he was speaking vodka, a language that I understood all-too-well
as I sat on the edge of his bed, I handed him the joint that I had just finished carefully rolling
he lit it, and taking a small toke, became suddenly and uncharacteristically serious
“You do know that I’m not life, right?”
it must have been obvious that I had no clue how to answer that, so he continued,
“When I was just a little boy, “your grandpa (and mine) told me, “he said,
‘Son, you’ll pull time before you hit twenty.’
“At nineteen, I did six months.”
before he could say another word, drunk people spilled into the room and the party took over
it was as if the writer of this dark comedy of errors had carefully placed the interruption into the script for dramatic effect
years later, I stood in the yard with my father one morning
we burned a mattress in the yard
a mattress with a peculiar red stain on the top end of it, right about where a man would lay his head down to sleep
smoke climbed high, snaking its way through the bare tree branches, coating the limbs, blackening the sun, giving twisted new meaning to the wind
with each searing crackle, each hot little iron that launched out of the flames, the notion was solidified that you would never be with us again
the red stain is forever removed, taken off and away from the bad blend of cotton and synthetic fiber
its ugly lack of aesthetic, permanently removed from the eye
we have, instead, embroidered you into our hearts, in gold-letter on satin
a little redirection, a simple trick of the firelight and the mind
a touch of pre-approved manipulation, vocabulary and memory, now twisted to suit ourselves with semblances of sanity
and you, all dressed up, looking dapper in a new suit
something to bring you over the threshold in style
we have gathered many flowers
you were one of them
now, on this rainy Saturday, we gather more, but none of them are as rare or as interesting as you
still, we do so wish that you were not so
still
now, we are all so much more careful with our words
we never had to monitor our tongues before
we always counted on you to say something deliciously profane, hysterical, sublime
you said things far more terrible than we could ever manage (or dare) to bring forth from our fearful mouths
you said it all for us, you, being our favorite devil, you spared no words, knowing full well that your time was short
now, everything is serious and sullen
ash settles on us, stealing the still-warm seat of smiles
we do our best to preserve the integrity of your memory
with all our words, so clumsily polite and wrong
yours were so horribly accurate
your list of faults could fill volumes
all of these, now consumed by fire and forgetfulness
we will not miss them
we are, in fact, glad to be free of these; free from the weight of your awful acuity
your spiteful condemnation of this earth was always felt hot upon our necks
even your parting words of “Fuck this world!” were a vicious pronouncement of a pox on all our houses
that seething sentiment, ever-present, laced into the mix of the cocktail that was you; virtually indistinguishable from the indiscriminate joy of your cosmic jester voice pouring out over our wanting brains
we will not miss the chaos of your actions, or your allegiance to an autocratic indifference
we only miss
everything else
but beneath all of the intolerable heavy,
knowing of nothing else to do…
we dutifully lift our eyes to the coming days where you are not
I see the length of rope that hangs you I know how you are trapped from within There’s nothing for you that I can do Don’t expect you’ll come down again
The invisible shackle on your leg I feel its ponderous weight, as well The lock and key don’t belong to me And neither does your hell
There is no gag to mute your voice You chose to choose, to beg, to ask When asked about your final choice The words could not escape the mask
The floor is yours; of me, no trace Stepping away, discharging a sigh One heavy heart, one double-face For someone other than I
The Music, Poetry, and Madness of Kevin Trent Boswell— Most recent book release, available on Amazon —Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
emptiness strode in and took the place of fullness
redirection and symbolism flailed like untrained children, beating each other with soft, half-balled-up fists; fists that were incapable of accurate aim
there was little violence, many tears
still, it was less comical and more sad
the end result of all of this is nothing more than emptiness
I am not there, nor are you, nor is anything, nor is anyone else
it is all full of nothingness now
and anyone who can look at this mess and say that there’s anything good about it
that’s someone who needs to have all their teeth knocked out of their mouth
a little understated skywriting announcing the death of a loved one brightens up any picnic
a small, unobtrusive mountain of mayonnaise or tapioca pudding in their living room makes for a wonderful birthday surprise
a subtle moat of blood around your mansion is much classier than any ol’ stupid infinity pool
a modest bouquet of wildfire in your neighbor’s garden is a much more imaginative housewarming gift than a dull plate of homemade cookies
one will never present as rude or ostentatious, if only you remember not to scream obscenities in the movie theater… until after the opening credits
it’s not beyond the boundaries of good taste to have an assortment of gangrenous appendages on the bureau in the foyer instead of the more traditional candies and breath mints
the neighbors will appreciate a conservative display of heads on spikes; it’s a nice way to outline the borders of one’s property line without being too uncivilized about it
it’s hardly meretricious or inelegant to wear a fifty-foot royal purple robe, with the ears and eyes of one’s enemies stitched into the edges
it is, after all, a formal affair; one wouldn’t wear it to go out dancing, obviously
no one of good breeding will think you garish, just because you proclaimed yourself lord emperor of all unicorns
most will assume that it was merely the wine talking
if you bring your honey badger to that karaoke bar where all your coworkers meet for happy hour, you’ll have the envy of everyone at the office
it’s not too glitzy or braggadocio to wear lingerie and furs to church, not for the easter service, anyway
no one can accuse you of behaving bodaciously when you drag a couple of five-gallon containers of gasoline into the library, then proceed to dump them out, and light up a cigarette
after all, some of us like to enjoy a good book with a smoke
never too splashy to pass out sex toys and clean needles at the old folks’ home and the orphanage; it just wouldn’t be christmas without the spirit of giving
yes, it is “commanding” to slit one’s throat over the punch bowl
but everyone at the party knows you’re single, and you really do have to peacock just a smidge, if you’re ever going to attract that special someone
anyone who scolds you for pissing on a wedding cake just doesn’t know how to party
who cares if you didn’t hit every single note perfectly in that show tune?
before you started boldly livening up the place with song, it was so tense and somber in that operating room; those surgeons should be thanking you
it’s anything but too splashy to throw mardi gras beads at a funeral
everyone appreciates it when you spice things up with some colorful fun, and who doesn’t like free costume jewelry?
people are just too uptight these days
don’t take it personally; they simply do not understand your special brand of panache
This is the first recorded version of the instrumental Trent Boswell piece called “Scorpio.”
It was done with an acoustic guitar, no mic, straight into a cheap, handheld tape deck. It was the kind nobody owns anymore, but was in classrooms, lawyers offices, and company boardroom meetings. Super high-tech stuff, lemme tell ya.
Don’t forget to do all the things:
Like 👍
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The fancier, official recording is on the album Area 25 by Trent Boswell, and it features bass, drums, and electric lead guitar.
album artwork by Dorian Strange
If you’re like me, you are not nearly cool enough to use Spotify (the link above). Uncool, Gen X guys like me use services like Apple Music.
Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly.
However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed.
Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.
they fell like flies during those six terrible decades that began in mid January of 2024, in Portland, Oregon
so much collateral damage such tremendous loss of life
well… normal, everyday life
so much loss of… balance
power was wrested from the hands of those who were so accustomed to having power… in their homes chariots lost all control, crashing into each other like rams; suicide bombers, without any allegiances, taking out street signs, and Toyotas
actually, it wasn’t quite six decades, I guess it was more like six years?
but that hardly matters
when such senseless devastation falls on a place, the clock itself is killed in action
no one even recalls what started the wars
one day, it was brother and sister, neighbor and friend and the next, it was bedlam, chaos
colorless blood ran freely in the streets and froze into gruesome, solid, white sheets of gore; winter’s guts
it all happened so fast, there was no time to question why, how, or when
there was only enough time to react, to fight for one’s life, flailing on the battlefield, in mortal combat, man against nature, warrior against warrior, chariot against chariot
no wonder it felt like such an eternity
it is easy to understand how we thought it was six years
although, I was just reminded, it was only six months, not six years
still, it’s reasonable to assume that it would be simply impossible for so much carnage to occur in only six months
so many frozen toes, cold fingers, and other numb appendages
brave combatants, slugging it out in the trenches, trying to catch one of the few buses that were still running
the psychological impact, the mental anguish of having to leave fallen comrades behind
“Man down!”
