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Jun 3 · 43
Cathedral
Do you know what makes
a villain? Who rings the
bells of the Cathedral?
Where does that highway
go to? Will my father
survive the year? Where are
my car keys?

Who rings the bells of the
Cathedral? Who operates the
projectors in your cinema? Who
is Oz?

Is Venice as pretty as the waterways
of Xochimilco? Can you compare
the summer grass to senators? (They're
both dead.) How did they smile
when they gave us ***, crack
*******, and canned ham?

Is stone butch or is water dry?

Why give us an earth when you
could have just as easily given us

the finger?

When will I ever be able to see the forests
of Columbia? The mountains in Algeria?
The dark British past? The Caspian Sea?

Down to you, I go. Once again. I'll
probably only see it in my sleep.
Mar 1 · 120
Star-studded grime
The dead can't speak
unless they're published,
where a chair is a chair
and a pipe isn't anything
but the Captain's orders--
where am I headed, caught
in a doldrums ready to spring
the Fountain, cheese and choc-
olate fondue to the Trap--
friends a mystery, FRIENDS
a history, stick it on a goldfish
Santana Montana Fantasia
cotton mill plantation imagination
of truth to power, sour ships sail
across the Atlantic, Adriatic, ******
city sporadic, erratic, where appraisals
only come to those that **** out
Lion Fish. Do we choose our fate?

Tapestry of mountains, star-studded
grime,
*******.
Your twisted agenda has me rolling
in graves that aren't mine.
Feb 4 · 188
searching.
suffering is a weaker bond,
unless the cause is collective,
instantaneous, immediate. what's
one frozen corpse to the millions
of hungry mouths?
Jan 2018 · 402
Piquillo
Austin Boston Jan 2018
A Spanish cult brother
with a giant piquillo pepper
for an official hat, an
****, three squid, a pair
of broken Louis Vuitton sun-
glasses, a god with the head
of an Ibis, coming
through the restaurant kitchen
to whisk you into
The Land of The Dead.

Three eyed Frida beckons you
from her bed. Can you imagine
the conversation? It melts
in your hand like slave
chocolate and cubensis and
you cannot tell her how much
it means for you
to place your *******
onto the glowing center
of her Eternal.

***** can’t seem to grow much
harder than when around her.
She’s a star down here. Of course,
she’d much rather make love to
a queen of sheba than your
broke ***.

You didn’t even have the coins
to pay the ferryman.
Feb 2017 · 337
Untitled
Austin Boston Feb 2017
If I died tonight,
you wouldn't know.
The serpent sheds
scales all over my
**** and I don't
smell good to no one.

Trump is President
and old friends think the
Sioux should stop
complaining. It seems
to be a dark bottom of the
sixth, losing all kinds
of pitches to the pale
Horses of post-traumatic
stress disorder.

She's got three *****
in her mouth and any of
them are better than me.

She'll forget.
And I'll remember.
And the fire I carry up to
my mountain dies in
the rain.
It is no longer my mountain.
Jan 2017 · 1.7k
Aurora
Austin Boston Jan 2017
Orcas hunting on
a North Dakota sky
swooping up bison
SWISHING Aurora
Aurora
her name thru
your ear
whispers
in the doorway
on a ledge
in the Lodge
hollow
hallow
Orca calls sleek
Lakota sings her people
wind flushes
gushes
we all long
for Aurora
holy
ocean spooking
bison into violent
quiet
slumber
Aurora
Orca
Lakota
Dakota
ghost of
Sitting Bull
sweetening
a haunting breathe
lullaby
Aurora
Aurora
curve me
in the sand
Orcas beached
bison drowning in
the great river
Aurora
Aurora
build for us
a vessel
to carry
our warriors
of light, orcas
of sagebrush flame
Aurora
Aurora
take us there
and call me
sometime on the
telephone.
Nov 2016 · 617
Another city dead
Austin Boston Nov 2016
City of the Dead,
vents on a dryer outside
a hovel in the middle of
plaster town. Common,
calm calamity, cavalier
corroding creatures in the
dark, all fours outside
the dumpster cage cold-
blooded reptiles collapsing
charlie-horsing hot chocolate
Christ no courage no mailbox
no phlegm phantom phantasm
phat pharm pharcyde
POLTERGEIST
in sleepless ****** varieties
alhamdulillah
salivating quitting quitting
QUITTING the trip trip drip
to blood and soil,
genocidal lions, only coming
in one color: white. That's
why I wear black '***
I live among the dead.
Nov 2016 · 1.1k
Interstellar Spiders
Austin Boston Nov 2016
Interstellar spiders,
Dragons made of steel,
Glassy whales upon the
Outer limits of this galatic
Wind. Breathe in the Aether,
turn to stone for all I care,
Cerberus haunts me.

Even in the paradises of this
Land, even in the woods of
Remembered ceremony, even
When the New England wind
Whispers in my ears, all I feel
Is the doom of impermanence.

