Watch me - can you see it?
I'm decaying and the streets;
they're decaying
the buildings they’re decaying the poor; they're decaying the rich,
the rich are decaying the streets -
the streets they're decaying the hippies - punks all of them decaying
and the buildings;
your house it's decaying and your money,
your plastic cards the gold it's supposed to represent and the microchips that store the numbers that are supposed to represent how much of it is yours all decaying
and the oil reserves decaying the food supplies decaying
all of it.
Every single piece going back to where it came from but these words are just.
These ideas are just.
Just are.

When many aeons turning stones
Did find you muddied silt

The rivers coursing from your veins
On highway sides
Of Grecian ilk

What coils must I shuffle from
To find the fatted milk

And taste the salt which binds to you
In hiding places built

Before the turning of the spheres were
locked inside your gaze

Here, so many ages past
And still to seek a name

As gravity is the boundary between the ocean and the shore.

As the eye is the boundary between light and darkness.

As a book is the boundary between religion and the religious.

As ideology is the boundary between the nationalists and the foreigners.

As weapons are the boundaries between the politician and his politics.

So these words are the boundary between you and I.

I am an angel in the rise

I am angelic in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a tall

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
In pitch black etched across his chest

“Shall my hands afford ash?”

Read to a roar of laughter

1000
100
Only us

“Who are you?”

Cut short by a roar of laughter

100
10
Only us

“They call me Cain, brother, and I can only show you ‘what’.”

And what, indeed, amidst fiery chariots and divine palaces suddenly surging from ocean chasms had my thoughts sought to comprehend?

Here I am amidst a dream

A neon second scene

But where is the Word when

Awake, and to multitudes.

The morning sun rises to bring light on a blackened church. There, at a vandalized oaken pulpit I give my sermon. My Bibles were lost in the arsons committed on my home, my church, and the corner shop refuge that once provided living space for local destitute. I am unprepared this Sunday, but the Word flows freely. He ‘Is’ is speaking through me. I look down to my notes and revel in their order. Clean lines, a steady hand stroke on every letter composing a glorious sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life. The times have changed, and so I write these words hoping that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am a fool in the rise

I am foolish to fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a bright
Light – refracting subaquatic from
Towers – streaming ribbons with the current
Whilst star-light chariots permeate disorder

“She made ham from ash”

A thought recited to a piercing silence
Singularity while

10
100
Observe

“Where am I?”

A thought recited to a low hum
Singularity while

100
1000
Consider

One – stepping forward from light
Form – immaculate sans
A wild, pulsing eye

“I am here to show you ‘what’.”

Expressionless

“Are you able?”

A smile

A light

“No, come.”

And so, with caution, I proceeded down Atlantean waterways buzzing with preternatural light and rhythm. Amidst this shimmering ocean scene there was beauty and awe which words to comprehend could only paint pictures of madness. And so, I came upon my home.

Here I am a king at sea

With neon throne and queen

But where is my Hand when

Awake, and to multitudes

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church, home away from home. The attacks grow fiercer by the week, and I have not managed to procure a Bible for today’s sermon. The turnout is better than ever, and the Word flows freely from my tongue. He ‘Is” is speaking through me. The people are queued from pew to door, from street to corner. They seek, en masse, refuge from daily struggles; refuge not found within these Holy walls. Yet, they come. Their order is glorious! Such a wondrous sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life has never before been seen. I write these words in hopes that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am sacred in the rise

I am sacramental in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such insurmountable

Sounds – reverberating
Grounds – quivering
Towers – streaming
Chariots – quickening

“Oh, what a beauteous scene I have come unto! Thank the Highest, thank the Highest! These neon lights, though manifest in form I dread, do not belie the Supreme! Nay, unto him I deem fit all creation! Do not these streams paint your name?! Have not these seams sewn your claim!? I am free among these dreams, and from You have all I need!”