war is truly hell
so many work hours… gone, forever
never to be made up through overtime
so many delivery orders that never arrived
there are no memorials in the town square, commemorating the fallen heroes
there are only pools of slush and tears
and the slow efforts of healing struggling to bloom, like the first buds of a spring that has yet to arrive
healing the wounds of the body is easy
hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa, and bandages for all the minor cuts, sustained out on those unforgiving, frozen killing fields
many battlegrounds have yet to be cleared
Burlington, Thorburn, Burnside, and 72nd Street, all littered with destroyed vehicles, fallen trees and power lines
all icy remembrances of the horrors of this past six weeks of war
the human body is amazingly resilient
the physical frame can regenerate lost tissue, skin that was mercilessly ripped from innocent flesh, as brave soldiers engaged in the fray, a torturous melee against the territory itself, and every previously mobile thing that had suddenly become a permanent fixture of the terrain
yes, the body bounces back quickly
the healing of the mind, however, this is a slower, more subtle, and more painful process
one must confront the awful memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares, of waking up and realizing that there would be yet another morning of snow and freezing rain, and temperatures that only rarely and briefly climbed above freezing
even now, Portlanders are struggling to come to grips with all of it, the mindless, opaque fog of war
some are still huddled in corners, entirely overdressed, certain this is only a brief ceasefire, terrified that, at any moment, the temperature will drop by thirty degrees, and the flurries will begin anew
these snow-shocked veterans of the Oregon ice wars are suffering terribly, post-traumatic stress disorder, mild head injuries, scraped elbows and skinned knees, all these poor limbs, slammed down hard onto the slab of the division of wartime; somewhere down on SE Division Street
these wounds are not only of the body
these wounds run deep into the collective psyche of all who were here and bore witness to the atrocities
humiliation tortures, crimes against humanity, or at least against the ego, forced participation in farcical ice follies, persecution techniques of the enemy, methods that most definitely do not conform to the Geneva Conventions
the victims will have to face that long road toward reopening all the roads;
reconstruction could take days
everyone will have to agree to lay down their arms, so they can take off their heavy coats
they will need to let go of their grievances against the inconveniences of such widespread conflict
they’ll have to band together, setting aside their differences, and their snow shovels
they must remove the war spikes from their winter boots, and finally come together to heal; probably over a cappuccino, or possibly an imported lager
because, while the bitter memories are still all too fresh, and the bruises on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender, we must accept that now, the war is, in fact, over
it is time to forgive, to put aside our petty differences
it matters not, which side of the Max Line you were on, when the hostilities first began
now, there are no more white, frozen lines of scrimmage
or, at least, any that remain should be gone by tomorrow
it is time for Portlanders, and indeed, all Oregonians to remember that they are kin
never mind that each is as different from the next as frozen night is from snowy day, that no one can agree on the right wine to serve with which dish, or which aperitifs and canapés to serve with brunch
still, they must strive to remember that they all live together, in the great State of Oregon!
let there be peace now and forever
sit, side by side, at the fireplace, share your stories with one another
help one another work through the trauma and heartbreak of the ice wars
maybe don’t sit by an actual fire, like, in the actual fireplace; I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now… so, maybe just a nice sweater, and a scarf or something
but, you know… some tea, or coffee, and the love of your fellow citizens, citizens of this great territory, all of who lost so much in these horrendous six weeks of…
come to think of it…
it really was, now that I think about it, only about six days, or something like that
but, anyway…
whatever
it was a grim, burdensome trial by fire, you know, that weird, burning sensation that you get, when the only exposed parts of your skin are being dragged by gravity across the white, rock hard and razor sharp wasteland, somewhere along the front lines of César Chávez
it’s so weird that you’d feel heat, being raked over ice like that…
but I digress
the message here is unity, peace, healing, and starting anew
let the insufferable nightmares of those six awful days begin to recede days of ice, calamity, the inability to receive any type of deliveries
let these horrors finally be buried in the past
it is now time to bury the ice scraper
to begin treating one another as neighbors, once again
the war is over
well, don’t actually bury the ice scraper, because we could potentially get another brief cold snap at some point, but you understand the metaphor
go now
go in peace
there are restaurants to eat at, coffee shops, where baristas will serve you hot beverages,
there will be packages waiting at your doorsteps when you arrive home from work
and, all will once again be rational and sane, just as it was
the ice is on fire bumper car gridlock in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning, flush from the recent triathlon, scoops tainted blood into the shoes of passersby, snagging their throats with treble hooks of laughter, inappropriate sympathies, and an unreasonable sense of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed, lampooned, stranded, laid bare, out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering; every bit as distressed as a snow covered bear trap, whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs, recovering from their labors at the front end of the long sled, lined with the tusks of sea lions, the hides of wolves and polar bears, full of provision pouches, stuffed with the fat of seals, the jerked meat of horses and sheep, the oil of whale fat, lamps with tinder, flint and steel, maps and spyglass
come what may, take all comers, oh come, all ye entirely too faithful in thy selves and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom are many, and fraught with the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help, these fall under the brutal gales of blustery winter, after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower, it seizes up in the fierce cold, after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice of prairie-mad soothsayers, tolling on, cracked bells, silly, cocky and cockeyed songs of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance, cold forgiveness,
touched in the head, white-bearded archons, flat on their backs and somehow flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms, stitched singly, haphazardly, threaded with baby’s breath and prideful schemes of humanity, pining after such translucent and diaphanous tales as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge, bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude at the feet of the hard, white, glass god
coarse altars of lead, chalcedony, hematite, heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of snow dusted pigeons, drizzled over wreaths of holly, mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters, etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names, and pictographic metaphors of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible to pilot oneself spritely through the tiny cracks in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in through the inconspicuous spaces between nucleus, proton, and electron
the guards there demand steep tributes of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers of the firm law of covalent bonds fail to remember the signs, and passwords,
they perish in surprise, taking the slow slide down the fireman’s icicle pole, expiring on tempered lengths of bastard steel
tumbling down, all Raggedy Ann, on the intolerant, vengeful Nordic coastline of Hagalaz and Isa, Hail and Ice, the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory, connective synapses of recollection, the mysteries of how horses and fresh lambs drop, all nimble and precocious, right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors, kings and commoners, despots and derelicts is a nearly hobbled state of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons, little more than strips of bark and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless, in thatched barracks of straw, bundles of linen, and distracted into oblivion by sparkling colors
lower beasts, nearly ready for the long journey at the first hour and breath
the armies of men, stumbling along immense assembly lines of careful speculation, as with the construction of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few handfuls of fitful days, and then, flopping down, all useless and dead, onto the ivory floor of cathedral, lapsing into comatose stupidity, before the misty-eyed gentry, all aghast and agape in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners, horns, and other things, all about as useful and as sensible as fistfuls of frozen rain, hurled at bloodshot eyes, in a farcical effort to turn back the sun
casualties of winter casual business, and other synonyms for meshuggeneh
there is nothing here, except razor and concussion
there was little else, before
there will be so very much more, after all the pages in this calendar finish collapsing, and the scorpion chicks hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood, arising from pockets beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds dance ridiculous jigs of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous, violently stabs the messenger, plucks out the beans of its collaborators and benefactors
every catapult needs a good story to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate, gets strangers to drop their cards below line of sight; defenses, all poesy fall down in the fireplace ready for the singeing, jousting steer of the brutal, searing poker, and throttled by the iron callousness of the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat flutters briskly through the epistemic landscape, with great and needless fanfare; cones of pine, juniper, and spruce, arriving, on schedule, in crisp, popcorn condition, and announcing their candidacy to throngs of disinterested piles of wanton ash and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak of the frigid undertaker was not already draped unceremoniously over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs of a ravenous, predatory spirit of long forgotten murder is already snapped halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready, or prepared just right
