When life departs
Where does one even begin to start;
                                                           the healing.
Those left behind masked and basked in burning feeling.
  
   A hanged man
   A hanged man

How does one justify a hanged man.
A man who seemingly had everything, but became a brand.
A bathrobe belt around his neck tied to a doorknob in a french hotel, ****.

   A hanged man
   A hanged man

A man who had everything,
Yet a heart full of pain, searing.
We may only see the outside.
The inside is hidden from us, tearing.
The cries for help ignored, no hearing.  
The inevitable demise pushed out of our minds, fearing.
  
   A hanged man
   A hanged man
   A hanged brand

How do we accept a hanged man,
a man who had everything.

Living is as important as dying.
Do not let words leave you, for once
They do they transform to smoke.
Living is just as important as dying.
Do not let the words build up inside you,
For, once they do, they turn to a ball of  
unpolished stone.
Living is as important as dying.
Do not leave this earth without, before
Crying out the words which, if not, will
Turn to sour stone. Because,
Living is as important as dying.

Then Narcissus spoke:
We are the moon
We are the sun
We are the stars
   Twinkling above.

Welcome.
To the Age of major gains,
But no progress.
Abundant selfies,
But harshly any selflessness.
Delectable boomerangs of delicious dinners,
While many suffer starving in foreign winters.
Will
Likes
Hearts
Views
And
Shares
Become the end-all-be-all of the winners?
Chicken Dinner
Chicken Dinner
Chicken
Dinner
C
H
   I          R
    C       E
     K     N
      E    N
       N  I
        D

I desire to play the piano
   fingertips like cigarettes
I desire to pick at the guitar
   fingertips like cigarettes

I want to whistle mellifluous melodies to my comrades
   lips like cigarettes    
I wish to massage your head
   broken fingernails filed cigarettes

I search for my voice to shout but my lungs
   are (((filled)))

I want to write a SuRreal poem
   But, my
fingertips are as cigarettes

Things you need are that hard
To find.
There, over there, outside your window, not the breeze. It is a disease, who waits outside that window. Inside growing groaning please please come and  play innocently come please play. Forget about everyone and anyone you love.

Lubricious ànd concupiscient

There are things that are not that easy
To find.
Say; Love, Friendship, Absence of pain, A feeling of hope-unfueled by any dope. A monster which waits outside your window while you groan and moan for these things, inside blow your window.
Not that easy to find.

Lubricious ànd concupiscient

There are things that are easy
To find.
A blade of grass, a crumbling building, war, hate, and mallace. Yet look harder and may also, easily,
Find beauty.

Life becomes much simpler
When one gives up hopes,
Dreams, Ambitions.
"Why write?" You may then ask.
Because, it is the only thing to Reveal the face of Truth, in a
World full of masks.

Imitation fireplace, the
Great gates of
Nowhere creak open...
For me, the doors of perception, lead me nowhere You pompous *****.

I know what I know.
I know what my friends know.

Because there's no secrets.
Because there are no secrets.

Is what is energy now, in me,
Later burn in some other new
Blood?
Will what is buried now,
Sprout after the thaw?

Euphoria Again
Two Rights

A miracle of lights,
I have no reason to not indulge
In delight,
Cept depression eats away, bit/bit
By bit.
To others, seemingly trite.
To me, a life or death fight.

Barbary
Go out to the bar
Pop Punk and Emo night
dress in all black
band tea, skinny jeans, converse high tops.
Something Ironic
  
Want to see friends
haven't seen in ages
jump around
sing Saves the Day
"At my funeral I will sing the requiem."
Watch people drink
they seem to be having fun
feeling ******, can't drink
was just at an AA meeting earlier
**** this, do hard drugs, drop out, hurt the ones you love.

This paint brush has become
an extension of my hand.
It has sunk it's color pumping living
veins into me.
Now, my hand aches
dripping crimson, everytime I put it down.

