Lost.
It’s pleasing.
Take it.
E.
E.
Ez.
Breeze is nice up here.
The dust must conjure.
The emotions ride.
Arrive from biscuit town.
Say hello to the scarecrow.
His ma works for a blues musician.
She is the blues musician.
His brother knows everything about Trump.
Even when he *****.
His sister loves Bruce Lee.
Or at least the aesthetic of him.
Bigfoot shot himself back in time.
To meet Jack Kerouac.
When he got there he learned that Jack was captured by the Yakuza.
He did nothing and went home.
Mr. Scarecrow was bigfoot.
A little girl told him that he was going to die alone.
That he wouldn’t mind the pain.
That everything he changed wouldn’t work.
It would all just be the same.
Don’t fall in love the little girl said to him.
What the hell does she know.
She’s 10 years young.
But i’m stuck here with Arthur Russell material.
Echoing a voice to the world.
Hoping to mean something.
Listen for a call back.
Peace within.
Call back.
Please call back.
I’ll stand of frozen bridges while they melt.
Then dive head first into the water.
Sink.
Sink.

Sink to the lowest point of my existence.

Blood from the private places.
No time to talk.
Only lay on the floor in tears.
No strength to get water.
Dive off into a city of lights.
Fade away from the strums of life that moved forward.
Away from the normal things.
We wash down.
Erode.
Or evolve into something more.
And less.
The kids have their friendships and relationships.
Pre-adulthood ***.
While I turn the keys of the world.
Trying to create my own.
No desire for wants.
No real one anyways.
I forgot what another person felt like.
I only sit here to say things because I feel like I have to.
Or maybe because I need to.
Why do we do anything.
Because we can.
I try hard to stop the burning when I close my eyes.
The seas of my priorities make lakes and ponds.
Streams and rivers.
Made the mountains.
The deserts.
The grass and trees.
The worlds beyond my mind.
The touch of skin.
Of a hand, arm or neck.
I don’t think I’ll be here too long.
Not long enough I guess.
For the silence in my ear has faded
Being alone is nothing new
But it’s good to have company.
Good for the soul.
I make my own gravity to pull myself down.
And my own rockets to send me away.
There are no second thoughts.
I wonder if i’ll be missed.
Because the silence in my ear sure won't.

Throw jewelry away.
Live in the woods.
Maybe a cabin.
Smoke a cigar every seven days.
Befriend the animals.
Drink moonshine three days a month.
Play the harmonica.
Meet a human in town.
Sing with squirrels.
Make sweaters.
Build a basement.
Hug the trees.
Kiss someone.
Talk to yourself.
Cry on a canoe in the middle of the lake at night.
Listen to Bob Dylan.
Read Poetry By Jim Morrison.
Make arts and craft projects.
Sketch a chair.
Then sit in it.
Play the guitar.
Make a bonfire.
But don’t burn down the trees.
Taste different spices.
Taste other peoples spices.
Sleep on the ground.
Get *****.
Stand out in the rain.
**** your own fears.
Nit blankets.
Save minerals
Smile.
Frown.
Do acid.
Warm up the air.
Shout.
Punch the ground.
Make cereal.
Eat pine cones.
Watch the trees sway.

Sing softly in bed.
Stay in bed.
For you might not see her again.

