Head Hole (Song)...

(Video Link ~ Tempo & Rhythm here.)

I pushed a guy on Sunday;

He shot me on a Monday.

You want to learn humility?

Well Fu´ck baby, that's one way.

                                 So now I'm just a ghost,

                                   Watching-the world go to shit.

                                 And I wish—oh, I wish—

                              Someone would ask what-I-think of it.

… this-is what I'd say … This, what I'd say:

                              Bring in the bigots, call in the racists;

                                 I want to bleed on all their proud, cocky faces:

                                  Look down on (any) life, you're better off dead...

                                    I should know:

                                   I've got a hole in the back of my head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

                               Draw in the bullies, entice the brawlers,

                                The pledgers, the cliques, and the fucking cat-callers:

                                 Treat lives like meat, then it's fair when you're bled...

                                  I should know:

                                 I've got a hole in the back of my head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

         [instrumental / arbitrary shout break]

I pushed a guy: I said his wife

Was uglier than mine; that he was

Dumb, poor, lazy, weak, and just

Less human. Less refined.

So he shot me in my fucking face;

I didn't think he'd do it. And

I'd never seen my bloated soul,

'Til-he put a hole right through it.

       … {build} … {build}

                            Roll up your kindness, make it a lever;

                              Do something, true, loving, thought-sparking, clever:

                                Fuck being a preacher; be a neighbor instead...

                               You talk down?

                             You'll meet the ground with a hole in your head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

                                 I'm sick of hatred. Judging and blaming.

                             Left-right, godless-faithful, all them point fingers blaming.

                          When you can't see or hear another? 'Nough said...

                      Your mind's gone:

              So says the guy with the hole in his head

(pop-pop-pop)

In the Soup...

Once we realize enough dividing makes connection—

That, in a “Split-Pea Soup,” every 'pea' is 'the Pea'—

Then our own words, like webs, start popping loose from corners

And wrap-rolling into tight balls:

                 I-corner—

                                    —You-corner

         {Crumple-crumple}

                      We.

                                                                                 “I want to kill you,”

                      equals “...wish that I would die,”

          means “...just want to start fresh

                                 and open wide like evening sky.”

                                                                                            “You're a bad person,”

                      equals “...I know that inner feeling,”

          means “...I'm running from a piece in

                                 me that I'd feel shame revealing.”

                                                                                “They're a bunch of fools,”

                      equals “I don't know how to merge us,”

          means “I sense that we're the same at

                                 roots but I'm stuck here at the surface.”

Once we realize enough dividing makes connection—

Everything we covet or judge the most is our reflection.

Also...

That piece of skin (

hanging off my shin)

That the brick wall sheared away

Wags like a fatty gray sail.

I lift it high, translucent pale,

Rip it clean, and end its sway.

But I worry about the deep white layer,

So I massage all 'round its boundaries

Until that hole fills red with care

And down my leg, in abundance, bleeds.

I look at the brick,

Skin and hair on its lip,

And wipe so the neighboring youths

Won't find that gore before a few other truths—

(they're too fresh yet to begin

mapping lessons from scars 'cross their skin;

too brief to look past vicious

and see that losses make

              here-things precious;

too new to feel humble,

kneeling by a wall

        that will also crumble).

Addictions & Attachments...

When I was a rat—

                 White fur, red eyes—

                                 I used to press a lever

                               And pretend that was my love.

                                              But really, that addiction

                                                 Was a substitute, a fill-in

                                                             For a pair of hands

                                                    That came for me, Above.

                                                 They were warm, and whispered,

                                                                   “I am sorry; this will pass.”

                                                                   I was 

                                                                             high at the time, 

                                                                                                      though,

                                                                   So I don't 

                                                           remember much:

                                        Just the softness of her breath

                    As she held me in that moment;

      Just the peace I felt there,

Nestled in her touch.

Perfection is a Pointless Canvas...

             His impeccable desk had a uniform shine.

But the window had a crack that everyone saw.

“Why don’t you fix that, John; the rest is

So perfect?” 

                            “Oh, the window? Ha!

   Look down. Did you spot how clean

The shoe cart and the tile flooring is?”

“Yes.” 

                 “Did you smell orange-oil,

And feel your chair's dust-free skin?”

“I did.” 

                  “So you also scanned my

      close-shaven face? My oiled hair?

    with all its ordered strands in place—”

“John! It’s a nice room, and you're very well-kept.

                   All of it, but that crack.”

“Well, for years I kept this room

Perfect. Not one speck, one flaw.

