In a silent room filled with strangers
you are the only sound, 'sides an occasional cough
and the T.V. going off about... Wait. I have no idea.

Television drowned out in my thoughts, left behind
some other where some other when I relied upon it,
when I was afraid of what was in my mind.

Now, I. Am lost in thought, poetry, books, words, thoughts on paper
Inspiration. And you are distracting me television.
You were only left on as ambient noise because somebody thought
that we, a group of perfect strangers would be too afraid to talk to one
another, too afraid of silence even, and I am glad that we turned you off.
I am proud to say that we did not, that I do not, rely upon you.

I pity the people that rely upon you. I pity their minds. Locked up
in clean little cages with boundaries, standards, and goals, even
life ambitions created by a society that relies more upon
green slips of clothlike paper than it does human interaction.

How long before we have robots answering our doors
the way machines answer our phones? This madness
needs to, no it must stop. I demand that we reevaluate.
If you'd rather a sack of cash over the words and thoughts
that I have than so be it, but you, you are worth more to me than gold.
I want to sit in silence with your mind, and cherish it.

I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.

God is but a ******;
he and I stammer upon the same boat.

Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.

Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a ****-stained smile.

This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.

I searched for God

As hard as I could look

Beneath each rock

And even in the book



But in the bathroom glass

I recognized the mug

And this next line

You'll think I had a drug



My eyes grew large

Surprised at such a spin

When God blinked back

I couldn't help but grin

Peace is...
the long forgotten dream
the silent soliloquy
of the human condition
always out of reach
from humanities grasp
snickering behind bullets and bombs

Peace is...
the futile dream
of broken men
who've split blood
upon the land
fighting for nothing
and everything in between

Peace is...
a dream
a nightmare
a silent breathe
upon the wind
flickering in the light
hiding in the shadows

Peace Is...
A dying man's last wish

As the stores close, a winter light
opens air to iris blue,
glint of frost through the smoke
grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk.
As the buildings close, released autonomous
feet pattern the streets
in hurry and stroll; balloon heads
drift and dive above them; the bodies
aren't really there.
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
a woman with crooked heels says to another woman
while they step along at a fair pace,
'You know, I'm telling you, what I love best
is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know?
Limping along?—I'd still ... ' Out of hearing.
To the multiple disordered tones
of gears changing, a dance
to the compass points, out, four-way river.
Prospect of sky
wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets,
west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range
of open time at winter's outskirts.

-lights out-
fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous
ecstasy like a shot of ****** or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
i hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadstop trance-Healing
all my sicknesses-erasing all-not
even the shred of a 'I-hope-you' or a
Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar with its held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes-and
with joy you realize for the first time
'thinking's just like not thinking-
So I don't have to think
any
more'

The low yellow
moon above the
Quiet lamplit house.

I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti

blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal

And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charley Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at offical bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the
perfect
horn
Anyhow, made no difference.

Charley Parker, forgive me-
Forgive me for not answering your eyes-
For not having made in indication
Of that which you can devise-
Charley Parker, pray for me-
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here
To up, down, east, or west-
-Charley Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body