tired are those eyes witness to such sights
of looped recurrence that they no longer even try
to discern meaning in the things they see;
lost in a solipsistic torrent of selfish subjectivity,
found drawn deep inside their lonely minds.
we have to remind of ourselves of the simple things.
this is water. drink it down and fill yourself up
with the want of experience, consciousness, and conviction.
celebrate this thirst we can’t quench for ourselves.
in this discipline, we’ll find each other.
so let’s spread out wide our bleak loci
of self until we all become one another.
let’s transcend these bodies.
let’s strive against that incessant pull
to live our lives as selfish animals.
every day’s a fight to remain alive and connected to others,
to spite our belief that the world is aligned
with our perspective of experience lived.
day in and day out, we can wear it down.
it’s not easy, though. it’s not easy, no, but it’s the
difference between being our own gods or animals on a boat.
it’s a refrain that won’t get old,
so long as it can stay afloat
the obsessive bombast
of loquacious babbling in our heads:
this is water. let’s not forget the smell, the touch, the taste.
hold on. this is water. it’s not gone.
hold on. smell, touch, taste.
let’s the not forget the–
Track Name: no stars, just coins
two cheap lovers walk home one night hand-in-hand
past frothing jacuzzis brimming with worn womanhood,
mouths mingling in the shadow of the gymnasium
sweating out its sins into streams chartered by spent mannequins;
stumbling drunks singing proud as the poor, nearly dead,
wade through shit in search of axed presidents’ heads.
happily forever after, let’s forget
what we just witnessed there.
let’s just play pretend.
“such the heat teen fiction breeds.
god bless those fragile mourning doves!
with time they’ll trade their fading hearts–
forsake the very ones they love–
for the commodification of.”
luxury, the poverty of perspective, is blowing lines
of elephant tusk dipped in white diamond
on the starboard side of a yacht,
chasing mortality with shots of the commoners’ blood.
his children are gone, have left him for the allure of
the auction block, for the love of selling themselves off
as commodities for corporate executives to fuck
pregnant with wish, want, and lust.
parents’ convention: the question?
“well, who do we want to be?
how will we redefine the post-nuclear family?
we’ve got to raise these kids up right.
we’ll start a little nursery teaching every vegetable
to believe in immortality.”
“at least it’s a belief.”
“i think i love it!”
“it’ll help them all sleep and make christmas a treat!
they’ll consume like young fiends with no regard for dead leaves!
and be so wet with lust– and high on elephant tusk–
that when we ask how they feel:
‘i’m immortal as fuck.’”
Track Name: these lines don't mean
pride hung up on abstract clothesline vertices;
paint poured onto masses unsuspecting.
disembodied megaphones sing tribal songs all-the-day subliminally
until we all hum like machines in our sleep,
dreaming in the shadow of flags.
(said flags caught in a forced, frantic wave.)
every mountain’s mounted by a name brand king
spouting off slogans all selling the same thing:
“sing this song! raise this flag! believe in this history!”
how did all these lines get drawn?
where did these strange words come from?
what do these great states denote
but thick fault lines of separateness?
let them sell their songs. we don’t have to dance.
“wait, i thought this was america?
where the corporations are people
and the people are just stats and graphs?
what’s this mass without its sobriquet?
what are we supposed to believe in now?”
we’ve been hawked these anthems
since the first days we breathed;
learned all the lines that made up the maps,
memorized all these melodies.
and though our voices sound great
when we pitch harmonies,
there’s not a song in the world that could make me feel
more american than human being.
worship what you will– it means little to me–
but if you worship these lines,
then know these lines don’t mean.
these lines don’t mean.
Track Name: things they don't teach you in flight school
(we all want to live forever.)
it’s 1977 or possibly 1978 and the sun is high
over an airstrip somewhere in argentina.
there is a crowd of captured intellectuals, students, and activists
gathered on the tarmac, not merely standing, but dancing–
dancing at the news of their freedom and escape.
those gathered there on that day by means of force
and false pretense are boarded on a plane, drugged, and pushed
naked and blindfolded into the waters of the rio de la plata.
when they finally reach the water, the specks that remain
of their fallen bodies disrupt the glint created
by the so-called river’s reflection
of the coincidently setting sun.
(ocean honest, swallow deeply.
sing that same song you’ve always sung. just sing.)
and somewhere unseen, their last gasps fail;
thin screams, tortured tenants renting the air.
(ocean honest, take them under.)
the aircraft above howls burning gasoline.
(ocean honest, bury endless.)
the water below carries on indifferently.
(ocean honest, forget these lives.)
the pilots, alive, sit silently still, numb.
(futures haunted by loss thereof.)
the stranded, faint, softly succumb.
they miss the last call for death rattles.
the water overtakes their lungs.
their last convulsions never happen:
they can’t break surface long enough.
(here comes the death.)
this is their death.
(the only witnesses vacate the scene,
leaving only vacancies.)
the sun hides behind the horizon.
the water, restless, carries on.
the bodies sink, untenanted.
the souls ejected, fleeting, gone.
los desaparecidos sing the ocean breeze from here on out.
los desaparecidos fill silent the empty air.
Track Name: H1NE1
the moments start to tessellate. the sequence falls apart.
entire world histories turn mass hysteria.
the atoms, stricken terminal, break free from rank and file.
the matter can’t resolve itself. it decides to take its life.
all the disassembled pieces dissipate into unbeing.
all the while, bodies pace rooms self-consciously;
oscillations, faint whitecaps on the breaking surge
of nothingness we’re carried by.
the axes we are drawn across
splintered, fragmented, nebulous.
each potential future and all the static past
converge at the edges until there’s nothing left.
light snubbed out. time just stopped.
space collapsed. data lost.
along the fabric of our being, stitches tearing at the seams;
dangling threads unceasingly unraveling,
begging questions of the meaning we have tried to find
in knowing that we’re here, alive.
we’d all agree we’re truly blessed,
but how to face this looming nothingness?
in time, oneness and noneness align.
where do we fit in?
in the wake of the sublime, everything and nothing collide.
where will we reside?
and if all of the patterns, trajectories, and systems
of our so-called existence in the distance decompose–
if all of the moments and their marriage to one another
are lost in the margins of a spectrum we can’t know–
well, how can we hope to live meaningful lives,
or even so much as make a simple decision,
when faced with the prospect of all continuity rendered discrete?
take a deep breath and exhale belief.
have faith in the fight for us all.
take a deep breath and exhale belief.
believe, believe, believe.