I feel the old-age fire sweeping over and expanding my vision of the lush red-brick empire, of the city street I meet my grandfather's omnipotence, as his eyes saw in layers, with decade toppling into decade. The overtones wained from the moaning of steel on steel, the speeding gloss of rain promised birth. I guess mother nature knows best.

Twenty strolls by the canal
out without followers
,pleasant by night
walk slow and  around
fast thoughts
changing fireflies with the mouth
while angst wallows out with the wind
by the shore sifting every other passer this way
who never wanted life beyond a couple years
,except
we all just have dreams
and mine
are all eyes to Moloch now
for he streams dark giants
and quiet interplay with water-lights
and I am brought to tears
If I could...for every ****-off,
misfit, and geek
chasing trains past bedtime
and seeing green in society’s streets
just tapping steps in the dirt
who cared none
about father’s scrutiny,
who worried less
confronted in the night
with all ceaseless
horror and inviting fear

I'm finding less and less ways to describe the innocuous sensation that manifest in my meat bag mind whenever I look into the unrelenting depths of the city streets, of the crimson arched bridge, of the ethereal concreteness surrounding everything at everywhere. How limited are my intuitions. How incredibly flawed I have been since birth yet what I saw and felt those day looking out the second story window of the old catholic school classroom, those things where true. The size of my uselessness rivaled my desire, everyones desire to remain golden in our youth, exalted in (existential) immortality, survival without posterity, actualization without all the hired *******. A relic of tomorrow who felt safe in twilight-collective.

Year of the snake. This is the year of further transcendence. An isolated spectacle hanging in the daybreak fog, meeting earth to the clouds and the middle of grey-beam aqua-pasture is where I store myself. The very sad man dreamt again of the very happy woman whom he would never see and never hold again. It was undeniable they arrived together in another time. It was undeniable she was the most disgusting and beautiful sprite of his musing. They devolved instantaneously into the tragic manifesto. And why not? Why not squeeze the great oceans between their chests in an amassing wave of some armada of lowly downed prisms. Playing colors off the wall or the slummed vacated room. Slipping off into my eyes.

I am just sad and cold and want to die. I am teasing the edge. I can write now, I can write. But not for long I’m already done. There where the ideas of the new era somewhere, locked away in my head waiting for the release of incomprehensible advisors. They kind lathed in blathered pink and with poly-chrome hats, dancing on the rivers boat-moon-spell moments, the kind that happened to every kid at every intangible, hallucinated camp. The one they make up in their head before bed on the streets in the muddy motel alleyway dirt. I couldn't hold back the want to die. As I sat there perched bellow the roofed rim of the building I could feel the splashes of water grace around my ankles, the water had been soaking for hours. I was the always rain. It never stopped, not once in the history of our race. We had to find houses along the rocks, soil was apart of the sea, or at least that’s the way I understood it. There was not time for anything besides keeping dry. It was really a mater of wet or less wet, there was nothing anyone could do about it. The earth moved without relent. I see a ***** in the ****** mary. I know because everyone else I know does too, we just want to be polite about it, not make to much racket. I debate even writing again. To who? an upcoming age of enlightenment? To say what is already been said by the mind of every mind in every place, that we are the collective unraveling of the fabric of our own making. I am the turtle. It finally hit me, I am the meekest of all of them, the slowest and most looked down at. I am the capacity of a nuclear wave. I am the only one who knows of my own power. A crazed soul I am. Sold into my own slavery again! I just wean to hear you breathe, to prove there are the balance and manifestation of the infinite love I hid away in my mind. The one love I created with one thought. I am the product of the indoctrination, they left a bomb in my mind. I am altered among the alter and always dying. No one should have to see their soon to be dead mother crawling around on the ground like a bug waiting to pounce on your leg. Too close to home and too soon for my own mind. Some girl who's name started with an M, it's fuzzy and I haven't the clue to remembering. Its all over finally, they are done, I am impenetrable by their foggy morning evergreen attacks. Try to leach and drain off of my unconscious collective. My hive honey. my meat. They are nice in the dream of reality, but in every way they are spiders waiting for the kids to come, they will feed on me first. They will eat. Always i remember our own journeys and I forget to dance most of the time, loose eye lids sweating now, A video arcade. Finished.

