There is such a
thing as paradise.

Its not on any
of our maps.

They gave us space and
kept paradise a secret.

Its only spoken of
in the mystery schools.

Its the promise of paradise
that keeps
powerful men in line.

They populate paradise
with the dead and
the missing .

The promise of paradise
is only for those on the
side of the serpent.

Or those willing to raise their
young inverted.

I aimed the old car
south and
ran as many red
lights as my luck
would allow.

Kept my sunglasses
on as I
listened to Frusciante
singing
nothing but the
truth all through
the magic of
my radio.

Left the madness of
the city and
entered the
land where
atomic bombs
and peoples sanity
have both
been tested.

Desert roads
littered
with desert lies,
like oasis and
promises made
in Vegas.

I took a toot
off the side of
my hand like
I seen them do in
the movies.

Wasted the better
part of my stash
on this foolish
trick.

This ride I'm
taking is real.

On my way
I'll be looking for a
wild young girl
to roll my joints
and laugh at my
jokes.
Give my eyes
a place to rest in.

I'm looking for
a lovely from the
low side of town.
Whose spirit has
yet to be broken
and whose mind
isn't already
filled with their
lies.

Watched as the
California landscape
turned from
beaches and tropical
palms to
cactus taller than
most men
and dry forgotten
land that
most come to
die in.

From congested
freeways that hold
the drivers hostage.
To wide open
desert highways
where its safe to
drink straight from
the bottle without
that pestering public
servant there to
ruin your ride.

If I make it out of
this dam
desert alive
with my wallet
and my sanity still
intact.
I'll look back
at it all
as just another
memory.
And try
not to give
in to
ever going
back.

He
has to
drink
his
meals.
So, I
drink
mine
to.

I have
to
drown
his cells
in
nutrients.

I'm
trying
to
keep
someone
alive.

Can you
write
without the
drugs?

Create
without the
sadness?

Make
something
without
losing
it all first?

I probably
can but
we'll
never know.

The cruelest
of all things
is the short
amount of time
the Gods
have allowed us
to spend
with our pets.

Everyone needs a fan.
Some earn their living from fans.
Some despise them, yet still do the things that attracts them.

My city attracts fans.
They come from all over the Plain.
Their favorite writer lived and died here.

His wife still occupies the only home the writer ever owned.
He's buried in our local cemetery.
The headstone isn't fancy it bears his full name, his years on earth and some boxing gloves. Though all the stories I've ever heard said he always fought in the streets.
And two words.
"Don't Try".

Fans often leave beer cans, wine bottles, cigars and cigarettes, notes and printed copies of his work.
Which to me is all fine except when they decide to visit after hours and leave their messes behind.
If you come here seeking to catch a glimpse of his home and maybe even his wife. You will only see large old Sycamore trees and giant palm fronds that hide his home like a Gisha's silk fan across her face.

If you don't already know where it is good luck asking any of the locals.
San Pedros always been a rather ruff port town the place where sailors and ****** came to spend their money and test their skills.

They'll lead you all over, up and down streets similar to his with its Royal Palms lining each side of the block.
All poking their fronds towards the heavens a hundred feet above the L.A Harbor.

When you come here you will be welcomed with white California smiles but when you start asking questions about his ivy hidden classic Los Angeles Spanish style villa with its fruit trees and grape vines.
We'll first tell you to please be respectful which will only help convince you we are telling you the truth.
Before we write down directions sending you to the wrong place.

That's how Hank would've wanted it.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days.

I'm sitting in my room surrounded by mementos I keep meaning to throw away.

Everything I own is covered in dust, this way I can tell when its been touched.

My Cat lays dead in a card board box wrapped in her favorite blanket
while I sit here trying to get as high as I can before burying her in my front yard at midnight.

I have 5 hours until I have to drive over 100 miles before the sun rises all for $26.00 an hour.

Another friend died, a close friend, at one time he was my best friend.

I skipped the last 2 funerals and fought at the last one I went to.

Did I mention my Cat.
She saved my life once.
She was 18 years old and died in my arms.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days and I refuse to take any kind of pills.

I'm still alive but dead on the side you can't see.

I'll count the signs along the highway and pray for someone to hear me.

She invited me to dinner , I haven't gone anywhere but work and the liquor store in years.

I told her I missed her but asked her not to stay.