This pen has become an extension of my hand.
A sixth finger extends dripping ebony
ever scratching ivory surface,
vexing to keep the hourglass full,
of sand.

I am no longer
My body.
     I am my tools of creation.

All my followers, have turned to ash.
I thought I was leading to a promised place.
Moses
Yet turning back, a sad wife.
Lot
With eyes brash seeing the city was falling.
The city was tumbling,
And
        Nothing is as cold as an ice cube made of cash.
I flew off through a white foamlesss formless sea to
Always
Always
Land.
Becoming Peter Pain

They keep calling me an underachiever.
I don’t understand is this all a contest. What is there to achieve?

There is no hope for you
Young boy young girl
You drive too fast up north
little boy little girl
You are running from mediocrity
little girl small girl
You  fill your lungs and heart with poison
little man little woman
I refuse to watch the streets take you
darling girl
sweet girl
Be beautiful forever
There is hope for you
my girl my woman
Drag yourself from your demons
my boy my man
dance
dance
dance
with the world my girl
Don’t turn blue on me ever again
dancing girl dancing girl
See the world through the songs of redemption
and recovery,
Sweet
Little
Beautiful
Dancing girl
Go
Be still
Be free

Shall I Project A World,
Scatter full the sky with constellations
and create my own private universe?

The dead are never gone,
but still ever persist,
in the bread we eat
and
the wine we drink.

Long ago our names were written.
Long ago our names were etched.
Do you, think for one moment
this was all an accident,
and any of this is real?

Or do you feel
////that all this is a reflection in the water pond
a cast stone disturbing all reality as it ripples outward////

In Brook Glenn
Again
The Psych Ward
Writing in the Psych Ward.
On Thanksgiving
Yet,
I am still thankful
For life
For breath
For a love on the horizon

Mental illness is one hell of a drug.

Is this what the Egyptians called Maat
or
The divine right order?

the Nile flows
the Nile flows

The sun god shines from Aten
And
i am cursing Akhenaten

But

Motion is relative.

He looks at himself in the mirror
who is this foreigner?
Just who the hell does he think he is...
He can never pinpoint.
So, "what's the point?" He poses his reflection;
"All you need is a point to begin a line, project a line,
inscribe a line, be a line, ride your line until you die."

He is not satisfied with the response his glass reflection passes.

Caught in the clutches of the spindle
my party parlays its way through, ever increasing
grips of madness, fear of becoming overtaken
by the darkness.
Is this a metaphor?
Or, is this a game?
We are in a dungeon, deep, destroying
lest we are kicked for floundering.
The spiders spindle down from the roofs of this cavern.
Slowly descending, thirsty for blood.
My magic is powerless
My blood is becoming the feast
"Feed us your blood." The haunting thought reverberates throughout.

In the cradle of shadows.
Hides a man named Walks-In-Ash.
His face is the last I see as all fades to darkness.

Barbary
Go out to the bar
Pop Punk and Emo night
dress in all black
band tea, skinny jeans, converse high tops.
Something Ironic
Want to see friends
haven't seen in ages
jump around
sing Saves the Day
"At my funeral I will sing the requiem."
Watch people drink
they seem to be having fun
feeling ******, can't drink
was just at an AA meeting earlier
**** this, do hard drugs, drop out, hurt the ones you love.

I am fatal if swallowed
But, can keep you off the never-never-ending
Cycle,
Wallowing in the past, things I/You should have done.
I am not just harmful handfuls honey.
I am fatal if swallowed
Let us not wallow-
in self hate-deprecation-depressions.
Do not? My children continue to search for a cure.
I am it, Harmful if swallowed?
No...
Fatal if swallowed
There are more things under our sun than what is ingrained in your philosophy, my dear, so. Let it be. Let it BE.
Have a taste, a small one to start.
I promise,
I am fatal when swallowed
As you digest me, there will be cause for celebration:
neither happy nor sad, you will simply be rescued, resolved to slip from
Society.
No longer searching and waiting.