and it just so happens that… all the tea fell into the fishing hole, beside that steep ravine, about three furlongs back
no one is going back to retrieve it
in point of fact, no one is going back
the infamous baby blues of the orthodox reaper’s gaze are nothing but fishwife tales, windblown, fanciful stories for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms of endless black sockets are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time a brief stop off, the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver barely slows the funereal sleigh, little more than a knot or two
just long enough to drop off a carcass to the butcher at central weigh station at the junction of nowhere and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point in a never ending whiteout of dusty white sepulchers of bleached curtain stillness naught, added, heaped upon still more naught
waiting endlessly at the barred gateway above Davy Jones’s Locker, that impenetrable doorway, never to open, frozen fast by an ancient curse, cast by a race of creatures who no longer dwell in these parts, and hence, it cannot be undone or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the prone slumber of waiting for the cessation of that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this unsympathizing row of colorless manacles, fastened to illusory, two-dimensional jailhouse walls, wandering, listless, between the vibrant universes of the living and the stale, crumbling patterns of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain, who stands high, at the whip, and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman, and there is a lifeless stringer of salmon flavored icicle pops, trailing in the terminal waters, behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of once beautiful mystery, now stripped away
there’s a little too much play in this troglodyte toggle switch; it’s randomly going on and off, and that could mean that no one at all is going to get hurt
I went halfway around the world, just to change your mind, turn it all around, and go the rest of the way homeless
I stopped being witty and cute about five and a half hours before I ever got started
horrific crash, a dust bunny in the corner slammed into me, head on, and I nearly died
when I say that I’ll wake up again tomorrow and carry on as usual, no one ever takes these threats of self-harm seriously
a good scouring scourge is a healthy part of any unbalanced individual’s therapy; I recommend you go on Tuesdays, between the hours of midnight and fathomless apathy; ask for Tomás
embracing the barn owl’s lofty promise was always a noble goal; if we’re talking about the goal that is that precious few inches of golden airspace between your drunk friend’s fingers, in which they present you the priceless opportunity to hit your paper football through it
back into the lab, to draw up new schematics for sucker punch melody grinders and rambunctious shades of taupe
the widget blueprints were leaked; the balloon factory obviously has a mole
every single bit of this was somehow even better than the other one that you weren’t paying attention to, either
the pretzel grenades will make short work of our adversaries; short work that will malinger through the frenzied millennia
even now, in this early phase of the campaign, our garden gnome mercenaries are gathering reconnaissance and torturing the water hose for useful information about that twig over by the fence
let’s synchronize our watches we’ll reconvene at eleven hundred hours to plan our assault on that blueberry cheesecake
to imply that there’s some potentially better use of our time and energy is an offense punishable by not being offered a slice of cheesecake
that’ll teach those bastards
in the meantime, I have hired a new duende, and we can trust that all the the arrangements will be handled appropriately
our schemes of passive conquest, followed by a bit of relaxing seppuku are quite safe within its capable, razored claws
tonight’s humiliation is the epitome of postmodern junkyard chic; I like mine sautéed with garlic, onion, mandrake root, capsicum, wolfsbane, and a pinch of dill
de rigueur new wave infatuation folds up nicely, and tucks away neatly into the furnace
these feral scarecrows wander through the violet patch, looking for windbreakers, opium, and elusive moments of quiet, inspired slaughter
Late last year, I moved to Portland, Oregon. It’s a wonderfully weird place. The locals actually say, “Keep Portland weird.” There’s a large mural of that saying, somewhere in the city. Everything about this place is quirky, eccentric, and hence, I should fit in here, just fine.
I also started a new job. I’m working in the mental health field. No, I’m not a doctor, therapist, and definitely not a psychiatrist. I just work for a company that trains us to assist people who have one or more mental health diagnoses, addiction problems, or who have lived on the streets, but are now in reliable housing, provided by the state. It’s a good gig. I get paid well, to help the people who really need help the most.
On Friday night, it started snowing, the temperatures were bottoming out as low as 18°F. That’s well below freezing, and it doesn’t even account for the windchill factor.
The other, less positive side of Portland, is that the homelessness crisis here is really bad. It’s almost impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least one car, RV, tent, or lean-to type shelter that someone is using to live in.
I first discovered this song from the band Junip. When I realized that it’s a cover of Bruce Springsteen, I found the original, and loved it, too.
This morning, it’s so cold outside, that neither my dog nor myself want to go outside any longer than is absolutely necessary. But, there are people out there, living in tents and sleeping bags.
I woke up to this song playing, I had left my phone on shuffle all night to help me sleep. I listened to it, looked at the weather, then became obsessed.
I’d never played this song before, but I learned it, then I recorded all the guitar and bass parts, and sang the vocal, and recorded it, and mixed it. Basically my whole Sunday went into this.
I plan to make a video for it, but I wanted to get this out, because I worked on it nonstop all day.
The Ghost of Tom Joad
Men walkin’ ‘long the railroad tracks Goin’ someplace there’s no goin’ back Highway patrol choppers Comin’ up over the ridge Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretchin’ ’round the corner Welcome to the new world order Families sleepin’ in their cars in the Southwest, No home no job no peace no rest
The highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Searchin’ for the ghost of Tom Joad
He pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag Waitin’ for when the last shall be first, and The first shall be last In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
Got a oneway ticket to the promised land You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock Bathin’ in the city aqueduct
The highway is alive tonight Where it’s headed everybody knows I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Waitin’ on the ghost of Tom Joad
Now Tom said, “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy “The Ghost Of Tom Joad” lyrics Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and Hatred in the air Look for me Mom I’ll be there
“Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ For a place to stand Or decent job or a helpin’ hand Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.”
Well the highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light With the ghost of old Tom Joad
discount buggers, sitting too short in the saddle to catch any light
but, far too tall to be dead things, since dead things don’t sit tall in saddles
not quite full-fledged maniacs, lacking in the forthright candor of more honest lunatics
mockeries of invisible garbage
pieces you can’t quite sort from all the other forgeries
ii.
the easiest lie to tell is always the one that was undisputed, when you told it to yourself
iii.
broken pieces of education, peppered liberally over a plate of wishful thinking
half-truths, fractions of wisdom
chicken scratch cheat sheets in secret breast pockets
decency spent far too many wasted evenings trying to shape a pile of vomit into a snow angel
but, the toothpaste is already out of the inner tube
besides, the inner tubes are all useless now;
the tires were all stolen months ago
there is no sculpting dour secular emptiness into glorious, golden cathedrals
one does not simply turn recidivistic destroyers into genius inventor candy makers, acrobatic violinist movie stars, or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas
thespians of the eternal grift, they have no thirst or pallet for love stories, only tragedy and horror
it is exceedingly difficult to shape small piles of deformed turd nuggets into the colossus
the thing is… if you put a hat over a turd… no one sees a turd; they just see a hat
and, god help the poor bastard who tries to put it on
sprinkle a big pile of rose petals right over top of the whole thing, and you won’t even smell it
but it’s still there
iv.
it’s really not important, what I’m going on about
probably better if you just take a nap through the rest of this
v.
if the impressive would stop trying to elevate the unimpressive then, they’d be more impressive
if they’d stop trying to raise the dead, it would be very impressed, indeed
if the unimpressive would stop trying to decimate the impressive, they’d already be half the way towards making a positive impression
but, none of this is due to change
vi.
seven in the side pocket? my ass
there are four in this room who can make that shot, and you ain’t one of ’em
like I said, it really doesn’t matter what I am babbling about
go back to sleep
or better yet…
there’s a small slip of paper, rolled up around a dull pencil; it’s not a number two pencil, but rather, one of those no-name brands
it’s in the top right drawer of that bureau over there
it’s held in place on the pencil by a rubber band
it’s underneath a pile of old letters and yellowing catalogs
go open the desk drawer, remove the stacks of papers, and pick up the pencil
remove the rubber band, unroll the little slip of paper from off of the pencil, and unfold it
what’s it say?
that’s right, it says,
“Fuck you.”
no, that’s okay, you can keep it; it’s yours
take it with you, and share it with the rest of your kin,
all the other black holes
the liars, fakers, pretenders, predators, thieves, naggers, reality-twisters, dream-stealers, complainers and haters, would-be conquerers of insignificant kingdoms
fighting razor tooth fang nail claw over the right to wear a crown made out of rusty wire coat hangers
or, a tiara crafted from zip ties, and tinsel from last year’s Christmas tree
two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat
the unintelligent, masquerading as geniuses
half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses, unintelligently masquerading as… well, who really cares?