Sang to all who would listen

“Could these hands afford ash, the embers of eternal flame would brand the holy flock! Could I make ham from ash, the maw of sheep would ne’er seek to be sated!”

Sang to all who could hear

“And ye had better listen who doubt the name!”

“But who are you who are such a tall”

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
Opaque lettering across his waist

“Shem HaMephorash”

Read to a crescendo of laughter

Only I
10
100

“Why am I here?”

Cut short by a crescendo of laughter

Only I
100
1000

And why, indeed, had such beauty been shown to one who could not comprehend? Why, indeed, had I been brought to the depths, to revel in that which I have been cast from?

“To pyre, to pyre!”

And so, all the oceans were torn asunder. The final baptism before

10
100
1000
Years


There I was

The second scene

Of all I have conceived, but a dream

But a dream

For here I Am

Amidst the seams

Of all the paths I weave

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church. It is not Sunday, yet the patrons are queued to the street corner again. These people have come to hear the Word flow, yet the Word for me today is woe. The final sermon: Whole and hearted.

“You are here for me, as I am here for you!
There is but one truth, one way, one mind!
It lies not within one, but within two!
The Singular Multitude!”

I pulled my lighter out of my pocket

And dropped it on the floor

Surely accidental

I bent over to pick it up

And thought, “Does this imitate art?”

In doing so, I can say conclusively:

“It might.”

My eyes are painted the color of my dying flesh to kindly remind my reflection that it will get rest in the end.
My veins are constant reminders of times when I shared blood and broke flesh.
Please don't mind my voice -- I swear it sounds best to the dead.
I'm sorry if I have vocalized too much regret, but I knew that you would be listening alone in bed.

What light through yonder closéd window breaks

It is the east

And red is the sun

And liquid amber

Sinking to its home

What many flowers bloom here and shimmering catch my eye

To die upon my waking or falling to deeper sleep

I knew this kid who would acid wash catastrophes.

He flipped his fiddle to ****** fiends in tweaky scenes.

I rolled up once, to show him that my hands were clean.

He tucked his junk up and copped a couple fingers from me.

Sometimes I feel like I am about to figure out the punchline.

Everyone stops and watches.
Waits to see if we can end the charade.

Here—
Let me try—

Infant dies in NICU, never gets to question the nature of its existence.

No—
Wait—

Three year old child chokes on toy labeled not for children under the age of four.

No—
Hold up—

Six year old drowns in pool; parents too ****** up to notice.

No, no—
****—

It doesn’t have that ring of humor to it, that can’t be it.

I can feel it though, the laughter on the tip of my tongue waiting to boil over.

Here—
Let me try again—

Nine year old finds his parent’s candy, suffocates on his own *****.

No, no, no —
I’m close, I can feel it—
How about—

12 year old child plays with power tools, electrocuted.

No, no, no—
No, no—

21 year old man drives drunk, crashes into cemetery.

No, no, no—
No, no—
No, no—

25 year old man gets ******* sick of trying to see what’s on the other side of the painting, takes a bath in his own blood.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—

Wait—
Here—

ENTIRE GENERATION spends their whole lives trying to distract themselves from the fact of their mortality.

None Survive.

Forget the seasons
Their flavors hold no inherent meaning
Manufactured frostbite
Fleeting
Overpaid cosmeticians mask our ugly dealings
How cripplingly demeaning

Forget the seasons
Their flavors still hold no real meaning
Amputated tree limbs
Seating
Underpriced prostitution builds translucent ceilings
How cripplingly demeaning

Was it worth the price of heaven?
To view angels as the demons
To build a sulfur kingdom far away from sheepish bleating
Though joyful sound resounds around the fallen flock I've found, I cannot make a sound that permeates when I'm not bleeding.

Take your trivial differings draw, them up in stippling and call it meaningfully crippling.

I once heard of a man named Pascal who wagered that my soul was better off in the hands of a myth than left to my own devices, and as I lay here chained to my bed with my demons pulling at my ribcage I'm starting to think he was right.

