A slow suicide called life and state sanctioned.
It is the condition of the carceral society.
Paranoia has become a proper state of mind.
And there's a despot around the corner.

Omnipresent surveillance.  Society of control.
The cattle are guided by passageways like electrons in a closed circuit to the killing floor.

Exchange market value of currency against convenience.
The stock that won't drop.
However, liberty and security are not interchangeable in a war machine that never stops.

hobos blow their noses while boxcars roll on slowly
an image of a hard time past.  gathered crops for
harvest.
And in earnest I have collected roses
smiled like dead heads left baking in the sun.
And in the dead of night in bed clutching my gun.
i find sleep fitfully in small doses.

Ask the ghost of Christmas past
Where Rosebud is today.
Burning in the fire
Is what that ghost would say.

Ever notice things that no one else can see?
Don't tell em or they'll say your crazy.
And if you talk about me when I'm not around
The ghosts will come and tell me.

I like the clear country nights .
Stars are countless points of light.
I once saw two red halos
Like wheels of fire in the sky.

Under the full moon one can see the forest despite the trees.
There is a luminescence to the dead leaves,
And we sing...

Unholy hymns in strange tongues and discordant motifs.

Under the house
In the crawlspace
The moist Earth littered with the bones of small mammals,
And infested with a multitude of invertebrates,
I low crawled through soiled Earth to replace the water line as an unwillful apprentice under an impatient master.

I needed a fix so I fixed it now I'm all fixed up.
You see it?
It's over there
Staring

Glaring eyes night owls hooting delight surprise
This is not rational.

It was never meant to be.

We got hundreds of wide smiles that unwrapped would stretch for miles all for sale at the low low price of 19.95.
Deep within, where they are kept, inside the well of Jesus Wept
(along with all the money spent) forged in darkness.
secret agenda magic hands weave the spell on demand.

******* air little piglet suckling sweet mother's milk in the full haze of infancy.
Broken (crushed) skull litanies of wailing prayer unto fickle gods.
Chase out the storm through the open door in preparation for winter....
In January there is no sky.  Only a blanket of purple, gray, and silver.

Unable to sustain the intensity of mind I once had
I've grown weary.
And so a plateau becomes a cliff
And through the spirit of gravity all things must fall
Down
   Down
     Down
to the rocks and crashing waves below.