And business came, and business

                Went; nobody really saw.

           Then I punched the quiet glass.

        It chirped and split. 

Once people saw that vein,

    Like an angry bolt though invisible clear,

       swallowing the blankness across that pane,

               Only then, they looked for a pattern of flaws.

                    And noticed... straight lines and polish instead.

                        And then—only then—did my clients and friends

                               give the window their pity and the rest their applause.”

The little ball (A tiny tale about experience, belief, and wisdom)...

The little ball was filled with air.

When the field asked, “What's in you?"

The ball said, “I've never been in there,

But still my days continue.”

A foot came down, moved by a leg,

To kick that ball: a sound

Rang back and forth, like through a hall:

across and back, around.

So, whistle-cutting through the sky,

The ball made this connection:

“If halls ring, full of wind, so I

Must hold air, too, I reckon.”

Another leg came, and stopped the ball;

Another foot then drove it.

Each time, that ringing sound out-called;

“This is my name—I know it!”

The field asked, “Your name is what?”

But now sitting still, while the legs convened,

The little ball's defining 'duuunt'

Could not be heard, nor its flying seen.

“I promise you, I have a name.

I've sung it across your dust-white lines!

I leap across them, game by game.

I even wear their chalk, sometimes!”

“Ha ha, the stories that you tell,”

The blind field cooed with adoration.

“So many balls dream just like you,

In their young imaginations.”

The ball felt soft, being disbelieved,

and having in itself no way to show

what its airy core had (somehow?) received

and, flight by flight, it'd come to know.

But then, a toe caught in the grass, and

Brought a man's face howling down to the field:

In anger and pain, he uplifted the ball...

“Listen now! I will sing my name. It's real!”

*

This long world creates, and then out-survives us.

We crash against each other, here on it, and see

That our insides develop when others propel us:

                 whether kindly or cruelly,

                                       Wisely or foolly,

They show us what we're filled with—and what we're going to be.

The Farm ...

A chicken turns-head and looks at me sideways.

A feral cat looks me dead on.

A lady on the farm looks softly around me,

As though I were already gone.

If I linger long enough, she'll start smiling,

Lift a still-warm brown egg off the straw,

And cook it on cast iron for me—like that's normal,

The magical thing I just saw:

That her hands pull from earth bits of living

That she nurses, and could eat between rows, years of days.

That her odor is earth—I step back, overwhelmed.

She says, “G'night,” through her hair; through the back of her head,

                                                      still her gaze.

The Mouse with Cat's Eyes ...

Your emotions trade like currency,

spreading through colleagues' faces.

     Your language plays like math

inside my clear, rational head:

I'll hear the doctors insult me—

“Sick-soul” is the meaning of psychopath—

but their words won't hurt. How is that

“sick”? And not “powerful” instead?

                                                                               * 

I was born in a world of bias,

with dictionaries written

     by people who twitched in recoil

at “Corpse”—the mere word—and

Grinned dumbly, glazed-eyed,

at “Kitten.” Simple to foil

such heart-felt minds, when cool flesh

and warm purrs feel equal in my hand.

                                                                                             *

You call mine “sick,” for it's more than yours.

Your motive shows; your guilty will.

     You justified that gorilla in our zoo

by telling your children “This welded hole—

fake wild—is better than the chaos in

Africa; it's kindness.” But I see through:

The gorilla loses, despite power-in-arms,

for his disposition to accept, and not control.

                                                                                         *

You also accept too much, your nostalgic eyes

Gluing small-town names on a steel high-rise.

     You'll cash in others' feelings even if they break

your senses; that's how little pages of lies,

still photos of wet eyelids, brief shouts of despair

crumble strong knees and pull genius souls to take

their own, willing lives. Your strength for nothing, when

feelings paralyze limbs while an unfeeling fire rages.

                                                                                   *

So I am, in flesh, a human being.

Same in geography, same in strength,

     same in size.

But where most were born with a guilt-cluttered soul,

I'm a god beyond that preying nest;

a mouse with cat's eyes.

Remembering senses at a distance ...

Starts with an old picture,

where you look 

so happy with me;

where we    

                           look so happy.

Next                  

        it's a few videos I shot,

             where I can 

             smell your perfume           

                                                                 and

                                                                   sawdust, 

just seeing that dress.

Then 

                    it's 

                      every 

              photo 

                      I can

              find, 

                                              and 

                                                    all 

                                            the 

                                              songs 

                                                  I saved; 

                                        that I

                  only sing now 

                                      thinking of you.