When I die, **** it, I want those
Great Alien Beasts to eat me, because
At last l, I might have the Real,
The unstoppable, the Irreplaceable
Peace.

ALL HAIL THE INTERSTELLAR SPIDER!
She feasts upon the faces of the
******; she cleanses our terrestrial
Slime of pain.

Steel dragons do the same, thru the
Travel-time-banjo-freight-train-wild-eyed-
Geriatric vortex.

Whales of haunting humpback echoes
Swallow planets like krill, made of sand
Glass from aeons beyond your eyes.  

AND O! YOUR EYES! How they melt
into my chest like slave chocolate and
Swamp coolers; that is the realest
Thing I could write.
Oct 2016 · 1.0k
Deep Sea Diver
Austin Boston Oct 2016
Deep sea diver,
floating among the seaweed
metaphor precipitation,
whales made of glass
yawning at a tyrant
Poseidon, picking senseless
a fight in the night
where the jellyfish scream
in horror, midnight
sea calls for the mighty
CTHULHU.

rock the boat and see your
returns amongst the heroes
of the reef. The shellfish
bow before a freight train
swoop, and I can see thru
the aquarium glass with so
much clarity it burns into
my skull. Gut all there on
the table, toes webbed and
so are my teeth. Who else
can live among the angler fish
but an angel in disguise?

Go **** yourself.
Oct 2016 · 661
HERE I AM, REMEMBER
Austin Boston Oct 2016
laying in the mud
drunk, shivering, special
kind of hatred toward
the Blind in this world.
Not surprising, this jaded
ghoul shouts from its
ditch
HERE I AM, REMEMBER
when Moses freed the
his peoole from the hands
of the Egyptians, when
Hagar was banished, when
Jonah turned his back
upon Daddy Dearest? Martyr
syndrome ain't nothing
compared to this cold fire
ripping sanity from the hands
of Annakin Skywalker, face
of the Force disturbing,
and if it wasn't Seroquel and
pipe tobacco, it woulda been sugar.

Will the hebrews, now the
Palestinians, now the Sioux, now
the Navajo, now the *****, now
the misunderstood, will ever
get JUSTICE, holy and authentic?
Intifada let be the hands beyond
men, let the Deux ex Machina show
itself in the pits of snowy hell,
let not another tree fell in your
own personal Rivendell.
Oct 2016 · 857
Prayer
Austin Boston Oct 2016
Satan, in this drama,
the **** in my underwear
as I've been unable to
wash my clothes.

God, in this comedy,
angels in the form of us
homeless youth, blossoming
from the ashes of an
Empire.

My mother, in this Sci fi,
a spaceship on the Mesa of
Arizona, to save Planet
Earth from your grimy hands.

This vending machine parking lot
near-death experience calling out
for coffee stained teeth and toothpaste-
covered pockets. Anyone in camo
pants may agree that surrender
is no option in the darkness.

Counter-intel these dispelled image
rats anticipating annihilating smells
of an **** gone wrong-- ecstasy para-
mounting on my wardrobe, *******
**** of a woman in flux, counting
on one hand the fists you put
inside AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL.

To Pharoah, Ceasar, us peasants belong
in trashcan garbage pail toilet ****,
maybe that's ok because the rich
IN SPIRIT give birth to the KINGDOM,
rain slowly washing away
Babylon and my cares for the things
of this world:
I only want you.
Aug 2016 · 530
Egypt
Austin Boston Aug 2016
Third-eye Kahlo takes me to Cairo
along with train-riders Meggo and Morro,
Moses was tickled, Diego fickle
about where we would eat tomorrow.

Much like Black Alex and Red Emma,
this bickering at dinners and galas;
it's common for Frida and muralist Rivera
to throw fire, have affairs, a life-long dilemma.

Now Meggo and Morro, see,
they don't care too much for history.
Moses meanwhile, he's a warlock with style,
a punkaholic well-versed in anarchy.

We all got drunk on the banks of the Nile,
in the tomb of the great Pharaoh Child,
from barstools to decks of reflecting pools,
Kahlo noted we've been partying for awhile.

Then the sand opened and out came Lorca,
along with his lover, the prince of orcas.
They were undead, but rather well-fed,
be careful, their light could scorch ya!

Behold, the undead spoke so soon,
of eating under the light of the harvest moon,
until Moses, what with his toeses,
blacker than an oil tycoon,

smacked 'em upside the head.
"Why don't you go back to the Dead?
Join Garcia and Weir and have no fear,
it's the execution you dread!"

Diego laughed and stuck out one weird eye,
Lorca too exhausted to fight,
Morro's knuckle tats and Meggo the cat
took to the Egyptian sky--

"If you do not leave the desert," the couple began,
"You will be eaten by the very sand
on which you walk, all this talk,
will not save you in the end."

The Prince of the Orcas replied,
"It may be Federico with who I lie,
I might be *** but it won't ruin your day,
I will not be so shy."

