I woke up.
I could feel
The world spin beneath me.
It was nauseating.
I put on the coffee
And read
"Nothing is true,everything is
Permitted."
-Sabbah
I took a gulp of black
And thought about
"Every existing thing is born without
reason,prolongs itself out of weakness,and dies by chance."
-Sartre.
I took a big gulp of black
Shaved the 2 month old beard
Then stood in the mirror.
A brand new animal.

Thin ice is nice,
but not
for skating on and so
I skate a bit on it.

I go on an anti-survival course
to self-destruct on arrival
of course.

To **** myself in a self-fulfilling
prophecy.

My speciality is to
make it into a trilogy.

It's better at times when I forget
all the rhymes,
and don't care if it rhymes at all
like now.

Thinking about that guy
How he got all rusted up
How he longed to have a heart
How he got stuck in mid-motion.

I long to write again
But like the tin man
My heart (for writing) seems lacking
Haven't I said it all?

I mean it gets old
It's no longer refreshing
Writing is a gift that seems to have peaked
Something that once flowed very well

I'm frozen up
I need some oiling
To get the process churning
Frustrating, when I want to move

But I feel stuck

It rains.
A truffled scent
glitters
in dead leaves,
naked trees.
Transudation
into the depths
of the night.

this dawn has no sun... it has an eye.
it is nothing but dreams and a risen Christ.
the long beyond behind me, is the avalanche... the tremors
in a golden misery. a blunder on glass stilts.
this dawn has to step outside -
to have a mirror. it has to bake the clay
that made a man.... into
an iron wisp.

it has to occur to God
to have your entropy be a deep kiss.
to obliterate the schedule of planned events
and substitute the void for the real fear.
is has to occur to Us
to have no reality other than this.
to celebrate the anvil of cartoon antics
and most refuse the void
with the mind clear.

' bout a train don't come.... been always here....
sinking into the ravines of your cabbages
and sulking in the mulch
of some soiling ambrosia.
a cure for Krackens  in your refractory-
stammering the diphthong  
of an adjacent
howl.

but not quite an amethyst
at rush hour  

but a diamond in
the hush.

a black diamond
within us.

the dog is sleeping in the filth
but is happy. but not " Happy," Happy.
it dreams a dog's dream
and sniffs the rear end
of a front.
it smells the lie in the corner
of a round room
like a man that loves
a girl.

and assumes.

forward is the only way -
to return ...
it bends the reason to it's will.
it bargains the rude truth
and the simple one.

It
hates the
way you
love
the answer...
when there
is none.

and there is
none.

again and again
the morning comes undone
and we march -
stuff-lunged into crunch
and mule love
blunder-bused  and lump-kin
but for always
a short ton
of long grief
tweaking the snip
of a dead sow's ear
to reap a jewel
from a dead
mind.

but here

i love you like a war in Spain
spiking the Punch and Judy/
a fugue grief on a tide of dark joy
slavering at the haunches
of a Pegasus.

Blindfolded.