terrible times
broken hearts
begging in the streets
and raging against
dark planets
of constraint
you will go mad
with a living death
called civility
and reason
it will burn your brains out
with poisonous boredom
and its bastardly Bush.
the beggars now
repair the pain
with onslaught
attacks of bloodbath and jest
against corpse capitalists
owners of hell
and
the free world franchise
of immaculately perfect greed
and break their vaulted chests
tear out their tickers.
give them
a plastic pump to blow
and a billion hearts
to repair
for repentance.

Stew Albert
May 20, 2001



LA seemed like it had been the target
of a mega-weapon
that destroyed souls
but not property.

I know the destructive basis
of the weapon.
The absolute cynical nihilism
of WWF culture
forcibly compressed
into
the smallest possible measure
of material existence
then,
through the
destructive mechanism
of global capitalism
imploded on a modern city,
the fallout is staggering.


Stew Albert


Twice
prophecy
spoke to me
at the Troutdale Mall.


It came first
as
a wheel in the sky
a coat of many colors
rainbow
hugging the consumers
of discount prices
proclaiming great sales
and spicy mushu
sweet and sour fish
and wild Wyoming skies
and Dylan painting his masterpiece
my website going Yippie ballistic
and a joyous multitudinous anarchy
of reborn surrealistic fantasy
of youthful hopes unbroken


and then a second coming
spying a vista
of defeated spenders
a cavern of emptiness and desertion
and consumer betrayal


nobody was in this dream
except Hells Angels
praying for war
and filling the vacuum created
by bargain hunters
becoming anthrax fearing
cowards
and the calm and confident
Angels
looking out at their
expansively empty empire
of blood
of starvation
of plague
of deepest darkness
of lying murderers
and hypocrites
of grim choices
and hopeless eternal hell
and feeling
quite at home.


Stew Albert
October 14, 2001

There must be a Wetland golden vision
somewhere in my soul
magic -- it will give me strength, joy and hope
something not dark and stupid and deadly.
I have to find that optimistic Wetland
and just breath it out and back in
and live myself again.

The Golden Wetland isn't on TV
in books
in rituals
at the lost and found
advertised on E-bay
discounted at the Troudale Mall
and waiting for me
under Chabad's giant menorah.

I used to know the Wetland's address
I could never drive,
but I could always go there.
It was once such an easy street
but I got lost in my dream.

The world and my body
are so sick
and somewhere the Wetland is
still a golden bird
that my body can't find
as the world drills my soul
for blood.

I keep on looking through myself,
back pages
chaotic closets
obscure drawers
data basics
torn phone book archives
of ancient exchanges,
comic book collections
and foggy dreams
are taking me to the streets
panhandling for visions
that
remain stable
in perturbed waters
and the sun still shines
on happy fat moss
and surprising altars of god.
Somehow
somewhere
locked in a box
the Golden Wetland screams.

Stew Albert

fragments
at the beginning of time
pieces of light and insight
in sunbursts of creation
and optimism
we are weaving them together
in commuciation
with an emptiness
that becomes a center
of us
getting older
in time.

and time can mean so much

in the middle of passing
from light to night
the quilt of our soul
is orderly
powerful
in touch
making sense
of its parts
that seem like
they were
always together
always a smooth texture
of one transcendent me.

but as the train
chugs
for the last station
of endgame
the fragments come home
to decree
a new childhood of feeling
where old men cry
and smoothness
has it rough
and togetherness
falls to its pieces
deconstructing diaries
and you remember
before the quilt
when light
and insight
were parts of a puzzle
needing a solution
and now you know that
great intimations of your beginning
are contained
in
your drastic conclusion.

Stew Albert

Standing by the door of nothing
leisurely not really feeling bad
just closer
to the empty meaning of fullness

and after they cut out my heart
and shrunk my soul
to a small place of barely there
just how am I supposed to feel?

I feel fine.
I'm glad to be back
with wife and daughter
and partying with friends
but standing by the door of nothing
it seems like I'm only visiting
a world
where I used to live
when the door was all the way
across the room
tightly sealed.

V is for Vulnerable
and unprotected:
the true face
of my being alive
while standing by the door
of nothing.

4.28.99
It's a year and a half later. Oh how perverse we mortals be.

The ghosts

it was easier after the surgery
with those two at my bedside
and only one challenge
to triumph.
healing my heart
was a simple sweet painful agenda.
now life is stretched
into a million mirrors
of unstable reflection
and fragments without place
or time
to think,
and the goals
erase each other,
become unknowable,
they stay on
as
ghosts.

Stew Albert
May 31, 2001

Being ripped off
by my body
just when my soul understands
living and loving
and doing its thing
the way I always wanted
and just when
it could get very good
for me and her
and ours,
my body declares
"really bad"
and tortures
and deforms me
year after year
with new pains and terrors
of tumors,
strangled spines
and cracked chests,
oblivion now,
but Will is absolutely refusing
my body's wicked schemes,
it finally knows
the higher score,
declaring war
over the living battlefield
and
even suffering
will have its hopes
and happiness.

Stew Albert


Blood rolls along the road
to more blood
and the death of hope,
all are bleeding
on behalf
of mad visions
of perfect souls
in messianic promised lands
of vampire gods
drinking their victims
rage and
sacred souls.

the blood
is cheered with sweet candies
and kids send fan mail.

and the Dead Sea
drowns dreams
and keep the corpses
floating forever
on too much salt
and eternal pain.
let those who hope
be warned
by dead water
and the thirsty
Vampire gods
in their absolute perfection.

Stew
May 9, 2002


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