"Have a drink," Kahlo decided to offer,
"You have done nothing but suffer,
for do you not hear us heroes and our beer,
poetry our lifeguard and our empty coffers?"

Lorca, the Spanish magician,
a saint for the poems he's written,
takes a shot for every time he's been shot.
He's matched by Meggo the kitten,

who turns around to the group.
She claims freedom to be moved
by whip-its, *****, and the freight train cruise--
Morro agrees with his saucy soup.

"Freedom," Lorca exclaims,
"is more like love, less like fame,
the darkest corner of breeze, no one sees,
real freedom puts us all in chains."
Jul 2016 · 629
Philadelphia Preamble
Austin Boston Jul 2016
Sleeping in alleys and on rooftops,
in living rooms and in doorways,
eating free dinners at the gratitude
of Pakistani grandfathers, white punk
blue collards buying crack rocks from
the deli, poetry readings with dinosaur
legends, ***** with the bums
downtown, thickets of mucus
in your mouth
as you are yet
to be
fulfilled.

Content calcified, hunger a mission,
couch-surfing, scheme-plotting,
you are free while she is trapped
in a mason jar known to most as
Ohio.
Apr 2016 · 430
Cigarettes
Austin Boston Apr 2016
third floor hideaway,
Heat getting worse,
We go to work, we
****, we make peasant
meals, we sing the body
electric, pushing thru
the noise, no clutter now,
daydreams wash away
to see clarity in what I
believe to
be
the
fire.
O this birdcage!
Seven minutes closer to
Heaven with each
Miraculous breathe.
Oct 2015 · 906
Insurrectionary Billy
Austin Boston Oct 2015
Insurrectionary Billy
meets me for trees.
We spark in the market
overlooking the beach,
and while the mackerel stink
up the whole place, he
tells me of his dreams:

The socialist trumpets burn like
the joint in his fingers,
his squat life now normal,
an anarchist church.
The cops have cannibalized
themselves, the market
closed. Give and give alike,
It's what everyone will toast.

Insurrectionary Billy, your
dreams might turn real. The water
table rises, crushes Seattle steel.
Keep rioting, Billy, for bread, whiskey,
a meal. It's the hilt we need take, our own
Capitol Hill.

And when the kids scream ACAB
at the May Day march and strike,
you point your finger and laugh,
battalion of cops push you aside. Trash
the flag ya kiddo, you punk, ya disease,
shout at Cal Anderson park
"It's this metropolis we seize!"
Sep 2015 · 955
GOD
Austin Boston Sep 2015
GOD
*******.

This is how it’s gonna start. *******. **** wide ruled paper, **** exes, **** false flags, **** fake friends, **** Vegas, **** cops, **** work, **** rent, **** court, **** debt, **** warrants, **** starving, **** Donald Rumsfeld, **** white people, **** poetry, *******;

**** tweak, **** drink, **** poverty, **** the East Side, **** the West Side, **** Northtown, **** Downtown, *******;

**** yuppies, **** your trust fund, **** your gasoline withdrawals, **** your club heels and your $400 hair styles, **** your lack of imagination, **** your image, *******;

******* the sidewalk, ******* a cockroach, ******* a bag of smack, ******* a sack of ****, ******* shattered glass, ******* bus fare, ******* your mom, ******* it all.

But then, there are moments when underneath the anger and the profound vitriol, an infernal ravenous sparkling mystical blaze in the heart whispers inside the embers:

TWO DREAMS
(a) A white dove [pigeon] nesting indoors eating rice from the kitchen table, then trying to escape out a closed window, never seeming to actually do it. It only took three years to understand that the dove was not a metaphor, nor an image, but a premonition to reality. An actual house, an actual table, actual rice, actual wall, actual dove.

(b) A motorcycle accident foretold. A teacher marries her former student and one night after years of happiness, has a dream. She’s carrying his ashes in a box. She knows it is him, somehow. The accident happens early in the morning as he drives down a desert highway to work. You remember him playing cards, carrying you in his arms when you were small. Her son would die a year later.
Is it fate, or is it chance? I have to know. Don't you?
inspired by a jaywalking ticket and an essay by Michael McClure about the word ****
Aug 2015 · 1.1k
Sedan on Fire
Austin Boston Aug 2015
Everyone is gasping from the bus,
"Oh my god,"
As traffic pulls around it,
the orange flame licks around
the windshields, black
smoke wandering off into
the heatwave of August.

A lone woman wanders through
the traffic, in a daze,
as the fire trucks have yet
to arrive.

