Drinking you away is the most effective
and painful
way I can find.
The liqueur
that's supposed to make my lips loose
only looses lips on me.
I ******* hate myself.
Since when?
Since I can remember.
Since I passed past
that last bastion of childhood innocence.
And  then introspection
and truth set in
and I really looked at myself
and examined my skills
and my attributes
and I found my self disgusted.
She says she thinks I'll find a perfect someone, someday.
Some say.
Something.
Similar.
Everyday.
Every ******* time.
I've tried harder to be a good person than any one I know.
I'd gladly throw myself in front of a bus for any of these unknown acquaintances.
Sacrifice is the only way to please them
only way to be worthwhile.
Maybe I only hang around scumbags.
Maybe I should find something better to do.
Maybe I should go live in a cave and howl at the moon and cut myself performing ancient ceremonies with flint worked obsidian stones.
Maybe I've lost it.
Maybe I never had it in the first place.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe only leaves me guessing.
Irrelevant of situation or circumstance;
I can still look deep inside;
past others opinions,
past the world outside,
past my influences,
past insults,
and compliments.
I can look for the deepest truth I know;
the only one to remain constant
and it will look me in the face
and say
your a worthless *******
finish it already *****.

Rollin with this one,
ya ya ya ya ya yikes bro.
I gotta go out of here.
Dont think about it,
fires burnin somewhere
I think
I dont know
but
where did that **** go?
Rolling numbers
40 of us
who was that?
I dont even know.
I heard shots fire and saw flashes.
Woop Woop
Dip
Woop Woop
DipDIpDIP
weeeoooopp
bumpcrackbumpbumpsnapslapcrash
I­ was somewhere in the bushes when it ended
panting out hurried fire water breath.

Lethargic
Lobotomised
Listeners
Literally
Lactate
Loathing for the
Listless
Lingering
Lowlife
Lyricist.
              How
                   do
                     you
                         like
                             the
                                 ludicrous
                                             limerick?

The scraggley mountains in the distance
look like soft sleeping boddies
made round and soft
covered and swaddled
in an icy blanket of aproaching fog.

An emerald and ruby star hangs in the distance
reminicent of some **** covered nativity scene
with mules kicking
and a woman screaming
and piles of hay rotting into the shape of beds
and a fool man welcoming an immaculate carpenter
and a woman smug in deciet
as she pushes out into a pile of muddy grain
and rat ****.

A sheet of rain falls sidesways in the distance
storm front drawing a visible line in the sky
the rain sounds like a waterfall
eating away at the concrete slowly over time
with icy crystal gums
as soft and deadly
as a sleeping bear
or a politicians words.

These things form the viege memories of a season.
Along with wood stoves,
the sticky smell of pitch,
hearty soup,
old musty books,
warm muddy boots,
and hot strong drinks.
Warming pioson to the core.
Winter sickness in the town where rain makes a grey christmas.
Every.
*******.
Year.

That special mix of,
too nice, shy, slow to catch on.
Now. Always. Alone.

I dripped down the rafters
into chaos
and frolicking fantasies roar.
Fare well to the redhead queens!
I sat back in chiseled thrones
and threw gold at the gods
and still no answer
was given for my offerings.
The night was thick on my breath,
bitter broke *** liquor stained my body.
My blood runs thin.
My trip throws me deep
where the flames lick sweat from my face.

Once upon a time
in a land very close to home
a young girl sat and swayed low
in the old swing
on the street
its twisted rope gnarled and rubbed at her hands as she gripped it
swaying ever higher
higher towards were the tree had swallowed it up
growing all around and into the rope
so that is swung down like a golden necklace,
discolored and thinning
angel incarnate a breathing trinket at its helm
the wind blowing off the dead heat of the setting sun
made her whip her head
and look up into the shelter of the tree
for many years it had stood there
swaying and spreading and thriving
all for its own purpose
but today, it had given the last of its great strength
to the little rope swaying oh so gently
and to the little girl resting oh so peacefully
on that splintered board that snagged and bit at her legs
but the tree had grown weak
and the bugs and vines had leeched its strength long ago
and in the joyful peak of her swaying pivot
she reached level with the dieing branch
and with the last moaning crack of defeat
it was set free from the tortured life it had lived
as she went sailing blissfully ignorant
towards the magenta pink and violet purple streaks
of the sun setting over the hills in the distance,
the end