There's been a lot of unnecessary death in San Pedro these last few years.
People I once considered brothers, some at one time I would have done anything for.
We are all getting older, a lot of things have changed.
Some of the things we used to abuse now have the power to **** us.
Be mindful of what it is you are doing, things aren't the same anymore.
  Remember Never Do It Alone  its not the same anymore.
Please be careful, you know who you are.
Call me if you have to but just don't do it alone.
The reasons we've all had for not speaking for years shouldn't matter anymore.
We are living in a time like no other, not everyone will make it to see the outcome of future events.
I should've answered his message instead of being mad about something 10 years ago.
Now it's too late and there's nothing worse than too late.

Rest Easy My Friends
F.Laponovich
B.Ardias
R.Monje
D.Monje Sr.
R.M Monje
B.Wheat
C.Ivisovich
M.Faust
J.Beazera

I'm in a
world
full of
Giants.

Everyone
looks
down
upon
me.

Unionized Teachers and
Radicalized Administrators
believe somehow they know whats best.

Agenda driven issues disguised as ideas.
Tolerance and equality have both lost their way.

Bearded women dressed in *******
read stories about Princess Boys to confused children.

Kindergarten boys drawing Crayola vaginas
while the girls form phalluses from play do.

Inverted celebrities influence
the young.
While the verbal history of their
elders is ignored.

All of this is by design.
The Law of Reversal
is their law
not mine.

Their goal is to
usher in The End of Days
like they have so many times before.

The twenty somethings
are all for science and progression.
Yet have no idea
what freedom ever was.

The Harbor freeway was without the congestion and the gridlock that made this highway famous.
Empty freeways demand speed and in Los Angeles everyone's in a hurry with somewhere to go.

It was a rare sight in a city full of men and their machines
A rare sight that was quietly becoming normal.

The lack of cars made the otherwise thick layer of ***** brown smog become a minor smear on an otherwise beautiful blue Southern California day.
With the changing of the guard the nameless planes with their exaggerated white lines across our skies magically returned.

There's more of us noticing things today than any other time before.

To the far West Venice is dying and the beach has become a refugee camp full of tents and blue tarps all wasting in the wind.
Handball courts now occupied by old bikes, tents and an array of useless garbage someone calls their property.
And the California girls' no longer come here to tan.

The girls on Figueroa stand half naked on 64th street waving like debutants at the lonely men as they window shop for *** from the safety of their vehicles.
The girls here never tell you their real name and all the men are called John.

The Gang members in the Hoods on the West side and in the Varrios and the Projects on the East all use Graffiti as a way to convey their threats to one another.
The Taggers bright, bold pieces bring colors to the otherwise grey concrete freeways.

Downtown is nowhere you want to be without a million dollars or a side arm and a reason.
They gave Skid Row up to the people and the graffiti then watched in horror as it grew into what it has become today.

South Central continues to bleed red, brown, blue and black.
Curbside motive candles dot the city corners like mile markers along the highway.
There's been far too much death to ever mention peace here.

Hollywood is slowly dying and Melrose is at 50% capacity with robberies happening almost everyday on Rodeo.

The Cranes along the Harbor stand like giant monuments to a God no one prays to anymore.
And there's a lot less Cargo trucks on the road today then any other time before.

Yet we are told to "Stay home ,we'll pay you to do so".
While outside our city is dying and there is no where to spend the money we're given anyway.

It's been 7 years today since my last release from Prison.
The longest I've been home since I was 15.

I made a lot of bad choices along the way
most of which only hurt myself and my family.

Prison is no place to grow up in,
I learned how to shave in prison,
got my first tattoo, lost my first love
and learned what things like
loyalty and sacrifice really meant.

I wasted a lot of good years in there
most of them due to someone else's weakness,
fears and inability to accept the consequences
of their own actions.

It hasn't been easy and I've missed out on a lot.
But I can go to sleep and look at myself in the mirror
knowing that I never gave anyone up.
I remain loyal
and I'm still here.
Even though there are
those who wish I wasn't.

Let our conflict
never cease.

May we avenge
our dead
and raise our
young on war.

We are enemies
and fighting is
the only way
to die.

Let us
remain
enemies.

Enemies like
the Pigmy's
and the Cranes.

With far too
many dead
to ever
make peace.

It kept me
numb
and numb was the
only feeling I
was searching
for.

I used enough
in those days
to avoid
feeling any
type of emotion
for too long.

And when I
cried,
it was mostly
over a memory
of a time when
I should
have cried
but
was too numb
to care.

I had almost mastered the art of making my way through life without making too much noise.

I had spent the last 6 years mostly alone.
Concentrated all my efforts on trying to stay out of prison.
Worked on the writing and the poetry.
And doing all I could to just be forgotten.