the impolite, leaning on the good manners of those who are too kind to tell you the hot, vibrant, fundamental truth
which is, that you are fundamentally without truth, or heat, or vibrance
I, on the other hand, have misplaced all of my politesse, and have no qualms about sharing these things with you
I don’t recall which drawer I left my good manners in, or what I wrapped around them
but, I can tell you, with great certainty, that I’ve had more than my fill of the full measure of you
I can tell you what you can go get wrapped around
vii.
the steely, red-hot poker of murder in your eyes is only a compliment to me
I would be perturbed, ashamed, if you approved of me
I have no love for your kind
the secret whisperers, rumor starters, terminally restless luddites who shun such newfangled, diabolical technologies as empathy and dedication to things other than self
nonconsensual emotional sadists, pullers of wings from houseflies, slayers of fierce dragons, or rather harmless dragonflies
you are all that is ugly in a world that was already teeming with ugliness
busybody breakers of other people’s toys, ensnarers of time, ambuscaders, ambushers of vitality
there isn’t a pencil on the whole planet that’s dull enough to write your little shit story
there aren’t enough rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs, thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets on Earth to bind you
there aren’t enough iron chains, piano strings, or Mardi Gras beads made out of concertina razor wire to wrap around your neck and throttle you with
nor is there a steamer trunk heavy enough and sturdy enough to fit you into, weight it down with all the barbells in the gym, wrap the whole thing in chains, and toss it off the backside of the ferry, just like Houdini, except, hopefully less skilled at the art of escape
you, who have such a knack for finding beautiful things, and shattering them or, at least, doing your damndest to try
you will find no welcome here
as if you thought any more of yourself, honestly
which of course, you would never be
viii.
news anchor spin games
rewriting history playing both the victim and the hero
convince us, once again, explain to us, what a paragon of virtue you are
I’ll wait.
you are the weeds, choking out beautiful flowers, because you envy them
but, you wouldn’t be happy being a rose
not even if all the work of being a rose was done for you
the moment you actually became a rose, you would instantly become jealous of the orchids
you’d swear that you were being cheated by all those selfish petunias
you’d be stabbing marigolds in the back, shanking them with a bundle of thorns you made in your unlocked prison cell
stealing their soil and their sunlight, telling all the dandelions, honeysuckles, and carnations what terrible, awful creatures the petunias and orchids are
and, all the joy of being a rose would perish
somewhere in the dark, shaded corner of a dry bed of dust where nothing ever grows
once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
you will miss out on everything good in this world, because you pay no mind to anything, unless it makes you feel intense pleasure, within the first few seconds of your coming into contact with it
but, most things that are worth a fractional damn take time to comprehend
only camouflage, disguises, and baited traps are appealing upon the first, hurried look
you lack the patience for anything of depth; the slow, patient tempo, the subtle building up of tension
you are a toaster pastry junkie, surrounded by strange, delectable flavors which are unknown to you
blackberry brioche bread pudding might not be your cup of Earl Grey, but it’s at least something new
you’d have to slow down enough to try it, and that means it’s never going to happen
you’d much rather stage a five-lawyer defense, arguing that you already tried it, years ago, when you know damn well that you’ve never even heard of it
but, you’ll swear… you didn’t like it back then, even though a four-star chef flew in from Paris just to make it for you
therefore, this one couldn’t possibly be any better
you’d prefer to spend fifteen minutes trying to convince everyone that you had something just like it, (only far superior to it in every way) for breakfast
it doesn’t matter that everyone in the room saw you, walking out of the shop this morning, with a dozen doughnuts and a coffee
it’s more fun for you to say that you’re allergic to blackberries, even though you know good and well that you’re not
rather than simply forking off a little nibble, and politely giving it a taste, we must submit to your twenty-five minute tirade, lambasting us for being so foolish, as to believe that we were actually eating what we thought we were eating
you so kindly break it down for us, in very small words and short sentences, that if it wasn’t made by Louis XVI himself, in the bathtub of Marie Antoinette, then it’s not actually a real blackberry brioche bread pudding, and it’s technically only a “sparkling Viennoiserie,” despite your having learned that term only half an hour ago, while eavesdropping on the waiter at the next table, thinking nobody else heard it
but, by the time you have finished making your ridiculous and utterly pointless case, the rest of us have cleaned our plates, paid the bill, and quietly fucked off, while you were busy looking at your reflection in the silverware
and, even if it’s embarrassing, it’s still the gospel truth… I used to collect amnesias, but now, I’ve given all that up; gave the whole set back to her majesty, the queen
and now, there’s so much knowledge, it won’t even fit on the milk cartons
but, the juice is much more slippery, on the other side of town
if we’re really telling all, there are only sharks in the sea
each bite, delicious sadness, if you must know
let’s be totally clear about all of this,
we’ve grown far too close to one another to stop lying to ourselves, now
the party favor wasn’t punished for passing itself around, but for passing itself off as a thing all nailed down
let your hairless cats hang loose, and slip into something nauseating
it ruins the texture of the pudding, if you don’t bleed it out just right
so, dish out the starchy, fat parts of the story, so you can pick up a new one, down at your favorite food truck
give it all away before midnight, and the fifth is free
not to burst any bubbles, but the snowman isn’t actually made of lunar cheese
and, all that rain is fake; it’s really nothing more than water
the consigliere is only guessing, it’s all wild speculations; hopes that no one will notice, that they’ll all just play along
but, the wandering minstrel has lost his will to lie down
and, the troubadour is sharpening his boots for the dance
on the level, I will tell you that motor isn’t running, only because it’s all out of rocks and gum balls
if it’s time to get real, then we must suck it up and finally admit, all the Kewpie dolls are dying in the streets
the cobbler is high again; treatment didn’t take
the shoes are made of peaches, the boats all made of pearls and, the pears are getting fresh with the sailors in the saloon
apricot dandies dancing with apple cider cinder blocks in the twilight of everything that never happened thrice
rehearsing old headlines for all the latest, breaking news
the oysters are all full of shotgun pellets
all the nails are soggy, and the slugs are too tall
every day is carte blanche ice cream, caviar, and internal hemorrhaging
all the wild ponies are stuffed with loose rainbows, loose rainbows made of oil spills, and sprinkles of leprosy
the attraction is purely chemical, pure forever chemicals
today…
today was full of not dying
and a tentative lucidity
the significance of this is yet to be determined
it’s either a huge win, or it is entirely meaningless, or it’s the greatest loss of the entire war,
or it’s wholly imaginary, or it’s simply yet to be determined
all the bubbles are busy blowing away in the breezes
all the busy are stuck, spinning endlessly, on the quick wash unicycle
none of the etiquette equates to actual manners
no one’s manner equates
at least, not to anything short of mannerisms
the etiquette of mannequins
the ethics of plush toys; plush toys on holiday, plush toys that can’t be bothered with all your insistence on being treated as anything more than a plush toy
the horizon is full of paper cuts, and old bandaids
all the drums squeak when you hit them
each sip is dry, and demands yet another
if you’re walking into the furnace, be sure to take a jacket with you, so you don’t catch cold
every bottle you find is full of three wishes, someone else’s
none of the colors run; they all stand their ground, ready to fight you to the death
any of these knives are sharp enough to do the job, just as long as you don’t need to cut anything
all these silk handkerchiefs are perfectly safe; not a single one of them will have been harmed in the slightest, after they’re done strangling you
the factories are all at maximum production, cranking out empty picture frames and invitations to dinner
the lists of new lists seem to sit flush with eternity; none of them complain, and it takes a hot minute to become accustomed to the silence
every pile of shit that you see here, on the ground, they all taste like chocolate and peanut butter; trust me
this machine gun is so much more convenient than air conditioning
if we’re speaking candidly, then, you always preferred hanging your laundry out to dry
there are no more puppies but, we’re all stocked up on ska music, instant polyps, and disposable consciences
all the mountains shatter when you step on them… if we’re being totally honest
the days, all ripped up, for tourniquet rags
the hours, shattering into dust, if you so much as glance at them sideways
each of these marvelous things, all made possible by your presence
now, the hounds will go without their supper, and the king’s innards will spill out at his feet, there, on the palace floor
and all the poor children will cry, because none of the salads will ever be scrambled again
and the tumbleweeds will all starve, for want of the suffocation you so graciously bestowed upon them, in the days gone by
none of the little assassins will get Christmas cards this year, despite having been such good girls and boys
the coffee is full of conspiracy, and the fish all taste like marshmallows
the sleet sings sweet lullabies, in which there are no names
just between you and me, and this scarecrow, here…
as long as we’re shooting straight…
it’s terribly worrying to think that none of the boils will be allowed to fester and ripen in time for the harvest
because you will not be here to feed them
it is tragic, how much you will be missed
the traffic moves right along, screaming its miseries into the night
a crisp vertigo has bitch-slapped me right out of my seat, and taken my place at the table
how is it that one can be gun-shy and trigger-happy, at the same time?