I am gone and out of sight. So why should you care? There is nothing left in this soggy sad tale, of childhood self-defeating. The center city of my times and my observations all out of sight. So why should you care? The silent soliloquies and trending electric doom. The death and reconstruction of vast empires and deserts blazing in their teething tyrannous rise. The unconscious attitude of millions quietly scoffed at by philosophers in dark, locked closets. The waves of our own gluttonous self classification  completely illuminated on the firing line and who had no last words for any of their sins. The failure of our own cultivated mold, on our own rock, on our own time, surely a good place to stop this december. It's now, so why should you care?

Things will see well, said the city. No neon corpuscles. No dead-light street corners. Just me and the Five lying about which way to get home.

I seem to want to hate them all. Every last golden memory. Just find an other.

Today I come to the ends of my own unwinding. There is a lens piece around the corner on the docks. there are stair who don't relate to you. There is a truck with a window and a sign light up with a soft yellow spot light. As if to jump-launch straight out of the vehicle passing straight into space. In a world where you have perspective and see fit only to see today. There was a man I knew existed before who named out a name that I couldn't and nor would I ever have. There is a mad concrete haze stuck in our teeth! The downstairs gremlins drive semi trucks down the streets, they know the road are too narrow and the still go. Fat chance for that man who is with only himself on a bench, in the rain, by the truck, on the sand in some beech ignoring any demand of the world. So much has to be lost before defeat comes as a cold drink under the stars.

I am disgusted by your privy and lathered face, ****** expressions fill the gentle void, devoid of all human concious, empathic license of intelligence, you were always smarter than me, I wonder, does that make you happy? Twisted twine and pathic phrases of gang related gore, driving me off the walls, towards and in my own stall, waiting, phrasing the right thoughts in my head, to silent to tell the meaning of the names i came up with, of the charcters of my theater peice playing soon on broadway's basement. ten spins into a spiral and i am out fast, fill the void you joker, mascarade in and all around the plaside place and face of the broken frontier town. Call it home, ring the church bells, praise fast and all around the sight of kindoms entitled, to your brain, to your thoughts, to your brilliance, to your majesty, to your all enslaving tone, the same tone you speak to me in as you console your inner golgotha, ******* me out at the river-side bluff, alluding to our own memories, mind games, drastic plays for attentions and self-preservation. So go ahead, carry on your legacy, your driving will to self impose morality and autonomy on others, you decide these things, am i right? You arise to the occasion and hold them tight to the nuse around thier necks, the same nuse and braid i called to amend all those years ago and yet still you don't trust me, after all these years you still don't trust me , what lies you summon to fight for you, ******* child of liberate and hate.

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a curious English archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of Zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.

Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills

So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.

I am content being in my closet-bed, safe and alone. I am ok with my window open and the night air. I can switch the switch of pursuit, fondness and a candid smile. I have my own sphere of existence and I am happy to have it. I cannot always start running on a new chapter of my life but I am fully able to continue to ream in the past with new vigor and statistical desperation. I am one of a few million-million and it is still unclear what creates the legend of capital uniqueness. I love my father and mother and always my sister. I want better for everyone and myself. I want to love on them all that I can.  Marriage no, children no, family is what I have as conflicting and contradicting as it may be. Thing fall apart. I love the ugly moments of my ceiling.

I am not a new story waiting to happen. I am not a ravid political face or frenzy. I am not a desperate grunt who got his just-comings. I am not the type to be escorted in any way by the crumpled void of fallacius fame and humble-beginning-fortune. I am the desperate coat bearer of the northeast bronx. I have the mind of a child. I have the graces of rat. I have the public anticipation of a broken man apart from his chariot-era. When sitting I grow anxious and hungry and mis-mannered and poor and terrified. I throw away any hour to the madness of deep seething and wallowed whispers of loathing per-the manuscript writings of two years ago. I cannot help myself like others can. I cannot say what haunts me the way they can. It's the deaf ears and I have some too. I was born this way and I who I am. They are permissible and I am another anachronism. I am tempted to start over somewhere completely unknown and away. I just want to break free from the cycle my age and be with my age. I want to chase my girl around the city and stop at another house and have another long conversation about the same daily occurrence of you evenings. Then move on when you have moved on and see straight into another tomorrow like I was unable to until now. To write myself out of another horrific night, alone. Defeated by my own revelations of my own determined normalcy and struggle for authentic dialog. Near the line of conviction that I should never say another word because the shy me now will be appalled by the shy me years later. That I will surely be an embarrassment in my own if I ever stepped on a stage. That I have nothing, and will never have anything, worthy or useful to the world around me. That I am completely doomed to die forgotten and unoriginal.

trample with me, trample with me in the lime-light-blue. Endure the evergreen sully in quiet momentum and thought. The terrified mind of byron. A man waiting on the clockwork of his 12th hour and would later describe his feelings as good and ambitious, satisfied yet unable, continual and terrified. I am of innumerable sorrows, unrelenting terror, and all horror.

Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,

I will continue to write in remembrance of his inspiration. For I am not committed to any form or force of expression rather I choose to indulge in the ***** mediums made with slow slurring and rhythmic outbursts. But they are devices to be pitied, dull and decrepit from years of tantalizing abuse by many rulers and scribes. Why did you leave Austin? You had so much yet to let me learn of an enduring and angst-riddled soul. The hours spend sitting, trying to decipher each other’s language and tone. I paced myself for the sparks we would strike on walks by the canal, regrouping each night, too wild and crazed to of known empty figures from friends. Sitting that night on the roof of who-knows-who’s home, looking out at the street lights of Magnolia, deliberating the finer points of it's message and meaning far beyond any hope of achieving any answer; just truly sitting silent inside, too moved by what we had seen. These rare eyes given to you and I finally found courage in those ceaseless evenings which only put humanity in question more and more, night by night caught furiously in the ebb n’ flow of monstrous possibility, of gentle breezes and the tyranny of thoughtless men. After you left  I stuck around for a while. It was dried up past my ability to stomach any more. I don't really know what was so undesirable about  friends we use to run flags with that pushed me away but they where a crowd I felt had nothing left to tell or offer me. In all honesty they began to sicken me thinking about how they sickened you. I didn't even want to wake up; to sleep through the Fridays and Saturdays where no one could find me. Resting in frightened dreams, windows open to the foxtrot-cotton air dancing on my face with a gentle appeal of conscious being that I may be fearless yet wrapped in all bliss and achievement. Still for you my friend, I carry those words; regardless of how many moments I run into that say otherwise. I can still hear your faith in me, resonating back off the wall again and again. Even on that night hearing moans from the room up stairs, your words carried me home and into bed; betrayal had no grips on my eyes. I saw past it. Beautiful-she: the depravity of all men, once and now to us, do we deserve more than colorful intentions that leave dust on our window seals. We deserve better than harlots running down the streets. We deserve better than those less than beautiful, with perfect faces covered in perfect carbon paint. No my friend I want the battered and scared who's lines glow ever more dissonant in the moonlight. I sat in the sunlight today by the water reading the Great Gatsby watching mallard ducks couple up and down, embroidered males chasing after brown stripped females, as boats passing by rippled the water with their wakes, crashing into the wall I was sitting by, pushing away. Two years are gone and I still can't forgive myself. What you have to understand is I still hold on to the depth of her hurt and from that I have learned too much already. The joys of fearing love and never admitting that I care for the hallow banter and easily forgotten confessions. Those half-planned collisions of flesh that never get the resolution they deserve, but rather twist in every moment they are deprived of such satisfaction; this is what animates me to write and stirs every voice inside me.

Love came along in my life. Hell...Christ...Cigarettes! I couldn't forgive my passion, the way it made me feel as I looked to jesus drying up in the sun. The metaphors deserve all the glory don't they? Thinking of big nights and warm lips, and all while just wanting to ****. Golden eyes resting on the gold of god, who was really just burning to see me a cowboy pacing west like a turtle. Still standing on tight-line-friends yearning from a choir of grace and speachless as nothing happens save the rise of an old moon, rest it's soul. Yet I simply cared to think of days without the open smoke which was lighter than my fingers as I touched you hard within stammers of each breathe. Years gone by and still sure he'd lost; swearing on everlasting angels.

Who needs love
Frantic boils of delirious pink lusting
wanting power
You ask me shadows
and the picture-less language winds
She stops me fast,
the gorgeous void
Lather eternity over me
Stop thinking what will manipulate them
and moan out the recall
Life is a bare and fast beat
please worship it with delicate moments
from sad skin some can soar
i am drunk

11-7-12

These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.

I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full *** of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a *** and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.

