Somewhere there's a group of children
Without having someone to feed them
With meat we get through brutal violence
That factories don't even keep in silence.

Don't tell me that it's just some words,
They hurt like badly broken bones
You sure can cure when life affords,
If you don't live between two stones.

Borne under the good sign,
Or the bad,
If the enigma caught on,
to the trailing self,
it would be a question,
would the superlative,
be monstrous?
Or the make shift believer;
Would it all make sense?
Scribbles...
Either I have signed my life
or destroyed it,
In the pursuit.
It is the mental mind,
That produced this end,
The markings the etching,
That causes a chasm,
It will obliterate the skies!
Magnitude.
The sense of belittlement,
had been extinguished,
The tribes borne of the future,
would marvel at etchings,
Engraved in sand,
The beauty all extinguished,
Among the belittled beauty, at,
simple existence,
of complex life,
The hereditary displacement,
coherent to our establishment,

There is a latency
in progression,
The mixture's
Teeth,
Bind,
Conform
In singularity,
The future forgets itself,
the zen logic is missing,
between pustules,
between synapses,
between the heavy,
and the lucid.

He took the series of images as a bad omen,
He whisked up the dust
From ache soaken boots,
From a long painful journey,
He crossed through the desperate world,
This world which is confused,
This world that feels the burning scent of chaos,
The world that has birthed the unknown,
The world where reluctance begins at birth,
The site of a cosmic reaction,
Far growing,
Yet we haven’t left the dark ages,
Where the horizon beats constantly,
And the tides roll in,
And the only ones we have to blame are ourselves,
We curse and spat,
In each other’s eyes,
We’ll poke and ****,
With itchy fingers,
Trying to unearth disaster,

What had become of the lost November?
Where are they?
Where have the people that understood gone to,
Where is the Bukowski voice heard,
In this day and age,
Where did the true humans go?
The spirits still chant and riot,
Glowing in there,
With a mistiful, sorrowful song,
That I will never get to know,
Different times,
Different filigrees surround different lives,
In these trying times.

We'll all fry,
or we'll comply,
clouds billow-ballow 'cross the top,
Quick, chilled electric bodies,
Make contact in the cold dark,'The beacon of the lonely,
O so dear and ethereal entertain,
******* with head lice and light,
Naked to the wrath of night,
If not cradled, bathed in wreck,
Limitations of levitation

Gentle contemplation,
    of the dark hands,
         sinking into the dark,
               cold land,
          hammering cold,
       real spikes into,
   the cool, cruel land.

In my peripherals,
     I could see the flashing
          of their sirens,
               of the fires on doorsteps,
           of idiocy secreting from
        the bus ride,
     express line to the
twin world

The haunting hollow lights,
       of the bell tower,
            as if floating,
                its wall invisible,
Just like those cursed, darkened hands,
Digging into the granite of
  the lands,
     bleak,
        accepting all freaks,
           of a certain caliber ,
They make up the nimrods,
       Roaming Wall,
           Visibly,
In the dimmest light,
     you can't see a spark,
          a depressing aspect,
Behind sad woolen eyes,
       transfixed on the betterment,
a raptured glance,
          the promising view,
The contrasting composition,
      that everything might.
          not turn out alright,
    and that's
preferable.

Last night I dreamed a million dreams,
                   :One for each star shining overhead
A million visions,
                   :The tidal night washing me away
I lived a million lives
                   :The lunacy of night
And died a million deaths,
                   :The imbecility of dawn

What the **** is wrong with you America?
Why can't you wake up and see,
Why aren't you craving more,
Doesn't the sight of obvious injustice,
make you shudder and quake,

The pawn shops, the walls, the harems,
The grotesque, vile eating establishments,
The silly, sadistic joke of their,
devourous wake,
The prison sentence of commercial onslaught,
The centers,
The hubs,
The craters in the sand,
The dead pools,
The pool halls,
The mess halls,
The halls
and walls,
Mingled together,
Why haven't you made the distinction;
Why haven't we done anything,
Indeed...
                 Who are you to ask?
I felt a crushing depression,
being among the people,
we all sat and glared,
my normal disposition,
unaligned by the new line,
the path unknown made me
Feel Uneasy,
I always pull out my Kerouac,
and start massaging my brain,
feeling the nostalgia of a past
                Soul,
             a zero soul,
            a poet's cries,
         reach my ears, the innards,
                resonate out the mix,
    usually it works,
          But the bus driver yelled at my ***** *** for not knowing
Hamline, of Course!
         He said it seven times.
Inside the current trend of atrocity,
      in the heart,
             the core,
                   the honey,
  in the mad swirl of current trends,
       the sway,
              swirling of the dilapidated ocean,
I was returning work shoes that were,
                                    (I hadn't bought them, but were intended for a                   now terminated co-worker)
Given me, but two sizes too big, floppy.
She talked to her supervisor.
(Should've just walked out with the new pair)
Supershit said no over walkie,
"try yo luck at the counter."
Went to the counter,
to try my luck,
Striked conversation,
with a rough,
dusty girl,
who told me they had ******* at her
for being there too long.
I just wanted to get the **** outta there.
I handed the box to Lucy (cashier)
She besmirchenly said no,
I didn't fight the decision.
Which I felt will always haunt,
a moment in my mind's heart.

