?

Hope they understand they/re an endangered species.

One day…
…it/ll be sink or swim with the rest of us.


I love my fucking city.

Every day I watch a little more of it burn away.

If their world is a stage,
& I/m but an actor in a play,
I want a new disguise.

Tired of the makeup that hides the lines.

But I am happy for these guys.

A show of hands.

How they find ways to profit under any circumstance.

Employment opportunities suffering creates.

It/s great.

People die here.

Controlled by fear.

No clear destination.

This is what happens when you let yourself be taxed without representation.

We nodded off at the wheel.

We missed out on the NEW deal.

We got kicked in the gut.

We have to wake up.



Posted: March 25, 2014 in Poetry, Prose

The days of snowflakes & pretty flowers are over.
We are products of concrete, chemical toxins, 60-second commercials, & capitalism.
We watched human beings disintegrate off this earth for the sake of procuring a few gallons of oil.
Robert Frost doesn/t belong here.
You better learn to crawl & act accordingly.
I will help put the American street poets on the map.

Final Revision

Posted: March 24, 2014 in Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized

Been rewriting the final revision of the ZENspeak book.
It/ll be on Amazon soon.
Probably a couple weeks.
All my work will always be free on display through various blogs & the zenspeaknine official website.
my last several posts,
have been the rewritten poems.
I/ll be publishing the table of contents as soon as everything is finished & posted.
I do things backwards.
if you have the extra change in your pocket,
& would like to make a contribution to the starving artist foundation,
I would not object.
Book is available right now;
I would wait for this edition.

Thank the gods for my readers.

the Utilitarian

Posted: March 24, 2014 in Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized

We/ve been locked in a state
of circumstantial dependence
each one of us
waiting for the other
to start loving them
nothing getting better
everything growing worse.


I used to think
really hard about
who was fucking
the world.

My own romantic web
of political intrigue.

As I often did,
I thought too much.

All it is-is
people who have shit,
shitting on people
who don/t have shit.

We love shit.

We eat their shit every day.


We toil our lives away
to become like those
with shit.

Then we discover
we ain/t shit.

We feel like shit.

We don/t mean shit.

We don/t give a shit.

We imagine shit,
just to deal with this shit.

But the shit
is about to hit
the fan.

I wouldn/t shit you.

the Governed

Posted: March 21, 2014 in Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized

petty thieves
life murdering
lovely liars

Our lives are not our own.