Makes you wonder
who might be burnt
in rage and turmoil
Flesh burnt on the upholstery.
Austin Boston Jul 2015
I wake you up from your
evening nap with
the flush of the toilet. You
beckon for me, and hold me,
and tell me of your coworker.
He's a muralist, and is
going to paint you
Joan of Arc touching
Saint Michael, the angel. I
remember why I am
with you, and whatever
we were arguing over
melts away.
Jun 2015 · 311
6
Austin Boston Jun 2015
6
I give you attitude,
you give me platitudes
I can use to ***** my embers
and repair the splinters.
Jun 2015 · 2.4k
Mojave Ocean
Austin Boston Jun 2015
The ghosts
in the desert
speak to me.
They tell me
of the lonesome
sea of sagebrush
and the the leagues
of penetrating sun.
They tell me of the
shadows, and how
the worlds of the
dark desert places
illuminate what
is missing.

God. What ache
lies underneath
the sandstone, what
demons lurk among
the hills.
Jun 2015 · 816
Ainulindale
Austin Boston Jun 2015
You think you have
all the answers but
just wait until
those answers
turn over like dogs
into more questions.

In Tolkien, the universe
was created by music.

The sound of these words
rolling around in your head
create universes in you, too,
if you could definitively
answer the questions each
vibration poses.

It's a **** mystery.
May 2015 · 650
Tunguska
Austin Boston May 2015
Radiation coming
from flashpoint
took down thousands
of trees, rage like
rattlesnake poison
with no one to ****
it out, instead kick
you and throw rocks.

Where's the debris
but in the heart,
internalized for all
to burn.
May 2015 · 1000
insects on your face
Austin Boston May 2015
Fragile psychic
dissipates into
aquarium,
everybody laughs.
The walls we make
build and clog
like arteries, and who
sees the insects
on your face with
such clarity other
than me?

You think I could tell
you this secret?

I'll write a dozen
eulogies before you
could breathe in
the illusion and breathe
back vision.
May 2015 · 1.5k
5
Austin Boston May 2015
5
Cower in fear,
weak ones. The truth
will *******
eventually, the more
running you
do, the more you
sever reminders
of karma unhinged,
the more karma
will seek you out
and destroy the
china hidden in your
closet.

Cowardice is no virtue.
May 2015 · 620
4
Austin Boston May 2015
4
What we miss,
we miss,
the lightning
this morning
shaping my
soul into
pressurized
rock, hefty,
the words from
the shadow in
me speak only
half-truth.

Evil
leave this house,
leave your house too,
my loved one, you
deserve the world,
not broken glass,
holes in the wall,
blood on your mind.

A prayer for the other
half of the truth, climbing
high and heavy to
your lovely gel.
May 2015 · 241
3
Austin Boston May 2015
3
you have
done so
much for
me.

I will never
forget it.
May 2015 · 719
2
Austin Boston May 2015
2
At least Holden
Caulfield had
a sister, at least
he was rich,
at least he was
"going places."

Someone told me
that too, but I didn't
imagine I'd be
consistently hungry,
miserable, fiending
for tobacco, love,
something other
than the pangs of
absence. What a place
to go.
I'm treating this site like a personal blog.
May 2015 · 497
1
Austin Boston May 2015
1
City woke
friday night,
I woke and
rage came
uninvited.

Hatred born,
will not die.

"Why'd you have to
treat her like that, man?"

Real talk.
May 2015 · 359
Manic Tiz
Austin Boston May 2015
But **** it dude
You
don't know
what misery
and pain
and mercy
and love
you miss
or
what you
gain
when you kick
that ******* chair.
When you
do kick that
chair, make
sure it's *** you're
ready, not because
you're lost.

If
you're lost,
go around
to the gutter
and sit there.
Or read a
book. Or
chant. Actually
go to church. You won't
find it in someone's
pants, or in the
flick of a lighter.

Hell, I know, but
I still try anyway.

You need real help?
Phone a friend.
Swear to
God I will hunt
down your
corpse and
use it
as
a flag for my
******* poetry.
****
off,
LIVE you beautiful
soul.
May 2015 · 1.2k
Offering to Santa Muerte
Austin Boston May 2015
Wind blows and black swaths
of None creep like
cockroaches in your kitchen.
Wind blows and you sit in mirage,
counting on fingers
meant for making karmic cracks,
tangles of tongues in echoes
of Nod. House sits on hill, your
gateway to Prajna sits on wind.
Wind blows and shade follows.
Welcome to the ranch of Santa
Muerte.

Enter through her doorway,
out of Maya and into dark-
matter.
May 2015 · 1.1k
Mercy is Strength
Austin Boston May 2015
We were giggling over dinner,
blowing smoke in
each other's faces; then we were
arguing, pulling, yelling,
violence a necessary tool
in my heart.

I took a shower to cool. You
peaked in and told me
with authority that I was
doing it wrong. You lathered
me up in aromatic chemicals,
bearing painful witness to
this strange, misunderstood
mutilation:

how
to
explain
rage?