Self obession will be the death of Me.

Celestial Sodomites, decant your debaucheries carefully. Here Dionysus lies -- 1969-1969. Summer sunshine sexcapades. I have been sent by the true Khalifa, supreme placeholder, perpetual nihil to sever defunct neurological pathways and lead to the pearly gates of emotional wounding. Please, open your hearts and pray with me.

I once exposed myself to another man just to show him he was not alone.

Friedrich Nietzche once wrote that god was dead. It was a fictional death befitting Nietzche's fictional god, but as my eyes scanned the pages his words rang true. I am the world's ugliest intellectual -- stabbing at the eternal witness with shattered fragments of his own reflection.

I don't try to die anymore, and I thought my mother would appreciate that. She's still hung up on hoping I come to know Jesus before i do die, whenever that is. What she doesn't understand is that I know Jesus well. I was Jesus. I remember the faces of the centurions in my mind as they drove sharp objects through my wrist to atone for the sins of my abuser. I remember the days entombed, when I wallowed in the darkness with festering wounds. I remember the ressurection, when the angels removed my ******* and brought me once more into the light. I suppose she has a right to worry, though. I could get in to a car accident or something.

I know I'm only who I think you are
I think you're gasses burning in a star
I think your pain has never fully scarred
I think you're sweet

And if you're only who you think I am
I'll be the gold dust in a sea of sand
I'll raise my voice so you can take a stand
I'll be complete

I copped some Subutex at a dry rooming house up the road from a run down clinic while waiting in a line a mile long and thought to myself, "These people need to hurry up."

Can't you see that they want it this way? They propagate it in their media and glorify it with their politics. You are part of a lost culture, indebted to your distant cousins -- yourself. They want it this way. They want you sedated. They want you kicking on an old mouldy couch. They want you tuned in, turned on and foremost dropped out. They want you to slam spikes in your corrotid. They want you shuffling from institution to institution complaining about the food as you pace a single hallway. They want to see the greatest minds of your generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked. Look for it in their media. They know full well that to a generation of nothing, being a statistic counts for something. Look for it in their politics. They know full well how to demonize and revolutionize. Why can't you see that they want it this way?

I knew this woman once, and I got her alone.

She asked me who the real Leo was, so I told her I was a poet. She said something like, "Aw. That's cute."

I looked into her eyes.
I looked into her eyes and saw that her poetry was the vain pursuit of a lost americana. Her poetry lived where could-be cartographers coddled their craft in closed-minded communes.

So I took it upon myself.
I took it upon myself to explain.

I said, "My poetry is when you find the dreams that your television set sold you -- while you're chained to a hospital bed on life support."

I said, "My poetry is when you're starving on the side of the road and a stranger gives you a sandwich -- only to die of malnourishment later because the sandwich was hardly enough to feed your tapeworms."

I said, "My poetry is when you find Jesus Christ -- while you're lying face down in a ditch in your hometown because you just couldn't make it out of that place alive."

She said something like, "I need to go. I forgot I had a thing."

I know that I haven't seen you since, but I want you to know that sometimes I pray, and when I pray I petition your god too keep you from finding my poems.

Lying between sticky sheets in a hospital bed, contemplating my lifes story. Wondering, "Who could be so cruel as to write it on the ceiling in blacklit fuschia heiroglyphs?" Cooked psychosis crazy. Though that's a little insensitive, I suppose.

Lying between coarse sheets on a locked ward, contemplating two knots atop the door. Wondering, "Is there a place in The Father's Kingdom for the self-eradicated to lick each other's wounds?" Raw reality sane. Though that really isn't much better, I suppose.

It was witching hour three sheets to the wind and a blinding high beam now spinning out of control into a ditch contorting cemetery fencing around the windsheild at windpipe height and I think to myself, "That's almost poetic."

