The Nihilist’s Delusion

Pardon my breaststroke
over oblivion,
but the undertow will take me
inevitably
in time,
not with my eager acceptance, thank you,
but with mortal fatigue,
meanwhile your undead body
bloat-floats complacently
over oblivion,
coming eventually
to ashen shores
so you may make
ash angels
after having razed the world
and all of its myriad “illusions”,
attempting to delight in the
ruination
of the
joys to be had
rather than throwing yourselves
upon the pyres
and giving resolution
where your philosophy’s resolution is due.
You wish to beat us down
with the bones of the departed,
striking our hopes with a cruel
tattoo of
“You too! You too!”
as if we were not aware
that even headstones crumble,
given time;
and, yes, we know that
we ride determinism’s
compulsive waves
along the continuum of life—
it is no hollowing revelation.
Excuse me,
but while you numbly nestle
into the shoreline’s ashes
after you have smote all meaning
in your estimation,
and while you stubbornly mutter
your mantra of “malignant uselessness”,
I cannot help but note the irony
of your continued existence;
for while you champion mass extinction,
the puppet does not burn himself
to cinders
to rescue himself from the supposed
“conspiracy against the human race”.
Actions speak louder than words,
and you seem quite disingenuous
while you gleefully lob
Molotov cocktails into the sea
like bottled letters
meant to reach distant shores.
It is an ironic joke, you know—
the one about the
self-professed nihilist
who refuted his own thesis
by showing up
in person
for the book signing.
Yes,
we are meat puppets
tangled up in our own strings,
but only you seem to be
high-strung about it.
Then again,
strumming other people’s
heart-strings
has always been lucrative,
even if money and ambition and
etcetera
further the delusion
you decry.
Perhaps you should use the ashes
as eyeliner
for your late-term
Emo phase?
Meanwhile,
I will make my sand castles
as I please.
Somehow I doubt your
ash castles will last long,
and, besides, wet ash
burns the hands
which shape it,
yet will never clean the hands
of the hypocrisy
that stain them.

Medley

Viewing
Most human thought is
best left unseen, like a closed
casket funeral.

Prayers
Never had he once prayed for rain
to strengthen the crops in any field;
but to mock the tears of the slain
and drown the graves of the men he had killed.

The Sailor’s Curse
“Cranky Christ on a crook’d cross
wi’ a crotch full o’ itchin’ crab!”
he said after tasting her special fish sauce.
She punched him in his belly flab,
at which he was at a complete loss.
She said to him, “Watch ‘er goddamn gab!”

The Biggest Predator
The twin seastacks rose from the salivating surf,
pale, jagged sandstone towering above the earth,
and through the frothy ocean, like a tongue between,
the ghost of the world that was could be seen
in the backwash waves that thrashed up and fell away,
terrible creatures swarmed within the spittle spray—
they tore at one another within a bloody tide,
bickered and bit, fought and fed and died,
all dissolving within those tumultuous waves,
even the largest among them but simple slaves,
for they were the feast and the furor of Mother Nature
who devours all creatures, despite her nomenclature.

Simple-Minded Stories
Rinse and condense—
no space on the
bumper sticker
for nuance or context;
black and white bullet points should proliferate
but reiterate only one thing:
we good, they bad.
Let me tell you a farfetched fairytale
easy enough for a child to follow:
Once upon a time
in a faraway kingdom
we good,
they bad.
The end.
People throughout history have loved such
tribalistic myths,
but I fail to follow the bandwagon.
The stakes are so high,
yet the plot so thin
and the characters dehumanized
beyond any personality.
I cannot suspend disbelief
as the contrivances compound
in the lazy storytelling.
Here’s a truer story
with more substance to it
than the cliche plot
that has been told again and again
throughout history:
Once upon a time
some people thought life would be
easier
if they had to think less—
the end.
Except that last part is fiction
because this story has never ended.

