I don’t think I’m ever
gonna figure it
Lone and level concrete roads
Wave as you pass by
The humid and blistering air
Soak your shirt right through to your skin
In honest sweat and miserable heat
Baby Blue Sky overhead and just a fool’s worth
of water in a cup, driving on by, by, bye
To all the scenic routes that you’re hippie English teacher
talked about traversing through on the way to Bonnaroo
All those years ago:
This dirt road, then through that pile of cacti, chopping off a bit of peyote,
and mescaline, to really enhance the grooviness of it all,
and follow it up with a pint of ether and a hitchhiking pose,
hoping that thumb of yours can get a helpful trucker to stop and give you
No such luck, nowadays.
Everyone’s scared, nowadays.
I’m scared, too, most days.
Lone and level sands and roads upon roads,
gas shorting out, engine dying, battery trying to screech by,
tires on the fritz, no good tunes on the radio,
No AC and no ice to really help out with the heat.
Is this Hell or is this Hell, am I right or am I right?
Go on with your life, hoping to make it to whatever
you’re hoping to make it to; do you know what it is you do?
Do you know what you’re searching for?
Look to others for comfort, in between shots of coffee, shots of breakfast plates and dinner plates and brunches at Denny’s and engorging yourselves at Flanigan’s and overpaying for silly softcore porn and
over-sauced wings at Hooters, in between bed sheets and other human souls, going in and out.
In and out.
Breathing and exhaling and twisting and turning and hernias exploding pain shrapnel into your head
And coming up with bad metaphors and similes when a ripe description is not at hand.
Beyond everything else, what do you do?
What do you do, when everything you were ever told about the possibility of escape is a lie?
What do you do when all your memories are razorblades?
What do you do?
Quote my father’s son, nevermore.
Rollicking good times abound
And Halloween, my favorite day of the year,
is cluttered with bullshit classes.
No matter, I’ll still have some fun, either way
I’ll still watch movies
I’ll still wonder if a good Freddy Krueger vs.
Jason movie will ever be made
(And no, that final scene aka battle to end all battles does not
make up for that wretched shit. The ending does, but still, we go on.)
I do love thee,
since you give me and a lot of other freaks, weirdos, and mutants,
a valid reason
to be as weird and oddly clothed
as possible, without any real judgment or criticism: just let it be,
Just let it be.
What do you do
When two is two
And three is three
Four is no more
And nothing makes sense
Pimpin purple blocks with purp
And rhyming rhymes like this happens
I guess it happens all the time
Vines, Zines, Fanzines: all for a dime
A dime is a dime is a dime
And America is a dime
Or its currency value is
No one fucks with the dollar
We don’t even fuck with the dollar
The currency of the world is a rat
The rat is the currency of the world
The international symbol for justice is a bat
No matter what, old people remain gnarled
And rhymebook dictionaries are still used
And abused, and done away with
In the nick of time, I’m so divine
And flagrantly obese with my words,
my literature, my way of life,
my excess, my love for that restaurant The Knife;
but really, what am I talking about here?
What have I been doing for over a year now?
What have I been doing, pretending to be a seer
and a mover and shaker of people willing to bow
at my feet for all of the bullshit I can do
and all of the nice flowery imagery and poetry
I can whip up. I don’t even know what I”m talking about
half of the time, and the other half is a few nuggets of
wisdom I cooked up, whipped up from the deep
of the Internet and the literature scrambled around my
Domain, Rogaine, Abstain, Ovulate.
Yeah, that didn’t rhyme.
I still do it all the time.
Sleep deprivation is a wonderfully
and it makes the poetry side of me
and, while not sophisticated, blowhard
tryhard mode, and sometimes it’s easy to
forget one simple truth:
Sometimes, the littlest things can be, will be, and are
Most of the times, the biggest adventures with detailed-down-to-the-minute-
piss-breaks-minutia-laden-disaster-fests are just that, honestly.
Just pure disasters.
Pure fucking disasters
Nothing else I can do
but write my way out
Even then, I’m half-assing it
Nothing makes sense
Everything makes sense
Life is a contradiction
And you are too
I’m a living, breathing, fucking,
what else can I be?