Swaying drunk in a friendly kitchen,
I look
and see
a pretty
white
plastic handled
pearing knife.
I reach and grab
and cut
accidental slice
of a left palm.
Nothing
felt
a coincidence?
of drunkenness
and
shock?
or
a repeatable
pattern.
7 & 7
sits down on the
stoop
so i can test
my hypothesis.
I punch in at the edge
and feel the skin pop
like a warm water balloon
thicker
oozing like pancake syrup
nostalgia
the sharp steel
drags across
unrestrained
by the remaining flesh.
It's always easiest
to peel an orange
once you
stab
through
the
rind.
I've heard it described
as ******
or exhilarating
but I'm cold
and numb.
So I thin myself
with 7 & 7
to help it leak down
to my cigarette tip
and stain
my pretty
white
plastic
pearing knife.

In the wee hours of the New Year
with an empty bottle and lucky strike in my hand
hollow and clinking like funeral bells
signalling with little remorse the death of another year.
I look up at the dark night sky
and Orion's bullet hole belt buckled tight
and sighing out smoke,
I think of you.

With drowsy steps I drag drunken feet
into the cold indoors.
I shut out the lights
that illuminate the glass eyes of my apartment;
and hobbling slowly up creaky steps
holding the heavy weight of my lonely heart in my throat
I think of you.

I bump weakly into the hollow plywood door
of my hollow white room
and ******* from the rags of a days memories
I slip naked into the cold sheets of a burnt beat old mattress
and my thoughts are naked
and my souls gentle skin rubs naked against the threadbare sheets
and my prides moon bleached carcass lies naked as it always does
and my mind is cold and naked
reaching for something warm,
something comforting.
and
I think of you.

I shake myself to sleep on the lonely pool of springs
flexing, kicking
demons, energy
from my restless body.
Sleep wraps me in its velvet womb
silent and peaceful.
I think of you.

Dreams materialize from the pit of sleep
making me relive past pleasantries
obligations from other lives.
I am unsatisfied in imagination.
Feeling for something real
something worth remembering
something I can use in the darkness
I Think of you.

I'm sure the sun will rise
I'm sure I'll wake with a start
From some unremembered dream
I'm sure the cold will grab me
I'm sure it will lick sickly at my tired bones
I'm sure things will get better.
I'm sure I'll fill in the hole of a heart with black cement.
I'm sure my soul is sitting warm as a coal under an ash blanket of confusion.
But for now,
I think of you

Everything is absurd.
Nothing will ever make sense.
Looking for an answer, a purpose
is your only answer, and purpose.
I won't invent anything to believe in
or belive in any invention of man.
I Dont believe in anything:
rainbows
pancakes
jackets
parents
light
speed
love
god
­the sun
stars
smoke
fire
hell
kisses
music
sound
movies
death
life
re­ligion
answers
questions
nations
nationalities
race
communism
cap­italism
feudalism
nothing.
I don't believe in anything but
rain on summer days
and tectonic plates.
It doesn't make sense
but then again
everything is absurd.
I indulge
and elaborate.

romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice
he's over on 18hh street as usual
lookin' so hard
against the hood of his car
and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand
and for all the pachucos at the pumps
at romeros paint and body
they all seein' how far they can spit
well it was just another night
but how they're huddled in the brake lights
of a 58 belair
and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife

and they all jump when they hear the sirens
but romeo just laughs
and says all the racket in the world
ain't never gonna save that coppers ***
he'll never see another summertime
for gunnin' down my brother
and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife

and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette
and they all reach for their pack
and frankie lights it for him
and pats him on the back
and throws bottle at a milk truck
and as it breaks he grabs his nuts
and they all know they could be just like romeo
if they only had the guts

but romeo is bleeding
but nobody can tell
and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest
and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear
that every thing is cool now that romeos here
but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then
and he leans against the car doors
and feels the blood in his shoes
and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store
romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door
and he brodys through the signal
with the radio full blast
leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos
and they all try to stand like romeo
beneath the moon cut like a sickle
and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero

but romeo is bleeding
as he gives the man his ticket
and he climbs to the balcony at the movies
and he'll die without a wimper
like every heros dream
just like an angel with a bullet
and cagney on the screen

What subtle and suggestive words I wish I could speak to your sublime beauty.
If a picture itself is worth a thousand poetic words
and life itself is a collection of unending, unaiming, uncaptured pictures
then what sweet words could be said to you with these lips
with this pen
that wouldn't be better expressed in action,
reaction,
interaction,
interwinement,
*******,
well of course;
I am a coward
and I say nothing to you
and I linger on in null contemplation
of the slippy words I would weave
as they stay sadly swimming in my clouded mind.