Letting you touch my inches
of flesh, from the backs of legs
up to shoulders, letting you into
my body, letting you into
me: it's dangerous. Your
power to destroy is like
mine, soap could silently
transform into
gasoline--

the match I could give
to you and most of you
would strike it.
Vulnerability in the face of emotional tyranny
May 2015 · 748
Palm
Austin Boston May 2015
Palm
up
toward
Palm
Trees
up
toward
Maker
up
toward
life
in
your
­Palm
Austin Boston May 2015
I
God points out all paths, including the wrong ones. If We willed, We could have guided all of you.
A teacher who points out the wrong path feeds you to wolves.
God is not your teacher. 
You are your teacher.
You must teach yourself how to dig. Then dig. 

II
For having eyes, see you not?
And having ears, what don’t you hear?
And do you not remember? 
Water is content with places detested by humans. So is the Way.
The Way forward seems backward. The Way Up is Down.

III
And when the day’s work is over, be merry. 
For the next day will bring more work.
And come the season when its fruits ripen,
There will be flowers. You will return,
For to be great is to move forward, to move forward is to travel far, to travel far is to return.
May 2015 · 1.1k
Untitled
Austin Boston May 2015
Make chains transfigurate into gates,
my master, I give you soul.
I own nothing, responsible for everything,
my master, I give you soul.
Tired of pulling my canines,
by their roots or digging mines,
my master, I give you soul.
Where is freedom when everywhere is prison?
My master, I give you soul.
Make gates transfigurate into chains,
bedroom doors into cell blocs,
my master, I give you soul.
I am everything, responsible for nothing,
my master, I give you soul.
By the roots, digging mines,
pulling out not canines anymore
but the hair out of my skull--
My master, I give you soul.
What is prison when inside me is freedom,
they say I have a choice.

My master, I request to make it.
Genie, I am.
Magic.
Austin Boston May 2015
“Children Attacking Stray Dogs with Tire Irons”


‘Reaching out her hand, she smiles. “I can’t help you. But can you help me?” Realizing there is virtue in giving what is needed, not in giving what you have, you walk. There, then, do the dreams begin. And they are beautiful dreams…’

Author’s Forward

“Tizita” in Ethiopian means ‘Memory’, and refers to a genre of music culturally synonymous with the American Blues. ‘Tizita’s’ temperament strongly resembles a specific real-life person, as most people in her narrative do; and indeed, all ‘street-names’ as well as their actual ones are shrouded in secrecy—to protect the innocent, the guilty, and anyone in-between. Most of these characters existed in a brief chronological context, but their memories live. These people had definite opinions, outlooks, thoughts, emotions, personalities, curves in their lives. Unfortunately, I must confess, the narrative here only provides snapshots; and aptly, the main character’s name refers not only to herself, but to all those along the way—memory being fragile, a singular moment in time, and in that way, somewhat empowering. But enough about the word “Tizita”— her real ‘street’-name (and her actual one) were more authentic and more poignant. It fit her.




Preface
Interpretations of Two Birth Charts, both in Leo
(*It’s wise to preface these conversations with a warning—contradictions are a part of life, and the contradictory things said in this conversation are intended to reflect the inner and outer contradictions of ourselves.)

    E: It’s interesting because your ascendant is also in Leo, but rather than being the Leo of the individual concerned with the public persona, it’s on the verge of Virgo, which is very communicative, it’s this border between the individual creating and narrating his own life and communication as a sort of communion, a personal religion. I see this balance and this jovialness, but the jovialness is disconnected from the rest of the chart. The jovialness comes from possessions, and with possessions comes physical materials, physical creations. And I would say that your unconscious perceptions of the world fence in the dreamer—these unconscious perceptions of reality. There’s a fluid balance between sending something into reality and reinterpreting it creatively, and you’re sending it from perhaps an ethereal place, but it takes time, and it takes practice. It comes from the soul level. It’s almost medicinal. A daily dose of something. Your moon is in Pisces. It makes me think of how you describe your mother. The moon is your mother. And Pisces is drunk in a way. Not literally drunk per-se, but more of an emotionally drunk; and interested in mysticism. There’s a coat around the mother. I look at my mom’s mom. My mom has the coat around the mother too, and I look at my mom’s mom and she was depressed and ended up dying of cancer. It’s not related to everybody, but it’s a spirituality. There’s a communication that’s paired with Pluto. Normally, I don’t think this is a focal point for people. It’s an understanding—Pluto is like Mars, but on a higher octave. Pluto can be used where you’re able to interpret multiple generations at once. It can also be used to interpret domestic violence or personal violence. And you have Pluto in a protected spot. It’s connected to your (IC?) and your IC is the soul. It is the opposite of the public image. Sometimes people have an overwhelming IC, and that’s interpreting the world through your ascendant with a focal point of the IC of your soul-level going outward and it’s almost an inverse. In other words, the outside going inward. And you have Pisces and Scorpio on the soul-level in a precise pattern. Oh, that’s funny. Mars is in Mercury’s sign, and Mercury is in the 11th house, in Cancer. And Cancer is nurturing, Cancer is home. It’s the father who’s super-soft, and it’s all the power of this super-soft father who cares for the big ideas in the people he meets. But it’s powered by Pluto. It’s a constant story—whatever Mercury times Pluto is—where Pluto, when it comes into Scorpio in twenty years, it’s what’s concerned with other peoples’ resources, what we make one-on-one, what we make as a society. It’s a paradox to me where the soft father is mixed with Pluto which is complete intensity. Any questions?
    A: Not at the moment…what do you mean by super-soft?
    E: Softness and malleable creativity is the same thing to me. A constant reinterpretation rather than grounded idealism. It’s more about nurturing and communication. But at the same time, a firmness in the way you speak. You have a soft outer shell in your interactions with others—I see that a lot in our generation, where we take the inverse of our hard fathers. I believe I’m firm, but I’m also--
    A: Soft?
    E: …crazy.
    A: It’s nice to meet another crazy person. I mean that.