Baby,
*I am fatal if swallowed

A fire place in the summer
A most serene scene.
Burning potential, waiting patiently
For a cold soul.

When the sun retreats in his orbit,
Tilted ever slightly, only a few
Celestial
Degrees.

I lay a deceased bouquet of flowers,
A gift waiting to be burned open,
Alive again.

Potential energy
Potential energy
Potential energy

Your life is a poem
Your life is this
Write it with passion

Potential energy
Potential energy
Kinetic

The moon behind her clouds
She sits boastful and proud.
The sun shining his rays
Smiling
Knowing he will be here until the end of days.

I bow my head in pensive knowledges,
Knowing
That gods meet the same fate as man.

Potential energy
Potential
Energy
Kinetic

Don't worry darling, how crowded
The market square is.
I am always up early, and never
Miss a hanging.

I will run with the cure, I might get distracted buy I'll always make it
When you are getting sick,
And impatient.

The chills and sweats
Drilling through your mind,
Will vanish as I walk in.
I know the despair of feeling
Sick
And impatient.

                                                     (Oh Lord hear our prayer)

I introduced you to this world,
Brought your innocence with me
In a sinful satchel,
And lost you under the bridge.

Or

Were you already here?
Waiting for me,
Sick
And
Impatient.

I followed the sent of your perfume,
Venturing through the tangles of your hair.
And
We ended up right back where we started.
Getting sick.
And,
Feeling impatient.

                                   Oh Lord hear my prayer

Burn out quick. Then rise again.
Swimming in this trash-pool. You
Sit on the side
Intrigued
Yet fein disgust.
If what you love is not enough
To keep gas in the engines and
Wheels turning.
Then.
Burn out quick. And rise again

A fingernail. Sliding aside the stitches,
And
Plunging into the flesh of a freshly healed
Wound.
Seeing you brings soaring to the surface
Blood.
Not yet fully congealed,
The pain pried open once again,
A wound thought buried for good,
Now rushes to the forefront
Of a broken memory.
Questions?
With no answers
Are the hardest to ask.
Why?
And
How?
Fists with a cry and a howl.
Fingertip stinking under,
Picking open the scab to let
The wound fester anew,
As if no healing had ever
Happened in the first place.

Fresh blood licked away.
The quivering at the thought,
that time does not, indeed,
heal all.

Seeing you,
A smile and a nod
is all that is mustered.
This wound,
You inflicted,
Will never heal.

Being Inclined to be a writer and fascinated with literature is so dreadfully awful bc one is ever stuck between the desire to read every word ever written and to express on paper every thought one has had. There is no end, no goal, no chance of ever being satisfied.

****** and the life of death in capitalist entertainment
The unfortunate case of me

Lanes are merging
People are crashing
Stars explode
And kids in pittsburgh say they feel infinite
Poets pantomime pleasantries
Pleasant trees planted on peasant land
When you ask they laugh unexpectedly
"You think we will ever be free?"
We have but one shot one chance
We must flee across the sea

Set sail with no end destination in mind,
just board this ship with me my friends,
and we shall shipwreck onto the beaches of consciousness.

Get free/
Be brave/
Surround yourself in light/
Pour love on everything/
The day will come when you're no longer fake
And the day comes when you no longer feel
Then the day comes when you'll no longer fear.

Pondering,
Who knows the secret,
Of how to make love remain?
Painting, still life with pyramids.
Those ancient symbols of death and rebirth,
Of love and the infinite.
Pondering,
What is the secret of the moon,  
What does she hide from the mortals below?
Floating forever circling above.
I know she hides a hidden purpose.
Wandering,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes,
Searching for oasis in the dry and solar charred landscape.
Smoking is our own little private communion with fire.
Who knows how to make love stay?
What is the purpose of the moon?
These are the secrets I inquire of the fire gods,
As I wander and wonder,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes.

Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.  
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?

I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.  
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.  
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?