I had kicked up enough dust in my early years to spend the majority of my adult life behind bars.
Came home with more tattoos, another strike and a
Monkey on my back.
I was home with greying hair, a bullet in my hand that hurt like hell, an ex wife who hated me, kids who didn't know me and friends who had forgotten all about me.

I move as low to the ground as possible now days.
I went out only when I had to.
I was just trying not to be noticed.
Hoping that maybe they'll forget about all the bad I had done
and just let me grow old in silence.

I spent  my 43rd birthday in a coin-op laundromat that reminded me of a crude jail house day-room.
Concrete floors, metal picnic tables with a large tv bolted to the wall .
Nothing was made for comfort and everything had some type of a lock on it.

She walked up carrying what looked like everything she owned.
She struggled with the door and the laundry in her arms.
I quickly stood up from my seat on the cold steel bench and offered to relieve her of some of her burden, to which she shyly obliged.
She was far to pretty to be alone and I was half waiting on a boyfriend to appear.

Nobody ever taught her how to be polite.
She didn't know what being gracious even meant until she met me.

She'd say " Don't blame me I wasn't raised right", it was our lil joke but a joke that was far  to real.

It was her beauty that saved her.
Her body was what most women would never have.
Men felt a burning desire at the sight of her.
Which she used to her advantage when needed.
It's what helped her get by during the roughest of times.

She wasn't a ***** but they didn't know that.
By the time they had realized she wasn't giving what they wanted she would have already packed her things and left for good.

Men would promise her almost everything when all she really wanted was something to call her own.

Her front tooth was chipped from a fight with an ex boyfriend.
The minor flaw only added to her rare type of natural beauty.
Light freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She had scared up boney knuckles and always wore thick silver rings on 4 of her fingers.
Naturally long eyelashes and acne scared cheeks she'd hide with cover up.

What she knew of the world was almost comical, she hadn't been anywhere and wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.
What she lacked in social skills couldn't compare to what she knew how to do in bed.

I gave her a safe place to rest without having to worry.
She gave me reason to shower in the morning and comb my hair before bed.

We played chess which was a surprise to me when she asked me if I played.

I introduced her to  Bukowski, Dante and Virgil.
She brought a strange type of warmth to my otherwise cold lonely apartment .
Our time was a break from the isolation and a reminder of how it was to be with another.
She brought back memories I had long ago forced
myself to forget.

Her only rule was that I never asked about her past.
What she wanted me to know she would share on her own.
My only request was that she never asked me to stop using
and when she felt it was time to move on ,she wouldn't take the time to say goodbye.

American Mothers
whose husbands
pray to Muloc
loyal only to
their lodge.
Raise their sons
as daughters
and their daughters
as breeders.

Wealthy American
mothers
teach their infants
Mandrian Chinese.
Quietly preparing them
for the future.

The strait of California
returned as the Gods ripped
the golden state free
from America.

The Shamans cried for
New Albion as the great
city fell into the sea.

Above the cries, the falling rain
and the crashing sounds of
what can only be called The End
came the voice of certainty.
"There's no stopping this."

The waters above and
the waters below all
moved with the
deep lakes, the crashing falls
and the thawing glaciers.

Thunder clouds were just
to block our view.
The snaking rivers and
the gentle streams
flowed with the winter run off.
Flooded city streets,
washed out state highways.

California will once again
be an island soon.

The Law of reversal rules
people's lives if they say
its "This" it's almost always "That."
2012 or 21.
My Fathers
biggest fear was always
them coming for our guns.
My Remington and my.45,
those ******* in their holes
all waiting on us to die.

The canals and the sand bars
somebody big had to make.
The L.A river and those who live in it.
Sinkholes and hail storms.
All fall into endless wells
that flow on forever
keeping everything clean.

If you look for the signs you
can't help but see them.
Like rain in Los Angeles on
a Memorial day weekend.

So it was and the Gods
kept their promise
and everything was gone.

Standing on top
of an ancient Titan with
every anwser to
every question ever asked.

In this moment amongst
the debris the bodies
and the ever moving rushing waters
the man who knew everything
suddenly felt Small.

I'm too paranoid for *******,
not social enough for alcohol.

Speed's not for me,
you gotta give up your dreams.
And I look forward to sleep.

I disliked **** once they
made it legal.
I can't mess with the pills
unless they're the happy ones
and a girl is involved.

I thought about my first
love, my first addiction.
There's no way I can say,
'I'll never do ****** again.'

I'm not too sure about much
but I can say this for sure.
"Maybe one day my dear
but I can't go back to you today."

Crude signs painted
with the blood of the
living denounced
their latest decree.