E: I can see that she’s like a tidal wave, and the tidal wave is her public image, it’s the surface of the water, and as she moves forward it rips her soul apart. But that’s her face, that’s the experiences—it’s an introverted process. She’s constantly calculating something that nobody else can quite see, but they reap the experience that’s on her front, her voyage. And that shoots straight into her insecurity. It’s like ripping her pants—everyone can see it, and you know it’s there, but you just have to keep going until the end of the day when you can go home and sew your pants. And it’s finding that nurturing spirit in the experience, and that can be the experience itself as god in ***, but it can also be *** itself, which is an insecurity, pointing at one side of the triangle when the triangle needs complete balance; disregarding the actual adventure, the actual spirit, the mutual sacrifice, the mutual learning, because when you tie into that learning, that sacrifice, it becomes a realization that there isn’t a division between the natural and the human worlds, but that these are a singular thing. And you use this knowledge and these relationships that are in the human world, but are actually in the natural world as well. You can’t let go of it and say ‘I don’t want to do this’ because it’s still going to exist. That, I think, is the trouble with a lot of people. The passage in her life is about accepting that, and the transition becomes moving from other people, and that other partner, and being abused by that other partner, into a quest for the self, and realizing that she exists in everybody else; the networks and maps that you make collectively--you can’t focus on a singular other person, because when that happens, the map is still going to fly forward.
    This is the story of everything happening and you only paying attention to one thing at a time.
    She has a really interesting aspect—her chart forms a Star of David. It’s in all these water and earth signs, and that is mud. It can hold you down in a really grounding way if you’re willing to accept it, but otherwise it can be tedious and a pain. It can be wading through something, never enjoying that something. That wading through something is a form of sexuality.
    A: It’s an earthiness.
    E:  Less of an intellectual earthiness and more of an emotional earthiness.
     I see a lot of people have a correlation where the mother in their lives represent a spirituality, where the mother is losing but losing as a child—these experiences happen to them and they don’t fall apart or break, they take them as a child and it’s a nice lesson passed on to the person who has this aspect in their chart. It’s a strength in the connection to the spirit, where you’re able to make your way through it all. She has these generational aspects, and in her history, she’s lost a lot, where her mother had a psychological issue and the father was tormenting. She learned a lot of cultural values, street-smarts, and that’s part of a larger picture. That’s knowledge the way anything else is knowledge. It’s tormenting to the sense of self to be strictly surrounded by street; with no sense of inner knowledge. And I see the way she creates, this philosophy of trudging through the mud (earth and spirit), and I see how that corresponds to Austin Boston the poet; the way you try and put yourself into the world. It’s her whole creating essence—in her sun sign—and the sun is a focal point, and if you’re connected to somebody’s sun, you’re connected to their soul’s purpose; and your ascendant is on the cusp of Leo and Virgo, just as hers. So you’re able to absorb it. You act as shoes through the portal.
    Huh. Lilith. Do you know the story of Lilith?
    A: Tell it again.
    E: Well Lilith is Adam’s original wife, and when God’s law came into play, she was replaced by Eve. And Lilith became the snake in the famous story, and you can see that as biting back. The Lilith in her, though she’s been given all these tools and perspectives, the Lilith in her embodies her past life. Imagine looking at a flame, beckoning you forward; she has this snake charmer’s way of letting these events and the mud that’s floating around beckon you—it’s her way of coaxing the illusion. But we all coax the illusion. You know, I read these astrology charts and I hide behind the shell of me, and you write stories and hide behind the shell of you. It’s coaxing the illusion—
    A: For yourself and everyone else, so you start to believe that mask you wear is real.
    E: Her chart is really beautiful.

ONE (Vegas)

“If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller's felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does.”
--Jonathan Safran Foer

So as you sat waiting for a tire iron on the I-5 between Tacoma and Seattle, you had the nagging feeling that all life is is a bunch of flat tires in hard and unusual places, and you guess then was the time to thank whoever was running this train-wreck-piece’a-****-magnificent.