Under the elements.
Scarcely relevant to everything in the bag.
It’s a drag he died.
Not really.
It’s not too bad.
Don’t be sad.
Grab the nonsense.
Make it into a movie.
Cry.
And Cry.
Until you're under the moon.
It makes your room.
Builds you a house.
The house you live in for ten years.
And share moments of isolation.
Let your fears run with you.
Then ****** them.
Clean and swift.
Kills that fit the description of the subscription pill bottle.
Pain.
Hands that throttle the life away.
Don’t mean to go this way.
You only live once.
You lived for eternity.
And never existed.
That very much hurts.
Numb.
Brain dead.
Waste away.
Stay in bed.
Dance in the woods.
Sing in your head.
It’s never too late.
There’s joys to be fed.
Lock your truths and lies away.
Pretend that they’re worth something.
Pretend that you’re worth something.
Pull the covers over your face.
Your Tears don’t belong here.
Wintertime love.
So warm and cozy.
Mosey on down to the general store.
Question those that don’t know the half of it.
Half of what your saying.
Or where you’re going.
Who are you talking to.
There’s nobody there.
Hallucinations.
Discover Nations.
Dictations.
And riddles.
Flashbacks of Nam.
Korea.
Germany.
France.
Japan.
Gettysburg.
Realisations that you don’t fit the Piece.
You keep the peace.
But have wonders.
Wander throughout doubt.
Create something meaningful.
And give it to a friend.
Like Morrison said.
This Is The End.

Sorry For the blood.
It’s wine.
No tears.
Waffles and higher frequencies.
Higher meanings.
Spoiled drinks.
Sink into the rug.
Her presence.
Like a drug.
Walk around.
Insides hurt.
Nervous hands gripping hair.
Schnapps in the air around.
Watch.
Stare into a dark wall.
A dark hall.
Sit.
Quiet.
Silent.
No noise.
Don’t let them hear you.
Why.
You’ll drown.
In.
Stay inside.
It’s dark out there.
Smoke.
Lights.
Take what you can carry.
& Find who you wanna marry.
Too much has been chosen.
Dylan records on queue.
Few becomes less.
A mess becomes more.
A Mold of life.
A cold reporter.
War reporter.
On water works.
Water towers.
Wooden flowers.
Cancel the shindig.
I’m gone.
Tell her i’m wrong.
She was right.
I might just starve.
Out here.
In the wastes.
To the past pace.
Of when time was a place.
With nowhere to go.
No one to be.
No one but myself to impress.
Always.
I’m sleepless.

We forgot to laugh.
The lonesome cars.
The lonesome people.
The poor souls.
The gutter trash.
The lonesome past.
Lonesome we.
Lonesome us.
Lonesome you.
Lonesome me.
Too lonesome.
So we ask.
Where are my manners.
Meet with hands in the mud.
Soil for the soul.
Eyes in a fade.
SIdewalk.
Old chevy with a silver bumper.
A *** in the alley.
Little soul.
All soul.
No soul.
All before it’s forgotten.
Allways of the way we were brought in.
Change.
Let the snow melt.
Drink it.
Eat the grass.
Still lonesome.
Lonesome but wholesome hospitality.
You’re dead if in a hospital.
The people gather around.
Just to watch..
Watch it all burn down.
They killed Jim by the creek.
They don’t care.
Sad Boys.
Sad girls.
Sad beds
Sad world.
Needles.
Scars.
Bits.
& parts.
Separate.
One with all.
All in one.
Patterns.
Killed.
No grave.
Only Michael T. Berland

Eyes are pretty.
Green.
Acoustics.
Why.
Under.
Why am i ******* writing this.
Blankets.
****.
It’s not right.
Wait.
Until I write this.
No need.
Sky lights.
Double back.
For the first time.
In Forever.
Please.
Too much.
Not too much.
Not enough.
Never enough.
No more dreams.
No more drugs.
No more.
Ignore.
Ignorance.
Persistent.
Friend I'm sorry.
Highway.
Drive way.
Lightly.
Highlights.
Highway road lights.
& fog.
Headrest.
Sifting.
Conquest.
Conscious.
No more affection.
No longer intimate.
No longer important.
The writing is no more important than the ground I stand on.
Bleach & paint thinner.
Sadness gets grimmer.
I’m uninvited to my own funeral.
Let the takers flood in.
Let the knowers get drunk.
Let the mental serial killers float about.
& let the plan work with doubt.
Let the Charlie find their way home.
Let the poets go to Rome & drink tea, and whiskey.
Let the skellies run up mountains.
let your nerves wash away in a lake.
& let her kindness melt within what you need to take.
Let go.
Let go.
Let go.