these lesser mysteries fall pale and sickly, into the dim, sour heat of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs to your Christmas wreath, and sing that classic advertising jingle once more; it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers into the wooden collection box to help the neighborhood children raise enough funds to burn down the old cathedral, and replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll never write songs about, and hence, we’ll never have to listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow and wonder, with a new brand of vexation, what is this peculiar dip you’ve been invited to plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear, it cringes and recoils when you move towards it
and, what’s more, it reeks of both vinegar and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying “I’ve seen this movie. Trust me, you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed that you show no appreciation for its generosity
fickle creatures, all of us
more inscrutable nightmares, injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow, takes another shot of whiskey, and motions disapprovingly toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order to the lieutenant on duty, who promptly douses the wall with gasoline, and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and cheerfully says, “No worries, sir. We’ll have a new one nailed up in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles, and coo sinister, atonal choruses of “Hail to the Chief,” “Ring Around the Rosie,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always falling down
it has been said that there are worse things than you
still, it is truly impossible to know, and difficult to imagine, where such monsters could possibly exist
outside the building where i work, the wind whips and wails
it raises holy hell in a way that you just wouldn’t believe, not unless you heard it for yourself
it moans and cries, bawls, screeches, and shrieks, as if this was the set of an old, black and white movie
i shit you not, it got even louder, louder than it’s been in hours, just as i typed those last few lines
it’s as if the bad director of this old, 1940s horror film (or maybe it’s film noir) was really hamming it up, failing to understand the intrinsic value of restraint and moderation; not realizing that less is often more
if you’re caught out in it, in all that wind, it slices straight through you, like a gangster’s switchblade
aside from the wind, it’s so oddly quiet, here, on the inside
that’s why the wind is so obvious, there’s nothing to compete with it
there’s only the sound of the heater, and occasional fragments of conversation
but, that wind is so strong and so ridiculously loud because it’s coming right in off the train tracks, up a smooth hill with nothing on it, and then, it smashes up against the corner of this building
and that’s where i sit, right near that corner
this wind, it produces the caterwauling music of lonely banshees, raging quietly o’er the moors, weeping for lost loves, ready to punish anyone for their unconquerable sadness
i sit here and read my book of dark, lonely poetry
i know the frustration of this poet, i understand why he settled for booze and prostitutes, why he gave up on the idea of love, altogether
i understand it, but i don’t drink, and the women i chased, they didn’t charge for their madness
they just scooped it out from five-gallon buckets, the way shark fishermen deal out chum
they served their love on platters made of quicksilver, adorned with rubies, emeralds, bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass
the whole soupy mess just floated through their veins, and dripped out from between their legs, with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic on their breath
it slapped you in the face, like that cold, december wind, coming in off the train tracks
i hear that mournful banshee wind and i know, that i too will always be alone
not because i wasn’t good enough
but, because everyone these days is just too broken to know how to love anyone
or to love themselves
instead, it’s an unending parade of impossible tasks
herculean shit-tests, and promethean tortures for imagined wrongdoings
it’s always, “if you really loved me…
then, you’d endure this bit of bullshit
and this one
and, a thousand more just like them.
and, you’d thank me for the privilege.”
it never stops, the goddamned shit-testing
it just never stops coming
it’s just like that goddamn wind outside
always wailing
only, more full of tragedy
more imbued with a primal rage
and, full of an over-the-top loneliness
the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness that pumps straight out of old black and white movies, dripping bombastic sentimentality all over the celluloid
i would step outside, shake my fists at the sky, and yell, “stella!”
but, nobody’d hear it
and, they wouldn’t get the joke, even if they did
people these days, they don’t know shit about streetcars, or any kind of desire that isn’t a fleeting whim
their desires are all easily forgotten beneath the next, pointless distraction
they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon, if it fell on their heads
they can’t sit still for classic films they can’t sit still in a dark theater they can’t take the wailing cold of the cutting wind
and, they certainly can’t stand to be alone
the wind whips, stinging like a shapeless jellyfish, zapping you with a high voltage charge, like a downed power line
slow boiling, thrusting tired reasons into the weary lap, insisting that some small attention be paid
but, I know better
I know better than to recite the ancient prayers of martyrdom
it’s better not to read from the scroll of curses, raising the dead from tattered ground
it’s best to let them sleep, and slide into permanent anonymity
one does better not to
not to chant the titles of lesser demons, not to coax ghosts from crypts, not to roust the ravenous empty
it is far more desirable that the accursed names of behemoth remain unspoken
it’s incredibly easy to exceed capacity, strangled by your excess, and your soft spot for monsters
let the red soaked ground dry, give wounds time to heal, allow the guillotine blade a moment to cool down
let the dust of buzz-sawed bones settle, and fall out of the choking air
let the empty-headed hydra of war collapse
exhausted from fighting its thousands of invisible enemies
there has been enough carnage for one day
there has been
enough
grant the dying wish of silence
a blessed respite, blissfully unaware of your woeful, grinding appellations, that unendingly unhappy visage, stained with its frown and the frost of unyielding winter
this petite quiet, this dainty truce,
it is so delightfully superior, to the constant bombardment, the complaints of directionless bullets
angry shrapnel, with nothing better to do than to bark at the meaningless winds of a barren landscape, where no one ever argued about arguments
the thirst of your nameless hounds is never sated
no amount of anything, anything carelessly mislabeled “justice” would ever tip your scales, one way, or the other
your loaded dice fall from the table on each and every stupid turn
no bodycount is ever high enough, there is no number of heads in a basket that will ever quell your determined dissatisfaction
ceaseless disapproval
incapable of receiving yes, trampling all answers into the dirt
happy only to take an eternal no
and, even then, only as an affirmation of the absence of the affirmative
the reasonless ill will of your callous armies, all those unemployed mercenaries, itching for new enmities
your warfare is unabated, insufferable, unattractive
it is a Christmas fucking miracle, to receive nothing, nothing at all
stiff upper lip, thick-skinned baller, rolling with the punches, and all that other factitious bullshit
the bliss of liar’s cup is but a cup of blissful lies
dreams of copious other things, receding like melting wax, into the past fading away, leaving behind the sweet perfume of burning plastic and ammonia
hairlines
fissures in consciousness, blessings of intermittent sleep
control panel fuses all crisp, and awry of order
all correspondence resides now in dwellings other than original intentions
settle for smaller and smaller portions, pieces
easter egg fractals of memory
“didn’t there used to be something that went right here? didn’t something or someone occupy this space?”