Got a spare tire on your car two hours later, with help from a buddy of yours Logan AKA MacGyver, and right about then you knew you don't know what you’re doing at all, just trying to make it, try things out, challenge yourself over and over to only come up a bill short.

At least the weather's nice, you joked to MacGyver. He thought that was funny enough. Then, like anything else, the battery wouldn't start. MacGyver meanwhile went home and got drunk and you found someone to give you a jump-start, only to find your spare tire flat from dry rot. You swung the Chevy off the freeway, almost got hit more than once, prayed, heard the rims hitting the pavement, found a gas station, attempted to fill the spare with air, ran into a lonely/ desperate/ potentially violent crank-smoker, got MacGyver to come back across Tacoma at 11 at night, drunk, the tow truck driver Tim, you talked to him about the tow truck business, unemployment checks, trimming marijuana north of Berkeley, how he used to do it, and how you were gonna do it before everything went so bad with your last relationship or friendship or whatever the **** she/you called it.

The next day gave another headache or two, this time driving out of a Pepboys onto a four lane road, traffic meaner than a muthafucker, only to have your driver's side tire pop from the front of the car into the street, leaving you to drive on the brake rotor for fifty yards, the whole time just wanting to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away.

In any case, maybe this story should start back in Vegas four months earlier, a Saturday night cruising with a fifth of ***** on the Strip bouncing from casino to casino, taking the view in with all the tourists, the Strip itself a microcosm with the Stratosphere on one end taller than the Space Needle and designed in the late 80s to be astronaut-themed, but was mismanaged and now towers above Naked City like a torch to the dispossessed, on the other end Mandalay Bay which, like most everything on the Strip, cries out a classist chant of “Money can buy you happiness, look at our shark tanks and buffed marble floors and golden sinks”, the world falling off after it, symbolized by the airport and car rental return and miles of freeway through the suburb of Henderson.

You and some kids were just passing the time when on a bridge you dropped a Hare Krsna  card in the hat of a Head, dreads and a purple handkerchief tied over his head and his voice was angelic and he was bearded and sang folk songs, and he casually offered if you wanted any acid.

You had twenty bucks on you, so you said, “Yeah I'll take a couple hits” and took one and gave one to your dear friend at the time, Samwise. Now Samwise's a character himself, coming from Mexico when he was a kid and can't work legally and smokes *** (sometimes ****) and plays video games and listens to the Smiths and underground hiphop and punk and ska and is really into street-art, filling notebook after notebook with tags and sketches, as well as more recently poetry. Sam’s quite childlike, seeing life as a video game, and you suppose that's how you got along and you both love and despise that whole little kid air about him, and next thing you know you’re both tripping *****, driving around town like a dream, laughing at nothing and after awhile you started seeing colors and on a journey so disconnected from reality it was incredible that you only took one.

You got the Head's number. There were two of them there that night, Howard and Sean, and they’re brothers, hitchhiked their way from Minnesota to Vegas just trying to make money and get by, playing music and selling drugs and
following the Grateful Dead's Bob Weir around like most other Heads, Howard being twenty-five and Sean nineteen, and they're living the dream you want so bad to live, only to realize you’re either not cut out for it or you’re just not there yet. Maybe you have more growing up to do.

A couple Saturdays later you ended up at their rent-a-shack third-floor motel a few miles east of the Flamingo, seven or eight or nine kids there drinking and laughing and being loud through all hours of the day and night, you drinking champagne and taking a line of speed and having a ball just being your obnoxious drunk loud self with a kid named Blondie, a twenty six year old painter/carpenter/rancher Tennessee James, another named Mitchell, this kid Jonah, more men than women and faces you remember but no more names, and y’all are talking Fleet Foxes and Modest Mouse and one of 'em has a tattoo: “The Good Times Are Killing Me” (from Isaac Brock, the front-man of Modest Mouse) and you’re singing along to the song 3rd Planet--

(“and the universe is shaped exactly like the earth,
if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were”)

--But eventually you meet a hippie couple, both dreaded up pale-skinned train-hoppers, one named Adam (he's about 30), the other Lily (she's only 22 by comparison) and she has a three year old son Tracks (after the trains they hop) who's a genius and sociable and loves everyone and everything, and it's fun to play with the kid but it's becoming dawn and you have a couple more hits of acid and they have a boatload of marijuana from Northern California, so you bring up an idea that you've had since you've met this beautiful group of people, and that's to take a bunch of your acrylic paint and some of these hippies and go to the only thing in Vegas worth sticking around for, a state park by the name of Red Rock Canyon.

So at their place which was downstairs from Howard and Sean and Tennessee James', waiting for Adam and Lily to get ready at 6am you met a man Rob who's misplaced among all the kids shuffling around, a man they picked up in Hemet, California, not too far from your boarding school town, with kids and a wife who cheated on him and kicked him out of their house, did jail-time for some bureaucratic mistake (working, driving paint cans to a drop-site), so his story goes, Rob in his forties hopeless at the time, he decided to stick around with Tracks and sleep with him while you all went on your little excursion.