And then—

                                 I haven't let a tear slide

since I let go your shoulder. 

                                                  My eyelids

                                  glide wet, 

                                        almost spill, 

then dry again.

Some nights, 

I wish 

I knew

that calling you 

would end 

happily.

Still, 

I imagine us perfect.

Simply, Only (post-Shelley)...

"This is why I don’t like Shelley’s poems…

I’m not going to hold my happiness hostage 

to ransom from you a kiss.

I’ll still drink deep every star-sky, fresh spring, 

and cat purr in your absence…

It’s simply you, and only you—

every part of you—I’d miss.”

                   - Josh D. Kuntzman

Come down (song) ...

A hundred 

    thousand lonely

              men & women

     hold themselves       back

           looking for life commitment:

self-inflicting                  pain and torment;

don'tcha know                     a happy life's made

                          of a 

                               hundred-

                                     thousand-

                                              million 

                                           brief moments?...

Come do-own, my baby,

Underneath the table: just

kiss me in the morning and

call me      if you're able.

                                  Wanting passion,

                                           she swoons for brawlers;

                                Wanting brilliance,

                                                    this one settles for dollars.

                            Wanting connection,

                                                                he settles for handsome;

                     Wanting commitment,

                                                                          this one 

                                                                                takes a 

                                                                          hand for 

                                                                    ransom...

But rings mean nothing!

Come make a moment holy,

and it will last a lifetime, while

vows—are broken slowly.

Yours, ours, mine, - - - - all on a pin:

          that rushing tip of time - - - - 

                              - - - Childhood drawings and aching teen crushes,

              seem laughable now - - - - 

                             - - - Metals to rust and crystals to dust:

          we all buckle and bow - - - - 

                             - - - Growing, shedding; absorbing, forgetting—

                  I ate my old skin: - - - -

                            - - - Our joys live and die. Our joys live and die,

       at the moment we're in. - - - - 

(So Come do-own, my baby,

underneath the table...)

       Over-thinking,

      under-doing?

                                       Leads a virgin

                                           mind to ruin.

Overdoing,

 under-thinking?

                                     Can lead a fool to

                           wisdom in a blink—So

Come do-own, my baby,

underneath the table:

just kiss me in the morning and

call me     

                      if you're able.

                              When I say 'able,'

                   what I mean is

             there's no need to

lifetime-guarantee this:

A thousand years of

faithful service—

done as habit?—

is still shallow, 

                cold, 

                 and 

             worthless.

Your word's as good

as the passion that it's based in.

Be with me, 

           fully, 

           here and now:         that is dedication.

                        - - - - love is not! 

                                              - - - - right/wrong! - - 

                       just profound! - - - -

                                                - - below the! 

                          - - scales, so! - - 

                                                 come down! - - - -

            Watch my fingers,

         as they feel your arm bend;

       touch my low back,

      as I breathe your cheek in;

       taste my lip's edge

         as I hear your throat hum:

            fill my senses

                as yours, 

                          too, 

                             overflow. 

                             Come—

Come doown, 

                       my baby,

                                  Our borderline's 

                                                  a fable.

Come feel 

   your heart 

        beat 

through 

my chest,

            underneath the table.

The Garden...

When my ex looks sad,

I feel sorry for her.

                                                        Then she acts mad, and

                                                     I feel relieved that we're apart.

Then my ex texts “I miss

you,” and part of me lights up—

                                                   like   “Yes, I miss you, too. And

                                                you're always in my heart.”

When my ex grows distant, I

find my thoughts flying forward

                                                        and finally I can look into

                                                          a new date's face, lost in their eyes.

When my ex goes silent,

  I may still have conversations

                                                    with her echoes, half-transparent

                                                    in my mind. 

                                                               These are goodbyes.

When my friend says 

                                                      “Your ex is going

                                               to lots of ballgames with 

                                                     her new boyfriend,”

my fingers rush 

the search keys:

                                        “Aggh—somewheeere...

                                                             here's a link.”

                                                                                                         He has kind eyes, 

                                                                                                           a truck; likes sports

                                                                                  and drinks: all things I'd wished with

                                                                                                   love she'd find out there, 

                                                                                                             outside of me.

(At least, I think...)

When my ex is happy,

                                                        in my imagination hole,

                                                  part of me starts feeling chilly

                                                  and drawn back once again.

Of course, that passes, 

but I still translate

what it means for me inside: 

                                                        that I never stopped

                                                            watering these roots, 

no matter how many    new seeds and shoots      have crisscrossed my soil since then.

