Such a noble little poet,
who thinks the future is in your hands
when it's in your head; poetry is dead.
But age does bring wisdom (after the fall),
so what good is it screaming at the wall
with still some good numbers to call?
What good is it screaming at the wall
when my door is never locked?
Come to me instead,
and don't say I never knocked.

This room was dark and loud, everything glowing a soft yet piercing
shade of pink. The ceiling was abuzz with sinful distortion
of mind and body, the floor writhing and squirming in lustful torment,
and all in between was this dark ****** exchange of dreamy madness!
December screws those tightly into that packed basement, all but a few
puffs of cigarette smokers who huddle at the steps peaking over
and yakking, and though their bodies freeze, their eyes shift about
their edges, lingering fearful and sorrowful over the doorway as
it appears in some hellish biblical portrait depicting the absolute form
of lust and desire and jealous agony, sin and *** at its highest organic peak. Like hesitant lemmings, like grounded birds, like chickens
they dare never enter because they may never enter. Unwelcome
are the fearful and the human from that dark sinister ****** presence who came here for love and then found none,
but angelic girls in heavens twisted favor may come and go as they
please!  How angelic they were too- cold and alone, drunken and
undressed they open themselves up to heat of the floor and lose their
minds and manners to the pervasive rhythm pulsating like some heart
between the swirling psychedelic patterns that adorn the walls,
whatever a heart may be they shine, and the heart sways heavily
through the flames and the devilish young men, handsome!
Charming! Their smiles bring these girls to their knees again and
again they play them like harps and the girls are played such
a silky and shrouded lullaby in which they find brief silence
hidden between waves of fashioned euphoria,
silence comparable to the silence one finds sitting in the midst
of an elephant stampede while the whole earth trembles to the horizon,
and it is a silence found only when one is sure beyond all doubt that they are completely
alone.

One million and one tiny houses span this city
where one million unsatisfied lovers sleep.
Does Romeos childish grin see more
than these unlit brick roads reveal?
In darkness lovers die alone.
Oh Romeo,
          what did you find in her eyes tonight?

Shooting stars fell in a line and danced across my eyes in quick succession
though the sun outshone them all
and who ever worshiped the stars anyway?

Then like fireflies flew north before broke,
and from the south I saw the great Diamond City
reach out above a jungle of metal concrete plastic plastic with lights
Oh! lights

Pinprick window TV stream style smiles selling streets projecting the moon for
advertising space; the population rises

Factory stormclouds only irritate umbrella stand footsteps who pretend
to hate the rain
and outshines dim sunlight baptizing all in electric glory

Candleflame prisons of light that honk through haze through
rainy Monday 6:30AM’s
choke on each others breath until we have nothing left but CO2;
dandelions inherit the earth.

we want nothing to do
with nothing to do
grow up with me
and ill grow up with you.

my dear sweet childhood love
who loves me
left me
here.

by no fault of ours
it just
happened
one day

the fulcrum slipped
the world swayed
and slipped
away
from him

in opaque rage
and eyes wide open
and paranoid venom
and piercing humiliation
and hallucination

his ghost lingers
in thick cannabis fog
now
and i'm a buddhist, by god by god
god who
left me
here

.          Design is flawless of the diamond city,
an organic stone equation spattered messy
green according to plan
and yes then red and then white and dead,
but would a single cloud churn the heavenly blue abyss
had it sparked against the steel will of mankind?
          So maybe the stars do play us for puppets
on threads of gentle gravity,
          And maybe the mountains move us
more than we ever wished to move them anyways,
          And maybe Gods thorny love spat you out
at exactly where you're just about to be.
          But what were the chances that still recovering our vision from the blinding eyes on the day of judgement, we couldn't yet see
that we had already made it to paradise.
          What better world have I to explore than this one
where every traffic light signals the endless passing
of the rhythmic energy of living,
and every passing soul reveals yet another bridge to cross or street to follow
behind their wild eyes where America was never short of lands uncharted; In the Diamond City I spoke to the warrior ****** masks
and recognized the voices of the restless spirits of the west.
          Their feet pitter patter between
colossal walls of natural and carnivorous symmetry and ponder the pillars of ancient Greece so everything feels so modern, as if its own existence were somehow premature, and it was.
          Young, in their claw
towards a concrete cocoon they sleep past these cement giants
who channel rivers of breath through hands and hairs
and endless leaves and lungs that rustle around above them awake,
all of them oblivious
of the showering accomplishment of now.

A number of years ago when I was learning to drive
My dad would make me drive down to Ionia Michigan
because it could **** a full hour of driving practice
And because it was some other place to go.

Just recently I had to go back there and pay off a speeding ticket.
There are worse things than paying off a speeding ticket.

This town has gotten tired.
I walk by the city hall and eye the crumbling brick beside the road
and I think they must not be trying very hard to attract any visitors here.
But there I was-
suddenly insulted.

The city lights have gone out decades ago but they never died. They left their posts- abandoned. Now all that remains are the the dim and flickering street lamps that stand on sidewalks and bide their time watching or waiting for the final walls to crumble.

The city has a sleepy aura that one would feel seeing somebody's 70's childhood toy, like a jack in the box or a colorful plastic record player left outside. A lost innocence, and the smell of marijuana seeping from every upstairs window downtown or of a girl once beautiful who now waits alone and used to take off her clothes and reveal her tongue and love the universe as it appeared to love her.

I walk inside another second hand store and see nobody attending the counter. Stiff- funereal clothes and grey dresses. There is one rack of men's clothing, I accidentally take a whiff of the stale dusty air and it suddenly holds me from touching them. I quietly stare at my sobering realization that I am in the cities ashtray. They sell here what they can't burn but probably should, and every ten shirts in a row indicates one more rock in a row at one of the many churches of necessity and I decide to get out.
This place gives me the creeps.