And then out of the blue comes a girl with eyes so powerful they'll shake you,  she's broken too but s
Written a few years ago. I wish the footnotes transfered. Thanks for reading!
May 2015 · 1.3k
Another
Austin Boston May 2015
Another,
the worst word
for it.

Crimes punished
by firing squad,
crimes like--
being seven years old (Aiyana Stanley Jones)
selling loosies (Eric Garner)
playing with a toy gun (Tamir Rice)
a loose headlight (Walter Scott)
being in a crowd (Rekia Boyd)
being in her mother's car (Jessie Hernandez)
being homeless (Africa)
fitting the description
without options
without justice
drops of blood invigorating
like Neutrogena
like salsa dancing
like another:

Houseless kid Dizzle
shot dead,
spangin' for food
and loose change
outside a bar, the shooting
unjustified says
even LAPD chief,
yet the murderer
walks free.

The worst word to say.
Another.

Taking life brings
no wings to badges
and "heroes" --

Life, fragile. Over.
I am here to remind you about
Justice, capital J, over peace.

Rinse, cycle
repeats. I'll see you at
the barricades.
May 2015 · 1.7k
Dirty Kid Message Boards
Austin Boston May 2015
‘TRASHCAN’S A OOGLE’  
“OOGLE WENDY DONT TRUST HER’
‘SPACEBAG MAFIA!’
‘OLD MAN SAMSON’
‘Yo itz Casper Howz Tracks? 1/13’
May 2015 · 1.0k
River, Bed
Austin Boston May 2015
The world opens like a flower
If you yourself become a flower,
change imminent and incan-
descent and if you refuse like
a rock in the riverbed then you
stay a rock.

Being a rock has perks but ****
it's just not for me. I'd rather
float down the cascading river
and follow it down to the sea.

After all, we're all being swept
away into the sea anyway, no
matter if we're rocks or flowers
or anything in-between.
May 2015 · 3.1k
Poverty and Poetry
Austin Boston May 2015
The bleak
poverty of poetry
can, among other
things, speak of
Darkness--

Violence in the sanctuary
of living rooms,
kitchens, parks, operating tables-
that these dark turns shant
turn into cliche,
their vivid tendrils keep
us tense and our hearts racing,
suicide an option not for cowards,
but for the most courageous
of us, the **** ups.

The poverty of poetry
can also shout out light
from the mountains, it
can raise down banks
with its splendor.
It can be used to lift
us broken pieces of ****
and give us honey for wounds,
can mend ignorance and
belligerence and betrayal
and torture. Three words,
spoken from the hollow
echo chamber inside the
chest, three words:
I love you.

Relief in the exit of
the labyrinthine passages
Of mind. Don't numb it,
don't beat it down. Don't
dumb it down, don't water it.
Keep the tar, save it, use it
To burn down your own house,
and when the fire licks your
skin, cry out those life saving
words: I love you.
Austin Boston May 2015
One.
Three of us: me, green, fresh,
white college dropout, a cigarette
smoker and angry leftist with
my real name. A French Canadian
nine-year veteran of the streets
at twenty-two, recreational ****** user,
Aryan alcoholic. We called
him Chef. The other a thirty-nine
year old first generation
Mexican-American, fourth generation
alcoholic with short-term memory
loss that made him lost, loud, and
*****. Juan.

Two.
We woke up that morning beside
the tracks in Oakland, gentrified
apartments reminding us of time
in our otherwise timeless world
of homeless boredom.
Not ten feet from where I passed
out, drunk off Icehouse,
was the skeleton of a crow.

They woke up and drank, both
avoiding Delirious Tremors, me
the odd man out, sick of drinking,
itching to take our promised
passage out of one holy city
and to the next.
San Francisco Bay to
Las Vegas, Nevada.

I wandered back and forth along the
weeds, finding the skeleton and
eventually building a shrine. A little
two foot grave, marked with stones
stacked in the East Bay sun.

I had a book with me, telling of routes
from Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua. Testimonies of mothers, against
all odds, bringing their children to safer
lands, helped by churches in the name of Sanctuary,
avoiding governments and gangs on all sides,
“to find a better life.”

Three.
Two days later, we finally slipped
into the well of a railroad car, avoided
the Bull, and traveled, for free, in the
wrong direction.  

We too, whether we understood it or not,
were trying to find better lives.
Chef and Juan battling demons
with demons, fire with fire,
I found something else.
Courage for those that need it,
discipline for those that want it.

To be poor in a time when cash makes kings,
to be alive when the crows themselves depart,
to hear metallic angels of life and death screeching
across the god-full Void, let us hear
new hymns for the underground railroad.

Not a day goes by that I do not wonder
if peace found these broken men I abandoned to
find my own peace in Salt Lake City.

Not a day goes by that I don't forget about
the thing that is at the center
of everything.

— The End —