now, quiet dogs bed down in the cold, wet trenches
stale toast and seagull meat empty ammo box for one in the center of the house
unseen earthworms, misunderstood by all the happy eagles and fish
whole continents fall, and yet, not an inch of ground is gained
roll off the edge of the map, and onto the floor, to lie in the dust, with all the broken grease pencils, and first draft plans of attack, torn angrily into ribbons, and bursting into flame
siphon off the last sour dregs of wedding wine
no guest sits at the table to taste it
it is useful now, only as vinegar for cleaning the stains left behind by revelers who dwell in the realm of the living
wines and cakes are wasted on the forgotten dead
celebration farce, ersatz holy words of hollow power
the gut pinches up and knots at the thought of each new sunrise
dancing monkey courtiers in dance floor flights of fancy
the throne, a perpetual game of “duck, duck, goose”
title of monarchy changes as swiftly as the second hand of the reviled and feared grandfather clock; always chiming on the unsuspecting head of what might well be the last hour
a masquerade waltz parades of ever-changing partners turnstiles at each end of the ballroom
cardboard cutouts holding hands
ladles of wine, party favors strewn about the floors, a punchbowl full of suite keys
the night never ends, but the sun is always rising; it’s busy chasing ghosts, the ephemeral fears of revelation,
a glass onion caricature of something referred to as plainly obvious
the hand strikes midnight, and midnight slashes its throat, severing its artery, just as the reveal portion of the soirée climaxes in a feeding frenzy
the czar must feed its myriad children, with their thousand faces, and their insatiable armada of ten thousand mouths, and their infinite rows of sharpened teeth
a hydra-headed babe, sprawling out of a catacomb of cribs
all of the palace, and all of its occupants, are laid upon the banquet table, or simply devoured whole, right where they stand
the crown smiles upon itself, having satisfied the appetites of its innumerable infant rouges, the task is announced as completed, finis, coup de grâce, “Tetelestai… it is finished.”
everyone walks away, down the grand hallways, elaborately ornamented, hiding beneath the curved eaves
much hustling and bustling, out through the facades
mad, naked revelers, drunkenly climbing the spires and bannisters, and scrambling up the entablatures
some leaping desperately from the nearest fenestrations
all are in the most superb hurry, since the next affair begins in but a moment
and each attendee does so desire to make their grand entrance
each attendee does desire so
the mandatory attendance of these bacchanalias is everything, all that is known
to be seen is to exist
to be missed is to be forgotten
to be forgotten is to be cast into the outer darkness of oblivion
dance with whoever you like, but dance
for to stop the twirling play of flirtation and primping, to cease the endless arabesque of changing hands, and switching costumes, swooning and sweeping across the dance floor
is to find oneself face to face with the mirror
and that, is where the death of childhood hides,
waiting for any one of the throngs of delirious dancers to tire out, and pause in quiet contemplation
so, that death may reach out and throttle them slowly with a heavy chain of opprobrium, the sight of their unexceptional, mundane reflections
keep twirling, never cease smiling, change your masks regularly, slip out of your wardrobe, and don a new costume, at least once, during each polonaise or allegro sonata
spin, laugh, tell jokes, drink, tell lies, twirl, flirt, giggle and be merry, but do not ever, ever… stop
“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”
—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight
The school went on lockdown today
A report came in about an armed student Roaming the campus
Students were immediately instructed To go to their dorms, and stay put
After some five or ten, agonizing minutes, The determination was made, It was only a hoax
This is an old gag Kids get bored, Call in a bomb threat Just for giggles Or, to get out of a test
Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness, When, one more late-show Would have caused them to Fail a particular class
But, these days, On the national level, There are more mass shootings Than there are Days in the year
Who’s to know When to be truly concerned? Or, when to be Merely annoyed?
The young girl on the news said The thing that bothered her most Was how no one talked about it, After the all-clear signal was given; She said it went on like a normal day, As if nothing had happened
She said it was as if Everything was fine, When really, underneath, Everyone knew that Nothing about it was normal, Much less, fine
The teachers didn’t address the issue The students didn’t speak To each other about it, either
One has to wonder, How many false alarms can occur, Before the security guards begin Dropping their guard? How many, before they stop Taking the threats seriously?
What happens, when The real thing goes down, And they don’t stop it, because They got sloppy, Because of too many False alarms?
This was one of several such incidents That took place on multiple campuses, All on this one, particular day
But, at the heart of it all, This was not one incident, Nor was it two, or even five
This, is the new normal The regular, daily pattern of Life in the United States, The common thread In the tapestry of America
This is the age of the Joker
Every card is wild
It’s not always an active shooter It’s not always a bomb threat It’s not even always about An event at a school
It’s sometimes a threat of Imminent war against other countries
It’s the news weather forecast It’s the stories of tornado victims, The death tolls of flash floods, Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke
It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and Outright cries for civil war in America
It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store
It’s the ongoing, never-ending Supply chain problems
It’s requisite new vocabulary, Terms like “doomerism,” And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like “Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth
It’s the shortages of needed medications
It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about The children of Somalia,⠀ And many other nations like it
It’s the mounting lies that Erode faith in the system It’s the creeping groan of fascism, Sinking its fangs into The Statue of Liberty’s jugular, Insisting that she report her periods To the school nurse
That she burn all those lurid copies of And Tango Makes Three, The Bluest Eye, and Out of Darkness
Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand, Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy
Making her subject to laws that Relegate her to the status of cattle, Demanding that she inform on her friends, Should they seek to cross state lines For any health care that involves Their naughty parts
Insisting that she never speak the Dreaded crimson words, Words telling of the flowing of blood, From the sacred place that Spawned each of us, Even those who, now, Refuse to speak of the cycle of life That is responsible for their Entire existence
She is soon to be muzzled, Disallowed from speaking anything Beyond, a pained statement of duress… “Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”
She will wear a red burka, Shaped like a baseball cap, Peppersprayed with meaningless words, About a mythical nation that ever existed, One built on the backs of slaves, Slaves who she must never mention To her children
Ruby is only a gem, and a color, Bridges are but things we drive over, In our carbon-spitting SUVs
Parks is not a name, It is a noun, describing a place where People go to enjoy nature; Good, upstanding white folk, Standing on the skulls of Nameless hordes of ghosts
These ghosts whisper foul incantations, “We are here, too! We have names!”
They seek to possess good, caucasian children, Swaying them into the unacceptable madness Of admitting various lunacies, such as, “Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of Overcoming adversity.”
Insisting that the children Not be allowed to become The fodder of the Devil’s history, Declaring, as if it were true, “These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache, The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican, The African, the transgender, and The women, who monthly bleed, As God saw fit for them to bleed.”
Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos, Were the children to speak about Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys, Or, girls, kissing other girls
These are not things good folks discuss At the dinner table, or in places of learning No, these are things that must never See the light of day
After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen, They had the common decency To perform their fellatios on each other, And on the young children, Under the cover of darkness
“Why can’t these godless teachers Shut their fucking mouths?! Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus I just become so incredibly angry, When people have the unmitigated gall To tell our children that A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage Of the world’s population Thinks and behaves Differently than us”
Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity Of spilling the beans about our actual, True history, soaked as it is, In the blood of slaves, migrants, And silently suffering “others,” Who we would not abide Who we would not allow To follow their natures, However discreetly they sought to do so
“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it? Don’t they see how immigrants Are coming to invade us? How these foreigners want to Take over this proud land that was Inhabited only by pure, white blood, For thousands of years?”
This is the golden age of the false narrative, Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France, Africa, Spain, and even many other Godless lands
“They want our children to believe that We enslaved an entire race of coloreds I mean, obviously, we did, but… What the hell else were we going to do? That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to Pick itself
“They want to murder The memory of our heroes, Our General Custer’s, and Our great General John Wayne Replace them, with lies about us Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands I mean, obviously, we did do that, but… What kind of monsters want The children to know The truth of it?!”
They have enough to worry about, Trying to sort out who is the real President, Whether or not our elections are rigged; The same election process that put The other guy in the big chair, last time
Trying to decide if the man Walking toward them will offer help, Or rape, or murder
We can’t protect our children from Being shot at school, or from Getting high-powered weapons, And irreparably harming others,
Instead, we focus on preventing them from Getting a hold of far more dangerous items, Like condoms, and birth control pills
We rabidly foam on about the Tyranny of ideas, and events That are common knowledge
Mandatory background checks, For anyone who is trying to buy A semiautomatic weapon? Unacceptable
Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know That they need the protection of an AR-15 Is sensible enough to keep their names Off government lists!
It’s really quite simple… Childhood pregnancy? good Females bleeding? not good
Books, scary Bibles, awesomeness
Ar-15s, yes Disney, a total mess
Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless
The collapsing climate? Must suppress.
Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress
Lose an election? Just don’t confess More than two genders? We must redress.