Standing at the podium
spreading more lies.
All the world be your
theater and
nothing here is real.

Daytime cocktails under the
shadows of the palms.
Blood thinning and
running cold.
Cold like the serpent in the
summer sun.

You left your dreams in a
waste basket a few miles
outside of Vegas.
And all there is to do
is turn the music up
and lie to her some more.

Black draped youth
waving flags of
revolutionary red.

Pock scarred and some beautiful faces
all aimed up towards the waters.
The sound of millions in the know.
Voices echo off the firmament
and cause ripples to race across
the very fabric of the heavens.

All of them screaming
"We KNOW!!"

And the Gods remained silent
as their secret held no more.

The life times worth
of scar tissue made
the shape of
my head look funny.

My hands
My poor arthritic scarred up hands.
The tip of my pinkie finger
was bitten off by a
Puerto Rican kid
when I was 10.

He spit it out
but we couldn't find it.

I dated local girls and
even thought I fell in Love.

I often see my first Love
and the one after that.
Still see them both
around town today.

We don't have much to say.
I can't complain.
I had them both
when they were good.

They won't have
nothing to do
with me today.

I got my first tattoo in a
California prison
Lost my first Love
before I came home.

I used to listen to
Rock n Roll music.

Small venues with
loud Los Angeles Bands.

Outdoor festivals with
California Girls and
Drugs that won't **** you.

Today California's burning,
the Drugs don't seem to
be working and
I can't listen to music
without breaking
down in tears.

I had almost mastered the art of making my way through life without making too much noise.

I had spent the last 6 years mostly alone.
Concentrated all my efforts on trying to stay out of prison.
Worked on the writing and the poetry.
And doing all I could to just be forgotten.

I had kicked up enough dust in my early years to spend the majority of my adult life behind bars.
Came home with more tattoos, another strike and a
Monkey on my back.
I was home with greying hair, a bullet in my hand that hurt like hell, an ex wife who hated me, kids who didn't know me and friends who had forgotten all about me.

I move as low to the ground as possible now days.
I went out only when I had to.
I was just trying not to be noticed.
Hoping that maybe they'll forget about all the bad I had done
and just let me grow old in silence.

I spent  my 40th birthday in a coin-op laundromat that reminded me of a crude jail house day-room.
Concrete floors, metal picnic tables with a large tv bolted to the wall  

She walked in carrying what looked like everything she owned.
She couldn't have been more than 5 feet tall, maybe 100lbs at the most.

I quickly stood up from my seat on the cold steel bench and offered to relieve her of some of her burden, to which she shyly obliged.

Nobody ever taught her how to be polite.
She didn't know what being gracious even meant until she met me.

She'ld say " Don't blame me I wasn't raised right", it was our lil joke but a joke that was far  to real.

It was her beauty that saved her.
Her body was what most women would never have.
Men felt a burning desire at the sight of her.
Which she used to her advantage when needed.
It's what helped her get by during the roughest of times.

She wasn't a ***** but they didn't know that.
By the time they had realized she wasn't giving what they wanted she would have already packed her things and left for good.

Men would promise her almost everything when all she really wanted was something to call her own.

Her front tooth was chipped from a fight with an ex boyfriend.
The minor flaw only added to her rare type of natural beauty.
Light freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She had scared up boney knuckles and always wore thick silver rings on 4 of her fingers.
Naturally long eyelashes and acne scared cheeks she'ld hide with cover up.

What she knew of the world was almost comical, she hadn't been anywhere and wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.
What she lacked in social skills couldn't compare to what she knew how to do in bed.

I gave her a safe place to rest without having to worry.
She gave me reason to shower in the morning and comb my hair before bed.

We played chess which was a surprise to me when she asked me if I played.

I introduced her to  Bukowski, Dante and Virgil.
She brought a strange type of warmth to my otherwise cold lonely apartment .
Our time was a break from the isolation and a reminder of how it was to be with another.
She brought back memories I had long ago forced
myself to forget.

Her only rule was that I never asked about her past.
What she wanted me to know she would share on her own.
My only request was that she never asked me to stop using
and when she felt it was time to move on ,she wouldn't take the time to say goodbye.

The porch light shadowed her soft features deep within the blackness of her hooded sweatshirt.

Her shoulders were soaked and blackened,
her make up all but gone.

The hair I would later hand dry was heavy and matted against her pocked scared cheek.

She crossed my threshold and gently ran her cold, wet fingertips along my bare chest as she passed.

My old white cat greeted her with an evil hiss and daring stare as she kicked her wet shoes off in the mud room.