Love lies on a razor
shoots through the clouds
as a lazor.
Please don't let me down, I look up.
Blink at the raining blossoms.

I convalesce in my self-made imaginary infirmary,
a red sphere floating firm above
a Japanese blotched black ink dove.
Blink up at the raining roses
Squint up at the blinking blossoms.

Love built the cross,
it also built the atom bomb.

Roses rain down in flurries.
Blossoms blink down in a hurry.

It would be sin for us to scurry,
even as the love spoken previous
beams down from heaven, is impossible
for us to bury.
If this is my truth, let it be conjoined, to become our truth.
And,
with outstretched skinny fists protruding out from the clouds above.
I watch as the Rose petals float fluttering down in a
flurry.
I blink up at the rolling, bowling, balling, beautiful blossoms....falling.

As the the is dawning.
As the sun is dawning

I am Immortal
I am Invincible
I am Imemorable
I am the blackness living deep
in the bile ducts of your lungs,
I hear you whisper my name;
and I shiver.

I have neither hero nor god:
I am that I am that I am-
ALIVE
I learned not the word caution
I know not the meaning of a future:
I am where I am where I am-
NOW

The bullet which ricocheted off my right *** cheek and exploded through my left ******* seemed to have its own voice as it whizzed  by, winking, “The truth may set you free young man, but not until it is finished with you.”

I pour myself into you
Who, as an empty basin,
Allowed me to fill you up to the brim,
But kept me from ever overflowing.
I pour myself into you*
Who, as an elegant, yet twisted and cracking vase,
Forced me into the confines of your ****** contours,
Eventually I come dripping out the top, and through the cracks.
I pour myself into you
Who, as three separate bowls,
hold me safely, but compartmentalized from myself,
I long to be whole again.
I poured myself out
Onto, the withered crippled decayed concrete,
Only to wash away at the slightest rain,
away with the refuse
Down Dead Man’s alley.
I poured myself out
Into, my own trembling hands,
Breathlessly hoping to hold my sanity together in outstretched arms to heaven,
Palms cupped trying to cradle myself together,
But, with every bump and misstep I lose a drop of myself to the open air,
Ending, with brittle dry hands holding no moisture.
I poured myself out
And, down my own arrogant throat,
pleasantly drunk on myself, “Cheers! to ******* me,”
Until, I ***** and am up and down the drain.
I pour myself into
My, Father’s fertile soil,
and sit back patiently for harvest.
I cultivate my land, this is my Garden,
mumblings of Voltaire and  l'optimisme,
I watch my flowers bud.

I poured myself out and into you,
but I am still here,
yet here I still stand.

On the mental ward,
there is no "Lord,"
no "Savior."
Only society's leftovers,
shuffled to and fro and
around and around we go.

The Overdose as Artform:
or
A study on Modern Urban Myth

Stand alone, naked, in-front of your bathroom mirror.
Repeat three times fast:
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
My ghost will appear behind you,
carrying syringe and stem.

This will be just one more ****** love poem
to ***
to drugs
to rock n’ roll.

   You think you’re too young to die, huh?
well, everyday my facebook feed
fills with people who were
too young to die.
   Everyday people they loved post
on their walls, memories and pictures,
writing how their hearts ache at the passing
of one too young to die.
   People who the dead disliked or even hated
also post on their walls, RIP, sad to see you go,
etc. empty ******* like “only the good die young,”
please.
   I try to watch from afar, for if I get too close
I fear I am the next to go.
   You think it can never happen to you, until
you wake up in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm and
a head awhirl with Narcan.
   But still, it couldn’t happen to me, because
it’s happening to the people all around me.

The last girl I ****** off of Tinder
I stole thirty dollars from to buy
black tar ****** in Colorado
then saw a **** jam band
play their **** music,
it wasn’t rock n’ roll.

The last girl I had *** with
because I was in love with her
won’t hardly speak with me, anymore,
because ***
because drugs
because rock n’ roll
….That was like four years ago.