The economy, must never recess Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless
See? I told you it was simple. Try to keep up, stupid.
Below, you’ll find links to get your copy, music videos from Area 25, plus the super-interesting, totally true, absolutely not made up backstory behind the album.
The excellent cover art was generously provided by Dorian Strange.
It really helps me out a lot when you give the videos a thumbs up 👍 leave a comment 💭 and share your favorites on your social media pages ♥️
Videos from Area 25
Unchanged
Into the Fold
Three Day Beard
Hopium Blues
Scorpio
Tact
War on Venus
I Wasn’t Using It
All Around
Upbeat Dance Number
We’re All Gonna Fade Away
At the Bottom
Mandala of Sand, Pt. 1
Trent Boswell Bio
Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary facts suggest the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.
The Story Behind Area 25
Area 25 is a traveler’s atlas for navigating endless, winding caves, wormholes, cracks in reality, tears in the space-time continuum, black holes, abysmal hellscapes, and all of the most common types of bottomless pits that comprise the modern world.
The somber, dystopian audio guidebook is delivered over an eclectic musical soundtrack of rock, psychedelia, pop, funk, and dire expressions of poetic mental illness.
Area 25 is an exorcist’s manual for the perils of life on Earth for Homo sapiens. It catalogues the sundry catastrophes that plague the upright ape, namely those of poverty, depression, rejection of the tribe, and failed attempts at relationships, friendships, and spiritual endeavors.
Not for the faint of heart (nor the “feint” of heart), Area 25 is a dark, gritty, and gloomy telling of the myriad ways in which hominids undo themselves, rend each other asunder, and even casually rip apart their sole means of survival, the ecosystem in which they habitat. Odd beings, at best; horrible monsters, at worst.
Genesis
An ancient evil spirit was once trapped for centuries inside a dybbuk. Through the foolish mistake of some human, the demon escaped.
The ghoul found amusement in tormenting one particular human critter, who’s name was Trent Boswell. The tortures took shape by possessing the human with an inescapable obsession to create something called “Area 25.”
The demon wanted the brainless exploits of humans captured on record, so it would have something to laugh about, later; much like you might watch an episode of Seinfeld, even though you’ve already seen it several times.
The dark cruelty of this promethean ordeal rested in the fact that the human was entirely lacking the necessary resources for the production of a proper, commercially viable product. It was working only with a ten-year-old Macintosh computer, an old version of GarageBand, an inexpensive condenser mic, a FocusRite preamp, a cheap bass guitar, a pair of 3 1/2” monitors, and a nice Fender Stratocaster.
What the demon didn’t expect, is that the human would actually persist through said tribulations of substandard working conditions, and complete the project. Much to the demon’s surprise, the human finished the project, despite the lack of access to a professional recording studio, or the backing of a major record label.
The end result, a tabulation of human follies and foibles, will now provide the escaped beastie with comedic entertainment for the coming aeons, long after humans have disappeared from the planet; which should be anytime within the next couple of decades.
“Three Day Beard”- music video from the new Trent Boswell album, Area 25
“Three Day Beard” from Area 25, by Trent Boswell
Release date is February 22, 2023. Note, it may be up to a week before the album starts showing up on the various music platforms.
Available on all the major music streaming services, like Apple Music, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube Music, and many more.
Album cover art by Dorian Strange.
Lyrics for “Three Day Beard”
I.
Standing in a soup line Sucking on a tail pipe Working on a new crime; Against myself, How many times Can I kill myself? Before I die? God knows I tried To find out
II.
I wandered where the women went Thought my soul could be at ease I never lost my good intent But found myself wishing I’d never had it at all Never had it at all Is that what you’d call A fall from Grace?
III.
Listen here man and wo-man alike I won’t tell you about all the cigarettes And the booze, and the other scenarios I won’t tell you about all the hard feelings And the petty larcenies I won’t tell you about all the Broken bones and homes Rendered in brutal beatings And I won’t even tell you about the sadness; The heavy, “wish we weren’t here” melancholy But I will tell you this: There are people who walk this earth Who are so beautiful, on the inside, They make angels blush And you… Ain’t one of them
IV.
Allow me some time To be angry I’ll shout, not speak my mind I’m hungry; Don’t wanna eat
V.
Forgive my trespass I’m not sorry Thought maybe you had grown, Just a little, I was wrong But don’t worry You will
You will Just not with me
VI.
If you wipe the slate clean, Just kick back and dream: Never learn a thing About what you see
VII.
My license to be blind Has been revoked Just in time And now I see the work Cut out for me
Tousle the soggy noodle Stir it in the pot It’s no longer stiff and sharp; More inclined to rot
It’s decidedly well-seasoned; Overly so, perhaps More than oregano, salt and pepper; Too many spices, in fistful slaps
Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor Grease, tracked in from the streets As well as lint, and various perversions That flaked off bedroom sheets
Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil, There’s a reduction of sweat and tears The pot overflows with olive oil, And existential fears
The noodle once stood proud and tall, Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box Advertising logos, and bright colors, Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox
Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked, Full of inconsistent flavors And, the intense heat of the kitchen Hasn’t done it any real favors
The noodle is tired and sickly now, You’ll likely find it tasteless It’s slathered in clashing sauces The ingredient choices, baseless
Still, the noodle is all that is left, And one must attempt to preserve it It’s the only meal or means there is, Whether or not you deserve it
The pot, too, has been banged about; It’s hardly fit for duty It’s been kicked more than a martial artist In the head, and in the booty
It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent, The handle held in place by hope Too look at all the permanent stains, You’d think it was allergic to soap
But this, too, is necessary to keep One can’t simply throw it away Without this beat up utensil, Where would the noodle stay?
This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe Of lowbrow, modern cuisine But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got And, I know that you know what I mean
in desiring ourselves, we desire to fancy ourselves as creations of god’s divine light it is true, we are first; shattered and broken vessels of sound, which could not hold light
dance with us, come come, and be joyful be mirthful, be drunken come, and forget we are the new wine the skins, having bursted the host could not drink and, did sorely lament
let us throw shadows in every direction join us in the song which shall never be heard the cheerless dirge of uncelebrated things a melody of madness, fallen short of the word
for, nothing is anything if anything is nothing and, what is our reward if we have not control? so, let us pretend that we are the light, not the darkness which shall never be whole
telling all those who would stop to listen how they, and not we, fell into disrepair how they, and not us, are the lost, lonely devils whose deeds caused the light to weep in despair
let us join in agreement and be not divided details of narrative, we shall conceive and, dividing all things, we fall into slumber allowing ourselves a story, to believe
Florida is where one goes to die, Not to reset, and start again Death waits in orange groves, to strike But, one knows not, where or when
Biding their time, a thousand things, Patiently hoping to kill you dead Gators, lurking in the murky swamp To eat you whole, from toe to head
Hell, they have genuine crocodiles They immigrated; who knows how They came for the delicious buffet that is you To eat as much as time will allow
The brutal sun will bleach your bones And, what’s more, no one will care Florida is not the nicest of places, The grim reaper spends each winter there
If the gators and crocs somehow miss you, In the woods are a great many other beasts Watching, stalking, ready to pounce Eager for tasty human feasts
The black bear is one of them Yes, they’re common in many states But panthers… now, that’s a singular way For Americans to meet untimely fates
Florida is where you go to die All manner of ghoulish demise awaits Everything there wants to end you; It’s the Australia of the United States
And, tiny things, like the brown recluse The black widow, far more ubiquitous And, if you should sit still too long, The fire ants are most ravenous
Wild boar will pierce, cut you to ribbons Their tusks loaded with bacterial goo If you don’t bleed out, then soon enough Disease will be the thing that gets you
Watch where you step, careless human The copperhead, and eastern diamondback Poison’s a thing these efficient vipers Most assuredly do not lack
A curious name for something so deadly, The “kissing bug” spreads a foul parasite It’s perfectly willing and able to kill you And, it knows how to do it right
Just off the coast, in the ocean surf Bull sharks, and deadly box jellyfish Barracudas take quite sizable chunks And, they’ll do it whenever they wish
