Vernacular manslaughter
Words tossed around like cheap plastic cups
Crushed under feet, like unwanted insects
Meaningless and endless
They bombard the senses
A continuous stream of things that once were
Happiness has fled, split when he saw the scene no doubt

All that is left is a shell
A vehicle for a simple being
But empty now
Scattered with memories
The wind gently swirls plastic bags and papers

                   Now it is me
                   Alone with my thoughts
                   And the ever-present idea of you
                   Leaving light behind
                   Leaving sound behind
                  
                   Alone with the trees
                                                    The stars
                                                                    My thoughts
                                                                                            Me
                    
                   Nothing to be forgotten
                   No reason for anger
                   Time well spent
                   And life goes on

I only I could you say words beau





                                                                  Tiful scrunched up nose and face
                                                                                I think about daily

Bovine like he sits
maybe he has to ****
            the only reason i can think of
            that would warrant the stupid look on his face
speaking with urgency
and an andalucian lisp
he slouches in his chair to lessen his discomfort

And the large african queen'the proud mother gorilla
who shows up late everyday
then doesn't speak spanish
at all
es interesante

cow-boy now gets up
scampering out of class
relief in sight
past the starry eyed portraiture
of the girl reminiscent of the head of a young woman with tussled hair
carrying her emotion in her eyes

or maybe she's just ******

a morning bowl was nice today
the leaves almost at their peak
in terms of chlorophyllic changes at least

Jazz history teacher scattin about
swing
Now, war on drugs (****)
wait, kansas city night clubs

Territorial Deviants howl the blues
dragging themselves bar to bar to jam

Teach has jeans and a black long sleeve
shows off his impressive gut

27th and manhattan, playin for pete
everynight bald head shinin
bass thumpin, saxophone whinin
count bessie, chick webb, rotating stage

Bothersome lesbian

As I sit staring blankly out the
window
sadly scarred tops of trees gently dip
to meet my gaze
              my feet, bare feet
worn as an old pair of sneakers

Her mom, or grandma is in the hospital
             what the hell am i supposed to say to that
nothing really
back to the trees, back to the room
then, back to the trees again.
             I wonder what spewing industrial complex created the rain
to **** these trees
          
This morning was brisk, fall is coming

she keeps looking at me
whatever
dandruff falls like needles off the turning pine from the portly boys head in front of me

My mind isn’t random enough
Too much influence from
what I’ve seen
what I’ve heard
what I’ve read
tainted by a multitude of impurities
is anything really original?

Oh, to be dragged through the ***** streets
At dawn, at dusk, doomed to search for an unsavory fix
The fix never desired by myself, but understood and admired
For love can be found wherever one may search for it

To be pleased with the lingual stream produced from my fragmented mind
It seems only the mundane slip through the ramparts
Perhaps inspiration will come, and break down the barrier that holds back my stream of conscience

To wear the mask!
My emotions generally fairly clear
To hide my cheeks and shade my eyes
So I might say how I truly feel
Safely shielded by anonymity

But you know how I feel
If I could only be graced with a similar knowledge
Sitting on the toilet as I type, and ****
Wishing I could create such pleasant obscenities


I am to come!?
For I, a new brood, native, athletic, continental
Naive
But no greater than any before
Insignificant

If I could draw from some savory muse,
Maybe if I do enough drugs,
Maybe, no, probably not
If anything is to happen at all it will come in time

To walk the aisles, how I do love such succulent peaches
Penumbral truths for which do not long to uncover
You walk with an uncaring confidence
Aware, yet blissfully detached from modern desire

And I, yearning, can only read the words you shared with the uninterested public