5 poems by Justin Blackburn

You Are Not A Normal Human Being

You are not a normal human being.
I know you
You know you
You have beautiful dreams you are fulfilling
You wake up everyday on the ceiling
And inspire your desires to radiate your feelings
You are not afraid to be yourself
Despite anyone else
You know who you are

You are not a normal human being
You are not the cheesy cliché character in the corner of the bar
Telling horror stories about how marriage is a dead dark dishcloth cemetery
You can get married and love your spouse forever and still be free
You can get a job, make lots of money, and not be a selfish, egoistical prick
No matter what happens to you, you can be happy
You are here to remember, not forget

You are not a normal human being
You do not suffer from the chaos of your own delusions
You are not ruled by the desolate confusion of other people’s illusions
You are not brainwashed by the mediocre mass media
You are the real heartfelt, breathing, bloody, soul filled essence of life
You are not a walking, talking robotic encyclopedia
You are a tender burning gentle loving light
You are not a television set glued to a graveyard
You transcend Middle America like a dark sky overflowing with bright stars

You are not a normal human being
You did not come to Planet Earth to work for green paper and die
You came to satisfy your soul, to search yourself whole,
You came to serve this beautiful world
You came to feel the joy of why

You are not a normal human being
You do not sit around all day gossiping the gospel from one tragic play to the next
You do not live your life for the sake of regret
You do not put your fellow brothers and sisters down
You do not waste your time
Your voice is a gentle, relaxing, indigo sound
That enhances and expands the space within everyone’s mind

You are not a normal human being
You are not afraid of your creator
You are not going to die and spontaneously begin an eternal burning
You are not waiting for a savior
You are here now and you are aware and you are learning
You condemn no one to hell
Instead you invite everyone into heaven
You understand and you are understood
You forgive and you are forgiven

You are not a normal human being
You touch the angels
You scare the demons
You inspire the sun
You have no one to blame
You are not a normal human being
Why?
Because there is no such thing as one

Cliché Poem To A Poet Poem

Write from your soul
eventually your soul will start writing from you.

If you do not have a soul don’t worry,
find the most masculine muscular man closest to you,
kiss him square on the lips,
after he beats your ass,
call your mother and tell her to write everything you say down.

Congratulations, you got your first poem.

For God’s sake don’t stop there,
whatever you do don’t listen to your teachers
that is why they are teachers,
they don’t know shit
so they don’t know you.

The real poets are poets.
You won’t meet them until you become one
until then hang out in the forests, the alleyways, the wrinkled faces,
go fishing for birds, feed your stomach clouds, rip dollar bills off trees,
play football for the coach, study trashcans, and live in a yellow submarine,
hang around pretentious professors pretending you are incredibly deep
while making fun of yourself out loud in front of their family’s God.

You are confused.
Life is war to you.
That is perfect.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
No one understands you.
Great, you don’t understand yourself.
Don’t worry about it.
All you need to know is you don’t need to know.
Keep loving, keep fucking, keep sucking, keep living, keep giving, keep laughing,
most of all keep writing.

Realize the best poems are written by the air in the tragic part of the night,
by the waves of the ocean, through the minds of children, by the Beatles,
and on the Drive Thru menu at McDonalds.

Now that you know this see everyone as a poem, kindly write them.
If you find everyone criticizes you and thinks you are fucking crazy,
take it as a complement, that means you are on the path to greatness.

If you are not receiving the love you desire,
if you are finding yourself mediocre and bitter,
eating your way into winter.
Don’t kill yourself.
Smoke weed by the fire.
Take your pen to a book store.
Change the titles around.
Make a beautiful stoned hilarious poem of it.
Laugh at your poetry.

If that doesn’t work, find a person in a wheelchair.
See the overwhelming beauty in their preciousness.
Follow them until you have written fifty poems.

Once you got your poems congratulate yourself.
Now invite all your friends to a coffee shop to listen to you read them.
When no one shows up give your poems different personalities
and read them to the wall.
Now walk out of the empty room like Lou Reed.

You are doing perfect, now it is time to give your poems to everyone you can,
I am talking parents, gas station employees, the thunder, the lightening
I am talking hot chicks, famous fuckers, guilty prisoners, rising rivers.
Most importantly find the highest esteemed bullshit licking literary journals.
Send your poems there along with a letter to the editor explaining how every poem you write is because you want to fuck his son.

When you get the rejection letter glue it to the refrigerator,
buy yourself roses.

You have passed with flying colors!
Now it is time to find a lover.
Someone fifty times more fucked up than you are.
Someone who knows from the start the joke is on you.
Someone who can shit out your heart without ever tasting it.
After she fucks all your friends lay in the darkness for two straight weeks.

When you come out you will be broke, empty, talking shit to intimate objects
and exactly where you need to be ready to face the next demon head on.
For this part of the journey you will need the fungus that grows off cow shit.
Don’t be scared it is like pussy don’t think about the taste just let it become you.

Now the feeling you are getting
like there is more life than you could imagine
yet less then you could ever comprehend.
Write that feeling down, that feeling is the place to be.

Become the grass write about how grateful you feel to be walked on.
Become the wind write about how grateful you feel to kiss a tree.
Become the demon within write about how grateful you are to die.
Become the human being write about how grateful you are to ask why.

