For a man without a home in this world
the road becomes a lover.
With rubber fingers running over blacktop skin
the miles are shared
with something that falls just short of affection.
But, the road has her rules, she demands so much.
For each mile together, blood must spill.
Ten thousand tiny bodies must be mangled,
and strewn in bloody tangles along the shoulder.
Leaving brown streaks behind, for months,
as a reminder of her bloodlust.
Ten tons of rubber must be shredded,
and scattered across every lane.
Bouncy black booby traps,
that thump and tumble, and startle the unwary.
Crushed glass, and crumpled steel make her smile
so sacrifice must be made for every single mile.
When you are alone, and your world is a blur
of fast food wrappers, and lonely motel rooms,
only occasionaly shared,
with women who disappear before dawn,
you are willing to make such sacrifices.
But, when the sky bleeds blue, and paints the highway its shade,
the horizon merges into a hazy sea.
The lines and the lanes disappear,
the cars ahead appear to sink into azure nothingness,
and for an instant the whole world wavers,
until the next hill is crested, and the illusion is dispelled
by the brightly glowing city skyline in the distance.
Only then do you realize that the city you see there isn't yours,
and the road leading you towards yet another alien world
never loved you, and never will.
Deny your desire
to browse the images
that you thought brought you pleasure.
Toss the mental albums in the fire.
Release the songbird of sweet memories,
do not clip its wings by revisiting everything,
until you have drained the treasury of the past.
Only touch my skin with the hand of your mind
when the night is blackest,
and loneliness howls like a caged hound.
Lock my face away in a place it can't be found,
in an obuilette, so deep in the ground
you can no longer hear the sound of my memory.
You never should have written me into your history in the first place.
I was cracked on the Checkerboard.
Black and white became everything to me.
Now I teeter totter between the joyous and the rotten.
So easily I was fragmented, by a scrap of paper,
and a pattern.
The Green Monster climbed inside my eyes,
and I saw behind a picture,
what the picture really wanted to be,
A blinking glimpse of another reality.
The White Widow unleashed the black daimon in me,
From then on, I couldn't stop seeing beyond.
Beauty became brutality,
and I have walked across this tightrope,
longer than my legs have cared to walk before.
A golden spear screams out
In search of a silver shield.
The burn of fire demands the soothing cool of water.
Wild and delirious
with civilization and sanity,
Perfect Only to me.
I have leapt into the chasm,
only to soar towards the sun.
I have force fed the angel
To starve the devil,
But, the beast can feast on darkness,
and besides, I think without it
the angel would die.
The mind is a terrible thing to shatter.
But the scattered pieces sparkle brightly
In the darkest night, when all other lanterns are shaded.
Like red lights in a darkened ship.
But, it has always been a checkerboard
strobing beneath my eyelids.
Even before I licked the paper
I saw the pattern.
It has been with me since before
I learned the words and their meanings.
Before I drew my first breath,
A checkerboard was tattooed on every cell of my being.
The blotter just brought it to the surface.
Now I can only sit and wonder
what my soul did to deserve this.
Pines line the lane
Beside the field
Where you and I used to trade our brains
For a bowlful of fleeting moments
In the glowing giggle zone.
Bowling on the green we called it,
Back when I still possessed my hand grenade,
And my head bore a flowing mane.
I haven't spoken to you since you found a better place
but I remember your voice, and I remember your face.
Merp and Midland,
and stuff like that.
I'm glad you found the secret.
I used to know it
I forgot it.
But I remember bowling on the green,
and the songs we sang together.
Men cannot march together in unison
for prolonged periods of time,
without the insistence of sound.
There is an individual cadence we conceal in our cells
which must be silenced
by a hypnotic pattern.
One, two three fo-wer,
Yuh, three your four
Yuh one and your two and your three your four.
It is a passionate howl in the distance.
Accompanied by living drums,
fashioned out of flesh and rubber and the earth.
The first time you hear it
it reverberates on your senses like an immaculate illusion.
The cadence being cried
in the foggy florescent light.
Over the barking and posturing of the rdc's
As they herd you in an unorganized mob.
It pierces the apprehension you brought with you
And a seed of determination is planted.
Your one two,
two your three your four,
Your one and your two and three your four.
Something greater than the self speaks,
a desire to contribute to such harmony develops.
It is the chromosome of the cadence singing,
from within all but the most damaged ones.
Your one two three fo-wer
three your four,
Your one and your two your three your four.
And when you finally become part of a column of sound
off of other competing columns,
On a simple morning march to the messhall
You can feel a power beyond words and symbols.
And your inner musical score skips a measure
To marvel at a music,
That is cruder, and blinder,
than any music that one individual can create.
For an oracle
(s)he was quite the weatherman.
She saw rampant growth,
where constriction and pressure were truth revealed.
The gorgeous countenance of your inner self
is a blessing that outweighs your vile exterior,
she said to me. You are an angel.
Arousal and inferiority overload;
implode in the cerebral cortex of one who is only just learning
The purity of laughter,
the value of a mind
Unbound by the constraints of a sightless generation.
The manifestation of my hopes,
that only seems real when I am asleep,
It is always throbbing on the skin of reality,
A pulsing pleasing threat
of a better sunrise
And a distant sunset.
In the forum we once lasted one day
without choking up bile
and spiting it at each other.
Has no one ever built a house,
and not so soon after burnt it down.
Tools for every season,
I would like to merge with one every ninety days
if the seasons would only pick me,
and set aside a slice of time.
when he discovered the
"If the positive surge I inhaled
in the dirge of the sun,
when its fusion failed,
And the gravity of its pride
impaled itself on the light,--
a bad idea changed the world
for the better
when everyone embraced the dawn
With open arms and broken charms,
And every ounce of prof(ph)i(e) t gained,
became the joy of all,
and the mana of the many.
In every text we have torn from the unknowable
The same truths persist.
If laughter isn't proof enough for you
Then God told me to tell you
You can go fuck yourself,
or any other consenting adult.
What the fuck should he care
If you believe in him or not.
Creation is an animal unto itself.
Call it what you will, but never call it impossible.
In the desert once,
I came upon a woman
Sitting against a rock,
arms clasped around her knees,
I asked her what is the matter
And she said
"You don't understand!
If I don't get some water
I am going to die."
Come with me then, woman,
And we shall find some water.
She shook her head and stomped her feet and said
"No! You don't understand!
If I don't get some water, I will die!"
I offered her my half full skin,
"It is tepid and muddy, but it should suffice."
But she swatted it away,
Fell to her stomach
And started flailing her arms and legs,
weeping and screaming.
"You don't understand!
If I don't get some water
I will die!"
I tried to reason with her,
But it was useless.
So, I walked off towards the distant oasis,
And left her there