Bible Babble
You
renounce Babylon everyday,
but should it truly displease you
take up hermitage in the
Appalachian Mountains,
comforted by the holy works
you cherish
and never bludgeon the brains
of others with your cherished Book;
do not banish the vices or voices
as if misremembering that
Jesus overthrew Caesar;
no,
rather,
he banished himself, outcast
in ascendance.
So, run to the hills
and in your sacred pilgrimage
keep a vow of silence,
otherwise you profane the Word
with that which you would
condemn Babylon.
For when in
Babylon
you are a Babylonian
even as you preach against its temples,
but worse,
for you are a holier-than-thou
hypocrite.
You have a
stained-glass heart,
and how easily shattered
the panes are—
as easily as any glass house
David might live in
as he readies his stones.
Stop cowering in the skirts of
the Great Whore
and venture out into the
Wilderness
should you be in earnest—
do not return.
Do not preach, at one moment,
against the sins of your Mistress
and at the next moment
sleep in a Babylonian bed.
Become the martyr to your purported
puritanism.
Go now:
go steeled in your faith.

Philosophers

How sad that they should
make meaning in life
like a husband who’d,
in a fit, murder his wife,
and now rummaging in
the graveyard site
to exhume her coffin
and put things right—
yet try as he may
he cannot assemble her
in a believable way
that will resemble her
when she was living
and could speak her own—
what is the point of giving
murderers the chance to atone?

Psyduck Rules

For my nephew’s birthday I drew and painted a picture of MY favorite Pokemon, Psyduck, defeating the god of the Pokemon (or so I gather) Arcteron (?)  My nephew is always arguing with me that Psyduck is “terrible”, to which I say, “Terrifying, you mean, since we are all just a projection of Psyduck’s godlike psychic powers.” That is not to say Psyduck is not an imbecilic god, but that if he were to become aware of his crucial role in the perpetuation of this reality we would all cease to be in an implosion of Solipsist dissolution. Fact.

Upright Or Twisted

This vast field beneath the glorious Sun
is brimming with honey-sweet light
that glitters with soft fingertips on the tall, golden grass
that billows its head in a loving wind
like a Mass come to pray.
Few trees are scattered about this field’s face,
but these few trees are strong of branch, straight of trunk
and spread wide with canopies proudly dressed in summer leaves.
These few trees are courteous to one another
and do not war with distant neighbors;
not only because they cannot touch each other,
but because they do not have to.

There is a dark hollow beyond the field
which moans deep between a rolling hillock
and the swelling rise of an umbral knob.
The trees within its mouth are gnarled of branch,
twisted of trunk,
crowded for space,
and reach crookedly around each other with covetous intent
to steal the weak slivers of light offered by the negligent Sun.
They war with serpentine branches not because they want to kill,
but because they are naturally inclined to try to survive,
for not every tree is sprouted in golden fields,
nor is it to blame for where its seeds are planted.

To Anti-Natalists, Sincerely

There is always bleeding in this world,
but that doesn’t mean you should
twist the tourniquet so tight
that you kill the limb—
better would it be
that you twisted the
noose
and stepped off the edge
choking off your own hypocrisy
midsentence.
While I have no children
and dislike suffering
and am sympathetic toward Buddhist notions of
nonbeing,
I never thought Sisyphus should just
quit the hill;
it has some lovely
views
along the way
if you know where to look
amidst the day-to-day drudgery.
Ingrate, why don’t you
trade places with any among the
innumerable dead?
If they could speak on their own behalf
they would likely exchange with you
readily enough,
trading swarming maggots
for airy breath.
You’re upset because you were
dragged into this world by your
umbilical cord, kicking and screaming
while covered in filth.
So were we all,
and while we may complain, we also
get over it.
Existential consent matters most to you,
you say,
so consent to suture the bloodflow
to your head
so these anti-existential thoughts can be
reconciled summarily
with nonexistence.
If euthanasia is such a mercy
then go pay a visit to
Dr. Kevorkian
and take a ride on his famous
Thanatron
straight out of Somewhere.
Funny, you wouldn’t be able to endorse
Death
if you weren’t such a failure
in following your own gospel.
But if you weren’t such a coward
you would simply not be at all—
silence the sound and the fury
if it signifies nothing,
needlessly,
but stop grumbling beneath the yoke of
Life
like a slave beneath the whip of his
master
and unchain yourself.
Throw yourself upon your
double-edged sword of
Reason
or else be quiet.
Petulant children decry the strict
governess, too,
but never choose to flee to the wilderness
for long.
Instead, they grow the fuck up.
Life is a bitch, as they often say,
so take your mouth off the teat
if you don’t like the sour milk.
Make room for those
more grateful for the taste.