I should've stood up and
pulled off my shoes and
whamped her for what
she represented,
None of it made sense,
I asked nicely,
I mean was I supposed
to walk barefoot in these
subzero temperatures?
Lackluster I slunk away,
None of it matters,
I positioned myself
toward the
beacon twin,
The personification of
Racism!

The super Target across from
the Mart of Wal,
Whose merchants bumble,
yet I made no progress,
speaking distressfully,
influently for them,
While the policeman shelved the chips,
I spoke as courteous as any,
yet was torn away,
tuned asunder,
Lumbered over to the far off
sigh, Red...
They don't even have,
work shoes at Targé,
What does that say America?
The serpent silly sneakers,
laughing and hissing as I leave.

The bus is right there and
I have to catch it,
Lest I spend another half hour,
outside in this turmoil of frost,
In a wheel of torture and rejection,
always missing the bus to,
seek warmth,
Thought I would be hit by oncoming car
but made a mad dash to the door,
Just in time to be ticked off
at the empire,
at the ruminating,
the fermenting,
the rheumatoid arthritis,
affecting the fingers of careful planners,,
the scent o futility,
the fertility of existence was barren,
anything...
something... I'll pop up 'ventually

There I groaned,
retracing my steps in my brain,
but would end up at a
better launch,
in the ***** of downtown.

I kicked myself when it
said my transfer was expired,
with no way to tell time,
I just paid the man,
Then kicked myself because,
I must've used the older one,
from the former veranda
of the morning 'fore all this,

Now I kicked myself off the bus
pulling the yellow halt cord prematurely,
then walked the snowy,
lonely streets,
the cascading thunder of cars,
shoveling the air around,
the city sighing beneath my feet,
Walked past and contemplated
jumping on the little
platform between the
stages of the coaches
of the train...
16... to 17,
St. Louis Park,
Where began the loud,
obnoxious cacophony,
Obliterating my remaining faith in humanity,
The reason for this rant,
in solitude now,
in grateful sorrow,
in menacing tones,
the joke,
that we should all wake the **** up...

A B-boy girlie,
talked of pounding *****,
taming ***,
                                                    (how literate heroes will view this is outrageous)
Her counterpart with fisherman,
camouflage hat,
remarks of suckin' **** for two dollas.
I pretended to put my headphones in,
silencing the onslaught,
of inhumanity.
I had already gone through
my circles of hell,
that charlatan-laden circus of consumerism,
Now on the home stretch were,
these monstrosities,
mocking everyone in the bus
They talked of drink indulged,
The B-boy girl was the ringleader,
it was apparent,
the lackey sat behind her,
taking pictures, documenting?
and sharing images on devices,
that all amounted to,
nothing,
but tragic decline.
They spoke of dads in jails,
They spewed out nonsense,
They reminisced of fights,
The B-boy girl had a cast on her arm,
She had lied and told the
story of how she had
coldly beaten someone in the ice.
how brutish and untrue.
Obviously I didn't have words until now,
after arriving finally to my haven away,
to express,
in the mullings here,
on the pages of existence,
That we all need to
WAKE UP AMERICA!!!!

You're trying to make me see your point of view
But it's hard to see clearly with tears in my eyes
you'll just watch me like a raindrop rolling down the window out of sight

I have an odd liking
For things like unsweetened tea
A little bitter and burning
But I can't live without it
Along those very same lines
I like the type who don't
Shower me in too many compliments
With an off balance sense of confidence
Too sugary makes me sick
If you aren't burning and fiery and passionate enough
To scorch me
You're cold enough to freeze me
Fortunately I'm not afraid of emotion
Or burning
Or bitterness
I have an odd liking
For things like unsweetened tea

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