I miss the rock n’ roll in ***** Philly basements
that felt punk even when it was folk.
I miss doing drugs without ending up
homeless, broke, and emotionally destitute
immediately after.
I miss the *** that meant something,
but more so miss the idea of *** being related
to love, which was it ever even in the first place?
I don’t know.  
I like the tenants of pop punk music,
example: I like my friends, I remember that time you were drunk and spilled the apple juice in the hall, I like the ideal of that one girl all the Jesse Laceys of the world write about, most importantly I like the thought that none of this is really my fault…when it is.

I had a therapist, more than one, ask me
to write a break up letter to drugs,
I could never get very far with it
because drugs dumped me a long time ago
and had since moved on.
If I was honest I would write, “Take me
back, I can handle you again and
things can go back to how they
were when we first met.”
But, I know this can never be,
as drugs are busy seeing other people.

Do you remember the day the lightning bugs
began to disappear?
Now, in the stead of those tiny glowing insect dots
is only the sense of a faintly felt fear,
of growing old
and
losing our illusion of safety.
Bring back the insects,
bring back the
***
drugs
and
rock n’ roll

Porcelain rectangles lining the fine china cabinet
of an always open jaw,
be weary traveler of coming close,
deep in an ever lasting winter waiting for the thaw.

Let us cook up fajitas in a halfway house and
talk about how we wish we could draw,
pretty pictures to send home to those we love
and those we hate.

You say come to Florida and get sober,
me constantly running from I ever growing older.
Face my fears? Be bolder?
Or stay where the drugs are cheap and the weather colder.  

Walking down Atlantic Avenue
look at all the normal people with their beers

Porcelain teeth grinding away  
Porcelain teeth grinding until they crack

There are eyes in these hills,
and barrows overflowing with our young dead
who got started on pills.
My ship became caught in this whirlpool while
I was sailing for a thrill.

...There are numbers and figures which lay beyond the zero...

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

So it goes, an old poet
rose, to tell the story of
the beast and the decaying glass rose,
petals falling softly cracking into broken
glass.

When you look at someone through rose tinted glasses, all the the red flags just look like flags.

raise a generation on Eminem and Cobain
then
scratch your head wondering where all us grown boys
went a little insane

from Timberlake to Bieber
Brittany to Miley
what's really changed?
anything
but our age?

a president named Bush went to war on terror
in the the middle-east,
ten years later his son does the same thing.

again I ask,
what's even changed
but
our age?

The ****** scandals begun by our ******* president
continue today under an eponymous tabloid cover
called Kardashian.
exploitation the name of the game,
everything is done for us,
especially our thinking.
less scarily,
our cooking.

there has never not been an "us vs. them"
mentality in human history.
we are cultured cannibals, tribesmen who have outgrown
our britches.
****** and racial liberation continues against
****** and racial tension
*** is cheap
drugs are cheaper
morals are depleted
agnosticism the happy sedated norm
nobody expects a revival but the saved themselves, the born
again.
well do I even wish to be born again into a life as this?

If I have learned anything thus far from life's teachings:
One is nothing and everything
Nowhere and everywhere
   spirits abound where you least expect them  
There is no zero and no infinity

Watch a fire burn and you will know this truth

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
*Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

How can I save you, my brother.
I am trying to save myself.
Can I save us both, my brother.

I reach down to grab you, pull you out of the hell I inhabit myself.

You will never be too far gone, my brother.
Just do not lose grip.
Don't slip through my hands, my brother.

We all want these years back,
if need be I will carry you on my back, my brother.
We all desire to be cut a little slack,
too many brothers depart from me not in tact.

My dreams are as real as fact.
We all face our abyss and look back hopefully,
in triumph,
this abyss will not hold our gaze, my brother.

How may I help you, my self.
Do you need to count days on a chain?
Will this help or be another attempt in vain,
and you'll be back on the train,
to the badlands of our city,
the streets you still yearn and groan to roam.