I took in the rain soaked Southern California wind before swinging closed the heavy door, mostly with my shoulder.
A moment before the door closed I caught sight of a falling light as it was tumbling deep within the shallows of the dome.

She had stripped down to her ******* and a pair of my old socks.
Thick black eyeliner ran from the corners of her hazel eyes.
Steam billowed as her wet hair met the warmth of her bare tattooed shoulders.

I moved to the restroom and tried not to stare as she removed each wet sock with her feet.
Her thin arms sat across her full, firm breast.
Her wet hair stuck to her face and shoulders.
Each of her hands cupped her elbows.
Both of her thumbs had silver rings..

She rubbed her face along the collar of my heavy cotton robe as she enveloped herself deep within its fluffy folds.

I used honey with her tea and Bourbon with my coffee and we both slept in until noon.

Everything's a lie, everything.
Things are coming to light.
they cant hide it anymore.

Too much information can be exchanged
with little to no effort.

They went to the Moon but threw away the data.
They're driving teslas in space and expect you to believe it.
You're called crazy for questioning their claims.

Everything they teach us is wrong
Everything we thought we knew means nothing at all.

We are born of lies and
die believing in them.

Giants Dragons Titans
Silicone Conduits Straight to the Heavens.

Evidence all lay in stone.
I tried to tell them and they thought I was crazy.

Energy is free and there is truly
nothing new under the Sun.

Airlines charge you for fuel they don't use.
Everything should be free like the energy the
Spires and the Sky Scrapers
gather ,while we dig for coal and bleed.

There should be no homeless anywhere unless that's how they want to be.

Prove to me we are spinning and
I'll speak of the plain no more.

The curses and the man made disease.
Half these things we never need.

There's no such thing as too many people.
Overcrowding what?
Nobody truly knows how much land
there is still unseen.

They made so many of our lives so hard.
Everyone for a very long time
we've all missed out on so much.

The survivors of the Deluge what few there were to be.
Made an oath to keep the knowledge their secret.
They spread out across their new world to rule us.
Those who came after the flood and who knew nothing of the teachings of old.

Good little workers ,consumers that's all we will ever be.
I want something more on my headstone besides
"He was good worker"
" He loved his job"

We've  been given so very little
of what was meant for us all to enjoy .

There's no time for the arts.
No time to create, to enjoy
to truly know what gifts he left for all of us .

The Golden Age they had it, they lived it.
Then they blew it just like we are now.

Except we've never known any other
way that's better than this.

The orderly runs a silent dust mop across the masonic checker board hallway floor.

Sounds like machines beeping, a voice on an intercom calling for someone by their title, silent muffled weeping, elevator doors ringing your floor, the rise and fall of a mechanism keeping someone alive.

The small chapel no bigger than a large pantry,
two rows of oak carved pews.
Italian made cedar crosses and small stain glassed reliefs adorn each of the walls.

Candles burn and flowers die and nothing we've done here means anything where we are all going.

The Jaguar sits still and unfinished in the carport.
None of us can bring ourselves to finish what he started.

We get but only one chance to live, one chance to experience love.
So many of us end up living a full life of pain.

He asked how I felt the night that he gave in.
I told him I felt cheated and that nothing here will ever be the same

If you insist on using
please don't ever get
high alone.

Don't be a Pig.
Never mix it with pills
or  liquor.

Always respect
what it is you are doing.

Never lose that respect.
The day you do
Death will come calling.

And there's no coming
back from death .

There's a low rumbling deep in my gut.
A still silent void where my heart had been

Scars so many scars most of which nobody will ever see .
Cork topped  bottles filled with homemade  Ointments made with tree resin , white sage ,mint leaves and bitter root.

They're closing down the Walmarts but the Pharmacies and the Security shack will both remain open.
Prescriptions are more like recommendations .
Is there truly any kind of cure.

They'll come for you when the water rises and ship you off like rescued cattle .
If you're not on the team they won't accept your help.

A drowning child won't look at your uniform or lack there of one.
There's power in numbers , strength in the ability to get along .

I started this thinking about my loneliness.
It's just enough to try and help you remember .

All my thoughts aren't always about me .

I love it all
I can't get enough.

Inside some street dealers sweaty palm.
Wrapped in a tiny balloon stashed between some nameless guys missing teeth and rotting gums.

My prize and maybe my death patiently awaits me.

You can't substitute one for another.
I need more damage and I want pain free consequences that I won't remember.

If it doesn't hurt I can't use it.
If there's a price to pay I'll pay it tomorrow.
Just give me what I came for.

