Paul Bäumer, Winston Smith, and You: All a Part of Some Book.

There is a war going on, a fight for your psyche.
It's with the ones who pilot the pop-up ads and your attention,
media moguls and worldly powers to which you've sold yourself;
their sole intention to control you,
to besiege and bombard your bone reinforced bunkers,
targeting your soft spots: the jugulars, the temples,
the eyes. The shrapnel tears your insides,
ruining perspective and infecting the minds behind
with blanketing agents representing the poor rich,
the rich poor believing the well-funded mercenaries
“outside” of military and government direction,
led by an unseen enemy.
They are whispering beneath the subway televisions
selling you short lived joy and false idols, enslaving you,
keeping you in a nine to five prison with three and a half walls,
and leaving you living/dying for three days
unaware that someone was dead for those same three days
starting a revolution and a jail break;
for people to put down their sharpened shovels
and walk away from the western battlefield.

Better Than Lewis or Tolkien

There was the
Beginning, the human
Factor, the scandalous
Fall, the relentless
Pursuit, the perfect
Law, the good
Works, the failed
Trials.


There was the endless
Compassion, the daring
Rescue, the tragic
Betrayal, the necessary
Sacrifice,
     The everything resurrection.
The beautiful
Redemption, the glorious
Return, a
perfect story
by a perfect Writer.

Magnets and Moons

Any car can fly
if you go fast enough,
you just have to put wings on it.
He beamed, and the excess gratification
dripped off his unworn face.
Oh is that so? His freckles didn't move
as his gap-toothed wisdom disappeared
underneath his displeasure.
His furrowed brows formed premature
worry wrinkles as he was unable
to understand why I wouldn't
take his word. He pouted and fretted and concentrated and finally
conceded to the fact that I
wasn't going to. He shrugged his shoulders
and his face relaxed as he indifferently
stated Something to do with magnets
and the pull of the moon.

Anis Mojgani - Shake the Dust

Obviously this isn't me. But I freaking loved this poem and thought it should be shared.

Bike Catastrophe (Part III)

Part I
Part II

The crank, unsure
of what to do, creaks
and moans and stresses
and paces figure eights
like a friend at the hospital,
unsure of what happens next.
Eventually, with the decisive
vice grip of the bottom bracket
bearing down on it,
the crank simply doesn't do anything.
The crank is frozen, stuck in a moment,
consumed by a slow-motion whirlwind of
debris and bits, a hellish
chaotic solar system
around an immovable sun.

Carolina Blend

I loved the drips of sweat
hanging from the
   tips
of your greasy
hair. The wet
sticky
thick air wrapped its
arms around us
like our brother would.

We sat on the concrete
blocks,
our cigarette
tips
acted as beacons, lights
on a runway, telling the cars
the bridge was out,
closed.

Bike Catastrophe (Part II)

Part I

A steel frame,
built to disperse the force
now rippling through
the forged metal
evenly, is stripped naked,
it's powder coated coats of paint
ripped violently
from it's skinny frame.
But this aluminum frame
has weaker bones
than it's distant cousin.
The bottom bar smashes
against the sharp, unforgiving
curb. In the first
moments, just an expanding dent,
but the force behind it edges it
onward. It starts to warp unnaturally.
"Just a little more."
The frame can't
resist. It can take no more
and gives way
to the unforgiving laws.
The same sharp curb
rushes into the empty space
once roped off with aluminum
velvet. It acts as a wedge,
teaming with energy,
forcing the boundaries
different directions.
Forcing the boundaries upward
and downward. The intelligent angles,
precisely designed,
are no longer
applicable. The top bar needs
no coaxing. Witnessing the destruction
it accepts it's fate
and gives way.

Bike Catastrophe (Part I)

The slightly used tube explodes
on contact as the rim
behind it fractures.
The spokes within, once carefully
and delicately tuned now tumble
into a catastrophic implosion
as the thin rods of metal,
which never
should have been trusted,
scatter, like a dropped
jar of marbles.

Left with only shadows of supports
the rest of the frame follows suit.
The curved fork is asked to bend
an unnatural direction.
It likes it's home,
nestled in familiarity
of it's shape.
But it was never a race to see
who gave in first,
the curb or the fork.
It was always the fork.
The left arm bends
to the inside
kissing the right arm firmly,
knowing they're soon to be separated.
Goodbye. the arm rips
from it's joint.
And the left one goes too.