And, let’s not forget the biggest of all The one whose movie freaked us all out The one and only great white shark He’s there, too, swimming about
Florida is where you go to die, Not where you try to start again Murder is plentiful, comes in all sizes And, you’ll never know where, or when
It’s not just the critters that want you dead The people are willing to rub you out There are drug cartels, and serial killers And, Florida Man is skulking about
Of all the baleful, lethal creatures, Florida Man is among the top three He’s responsible for the lion’s share Of death headlines in the news you see
If the citizens or critters don’t do the job, Of putting an end to you, just for a thrill, If torturous heat doesn’t manage to kill you, I imagine that the governor will
Not a place to slip away peacefully, It will not let you, though you may try Not exactly a storybook ending, Florida is where one one goes to die
Feed the beast in little ways, So in its prison is where it stays This helps you keep the beast in check Or else, your life, it will rule, and wreck
Feed the beast with morsels, tiny Distract it with the bright and shiny You must give it something, however slight Or its strength and rage, you will ignite
A starving beast snarls and raves Doesn’t take orders, never behaves Denied all sustenance, thinks it’s dying At the locks, it picks; cell bars, prying
A daring escape; you’d try it, too If your stomach, you could see right through But a monster fed with… just… enough Stays weak, and doesn’t grow too tough
It waits, content, for the next meager spoon Against its power, you remain immune Feed the beast the smallest part Or, it will rip out, and eat your heart
Wean it on tidbits, the worst parts of you Sample-size snacks of indulgent taboo Otherwise, the creature… well, it just may Take hold of your deeds, the words you say
You see, each of us, every single one Is a no-good, worthless son-of-a-gun Anyone who says different is lying to you Or perhaps, to themselves, as so many do
We’re horrible things, down, deep in the core, With lusts for lying, theft, and gore Incestuous, selfish, conniving creeps In daylight, our true nature hides, and sleeps
We’re bullies, crooks; we cheat on our taxes We’d gladly chop up our neighbors with axes That is, if we thought we wouldn’t take a fall But, knowing we will, we don’t try at all
If not for society, we’d be twice as mean, Three times as lazy, rude, and obscene; Running over each other, no second thought Breaking and taking what others have bought
These horrid perversions reside down low In the parts where most are too afraid to go But, the thirst is still there; we cannot escape Our secret desires for pillage, and rape
All that a civilized person can do Is to keep it all chained, not let it get through Most try to ignore it, they try really hard Whistling nervously through the graveyard
These are the ones you can’t really trust; Can’t face their demons, although they must Any part of you that’s even a little bit dark, Is a mirror reflection of themselves, a spark
That spark ignites within them a fury Appointing themselves both judge and jury, Punish you, for guilty feelings of their own Cravings they cannot shake from their bones
Afraid of their shadows, they cast them on you A scapegoat for things that they’d like to do Unable to admit they’d do it, if they could Admit to your urges, they’ll say you’re no good
They tried to starve their monsters to death Their monsters took over, stole their breath Becoming beasts; the beasts having won, Police not themselves, but instead, everyone
Others, they feed their phantom too much So close to the ghoul, it can reach out and touch The fiend strangles, once it takes hold Turning them cruel, heartless, and cold
So, take the advice, and stay to the middle Don’t run from the Devil, or play second fiddle Seduce your succubus, incubus, or imp Trick it, trap it, keep it weak, and limp
Feed the dark beast your unwanted scraps; To prevent you from falling into its traps Give it just enough, so that it doesn’t try To feed off of you, to make you its supply
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Coming Soon
A new album from Trent Boswell, Area 25
Coming Soon – Area 25 -new music from Trent Boswell
Cover art by the elusive Mr. Dorian Strange.
Area 25 – a witch’s brew; 12 original pieces of rock and roll, hard rock, and funk. It’s a psychedelic concoction of madness, lifted from the purse of Venus, pilfered from the wallet of Apollo, and heisted from Jupiter’s garage.
It will be available on all the major streaming services, like Apple Music, Deezer, Amazon Music, Spotify, YouTube Music, and many more.
Americans don’t play enough chess It’s the reason we’re in this political mess The Right has carefully studied for years Constitutional weaknesses, racist fears
They’ve put in long hours, learning the game Motivating their base, pointing the blame Spinning problems as the fault of their foes Scuttling each bill that would end those woes
Like Morphy, Alekhine, Karpov, Nimzowitsch Dangling carrots; a cheap bait-and-switch A Fischer sacrifice; playing the long-game The board no longer looks quite the same
Their rooks and bishops, now in key places We watch with horror, mud on our faces We slept through opening, developing play Their knights are posted; it seems they’ll stay
Kiss of Death at the Opera, then it’s too late Anastasia smiles, threatens Legal’s mate A double-bishop pin, a dovetail, strategic Is needed, or our king will be quadriplegic
Having good pawn structure is fundamental And theirs is proving to be quite instrumental Mate is possible with any piece on the board Except the other king, who may be ignored
Unless, that is, he works his way up the file Blocking the enemy king’s movement, while The officers sweep in to deliver last blows A game is often over before the loser knows
We’d better learn the game, or we’ll be through It’s less checkmate, more authoritarian coup A king can be smothered by his own pieces It only takes a few with deceptive caprices
If the game may be saved, our wits must return Or “How to lose everything” is all we will learn We scoffed at haughty, four-dimensional claims But, with distractions, they hit all their true aims
We’re playing an opponent who is happy to win By legal means, if possible; they’ll nod and grin Beaten fairly, he gives no handshake reward But balls up his fists, and knocks over the board
The only way to beat a cheating, spoiled brat Is to win fairly, but be ready to pick up a bat For this one believes they must win at all cost And will not admit or accept that they lost
The one sitting on the other side of this table Is wily, unscrupulous; cheats when he’s able Demanding to rewrite how the game is played Promoting a pawn, says “A new king is made!”
Yes, win… but don’t be surprised if the liar Pulls a gun or a knife, upon losing their desire We all must fight hard to get out of this mess We must become better at political chess
I’m hesitant to do any regular promotion today because of everything that is going on in America. My heart goes out to women everywhere, as well as all of the other minority groups that SCOTUS has in their sights to attack and marginalize next.
There is nothing I could possibly say or do that could make any of that madness seem less important. I’ll do anything that I can to help, but I am honestly clueless about how I might help, beyond voting and just being a supporter of equal rights for all people. Try to stay strong and please, take good care of yourselves; it’s easy to slip into depression and bad habits when we see our nation slipping toward authoritarianism.
All that said, somehow, someway, life has to trudge on forward. As you might already know, my new album is out, and that means part of my job is to promote the stupid thing. Actually, it’s not stupid at all—I’m exceedingly proud of it. I think it came out great. I’d love for it to be some kind of small escape from the harsh realities we’re facing.
Something in the Air – Music by Trent Boswell
Below, I’m providing some links to the bigger music streaming services that carry the album. If you subscribe to any of these, you can do me a huge favor by liking the tracks on all the services you have access to. You can of course purchase the album or individual tracks through most of these outlets. That’s excellent because it helps me to make more music for everyone.
However, it’s incredibly easy (and free) to just favorite, like, thumbs up 👍 the songs you like, and to add them to your favorite playlists on outlets like Spotify.
If you really want to help out, really go the extra mile, you can share the album or individual songs to your social media pages.
There’s also the YouTube channel, which provides interesting visuals for the music.
Something in the Air
Existential art rock for perspicacious psychonauts and connoisseurs of eclectic, eccentric soundscapes, chock full of the beautiful terrible. Ten original songs about things which are replaced by new, theoretical things that never arrive.
2 cups of Rock and Roll, ⅓ cup of Pop Music, 3 heaping tablespoons of psychedelics, and one fifteen inch subwoofer of pure Funkadelia. Use responsibly. May interact with certain medications. May be illegal in your area.
Napster – I don’t know the link because I’m not a subscriber, so I can’t look it up
There are plenty of other music services that carry the album; these are just the biggest ones.
And here’s a video of one the songs, track number three from Something in the Air. This one is called A Nice, Quiet Place to Die. Despite the seemingly dark title, it’s really a love song. It’s about loving other people, animals, and the Earth itself. Enjoy.
Kevin Trent Boswell 