I pass my days with Wine and cigarettes.
Use the  least amount of conversation as possible.

I've used all the Drugs I need something  new.
She chased her pills with Beer and only cursed after *****.

Some come here seeking wealth and fame.
'We were all born here never got nothing else from it but pain .

Pawn shops and cheap motels line the street like  the girls along   Century Blvd.
Mansions and Asian gardeners, middle eastern kids with family money and Mc Donalds straws.

Sunsets end my days.
I'm only alive once the Moon takes control .

I dug a hole for you and my memories.
My hopes are too stubborn to die.
My dreams all turned to memories and there's a hole full of those already.

Insight
is what
makes
my
thoughts
Unique.

It takes the obvious things like happiness a career,the trust they had in you and the hopes you had for yourself .

Then the girl and in time several girls all of whom tried to live with your madness.

Then you crash the car, lose the house and end up hiding from the world in cheap multi unit apartment building.
And you never answer the door or the telephone unless it's your guy calling to bring you more.

Less light and more fire.
Everything looks less depressing by candle light.
The AC broke down a year ago.
Open windows keep the air free from anxiety.

Your loved ones become bitter at the thought of you while your friends , the real ones now act as if those memories you shared and those fights you fought were all just in passing.
The friendship is no longer there.

Sunshine and social settings are two things
you do all you can to avoid.

Cops know you by your name and street people now call you 'Brother' even though you have a home.

Somewhere in those years your *** life had died and no one ever bothered inviting you to the funeral.
You know it's the Devil when it causes you to forget about having something you spent years lusting over and partaking in at every given chance with just about any given girl .  

The poppy I speak of only with respect.
The Dragon and the chasing has almost ran its course.
The lazy Monkey and my aching spine.
The Fentanyl and the Suboxone.
The crying jail cell walls and the ***** on the floor.
The scars and the death of another .
The years all wasted and the girl who no longer thinks of you .

It took all I had I have nothing left to give.

I make it a point to never plan on it.
I don't designate a time or a place for it.
I don't schedule my days around it.

I don't wish to sound smug when I say
I try to put the least bit of effort into it.
I don't allow it to bother me when the words don't come.
I don't think about those lost thoughts or that unused line that looked so good on paper. Yet somehow it still made its way into the garbage along with the dinner I couldn't eat, the dishes she broke and the beers I already drank.

To me it is all meant for paper.
The thoughts that rob me of my sleep.
The memories that keep me from ever being truly happy.
The damage I've kept hidden for so long now I often forget why it is the tears come when they do.

Bukowski had a Bluebird and wrote about it only once.
Dante looked to Virgil and mentioned him by name.

You can not force a miracle nor could you guarantee a masterpiece.
I'm alone with this, scared half to death about losing this.

I don't force it to come.
Though I do recognize the Muse when it makes its self known
and appears to me on paper.

Can't stand against the ageless winds while shedding sour tears now  amber from the ******.

The Locols were the only ones who ever parked cliffside off the highway and always ignored the signs.

You can't withhold anything the ocean wants.
What the Pacific always wants the Pacific always takes .

The rich have dug in without saying a word.
The generals and the enginers know there's no where for us to go.

Its all happend before, nothing ever new is something never known .
There's giants laying dead along our oceans floor.

It'll be the waters that bring about our end .

The bare bulbed cell lights broke through
the bars along the top floor of the old city hall.

My dreams locked in a battle with my memories
all the while it was the Poppy who kept me strong.

They cut their blocks with water and magic
the way the Mayans and the Templars once did.

Your likeness set in bronze
sit's ageless in the concrete.

Sirens yell in another part of the city
as your worries are left struggling
long after you've moved on.

There's not enough damage here,
come back and see me once she's gone.

I did'nt leave the pistol for too long and
I did'nt lie to her when I told her it was'nt enough.

Kept my word and spent my riches.
God knows I would'nt have it any other way.

Spend my final days puffing on forgetfullness.
I found my salvation in an ***** den.

I promised her I'd come back one day.

Not even 90 days in
and the idiot bombs Syria.


Opinions and belifes
don't mean ****.


Prophecy is all
that matters now.

I'm too paranoid for *******,
not social enough for alchohol.

Speed's not for me,
you gotta give up your dreams.
And I look forward to sleep.

I disliked **** once they
made it legal.
I can't mess with the pills
unless they're the happy ones
and a girl is involved.

I thought about my first
love, my first addiction.
There's no way I can say
I'll never do ****** again.

I'm not too sure about much
but I can say this for sure.
"Maybe one day my dear
but I can't go back to you today".