At the End (come the plow) ...

What would matter,

when     taking a life:

if    handed a   hatchet  and

told,          “This needs to be done.”

Of course,                            swiftness matters;

striking deep,         bleeding quick.

But                      past that,

one thing matters. One:

Where is your heart

when its blood drains, when

conscious          goes black? That is

our last gift                  in life:             the passing.

And if I'm       there, holding

flesh when it cools, then

I want to lower you

resting,   not     crashing.

I won't care            about                  “justice”           then,

or vengeance or    punishing    shame.

I'll care about life, when life I take—

not how you lived before—

                   how you end today.

Life is ever only a single-sighted folly;

Death, often pressed on bodies craving to be.

So, to kill kindly, I'll melt your and my distractions—

so we're see/hear/smell/touch/tasting—before I send you away.

Which raises, in my passing,                                    what would matter to me?

I dream I would call on all of my days,

and drink one last time every smile I can see,

every call to my ear, every         warm kiss        on skin,

surprise scent on breeze, and tingle over tongue.

Then I would return—to be here, to be now—

If I were the worm, and you were the plow

                                                                pressing in.

Ending a life is,     a simple    basic deed:

let out enough blood,      keep out enough air,     or

cut enough connections that a center

un-spools     its bound-up nest      of will.

And simple,     what that brings:            a dreamless rest?

A dissolving latch      

between eye

and vision,

    lung and 

           breath,

       muscle and 

                strength, 

 neuron-banks      and

                                           a 'kill.'

Loneliness...

She wanted the right man.

                                           “I hate

                  shallow and judgmental fools,”

she printed on her profile. 

                                           “No

                  douchebags please. Here I wait.”

That right man glanced over—prepared

to embrace her interests, humor, soul—

“Such perfect words!” he swooned, “I know

I must not leave her waiting there ...

With such high standards, and confidence

that her purse-lipped selfies alone now inspire

me to write 

                                         'I love your personality! Your fire!

         For I TOO am filled with hate for hate! 

      And I sense

   That together, we could non-shallowly parade

   through our city, shaming all bags-of-douche

   and flaunting before them the flawless truth:

   that we are non-judgmental, for God has made

   A woman like you, and a man like myself,

   who grow more in love each time we confess

   to each other how humble and righteously blessed

   we are—sometimes victims of someone else,

   In which case we'll be cruel, but it's justified—

   but when times are hard, and life is demanding,

   we pick up our toolbox: proactively rebranding

   our challenges and needs as faults in those outside.

   And that is how we stay happy together.

   We never fight, nor point out what the other lacks—

   I mean, true, Tammy: your profile begins with attacks—

   but in a long-term relationship? 

  I'm sure you would never...'”

He laughed, and then deleted it all away,

“Don't be a douchebag, she did say please.”

On her end, she saw typing dots … then they ceased.

“Pff,” she balked, “Another fool, another day.”

Niceness...

                                  Sure,       we        will

                  suffocate

on our own

pollution—

Not because of

selfish  short-sight

(we see where we're going)

but because of “nice”:

Not wanting to step

out of affiliation-lines

and say, “This line moves

in a useless 

                   direction,

wastes healthy 

                       legs

and precious 

                    time.

Who     started

this line?    We

should

be     done 

with it.”

     And because

      minority madmen—

       not impulsive or      naive

        (they know what they do:

          leeching     infant

                 tomorrow-veins

             to         invest         in a

                MASSIVE     FOOT

                   they can    lift-and-

                      drop,          to feel

                        power,    to echo

                            infinite

                               through    the

                                        universe)

                                         —    They

                                             know.

That if            they

act     like      those

in          the    line,

smiling           and

well-dressed with

polite   questions

   and         happy

handshakes, they

     can     control

that              line.

    Because     no

one nice  would

     ever       dare

            step out,

      to challenge

       a    smiling

   big          foot

hand- out   guy.

Small Planet... (purpose wants no praise)

They told me I'm a bright star.

But what do astronomers know?

They don't feel the pressure inside:

The weight of being a fire-tide,

The coming collapse, and

The big black hole.

If I pull my neighbors in spiral-tight,

or let water on their pink-rock skin

Turn silver-gray and crystalline,

Or flare their plush plants wilt-brown thin,

What do the astronomers feel?

A little lens-light around

Their retina-wheel.

I don't bulge large inside this dance

For love of hearing, “Oh beautiful light!”

