A late night writing dump of Poetry. Still prepping for the rapidly approaching reading, and working on various projects. Life is taller than the Berlin wall, and twice as thick. I need a pick-ax that prevents sleep. 6/10/2012


This Website has now been armed. 5/15/2012



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Facebook: Farmer John Zanath


It begins with the crowd --
Jammed, packed immobile.
Illegal immigrants in
Shipping containers.
Vacuum sealed sardines.
Razor-eyed inmates
Looking for something better
That ain't there.

The tribal drums --
Birthing an outlet for aggression.
Pistons hammering sheet-metal.
Cogs grinding under sweat-oil.
Gear chains stirring, hanging
From belt loops, raising
Up decades old rage
From neighborhood dungeons.

The stage rush --
Hoodies, leather jackets,
Shark mouths.
A low rumble from chests.
Dying packs of wolves.
A bloated-body colored murder
Itching for a reprieve
From failure.

Chugging guitars ride amps –
The rising momentum of
Bullets, revving of motorcycles.
Fists formed into white cinderblocks,
From prison walls – preparation
To beat frustration into someone else.

The vocals earthquake –
A let-loose electrical current
Jumping from swollen heart
To swollen heart. A tripped-wire
Attached to a grenade-filled
Coffee can – A noise
For every strike at right,
From a popular wrong.

The Pit forms –
Erupting massive.
Vesuvius is a pea-shooter.
Hiroshima and Nagasaki -- smoke-bombs.
Dresden – A thumb-struck match.
A death march on safety.

We are gladiators –
Thai boxers, Zealous shocktroops,
Gutter children and abandoned warriors,
Cut through with aqueduct arteries,
Sluicing amphetamines, and chaos,
And adrenaline overdoses.
No more "I",
we are Legion's terrifying Godfather.

The artillery fire sound sprints –
Mind-echoes of serial killers.
Light-speed gunfire from pistoleros.

Blackjack arms designed by ink-needles,
Smashing skin into ballistic gel ripples,
Brusing iron bars under ceramic muscle –
A battalion of Golems with snarling tongues.

The set ends –
Floor shadowed red,
Concrete cracked by jackboots,
Skipped over by sacrificed enamel,

A last look at the casualties –
The die-hards standing black-blue-
Purple, ancient basement newspaper
Yellows, wounded champions,
Done with another skirmish.

Finish with the post-battle,
The journey home, through
Salt and dust and smoke,
Enemies turned comrades,
Holding each other, exiting
Through metal double-doors

On the tar road,
We all walk with Anti-heroes.