I leaned in close
enough to smell
the rubber of the hoses
now keeping him alive.

For the second time in my
life I was at a loss for words.

I rested my hand ontop of his own
and said,
"God is Real, Please Remember me."

The machine was now silent
as a families worth of tears
fell to the floor.

No more Pain.

I sat out front
on the large
concrete steps
and allowed my mind
to slip just to
see how it felt.

The occupants of
the Mad house
sat and moved
about around me.
Some held intense
conversations
with the air and
with all that wasn't
there.
Others picked at
scabs or picked
inside of noses.
Their polluted
minds wondered about
everything
except why I was
there.

A guy in furry
slippers and a women's
hat decided I was
there to give out cigarettes.
His face froze with
confusion and horror
when I told him
that I didn't smoke.
Another guy
danced on the sidewalk
in wide dramatic circles
to the music in his
head .
His eyes were
closed and his zipper
was down.

I stared across Beacon st.
along with some of the  Mad
and watched two winos
as they sat on a bench
in their park.
They each drank out of
***** paper bags,
an occasional
mumble exchanged.

The scavenging gulls
stood sentry
as the pigeons
picked at the
ground around
them.

I looked past the winos
through the palm fronds
and the eucalyptus.
A hulk of a container
ship slowly made
it's way along the
harbors main channel.
I thought about the
history of this place.

Where once sat a
library,a place to
seek out and to learn.
Now sits two winos
with their own
kind of knowledge.
And what was once a
YWCA a place for
recreation and youth.
Now serves as housing for
those whose minds have
wondered too far.
Those who dance on
Beacon st.,
alone.
To no ones music
but their own.

You don't truly appreciate life.
All the joys and sorrows
that come along with it.

Until you have done all you could
to comfort someone you care for .

While you stand helplessly watching the one you love
as they struggle to hold onto to this thing we call life .

I'm a documented failure
according to their thick,
dog eared records.

My inability to remember their lessons
or go along with their beliefs.
All stored away in a dusty locked
file cabinet that
I"ll never be able to see.

It's easy to label the young
for the young depend on the old
for knowledge.

How can I be such a failure
when all they ever taught me
was lies.

They made it difficult to hear
a man speak of his heart.

It was the world as it truly is that set this free.
It let me in while breaking me out.
It saved me.
It showed me.
It allowed me to be.

Those Greats before me
how I long to one day be.

I don't need a Master .
How many more out there like me.

I cry when I write .
That's when my mind allows me to see.

Drop down ,take a knee.
There's water all around us .
Its above us.
And bellow us.
Its almost all of you.
And its almost all of me.

It wasn't hard to walk away.
It was the history that made me want to stay.

I never believed in what their books had to say.
If everything is a Lie then somewhere
there must be truth.

Beneath the Firmament that's where I'll stay.
Worry more about what your heart tries to say.

They make it uncomfortable to hear what it is
a mans heart has got to say.

She offered me *******.
I took the balloon from her hand instead.

Music radiating like warm shockwaves across the desert.
Found a spot next to a speaker, the bass wore over me like swells across the sea.
I took in the gas and exhaled kind of fast.

Sat back and closed my eyes and rode the waves throughout the halls of my memory.
There's a bass speaker banging against my back  and my chin has found its home against my chest.

Kids  don't do it for any other reason besides cuz its there.
There'll be a fight tonight in a narrow dirt alley with bee hives in the trees.

A slim gorgeous hand with silver rings on the thumbs pulls me from the ground and leads me toward the stairs.
Flip top cans and short dog bottles filled the empty hands of all those we passed.

I came here for a reason.
I can't remember what it was.

Too much to drink  and too many young beauties to settle for just one.

They teach the children how to share until they're old enough to buy and sell their own shares.

She offered me ******* then corrected me and said
"No this is Speed."
Again I passed on the Go and took a  balloon from inbetween her manicured fingertips.

She watched me as I put the open end toward my dry lips.
Then she popped my balloon with
a pink painted
,pointed finger nail.

"Those were mine *******."
Then she turned and walked away.

It came around again
for we are at the center
of our everything.

And the center never
moves.

It burns through natural clouds
and unnatural lines in our sky.

Over the Eastern mountains
and scorched hillsides.

Made its way
across a deadly
California desert.
Over a  mysterious ,
***** blondes bare
freckled shoulder.

Through the track homes
and the cheap motels.
Between  a beautiful ******
open legs and runny nylons.

Past the clerk asleep in the  hotel lobby.
Past the stolen car
outside.
Across the cluttered
room and
passed a dark alley way.

