The Million Dollar Poetry Project

the spooky 2ks

by Wolfgang Nibori

i predict generation rising, now in shadows shaking afraid
curious, growing bolder each step forward out doors into streets
scrawling over the tops of ghetto messages, creating hieroglyphics
rendered silly yet insane, slightly scarier than those before
true whelplings of desperation isolated by electric fences
claiming to keep them connected, ending up cellular
making whimsy against decaying structures staggering lean
shouting out art amid thunderous cries of plagarism
deforming each obstacle until melting in sugar-pools drooling
as different as Frankenstein itself, some hybrid of madness and poetry
stumbling clumsy shouldering planets of knowledge
learning life’s a circus in which we perform, stars barely twinkling
wrapping themselves in moth-wings or beetle shells
scaling new lows in proud swagger, razors carving notches
microscopic rebels clustering to colonize
fungal subcultures spreading as virii, sweeping under rugs
leaving no stone unturned in a quest for identity

Inspired by: Goth Street Sketchings

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sleep theater

by Wolfgang Nibori

take the confusing, make it real - wizardy
smears of color like clown make-up covering
shielding reality with fantasy, dancing upwards
as sleep-thoughts do, mind-pictures, movie-crystals
in mine i see wood, all wooden rooms of slick polish
hardwood mirrors reflecting opaque characters
men and women with white faces, no eyes, noses, mouths
standing in formal fashions, waiting as mannequins are prone
talking but soundless, total silence seeming strange
not out of place or sinister, simply ballet of the brain
conveying messages i’ve yet to decipher
codes condensed, switched forward, still singing silently
looking back i understand the confusion of a small one
yearning to translate the abstract into life’s concrete

Inspired by: Wicked Watercolors Re-Imagined

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signs of evil

by Wolfgang Nibori

driving through the desert, arizona 2004

Clear Channel’s hostile takeover downing stations

left and right, mainly right, drowning heroes

submerging any hope beneath a soup-trough of pop

staining everything not clear, but money-colored

a billboard from god urging obedience, attendence

arrogance astounding and heretical, in my eyes

who pretends to speak to god aside from scoundrels

wicked-worded slithering serpent-worshippers, if you ask me

dancing decadence while other dies for narcoleptic reasons

skimming off the top of the charts, xeroxing, repeat

my ears would vomit if they could

since they cannot, i spew this instead

Inspiration: Corporate Landscaping

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it’s a toxic universe out there, kid!

by Wolfgang Nibori

what comes from cans uncurling through vapor

unravelling itself a droplet at a time to splash

as likely on your wall as mine, scrawling across cities

stretching between points marked by urban wildlife

tossing up gangsigns the way tomcats pass territorial rites

people get so crazed with anger on the sight of art

turning basic boredom of metropolitan factory-stamping

into something recognizable, different, adolescent

then transform that same form into visions

images they long to see, repeating self-same conformity

suddenly praise in place of fines, vandalism toasted by wine

mewling bitter minds begrudging casual decoration

burst open at recognition, accepting avant garde notions

slap in the face of the same impoverished nightmare

giving birth to subcultural marketing millions

catapulting a handful of celestial points in darkness

before spotlights nationwide in nature

collective digestive process called capitalism

invest wisely

Inspiration: Interstellar Windows Opening Live

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spin backwards to unravel

by Wolfgang Nibori

gnarled plastic rainbow of intelligence, spectrum-brilliant

pausing pondersome to over work marble boulders of mind

dusting delirious by hand all paints inconvenienced by foresight

foreshadowing elephantine tides a’glistening where all hope dies on impact

questions bubbling as bulls beating ramparts down to stampede economics

untrusted nations devising shelter plans for the Adam bomb

dust-sucking mongrels bent on dominating shades of grey upturned

so who captures your flag? who tears asunder each tiny light?

not i, nevermore. ravens speak in cryptic ways, i blame opiates

now comes the question on all minds at once - thought bombs

mushroom cloud shadows creating figments for you to fixate upon, unguided

over the reels and thru the goods, a plunder we shall roll

merry meat grinding down to redistribute muscle tone among the deaf

you see what you speak each day reflected in a blue tube

network quality varies per Era as any Pound fan can say

i say, though, STOP, listen to the way blood speaks

passing through your ears to mine and back, just like that

if you catch that rhythm long enough you won’t go blind

you’ll simply understand what i’m trying to say so backwardsly

Inspiration: Colored hands

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ya herd?