How can any of us
be separate?
Inextricably linked
to the intangible,
all around us.

One is one
One is all

I run away to California and,
hate it even more than...what was
I looking for?...can only be found,
by peering inwards.
And
Roaming the halls of the psych-wards.
Go down, dig deeper,
and
then get the **** up
out of that pit.
In the face of your demons you can simply spit.
Grab a Cross
Grab a Buddha
Grab an Allah, Allah, Allah,
Shallah.

One is one
One is all

How can anything by individual?
Inextricably linked
to the intangible,
all around us.

We are one
We are all

But, we are angsty
we are antsy.
We have lost our way,
somewhere
someway
along the way.

We are the disgruntled employees of the cosmos,
but
to quit is derelict despair,
we must reform our position,
and
keep in sight any opposition.
But, who are they? if not us?

When one is all
When we are one
All is well

In a society that has destroyed all adventure,
the only adventure left is to destroy that society.*

Is graffiti
written on an
abandoned bedroom,
what children occupied
this space?

I ruminate then dissipate.

When society falls
burning around us
hold my hand
and watch the
mesmerizing flames
dancing about
the Comcast building.

It's all just cheap trash and ****** developments. All the real things, the authentic things, the honest things are dying off. Intellectually and culturally we just bounce around like random billiard *****, reacting to the latest random stimuli.

But who, what kind
of creature would
want to destroy
all we have striven
and driven to obtain,
was it all really
a mission in vain?

I ruminate
Then dissipate

When silver plunges into flesh,
it is crossing the Rubicon to await the last breath.
For, the mantra They say holds true,
across this river waiting for you:
jails, institutions, death.

The Lady's of the flowers, they still speak to me.
Walking through fields filled,Tulips and Poppies and Lillys,
urging me to be free.
Their voices ensconcing, a melody most soothing.
Turmoil will never rip the light inside of us.

War cannot destroy beauty.

My brothers and sisters in this fight, unite!
Let us trample over this devastating blight,
becoming Saviors, each of us enveloped in light.
Let us gather the dust of death in our trembling palms,
blow it furiously into the wind, sowing hope,
against all odds, our fields will bloom and blossom
every color of the rainbow.
Let our gardens grow in honor of our fallen and faint, in memorial of our patron saints.

Fight gravity with everything inside and we will fly.

War cannot destroy beauty.

We all have infinite interior strength

Cycling, chasing love in my dream,
embodied by an unidentifiable spectra,
of a woman.
Through San Franciscan streets,
I reach a hill too steep,
but not for the woman I follow,
and
I, filled with trepidation,
attempting to remain surreptitious,
inch down
hands firmly squeezing on my brakes,
only to fall, flat on my face.

I sit front row on a mid-week ******,
in surprise to catch the closing act
of
the Berkeley based Morning Benders.
The drummer jumps down from the stage
to
land on my chest. "Ben!" He proclaims.
No.
"Bobby;" I exclaim. We catch up-talking
the state of Indie music,
as my family drives away from
the venue, into the distance, to leave me
in the biting cold. I forget my jacket,
and
walk back to the hotel, or, campground?
Freezing
and alone,
mid-******.

In the rough of the Devil's camping ground,
Satan, the Prince of Darkness himself tramps around-
holding the infinite trump card-(A 40 ft circle)
in which nothing living may stay and survive.    

I get into a fist fight, with a kid
who has been in the same rehab,
at the same time as me,
over the past three years.
In and out. In and out we go.
But, together.
He is lanky
and
gets hold of my wrists,
attempted head butts,
I struggle free
escaping his vice of a grasp
and
lay him out
with one right hook,
splaying him down to lay
between two cars.
For, we are in a parking lot,
(To mention this, I forgot)
outside of some conference
being held. I assume it is
recovery related. I always liked
this kid, and thought we were friends.
What happened?
I wonder.

