Soul Tragedy of Errors —

for some
the soul-mate
does not exist
and being no
more real
than
the perfect
woman
it is very easy
to walk away

no harder than pulling
your fingers
from fire

in-fact natural

and being that
you can find another
who is not your
soul-mate
with relative ease
the human condition
is relived

but

in absence of a
soul-mate
some find life
to hard
to carry on
and
many times
the end for
these souls is
Shakespearian

and while they
cut off their ears
for the sake of
love

the rest of us
continue to
drink
sleep
fuck
and fight
our way
towards

the end.

POEM SHELLS —

when writing a poem
it is always better
to write the end first

this is because the
end of the poem is the
last thing you read
and should be the
culmination
of your point
or hypothesis

if the poem is long this is especially important because most people have very short attention spans and cannot remember the beginning of anything once they reach the end of that thing and then the meaning can and will be lost forever

therefore,
if many useful ideas
flood your head
in the beginning of your process
it is best to use those
ideas for the end of the poem

if your ideas come into your mind
in the opposite direction
I suggest writing the
end of the poem last -
as to maximize the
effectiveness

and
if you have no
poem ideas in the first place
don’t try to force it
you’re already on
the right track

JUNGIAN THERAPISTS, LADIES WITH MULLETS —

i had just awoken when
the voices arrived
i dressed
found my shoes
and slid them
on

on my way to the psychologist
the voices grew slightly
hostel

they don’t like to be eradicated

when i arrived at the office
i waited until i was called
i sat
in a chair
and
talked
talked
talked
but i did not hear myself
because
the voices
talked over my real
voice
insistently

after fifty
minutes had past


i got up and
happily
walked out
of there

on the way home
i stopped at a café
called Fuel

there were two beautiful
women behind the counter
almost too good looking
the only thing was
they both had very
pronounced mullets

i ordered a 12oz coffee
then added
cream and two sugar cubes

i walked towards the exit
the voices were silent

it was the beginning of another
very confusing day

AUTOS IN TUSCALOOSA —

in Tuscaloosa

automobiles 

wait for a train 

to pass

before 

rolling

to the 

sawdust factory

the auto plant

the humdinger bar

no place

and over there 

some turn 

around

in tuscalossa

as the train 

dings 

and clicks

but most

wait

and the ones 

who turn around

who knows

where

their

headed

OUTSIDE NANA —

outside the Nana tailor shop
sat a young man
no hands,
no feet,
no shade.

as i passed he put both stubs in
the prayer position and said
“suh-watt-dee - suh-watt-dee.”

his smile ran me over as he kept on:
“suh-watt dee - suh-watt-dee”
his stubs shaking with
unfounded hope.

as i passed him i nodded,
tried to look like i
understood,
even though
i didn’t and
don’t.

then i walked back to my small room
and wrote it all down thinking that
one day i should stop
writing this stuff

but knowing that men with
no hands,
no feet,
no shade
and a smile the size of
the expressway
would never let
me get away
with that.

SAD —

the more you travel the more you realize
that everywhere the people are afraid,
terribly afraid.

they’re afraid of lost money
or none to begin with.

they’re afraid of governments
or lack thereof.

they’re afraid of  big things
and little things,
lost and found loves,
never found loves,
broken promises,
embarrassment.

they’re fearful for themselves
and for their children.

fearful of tomorrow,
and the day after,
and the days
after that.

it is a sad and horrifying reality.

no matter where you go,
how many mountains or
seas you cross,

you’ll come face to face
with the same thing
over and over and
over again.

so we look to our idols,
never recognizing
that most of our heroes
have been wrong

and our saviors were never
even strong enough
to save themselves.

SNAPSHOT BANGKOK 4:01AM —

and i’m sitting on an

elevated sky train platform

eating a sandwich

below the people sit on the street 

drink and play music

as the trash men

collect trash

the working girls sit around 

legs crossed 

one heel 

bouncing

they sit and wait as the men

pass by, pass by, 

and pass by

they sit there showing leg

saying the same phrases

over and over

about a block away 

a door man is tipped  

while an elevator rises 

and falls again

a plane passes overhead

and four people 

look up

as the plane moves into the distance

a rat and a dog square off

both suspended in their 

battle rituals

men stand on the corners counting 

their money, swallowing 

their ethics, and sweating

the birds start their song

and i stand up and begin 

walking toward my room

i move onto the street 

and look ahead

as it all passes away 

into the strange space we call

history.

GOODBYE KOI —

the koi is a common fish

and actually a type of

garbage eating carp.

but if you’re perceptive

every now and then 

you’ll find magic

in this tragically 

ordinary fish. 

it’s something that 

captivates the mind

stimulates the body 

punctures the soul.

and when you find this sort

you follow it first with 

your eyes then with

your feet.

and while you know the common

nature of the fish you follow it 

still, often with amazement.

well soon enough either the koi

or you move on to new 

waters and that 

is that.

but in the meantime you follow

the fish thinking that one day

you’ll see it again in a 

different pond

a new tank 

or washed up dead somewhere 

but knowing that

you probably won’t.