I persist because this is my face—

Gathered together out of dust and grace—

To know of nothing, but to burn

in place. Because it's right.

Anything more is a lab-coated dream:

Logging and tracking, then to say what “should be.”

But where is their child? Nowhere near their lips.

Their lover? Loosing memory of their finger tips.

Were they born to squint at my light like this?

No, NO, no—they were born like me:

To form, catch fire, and then (with bright cores)

be. Not know, not say (those gases

burn away, small planet) … be.

If I say one thing (Who you gonna love?) {song}

I was—skating along,

Minding my own business,         but

Then I heard a dove—coo by another dove:

In a world full of pain,          and

Joys that you share with us,

Who would keep ne-earest;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Straight-up abuse you—

             Blame and accuse you, Tell you you're dumb—

             

Or 

                   would you choose a face who,

             When they lock eyes with ya',

             It's to learn the insides of ya',

             To see where you're from?

So I'm—skating along,

Minding my own business,      but

Those birds keep poppin' in my brain, ticklin' my blood:

In a world full of pain,       and

Joys that shake us apart,

Where do you rest your heart;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Doesn't understand you?

             They might hold you hand, b't their arm's a million miles long...

             

Or 

                   would you walk a room with

             Someone who shares that scene;

             Even no words or touch between,

             They know the page you're on?

So I'm—skating along,

Minding my own business,           but

“Who you gonna love? Who you go-onna love?”

In a world full of pain,         and

Joys that you hold inside,

When do those wings go wide;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Doesn't accept you;

             Tries to fix and correct you, tells you you're wrong?

             

Or 

                   would you brave these days with

             Someone whose humble sight

             Knows there's a million ways to 'right';

             T' harmonize with your song.

[instrumental:]

So I'll keep—skating along, just

Minding my own business,       but

“Who you gonna love? Who you go-onna love?”

In a world full of pain,      and

Joys that you share with us,

Who would keep ne-earest;

Who you gonna love?

I said, Whooo—

you gonna love?       

                              Darlin',

Who—

are you 

             goin'—

                       to-o

                          Lo-o-ove?

Single... (a song)

Woke up in my bed                                as the sun went white – 

inverse of the way                                                    I fell asleep last night.

Turned and kissed my pillow                                  'cause I felt so right,

I was swallowing the urge to scream...

                                                                    “I'm a live, 

                                                                 I'm   alive, 

                                                                     I'm aliii—ive”

Dropped down, with my toes;                 floor felt cold (what a gift).

At first my legs hung heavy,                                    but as my pulse lifts,

The floorboards all start quickening.                       I feel that shift:

mid-neck, mid-chest, mid-arm – 

thump-

           thump-

                       thump...

                                                                    “I'm a live, 

                                                                 I'm   alive, 

                                                                     I'm aliii—ive”

Next, my skin is glowing,                         and I think of friends.

I find some food; I break it                               with my teeth, and then

just listen to its bubbling                                trickle round the bends

through layers of me unseen. 

              (But still, 

                 I know that... )

                                                                    “I'm a live, 

                                                                 I'm   alive, 

                                                                     I'm aliii—ive”

My brain-folds chart the future                while my hands touch now.

I feel the flex of focus fold                                            around my brow:

A hunt for purpose, “Why?”                       and once I see it, “How?”

Like this, by this, this way: 

              (once only...)

                                                                    “I'm a live, 

                                                                 I'm   alive, 

                                                                     I'm aliii—ive”

There's a part of you 

                                               that's divinity.

There's a part of you 

                                               through infinity.

And it's the same part of you 

                                                  that's inside of me;

It's the same bit, 

                     the same bit. 

                                 The same bit,  

                                                                         the same. 

                                                       It's the...

                                                                    “I'm a live, 

                                                                 I'm   alive, 

                                                                     I'm aliii—ive”

“I'm a live, 

I'm    alive, 

I'm      a l i  i    i  —   i    v e!”

Sometimes we are single,    but we're not alone.

And no body I've kissed    was a complete unknown;

       we're both electric, 

  fluid, 

  muscle, 

breath and bone,

       just following the urge to be...

                                                           “I'm a live, 

                                                    I'm   alive, 

                                               I'm alii i i ve!”

Lying down at dusk, here

                    clarifies my heart.

Samewise being hungry 

             makes my palate sharp.

I'll kiss my pillow 

             one more time; 

                 to dream's an art:

the first step 

   is to feel, 

        all quiet...

“I'm a live,        I'm alive,         I'm aliii—ive."