Now kiss the ground, fondle the sky, you are ready to love everything.
Now you understand the real reason you chose to be a poet.
It is a quick nonstop route to your spirit.
Now let everything be beautiful.
Now speak it, feel it, write it, live it, hear it.
You are apart of everything.
Nothing else matters.

I love you, young poet.
Take my advice or don’t.
I don’t give a fuck, either way.
It is your life.
Live it however you like.
I love your life regardless.
All roads lead to where no roads can go.
Namaste

I Met Your God

I walked into your room to tell you it was time for dinner
and there laid your God crying,
morbid, ashamed, and guilt-stricken
on your bed reading your diary to his dead mother
without the slightest belief she could actually hear him.

“Get out, before I damn you eternally!” He screamed
like a half eaten barbequed chicken wing.
I smiled and said, “No offense God, but I have evolved quite a bit
to the point where I can see straight through your tyrannical bullshit
but we are having a nice dinner and you are welcome to join us.”
“What are you having?” He replied.
“Humus wraps.”
“What? No steak or any kind of flesh.”
“Nope, mom is a vegetarian now.”
He let out a giant screeching yell you could not hear in heaven
but you definitely could feel in hell.

I walked up to your bed and put my arm around your God.
“What is wrong, dude?”
“You don’t understand with all this war and hellfire I have been spraying
out for so long I have led so many people down desolate roads of fear
and hatred.”
“Come on dude, they had a choice.”
“Yeah but I am a really scary motherfucker.”
“Yeah, that is true.”
“What is your god like?”
“I am learning that all the time, creating the best of idea of it;
right now it is everything love all within us everywhere.”
“What kind of drugs are you on?”
“All of them, would you want to be the next one?”
“You are funny.”
“Yeah, I am alright.”
“Will you be my god?”
“No, but I’ll be your friend.”
“Thank you. Friendship is the most important thing, to accept and love everyone
for who they are, it is really the only way you can help anyone.”
“You got that right, God.”

We walked out of your room,
down the banister,
late for supper.

Bad Breath By The Dead Sea Shore

I apologized to God, bundled up like mother’s favorite school boy,
one winter night, a million times at least,
for the thin line of the grape vine,
for the night crawling and the jungle fucking,
for the fortune and fame, the lust and greed.
Still I felt like a child who had been raped by a priest.

I then proceeded to smoke a pack of cigarettes, one at a time,
walking through the midnight woods trying my best
to become a werewolf without the help of a full moon.
I became very angry but fur my anger never bloomed.
Something was infinitely fucked up with me I presumed.
That was the only thing I knew but I felt there was nothing I could do.

My addictions owned my secrets. My hell owned my peace.
I thought I did have a dream but since I hadn’t slept
in weeks, I couldn’t remember it for the life of me.
I was just another blaring, lonely, loony person
becoming the King Kong collective consciousness
that haunts the planet like zombies in the pursuit of flesh happiness.

I told myself I must have been Hitler in a past life. I must
have been Jack the Ripper. I must have been my mother’s
mother. She must have been my daughter. I must have
stabbed her repeatedly in the chest with a knife, broke her
neck with a baseball bat, then drowned her in a lake.
It was the only way I could explain the magnificent pain in my heart.

I laid my body down freezing on the forest floor screaming
“I do not want to be in this world anymore.” I began praying
for an alien ship to take me away. I waited and waited
but they never came. They didn’t want me either.
“How boring it is to be me before death,” was the last
thought I had as I passed out hoping I would never wake up.

But I did in the morning sun, I awoke to a dog licking my face.
I know this might sound strange especially to people who
need pie charts to believe in anything but I took the dog’s
wet tongue and bad breath as God’s infinite forgiveness
for everyone on every planet. I stood up understanding on a
cellular level how the warmth of my heart kept me from freezing to death.

Soul Wonders

I wonder if Van Gogh ever cursed Lynyrd Skynyrd or the odor of a big mac and fries.
I wonder if Jim Morrison ever threw his cell phone into a river.
I wonder if John Lennon ever rode jet ski’s naked with Yoko Ono.
I wonder if Ghandi ever drank moonshine with frat bros.

I wonder if Zues ever got loose because he thought he was about to be consumed as food or if Aaron Copeland ever heard the wind scream his name in vain.
I wonder if Don Juan was ever scared to dance
or if Constantine ever felt more love than he appeared to.
I wonder if Hitler ever smiled at the ocean because of the whole world
or if Martin Luther King Jr. ever made love to a man.
I wonder if John F. Kennedy ever worked at Dairy Queen
or if Mussolini ever got made fun of for having small boobs.

I wonder if Jesus ever drove a steam roller to make side dollars for twenty rims.
I wonder if Kafka ever fantasized about living the American dream with a lady bug.
I wonder if Lord Caitanya ever ate a veggie burger.
I wonder if Meister Eckhart ever rollerbladed through Venice beach.

I wonder if Emily Dickinson ever got her sandwich stolen by a seagull
or if Johnny Carson ever shit his pants and didn’t laugh.
I wonder if Beethoven ever got down with some Vanilla Ice cream
or if Kerouac ever played Playstation two.
I wonder if Joan of Arc ever gave money to a stranger
or if Anne Boleyn ever questioned this reality to be an illusion only in her mind.
I wonder if God has ever seen such a sight.
I wonder if I ever did too.

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About A.J. Kaufmann

Poet, lyricist, songwriter. Founding member of Säure Adler.
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