ZERO GROUND —

there is nowhere left to go

no place to move on to
i have eaten
my family
or they have
disappeared

DESTRUCTION —

a
remedy
for
remembrance
age and
fallacy
connect callously
forming faith
in god
destruction or
deliverance

INFIRMED —

a terminal fatigue

seized in love letters
we're told she tried
to resesutate the
body for days

HOW DOES IT FEEL? —

it’s not easy for them either.

yes, they dress nicely,
sip their coffee slower,
and create music we
can’t hear; but, there’s
something else
isn’t there?

it’s the itch to walk deliberately
into the blaze
to dive head-first into the brutality
or answer the door naked
to be unjustly mean or
to go to bed with
a stranger

to pretend to be him or her
or them
or anything
or nobody

it’s the common hunger for truth
and the failure to speak it.
the appeal of leaving  it all
behind

it’s the impulse to hate what
you don’t understand
and the masking of your
hatred with kindness

to run away from the
sham of nirvana into a
blade or barrel
or irate sea

to become individually lost in
a mass of mutual human
suffering

A CARNAL HYPOTHESIS —

confined to a leaky and sinking old boat
confined by change
by the aware yet archaic brain
by the thought
the emotions
by evolution
for or against

restricted by the lungs
neuro-plasticity
choice
fallacy
and function
constrained by rightness
and non-essential wisdom

confined to the limiting possibilities
limited by time
the four directions
Newtonian physics
metaphysics
quantum mechanics
oxygen
and ether

confined by imprecise language
by imprecise education
by certainty and uncertainty

encircled by the world-savers
the time-wasters, the paper-faced

ensnared by the black mosquito
or mile marker 146
or this time
or no time
or anything
less than
more than
or nowhere

confined by the lines in the road
by 29 miles to go

confined in ability
confined in unknown bias
unknown and known galaxies
known and unknown loves
confined by this poem
there or here
back and forth
or not back and forth

drowning in impotent ideas
morals, values, ethics
or lack thereof

confined by no judgment
or too much judgment
or just enough
or just right

deadened by politeness
by tambourines
by porcelain
or locomotives of faith
pounding on you like
broken piano keys

sedated by the rising concrete
and moreover, and therefore

forced under by too much
or not enough

forced under by rotted vegetables
or a burnt out headlight

confined by psychological voyeurism
peering in during the last
moments of solitude

or perhaps
confined by underwater warfare
by changing sides
and walking home afterward
shoes blow to smithereens

being set free by the breathtakingly plain
and ultimate conclusion
is as decent a thing
as anyone can know

MAGNOLIA PLAINSMAN —

Magnolias gesture in solitude, until morning
Over roped-roots, petals emerge in Spring
The sky still weeps against the passing
Fragile petals fill, shed their pretense
Fall easily to the ground
And underfoot are crushed
Into the soil

Magnolias remain impossibly, against their mourning
Submerged petals restore the flora of another Spring
Possibly the same blossoms, same roots
Resurrected anew in ecstatic absorption
Stronger than yesterday
Weaker than tomorrow

PRETTY DAMN GOOD —

2 young females sit on my
front right and talk in a
soft yet urgent tone,
probably about
their love life.
to my direct left is a couple
who stare continually into
each other’s eyes and
laugh about everything
and nothing at all.
Vietnamese cooks are behind
me chattering loudly.
i cannot understand Vietnamese
so i tune them right out
like they were the
souls of my lost
loves.
others are everywhere,
talking about this, that
and the other thing.
they are angry, happy,
sad, in the middle,
unsure, and
together.
in the seat directly across from me
sits no one, just a bowl
of noodles and a pair
of chopsticks.
i know what i must be done
and i do it.

SUBSISTENT FORMS —

It is pure nonsense to believe
that the aliens can be conquered by
an eye gouge, a testicular squeeze
or a nipple twist. The tragic theorem
is awfully ugly, a paradox of ugly, universal
and unequivocal, paranormal and pathetic.
The mysterious “intruders” are not unknown.
Like in the movies, the mysterious intruders
are among us. So leave your heirlooms behind
for the looters. Bring your songbooks. Learn to
smile wide. After all, perhaps the aliens are under
obligation to intervene. Perhaps they are here to
free us from our program. Perhaps we
should pity them, sing along children.
Or perhaps we should gather our bayonets,
machetes, knives, scythes, cutthroat razors.
Perhaps we should prepare a place to disembowel and
incinerate them. Perhaps we should prepare ourselves
a place for disembowelment. AK-47s, blindfolds,
and pump-action shotguns may prove prudent.
Whatsoever the resources, weapons of
opportunity will be wielded. Improvise
child, you’re only limited by imagination
and the hour is certainly short, our
screams turning into specks of moonlight
as we are dragged away by our neighbors

HYPOTHESIS ON TERRORISM —

Total or unreal
our reality beyond principal
mental and physical liberation flow
in the rubble of our own image
zero sign of hostility

VICTIMOLOGY —

Captors claim
the capacity of the captive
the shade cast
between the background
and the frame

TALC —

Suspended children
flee a building burning permanent
persuaded and dissuaded
out of the dank
into the fray
weeping and
waving
in vain.

CONTEMPT —

She
slowly
slips
into survival
the general form of the subject
a strip-tease
a theatre
of the pure
her thirst
her odyssey
real as obscured

You'll Find A Way —

 

An imaginary line 

draws no tension

A clenched fist 

receives no alms

HOLDING FAST —

I keep remembering the churches
the people and their sad faces
trembling over faded
operatic lungs
that can stop gasping
but will not —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the organ
it's weary cry drenched in Picasso blue
the desperate stare of scarcity
fists clenched —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the bluster
the depressions in the earth
hoards of old women gossiping
with frowns turned upside down
properly trimmed —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the girl's dresses
their young black legs
secured by tall fathers
soles stamping incensed
the B-24 Liberator
Solar powered war
and the people —
raising hands in the air

MAMA'S TIERS —

boundaries about and abound
maim the land and the psyche
maim the psyche and the land
peeled backward than forward
forward then back -
tears tear through the soil
and the soul
the sound
of water breaking
then rolling back
to it's origin

_

...CLEAN —

They want to have

and have naught — 

a series of dashes 

and dots

_

Pikthall is a writer.