What Moves You?

There’s nothing to see hereSaid the Internet

One Friday evening

Aboard the metro express

As I sat, and waited, 

to be moved by something else.

“What moves you?”

Said my therapist

To Everyman.

They had taken the place of Death

In the modern age

A telling told so much less intelligibly than the rest.

“Stories are what we tell ourselves to keep moving about in this- struggle- life.

So what stories keep you moving?”

Everyman before had taken this quest for meaning 

And meant something by leaving some baggage at Death’s door

Haunting following generations until in passing,

goes the way of the olden golden days 

and gets the hell out of here.  

It’s gone now.  

Ain’t much for getting lately 

only keeps some for forgetting, 

hadn’t much else to lose 

but whatever an after life could live 

after life had come to pass. 

Ain’t much these days.

Talked to my therapy again 

about how I’m feeling, 

didn’t make much sense 

but at least I’m learning 

how to make symbols out of figments 

letters from the metaphors, 

created words, constructed sentences

5-10 years of hard labor

picked about in personalized fields harvest reason for my being.  

But is only reason ever seeming to be real 


that my feeling lenses spy 

some spirit lessons 

beyond the life 

lived in sane transgressions.  

So I made up my mind to leave a town thus teeming, 

ventured til the road ran out

walked in on all the world receding 

hairline like this creeping feeling 

you haven’t quite what you’d had before.

Scratching noggins into bleeding

Combed through sands to rake out some relic of a former life 

seldom lived but spent believing 

in some bullshit lie you’d told yourself just might be healing.


God is dead, 

Death claimed her for his own 

escaping to a world that we could never know. 

No one’s dying online anymore, 

some hoax keeps updating 

that you’re alive and well and so sorry I missed the party.  

What moves me from this chair?  



waiting to be moved 

by some vision played in gigabitted hues.  

If only ever I terror 

for trying to give up the ghost in the machine

a call for help like 

“Wubba Lubba Dub Dub” 

that kept you laughing.  

I turned up the heat and roasted myself 

lazy days in playing games 

but crazy eyes turn to hazy skies 

faded grey and sated nightly- 

I caught myself mid sentence 

for fear of exposing nightmares never caught 

but by light of day 

leaving my eyes and ears 

like smoke as from freshly gaping bullet holes in facing

screamed into the night electric obsessions, laid forgotten in the bowels of some unkept brain entertained 

did mind matter mix up it’s shape?


I caught the swallows of an ocean 

squeeze out 

in rifing lungs 


without breath of life 

struggled hard to reach again

at anything 

that called itself a surface. 

Such was my despair.  

Leaving there,

I found little grace in wanton stares 

at women 

and children 

barkless dogs 

and deflowered pavement.  
I wrote it down so we’d find it, 

in the rubble amongst the wreckage of a play, 

played out

leaving none with answers to questions that it itself had asked of us, 

I keep wondering now upon the chair, 



waiting to be moved.  

A torrent within unshaking Blues, 

inertia unwavering in it’s phase of historic stoic laze, 

malaise settles in for a long winter’s gaze into the abyss 

in which which black which stares right back makes an abyss of Everyman, 

the depths of which pitch keeps constant craze.

Gargoyled, I, sat upon the brink, watching man bustle about and think.

And I? 

I totter atop the ledge, in hopes some wind hence will blow me off.
What? Move me?
How Derae to be a mover of anything that any person could ever dream might’ve been quite what we had thinking we been stuck right in I’ve got four legs sitting beneath me with two legs it looking legs slightly swiping to the left I want to be right again about writing

I want to right my life again

But these legs the six old legs and insect I upon the world and insignificant is only things I know an inch significance is only work I can do possibly even without you I am thinking that me is drinking a little too much of the Kool-Aid that killed us all I mean them 80s babies who chewed up rabies they been bleeding in their bladders I mean the kind of hazy haters the switchback kids I mean the switch blade is broken and comes right out to quaff your hopes of laying ladies like bricks in a big brick road of walking dicks

Detecting not what they could find

Let her hopes run dry from watering gardens by making her cry

Thought you’d two’d played the fool

For making kids quick

Makin an ink rink of talkin’ question stink

Linkin in your thick drinking shit ticket taker

I got you figured out boy

Cakes for fake baking for nickeled diamond dogs licking 


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