In light as dim as truth I sit
A space where I can not exist
For fear of being that which lies
'Twixt color and the canvas.

In light as dim as truth I'm bliss
A space where you can not exist
For I am here and you are tricks
Just colors on the canvas

I travel down a dimly lit road, and I'm not sure where it goes but I'm sure I do not want to be followed. I paint the lines in the road black and smash every street light. Upon reaching the other side I decide it's too dark, but **** if I can't find my old road.

I had a dream, yesterday, 3:33 in the morning.
The witches — they play with me — with my mind.
By the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They take me to a place that I have sought but can not find.
Where a river flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They hang me from the tree, stick blades into my side. My blood — it fills the well until all the secrets rise.
Until all unknown I find by the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.

Every month or so he would stray from his narrow path, carrying a shovel. He would wander back into the forest--far enough to forget his path but not so far that he couldn't find this place again. He would take his shovel and dig up one single clump of dirt. When asked about this peculiar habit, he would profess his love for worms and filth but we all saw the bigger picture. His hole is big now. He climbs deep to the center of the earth for every pitch of dirt he claims, and I'm a little tired of climbing in after him.

Sunshine

Rainbows

Unicorns

Copulating

Microcosms of childhood fear

Wonder

Wonder about sunshine and rainbows
Wonder about whether or not mythical beasts procreate
Wonder about your childhood fears
Wonder why I would be telling you to wonder

We can be wonderful together

Now Billy was OG down D Street
Where Joey got dead beat
Caught mean heat down D Street
Where Billy was OG
Cop beats beat pig feet when Billy was OG
But Billy run quick flee
When Joey caught mean heat down D Street where Billy was OG

Now Billy got mad beef
Got kids feed
Their mother’s got DTs
But Billy run quick flee from D street where cops don’t beat pig feet since Joey got dead beat caught mean heat

Now Billy caught clean chrome to dome piece
Got kids feed
Their mother’s got DTs
And Billy caught clean chrome to dome piece from mad beef down D street where Billy was OG but Billy run quick flee from mean heat that Joey caught dead beat

You see
There’s things in life we lose that can not be found

There’s things in life we lose that can not be found

Not be found

Not be found

I had a dream last night about Versace shirts

Ripped them off from China and traded them for ***** works

Contracted every illness out in Fitchburg

I'm telling you that I did it, officer.

I was driving up I95 -- drinking holy spirits with some recently deceased Jesus freak when I looked away.

I heard glass smash.
I felt every bone in my body crack.
I saw all of the light leave my eyes in the back of an ambulance.
I saw a white light -- it said, "Hang tight, everything will be alright." Then asked me something silly like, "Do you know where you are?"

I woke up in my bed in my parents' basement.
I grabbed a page and a pen and I went.
To writing.

I wrote I swear I heard glass smash.
Swear that I felt every bone in my body crack.
Swear I saw all the light leave my eyes in the back of that ambulance.
Swore I saw a white light that said, "Hang tight, everything will be alright." Then asked me something silly like, "Do you know who you are?"

I lay back in bed, and the room starts to spin and I'm back driving I95 again.

I know what's going to happen soon.
I know what's going to happen.
I know what's going.
I know what.
I know I.

How can I live brain damaged and disfigured like the lights seeping in through the walls don't trigger frightening synesthetic psychoses that exile my mind from the pinnacle of this oasis to the furthest borders of the existential void?

Theres black filth congregating in the crevice of every ninety degree angle in this building

The woodgrain in the floor invites me to melt into its stream down the hallway through the cracks into the grimy kitchen below

There are ghosts cooking there

Ghosts pacing the hallway where their corporeal form bade them farewell

Ghosts outside lifting weights and running calisthenic circuits

As though there were any merit in the shape of their supernatural form

As though the taste of chicken tenders and french fries still satiated their desire for self destruction

As though the world was still waiting for them, hand outstretched to

Wakeupeatgotoworkeatbacktoworkeat

Pay your bills

Sleep

This is no life for us ghosts -- we soon-will-have-beens -- we memories-waiting-to-fade -- we destined-to-be-soon-to-be-forgottens -- we clinging-to-what-is-nows

All who will not have ears one day had better listen.