What else should you be, huh?
I’m a made man of the poetry scene.
I’ve been watching Tony Soprano for
far, far, far too long, now.
What are the happiest moments
I can remember?
They don’t consist of buying things
or amusement parks
or high school
and definitely not middle school; college is far away from a happy time, too.
Hmm, I guess, to be honest, I’m happiest when I’m racing against time:
I’ve never had more fun than when I had an hour
to beat the clock
to make it to a huge pay-per-view event at an arena
with only minutes to spare
traversing, by bus, over six miles
To make it, to get a free ticket, to win against what should be an unbeatable opponent,
to have a big old mouth cannon and walk away laughing; that is fun, for me.
The happiest moments are not always that complex or needlessly confrontational.
One of the happiest moments, for me, was riding the bus for over an hour straight.
The sickness and decay and smell of gasoline and the tinted windows blocking away all
views, all avenues, all hopes of seeing anything beyond a faint blur of semi-green, mostly-fake Miami-esque grass, and the roar of traffic and the rancid smell of gasoline
and everything in repeat repeat repeat; but,
on some level,
I loved it, all the same. The rush of racing against time, the distance travelled, and the thrill of winning:
I guess I’m a simple guy, who likes
to outwit Mother Nature and outrace
and beat the fates we all have:
Death is a curious thing, but once you set down some words and leave it on a website,
or in a book,
you live forever.
Selah and Cazart to you, my most auspicious of audiences.
and all that
The times they are
Come mothers and fathers
With hearts in your hands
It’s all hallows eve,
so just come on, pretend,
Pretend you’re someone else
Pretend you’re anyone else
Write a song and dance around
Dance around your problems
And hope beyond hope no one
Life in the 21st century, same as any other;
only difference is the technology and breast implants,
and racism and sexism is sometimes more subtler but it’s in
Yeah, the times, they are a-
Sorry to be a cynical prick but sometimes,
I don’t smell the fresh roses and I don’t see the bright tomorrows.
All I see is loss of time, memory, activity, friends, co workers, relatives, pets,
and great loves; what makes life beautiful for you and me will soon pass.
This is all temporary.
So have fun while you can,
and what generation you where from doesn’t matter,
in the end;
it’s all a bygone era, every second that passes and every second counting down now
and every second that will pass us onto the future.
This is all changing up, every day is something new, so I guess that’s beautiful.
Remember this: no good deed
Glory is fleeting, and obscurity is forever.
Cliches will never go out of style.
And one last thing:
This is all temporary.
A full year
How do you commemorate
such a project
with a simple little poem?
A simple little
song and dance?
Should I dare say
that it’s all been worth it?
Have I learned anything?
Has my eyesight gotten worse
because of late nights
staring at this computer screen
burning radiation into my brain
Hoping for inspiration
All Hallow’s Eve
And with no punctuation
No rhyme or reason
Just plugging away
To then veer off,
about Lady Gaga’s Ass
Or Gillian Anderson’s Perfection
Or whatever else came to mind
Agua Agua and all that jazz.
It’s Halloween again,
and I feel randy, baby.
I feel alive
automatic dictation and typing away
Whatever veers off in my head
goes right on the page.
And I’ll never look at it again, unless it’s to
sell sell sell
buy buy buy
New book coming out
New dildoes and pom-poms and umbrellas
and video game platforms and stations of life,
Should I end this with a question or a wiseacre comment?
What should I do, now, that it’s all over, Baby Blue?
Breaking Bad is over, too; I’m just losing everything these days,
So, I guess, what more is there to say, beyond pleasantries, revelries, good times, hey hey; and what is
left to mourn, beyond the passage of time? Relatives passing by, dropping off like flies,
trying to live with a callous soul but I just can’t take it anymore: Rest in peace to everyone who’s passed, Elmore Leonard,, too, and Abuela(s), here’s to you.
I’ve done my part and settled the score with this project, and many demons are left to destroy and exorcise, but there’ll be a time for such a word. Tomorrow.
Creeps in this petty place, and nothing else can be done but say hey.
So, thanks for stopping on by in the dangerous mind of Ismael Santos:
buy the ticket, take the ride. And I am