North to the Liberties, let's
go to the punk show
and
dance as we would to
Joy Division, even when
everything is going wrong,
it can be ironic that we are
still so happy. Standing
outside with the kids in the know.
She stands staring, from her lips
hangs a clove. I dangle on the edge
of the wall, and stare back in awe.
Everything brightens clear, as
my senses are heightened. Everyone
warned us not to fall in love,
at this bar.

A very Bill Murray Christmas, takes us
by pleasant surprise. Cuddling in a
corner, with a fire crackling away.
This scene, is no dream. The rest are,
beamed from my unconscious.

We all have infinite interior strength

slizzy lizzy
drinks and
gets fizzy
i want her
to keep me
buzy

I am the commissioner of sewers,
king of rat's alley,
chancellor of the canine
graveyards.
This life right here is a party
and safari.

In hoc signo vinces:
In this sign you will conquer.

I am impetuous, adamantly
audacious.

Ic heb u liever dan en everswin,
al waert van finen goude ghewracht:
I love you more than a wild bore,
even if it were made of fine gold.

Twice or thrice
at 7 or 8,
me and the neighborhood gang,
discovered that head feels great.
So, we would all hang,
behind a propped up, parallel
wire frame mattress,
against a stone wall
in the alley.
And,
convince the younger,
more impressionable
eager to please,
to get down, on their
knees.
Until one day,
Joey told us all, this
was gay.
And,
then I was called a ******,
when I asked to have,
my wiener ******,
out of bad habit.

I've been a bit perplexed
by ***

ever since.

At this point, I chase the white rabbit
merely out of habit/

My, what big blue beautiful eyes she has.
All the better to eat me with, my dear.
And
My, what lovely lips she has.
All the better to see me with, my dear.
And
Those big swinging hips,
All the better to ****** me with, my dear.
And
Her ringing voice in my ear,
dissolves any fear.

The tide ever rolling,
rollicking into the beach
As
we are high, frolicking,
into the undertow tide,
to hide, from death inevitable.
My, what hair, let down, wrung out,
without a care, and through
this tangled hair.
My, death hath no sting nor fury,
for a man such as this,
me as it were,
her love,
oh my,
is pure purgatory.

Following the rabbit to the abbot,
white wolf unknown, disguised in full
habit.

Like leading lambs to the slaughter/
Like leading lambs to the slaughter/

A love such as this,
won in a bar barter.
Reach beneath her dress,
toss back the garter.
.
I beseech,

I do not think it will land in my hand  

And I will continue to chase the white rabbit,
purely out of habit.

Love
will mean
facing the problem
of pushing the button
that destroys the human race.

We pull, into the
Grand Canyon,
at sunset.
We toss and fling
giant rocks, boulder-
esque chunks of
Earth, off of
the side.
Someone screams,
they are upset, but
no regrets,

Am I evil?
   (All poems containing a question)
Am I pensive?
   (All poems containing an affirmation)

Blazing across Arizona,
dead dogs grovel,
strays, orphans searching,
seeking, looking for a home,
******* and copulating,
in, vacant gas station
lots. Not a bone,
to be thrown.

Where are our owners?
   (All poems containing a question)
This is enthralling.
   (All poems containing an affirmation)

Fear and faith,
carry us riveting,
through rivulets of clouds,
we sore, flying above,
searching for peace,
doves.

The woods would be very silent indeed,
if no birds sing except those who sing,
best.  

But,
she wants revenge,
with
a thirst for pain, I cannot
contend.
And
as the rain pours down,
sorrow falling from the
clouds.
She wants revenge.
And,
I simply cannot even
contend.

Laying lines out on
the metallic surface, of
With the Lights Out,
white powder flaked
along Cobain's black
and white face.
The drugs which killed
him, no longer causing
him any more pain,
merely giving this writer
some idolized thrill and gain.
And then high, reading
about one more creature,
dizzy with love.

*God gave us memories so that we may have roses in December