The train sirens fell ill on my skin as the gates of waves descended upon the lowly burrows of 12th street and blew it straight into tomorrow's windy, lamenting unification of loneliness.  The plague it drew on the youth only rivaled the great hallow abyss in it's forthcoming nature. To the young it was the rotting, the sinister desecration of our world to come. I am only stunned by the great rivalry that seems to coincide in my generation's thoughts, capricious-now or wiseful-tomorrow. We strain to be in the eyes of our fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, proving to our grandfather that we alone will carry the family name and legacy towards great and unimaginable heights, without the help of others and without the need for pity. Conger a frightful doe perking it's ears to every other sound it hears, that quiet din, it's last acquaintance before the grand, all-knowing silence takes over and surrounds it's being forever. Love thy harkening sorrow and writhe in heavy screams. All will pass but I see none with the sanctity to carry a soul farther than you have already; the seas spring longer and will soon swallow the world. Too many years will pass by before I can understand this with a sober mind. One day will come before I realize that drunken ravings of my night will see it's critical truth in the day by scholars and priests of common sense.

I was finally and absolutely safe. I, a gem in my father's eye, and he, born before my sight. In the house, the streets, indefinite ringing, and the almost-departure of the grand-papy pat on the back, a  gesture entirely too simple for me. I just wanted to hug him and hear him speak. Even all I disagreed with spawned the most paternal anger in me, only days after the vasectomy. He had we, my sister and three other children but anyways two got off free, so it's just my sister with me, and some heavy things where all on us. And someone lifted a few off at the arriving terminal, at the carousel. Acclimated to the pekin breeze we the most moral-est sponge we'd ever seen take some space in his daddy brain. Wosh...wooosh...whehw, whewh and my dad's anew. Some startling thing he knows whens he looks down the road, deep down into the road, because here you are so sweet when you speak.

The seething essence still crystalline by the last-act shine, illusory in all men's eye. The last, the last...the last call.

In the blue-tunnel moss-green sprawling in straight syncopate, you will hear me. You will hear me in the someday of the growing generation of the growing of my mind. The yesterday sojourn of my parent's chimed heart and verb fluttering wakes.

The present has arrived. Fear all to those who do not understand the dark coming of the saints that will eat us all. The slow huddled fear they will carry to the midnight-faded mirror looking through deep wells to unseen gates.

Behold two. Those who look and those who are looked upon. I tell them apart by their holey, child wholes.

It is now four in morning as I wind down.
On this salty night in vagas you can see for miles.
The trees smell imported, the stripes of feet walking everywhere are visible in the floor carpets, the whole joint was colored tequila, and every face was that of an american.
Hotel hallways had grown small with the years.
There was this crane down the street, building the next casino over, again.
It stood amongst fifty-thousand billboards and american faces, all the same created, all the same.    
The tension now builds and I can only feel time.
The image of an illuminated nobody swiming in a mist pool, next to a hotel on the outskirts of town, the knowing of his distain for others, the sheer embrace of his mystic-all-knowing insignificance watching the crooked sunrise kept me going.
You once told me to pick and choose.
You once told me I should taste the air more, like a dog would, if he could sink his teeth in just right.
I took that as you wanted a mutt in your brain, maybe even a mutt in me, but I couldn't.
Not on this holiday and not at four in the morning.

I am a ****** reject of consequence
with few realities that surround
him,
save the favored crusty nightmares
who seek me out at day-break’s shine

I am a glossed over heroine of limitless speech and pacing degradation
The sneaky child with two teeth and no dollar,
touched by flashes of those long gone and haze driven memories
and recollections for the weaker than he

I watched soaring cities of angelic barbarians topple over the realms of the gray ladies’ wake
straight into the hands of a gun dipped in the racist thoughts of my people

He wasn’t here for the feast celebrating many ages of consummate fire, plaguing the tribes of the sojourn streets dwellers as I looked forth to
the understated clouds of heaving purple, screaming in pink
To the arch of my favorite tree broke by city commissioners and cancerous politicians
To wave in spirit for the lazy eyed ****** gazing in the passing car window
For he champions the youth in unseen proportions as gently placed the shackles are fit around his waist
That sovereign hero who twists hell to his own reality, to exist in two with all fleeting love, still staring past the trees on 9th in await, a hatchling in a sparrows nest, drifting with heavy, heavy legs, hanging tight,
Alluring dark-light lips of concrete on sidewalk’s majesty, who fall all around the throats of our helpless behaviors
They take from him and us