Up the main street
of some nowhere type of town.
Across the freeway and the blood stain.
Past the curbside motive candles.

Above the glass like surface
of the morning ,dead calm sea.
Through the fisherman's hopeful heart.
And the starlets dying flame.

Over the pages of my
favorite book ,
my favorite line.
"Run to me,Come to me'

Through my
half empty ***** bottle.
Bounced its way off the cracked
goodluck mirror  and  caught
me straight in the eye.

That first blinding ray
shines its way through the ages
to great you each and every  morning .

The first sign
that you've made it.
Still healthy enough to
gracefully waste another beautiful
Southern California day.

Have you gone where I've been?

Took the time to walk through the treasures of your mind,
like a gypsy in a junkyard.

Seen the tears and still indulged,
Smelled the blood and
made sure it wasn't your own.
Had it all and gave it away.

Do you close your eyes and
see images of the best of times.
Only to awake to the horror that is this.

Are you consoled in knowing
that she drinks with the GODS
as you battle with the believers.

Are you ready for the illusion to end?
Is there a method to your punishment?

Walk beside all of this,
Hand in injured hand
with all of this.

Do you feel that tingling
as you create me?

I've been here the whole time.
You were never alone.

This is why you are here,
this is why you have suffered.
This is what they need to see.

If not for you, do it for me.

They kept the inner city high
and the suburbs well
protected.

The cops all called  the
kids by their street name.
The kids called all the
cops Officer Bacon.


Runaways gravitate toward
the center of the city.
It was passing through the outskirts that
often got them killed.

They educated us in a scientific,
reasonable world
full of scientific
unreasonable lies.

Now that we are adults
we can go back and question
the things they told us as children.
And realize that they were lying to us.

We were deceived.

We live in a supernatural world
created by God.
There is a spiritual war going on.

Men act as Gods
As God stands silent and watches
as we destroy ourselves again..

There's a lot less
Heroes
still alive today.

The need becomes a clamor
somewhere deep within the
recesses of all that calls for
my attention.

The demands of living,
the drama of the morning
and stepping out into the day.

The smile I'm forced to wear
stretched wide across my disdain.
The handshakes and back slaps
that secretly cause me to cringe
at the feeling of another's flesh
coming in contact with my own.

The false friendships and the false wealth.
The great lie that is joy
and the camouflaged slavery
they are all unknowingly chained to
with links made up of loans and wants.

To coil a scarred hand around the beautiful curves of the wet bottle is to find sanctuary from the sweat and the toil from lasting another day.
There's pills or the poppy,
the slumberous narcotic sold in
bindles near the shore.

There's plenty to run to,
various versions of the need.
It reminds you how powerless you
are in the form of warm, beads of cold sweat
racing down your aching cramped up spine.

It knaws at the marrow and
tears at the last bit of will you have yet to lose.

Not every end is indeed the goal.
I wish to go on for just a little while longer.
Long enough to turn that need into an art form.
All of which is made up of magic that comes from living hard
and in secret.

Still managing to survive with this nagging,
pleading, wicked kind of need.

We weren't equals and we knew this.

He cited what reference he
could find as his answers.

I looked to memories and
hand written notes.

He couldn't believe the textbooks could all be wrong
and the professors all victims of the same lie.

I couldn't believe he didn't know
what the Firmament was
or who Admiral Byrd was.

I spoke of God and his creations.
I told him the love God had for him
was everlasting.

That's when I lost him.

Like any Genius with a high IQ
he scoffed and stopped paying attention
once the truth become too much for him.

The firmament held
true against the
rockets sent
by man.

Its always in those last hectic
days leading up to the
next celebration.
Either on the Eve of that day
or a few days before that.

At the neighborhood bar
or parked along the coast at sunset.
At their mothers same old house
or one of the liquor stores
still open at two.

You'll see that face or faces of those who
were smarter than you,
those who were braver than you.

Those who took that first chance
they had and moved as far away
from this place as they could.

Those with the same city name tattooed
in the same spot as you on
that same drunken night so long ago.

Their eyes have less anger and '
their conversation is less about
the past and more about what's
beyond this place.

Something about their faces,
their wives, their twin children or
the true concern they have in
their questions.

The grief they express at finding out
another has passed with the year.
The questions they ask that you
purposely avoid answering .

That feeling you get at still being here
like a cigar store Indian or a
'Welcome Home' sign from the
last time they were here.

There's something in them
that died in you so long ago.
Something that grew in them
that'll  never grow in you
as long as you're here.

Something they found somewhere else.
Something you've been looking for ,
something you'll never find here.