High as a Kite.
the trail up the mountain
is lined with serpents
hissing in strange beauty
they lunge but do not strike
not in dreams
w a l k
p a s t
t h e m
avoid their fangs
for I do not trust
what the elders have said
“in dreams none die,
in dreams none die”
though lost loves and my dead father still
in some language without the tongue
revealing answers to questions not yet asked
I do not trust those ageless words
“in dreams none die”
though I know this is true
of fallen angels
whose wings were words
writ for eyes not yet closed
before the mountain
and the myth of blue sky
dragons in my dreams
drag queens on my streets
where was I to hide?
through toxic clouds
of atomic belched aphorisms
holding my nose ‘til my lungs
screamed primal screams
that nobody ever heard
with their ears stopped
like the rowers of Ulysses
while he listened to the
I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them
like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the kill
but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches
and smell of cat piss
naked enough to have me covet
what they are not
I want them, I need them
for I don’t know what bliss is
bliss, bliss, bliss
is that what I sought?
is that what sages taught?
when they had me kneel
and put a wreath upon my head
told me to chant, silently, inwardly
told me there was no shortage of truth
I heard them, cherished every word,
no matter how absurd
because I thought they could help me fly
but then I choked on the smoke
from their farted anointed flames
that filled the sky I was told was blue
it was not only me
to whom they lied
who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts?
but when I awoke, they were not there
and all that was left in the waking world
were the scabbed burns they left on my soul
the dying crownless queens
who roamed the oily streets
the stench in my flaring nostrils
and the bit in my teeth
no chariot to fly above those shit filled clouds
that would rain vain vapid truth on me
for the rest of my unholy days…
the rest of my unholy days
1) help endures even the worst pumpernickel shortbread twats, but understanding outweighs that of the pessimistic drug lords squatting in piss ridden sandlots.
2) compassion is for the virtuistic harlequins.
3) underestimating the estimatable is the idea, even under a load of unsettling emotions. just hoard them in your fannypack.
4)the sex next door may make your head spin, and the typewriter might make your nails crack. but, beyond all of that, there lies an undisclosed truth. one that neither the walls nor the space bar underneath your thumb will ever know:
I am here, and this is now.
a memory of you will to settle on my forehead
while I am trying to sleep, and it is as though the thought pervades
my skull and slithers through me, settling in the space between
my aching joints. There is no greater form of incapacitation. More than anything,
I wish to rise up and sprint for miles and miles, with no destination, until my body
mutinies against itself and wretches you out onto the filthy asphalt. But I cannot.
I shake off the thought, and like a persistent fly it only finds its way back to my deadened hide to lay down its pestilence.
Last night, like so many others,
I had to set my thoughts to flame, and watched your vestiges lightly float away
on disorienting billows of smoke
as I drifted into restless sleep. Yet, they return every time,
like falling ashes
reassembling themselves in images and unspoken words, crafting feelings more forlorn and frightening than before.
Leave me, darling,
For love me
Hordes of mangled marionettes hoard so many histories of mystery,
That I beg in blank brandishing tongues, hounding the hordes most swiftly.
Because I am a puppet master pioneering such a broad pallet of poetic pleasure,
That surely the most silent shamans will sound their poignant sighs in solitude.
And we've accosted such armies--allied only to destruction,
Only to be found in fruitless dust.
Demons will someday antagonize them in blissful anarchy,
But for now we’ll pass an ancient altruistic remedy
And leisurely lull the pull of destruction.
I've been bumming rides on Earth’s enigmatic forces
With hungry fingers,
Grasping for the wind outside of car windows,
And Escaping the laws of gravity
For brief moments
Whenever the pressure becomes displaced
Just enough for my hand to float
I don’t need the hand of a craftsman,
Or a banker.
Writing big checks.
I’ll float on the wind like a gull.
Shitting on strangers.
Maybe I’ll even be lucky enough for you come float with me,
Drifter I may be,
But drifters only really drift in search of company.
Droplets of powder gathered on the counter
As I drilled holes in the linoleum to let the light in
Excuse the complacency and the drunken composure
But I'm eating my heart, and I'm taking you with me
Down the long fiery hallway at twilight
I will scream your fantasies softly to our moon
And your will to return will befall under its beams
Our private little world coming to an end,
Apocalyptic and honest,
Again to sleep.