Severed sisters addictively
Seeking out serendipity
Atrophied on antipodes
Eating feasts from antiquity

There is a sickness one feels alongside the revelation of the embarrassing humility associated with the perpetual stillness to come. There is a peacefulness one feels when splayed out on a basement floor emaciated, engorged, **** stained, ***** soaked. Pouring blood into a dull ***** plastic ventricle. Immaculate precipice. Infinity.

Deeper reaches
Other meaning
Choked demons
Random bleeding
Drawing traces
Displaced braces
In my mind

Fluids dripping through cracks in my scar tissue congeal microscopic bridges connecting permanent mistakes waiting to decay in my mind

Grim strafing
Wheat chafing
Smoke flaying
Dreamscaping
Loose laces
Short chases
Run races
Baseless
In my mind

Faint pulses jolt me awake and the street light shines in my eyes and the thought of my life streaming endlessly by leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside and dying leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside and living leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside and breathing leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside and knowing leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside there is nothing leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside leaves me panicked inside I can do

You were like wandering a dark alleyway with only a trashcan fire to guide me. And when the light revealed your face, there was already such little left inside me that when I broke my flesh and poured my blood all the world could see me pass over in rememberance of you.

The mind of the lesser man is as rain. It forms in the sky and falls upon him in patterns incomprehensible. The lesser man regards this rain in awe, and lets be known every drop which forms a puddle, but always returns to the sky where it began. Occasionally this man will  learn of rain which enters a reservoir, or a pond and be dumbstruck and say, “All must see this.” And so he will let be known the pond as his highest knowledge.

The mind of the greater man is as rain. It forms in the sky and falls upon him in patterns incomprehensible. The greater man regards each drop in awe, but lets not be known which drop forms a puddle, as he knows this will return to the sky where it began. Occasionally, this man will see a drop which lands in a river, and only this will he regard, as he knows this river leads to the ocean - the source of all rain. This man will not be struck dumb, and will let be known the ocean, as this is the highest knowledge.

The mind of the greatest man is as the ocean. It accepts the rain, and feeds the sky. It is disturbed not by the lesser minds as it knows they are but part and parcel of his whole.

Be as the ocean.
Bemoan not the rain.
Revel in the puddle.
Seek the river.

Deciduous frost crawls up between my toes
My feet sink in the deep mire
I pull my left foot out and the right sinks
Finding something solid
The cold consumes my left leg
Chilled and raw in the open air

Please stop.

There are two sides to every painting

Only one of them

Is blank.

I watched you building borders
Riding north on golden tigers

Feeding famished families
All the brass that you could muster

Running rackets round rodeo
Seeping lifeblood from your victims

Until they scrape their tired bones
To feed you marrow

And yet you've come to loathe
The wild children

Who

Through misanthropic misdemeanors
Rage against the dying

Of the systems you have set forth
To feed into their ire

I found something
I can not unsee it
I can not unhear it
Although I never really could see it could never really hear it
I thought it up once
I could not tell you if I wanted to—
It will not go away—

I see it behind every scene
Its presence mocks me
Makes absence of the wonders of the world
How could something be beautiful juxtaposed with such obscene, grotesque clarity?