by Wolfgang Nibori

sheeple, not the first time it’s been said, nor last

grazing along, electric grass, but the shapes astound me

long ago i learnt wool used to be hair, like deer

inbreeding made it curl, a human aiming for utility

flocking in fields, allegedly tender, allegedly gentle

doe-eyed, simple-minded, pure, unrefined, wolves disguised

all that’s dowsing for a deeper meaning you don’t need

whenever a source lives, breathes, we make stories

explanations not even required to understand the uncomplex

it’s all complex if that’s what you’re looking for. and you are.

the naked eye translates light shadows into recognition

assuming cognition’s prior, no guarantees there

listening to the pitter patter conversation dialed

browsing along until suddenly some sharp turn leads to

hanging up, so many hang ups, each one of us, even hidden

apart at seams, jumping hoops, climbing ladders after the Fall

excuses seem fuel for endless fantasy no one’s even judging

i believe it’s pretty clear in the end

please, just talk to me it’s all we’re asking, isn’t it?

Inspiration: Dialing You & Ramming it Home

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construction

by Wolfgang Nibori

faces in dust, how water changes everything

a drop, a particle, one at a time

shifting layers to draw names, faces unpainted

as a child on woodbeams i piled tiny mountains

arranging each one as if it mattered

still, to this day i’m tempted sorely to try

try to make some muddle puddy variety using whirls

as opposed to anything permanent and what a laugh!

permanent, hell dust is more permanent than we are

or we are dust, depending upon to whom you listen

lots of people talk but who can connect

straight into those gray ripples bound in bone

your skull, of course, is what i mean

now, one last question before i go

what’s the going price for a work of art

that’s destined to be destroyed by the first downpour?

it’ll all go eventually, building blocks of pyramids

Inspiration: Do Not Wash Me

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touche`

by Wolfgang Nibori

"So trees become books, is that what you’re saying?"

the cat curled again, yawning,

"No, no. Books were once trees, that’s truth."

The boy gazed around the room, perplexed

"But trees do not become books? Like seeds become trees?"

The cat rolled his eyes, looking high, a tad mighty

"Don’t be ridiculous. How could a tree become a book?"

The boy narrowed his gaze, accusing,

"How could a seed become a tree?"

The cat would not be cornered, retorting now,

"A book is smaller than a tree. A tree is larger than a book."

The boy sat, silent as the cat looked smugly on, a touch grim

See, the cat disliked to scold the boy but stupidity no cat can accept

So, forced by fate’s hand the cat informed the boy how things were

They did this daily, hours at a stretch

"I suppose you’re right," the boy conceded

"Of course," the cat tried to put it gently

"Still," the boy ventured, "Perhaps there are book-trees?"

"No such thing, sadly," the cat replied, over confident

The child thought for a moment, then a triumphant smile

"How would you know?" he asked in a suspicious tone, "You’ve never left our house"

"I," the cat spoke slowly, "Am not the one talking to cats."

Inspiration: Nature reclaiming the modern

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downstairs, dreaming

by Wolfgang Nibori

i’m not awake, but boy is SHE ever

there’s beige carpet leading the whole way down

it’s dark, i don’t feel so confident not

being able to see the whole picture, you know?

all i really know: beige bleeding down below

i mean genuine blood, thick and syrupy

or maybe that’s the movies? i have not seen blood pool

no interest, really, but SHE, she’s covered in the stuff

slick with it, making walking hard even on carpet, beige carpet

i know enough to stop her, to invent blockade quickly

nothing around helps, all furniture too heavy

now that brings to mind though, a bed frame, brass not polished

i feel bad doing this, yet i either die or whatever comes

when we don’t take care of problems at hand

so, chuck it straight down in her way

the whole bedframe sliding down the stairs

some sinister sled crashes into her and she’s pinned down

i assume i’m safe, then i’m awake

Inspiration: Things I cannot climb

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rude lemon

by Wolfgang Nibori

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Inspiration: Remember Amazing Fruit? Yeah, me too!

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