I can hear it always between every word spoken
It frames them as they roll off the tongue
Encases the vibrations as they make their way through the empty space and into my skull
Forcing connections between defunct neurological pathways trying to understand something—
Anything—

It’s the place where my thoughts come from
The feeling that penetrates deep within me

It is not dark
It is not silent
It is not numb
It is not empty

It is inevitable

It reaches from behind me and pulls at my ribcage
It weighs on my shoulders and gnaws at the base of my skull

Some days, it is a rabbit
It whispers in my ear
You are big
Your bones are strong
Run
Make for green meadows
We are waiting for you there

Others it is a dragon
It whispers in my ear
You are small
Your flesh is weak
Run
Make for dark chasms
My fire will find you

Its breath burns my nostrils
Fills my lungs
Consumes my thought
I am rendered helpless by its sting

How could something be painful juxtaposed with something so calm

So blinding
So deafening

How could something be so dark
So silent
So numb
So empty

How could something be so

Permanent

Jesus Christ!
I saw you -
Standing naked on that stage
That we had made -
When we stole your clothes
And anglicized your name
Oh, what a shame!
To be born again -
Into the things you hate
Oh, what a shame, to be born again!

As everything you hate

One day I'll wake up
To a thunderous applause
Then a cackle of laughter
And clacking of claws
And as truths I've not spoken
Are ripped from my jaw
I will see that my whole life
Was nothing at all

But I'm trying to be
Whatever it is you said
While I'm lost in a minefield
Of existential dread

Spinning mad futile psychoses delusional disorder persecutory follow me follow me follow me

Crucify crucify crucify

The lions are at the gates

The LIONS are at the GATES

Please — please, PANIC

They asked for volunteers and you swore

You SWORE

And here you are exposing the secret belying the deepest chasms of affinity for nothing be nothing be nothing be nothing

Thirty pieces of silver is too much

The LIONS are AT the GATES

You SWORE

They told you it would ****

They told you what it felt like to be dissected on a molecular level — to plummet headlong through a blackhole out from the context of what has been and into the being of all that will ever

YOU SWORE

And here we are — here I am alone

And the LIONS are AT THE GATES

And we’ve lost another solider to cafeteria food and freshly waxed vinyl flooring and the smell of unscented soap and non-alcoholic hand sanitizers and the taste of Bob Barker toothpaste that fills your mouth as you scrape your maw with ironlike hard plastic bristles and the sound of a door propping open as you shower to make sure you’re not hanging from the curtain and the taste you get on the back of your tongue when you feel the air that is so stale from locked windows and doors it makes you feel nauseous thinking about it and the girl in the corner of the room who colors and you know that she swore too you know that she swore too you know that she swore too because you were there

And I am left

HERE
ALONE
EVENTHOUGHYOUSWORE
EVENTHOUGHTHEYTOLDYOUITWOULDS­UCK
EVENTHOUGH
THE LIONS
ARE AT
THE GATE

I should have known.
They told me it would **** when they asked for volunteers.

Cloak yourself in the skins of your idols
Dance in the forest under waxing moonlight
Draw your blood over the sacred fire
Weep ecstatic

A piece of myself left behind
To fester on that summer day
Ripped open for the sun to finally see
The rays caressing my bones for the first time
My marrow exiting its cave of flesh
I am exquisite
The rush of what blood I have left to my head
As I watch its like pour out onto a blank page
I paint a picture with it
Try to make it beautiful
In the end it is only my blood
Blood I did not choose to spill
But chose to transfigure

Det skjer
Altfor mange ganger
Når letter etter lyssen
Vi finner bare mørke
Går det langsomt
Ut fra den plassen
Vi fant det første
Verken slutter
Eller begynner

We sat diagonally across from each other at a dinner table full of mutual friends. I heard you cackle, hysterical, at your own self-deprecating joke. I remember how I was moved by the way the smile left your face with the revelation of its relevance.

I think it’s funny, in retrospect, how I thought you dyed your hair.

Before I learned that you were born with a star locked deep within you.

Before I learned of how that star burst forth in supernova and wove the threads that are now sewing glowing sutures on my soul.

Maybe I'm a prisoner
In a system

But you're a slave
Inside your mind

Spending all your precious time
Talking to mirrors

------------------------------------

Maybe I'm just a player
In some band

But you're a god ******
******* mime

Spending all your precious time
Escaping glass boxes