Windows cracked open to morning light,
scrubbed clean by black boiled beans
mixed with milky white.
Stretch and wish something else
something better had happened
touch?
Feet fumble.
Back yells complaints.
The sun illuminates clouds
of lung pushed smoke.
It's cold.
Damp.
Light steams the dew on the grass
the green ground boiling ***.
Boiling ***.
Heat.
Hot.
Your body.
Lips hips fingertips.(New found tricks?)
Naughty.
I shake desire away from my mind
and suppress sensuality
with determination
or denial.
Your steps startle heart beats.
Eyes dart in avoidance.
Image of you wrapped in sheets.
I offer up smokes,
tokes,
jokes,
false hopes.
I have nothing I can count on,
but my addictions.
Walk, stumble, sigh,
body bathed with afflictions.
I stack wood,
by a hungry stove.
Fast food into a fattened black steel belly.
I made you breakfast,
but you ignore me.
Eyes speak cold truth.
You care too much
to feel like that
for me.

I have few questions,
less answers.
I have opinions,
few facts.
I know few things for sure,
few things about myself or others,
few things about reality.
I compose and orchestrate myself to be a simple man,
and yet,
I cannot figure myself out.
May be I am a simple man.
May be i am too simple.
Too simple for contemplation
or introspection
or any serious level
of revelation.

Go as Follows:
1-Gentlemen never touch money.
2-Never run unless your being chased.
3-Lies are often more helpful, and always more entertaining, than the truth.
4-Never Lie unless your joking, never tell the truth unless you trust the person.
5-Nothing is for sure except taxes, death, and trouble.
6-Everything is absurd.
7-Be prepared to enjoy life.
8-Don't procrastinate, death never does.
9-Laugh when you can. Smile regardless.
10-Only frown when you need to.

I sit
and smoke
and read
and write
huddled in wool
and adorned
with shiny trinkets
my appearance
makes men tell themselves
lies about me.
Deceptive
                in
           description.

So I was walking down the street the other day,
smoking my cigarette,
and enjoying it,
and singing fake songs to myself,
and I walk past a small car,
and it made me stop,
because its strange to see a small car on my street.
Especially a small car painted in bright clown colors,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke and what looks to be clowns.
So I decided to investigate,
and I walked up,
and I tapped on the window,
and as soon as I did all I could hear was screaming and kicking.
I took a step back because
I mean
****,
what if it exploded?
And as the small colorful clown car door opened,
smoke poured out,
billowing and puffing,
very strange smelling smoke of all different colors,
and i began to wonder if it wasn't me who was tripping ball's,
as 1..
no 2..
no 12
huge bug eyed clowns crawled out.
Gawking and hissing and juggling crack pipes.
The first one asked my name.
I lied of course.
You never trust a cracked out clown,
not even with your name.
The second one asked me my age.
I lied of course,
because it's a well known fact crack clowns are pedophiles
and he might have tried to have his way with me
if I told him the truth about my tender young age.
The third asked me for a cigarette.
I gave it to him of course,
out of sheer terror that if I didn't
he might use his circus tricks
to pull a colorful rag out of his ***
and choke me to death with it
and I didn't want that.
The rest of them just kind of stared at me
or screamed
or sniffed my clothing and inspected me.
After a few minutes of all of this
I decided I'd had enough.
Talking with clowns is bad karma anyways,
and I started to walk away
waving politely
but no they weren't done with me yet.
They hog tide me
and covered me in clown make up
and adopted me as there new pet monkey
/clown driver
/lion tamer.
But of course,
when the police found me naked in a trash can at three in the morning a few hours later
still unable to complete whole sentences
they wouldn't believe ( or couldn't understand) a word of it
but I'll tell you,
if you ever see a smoke filled colorful clown car
just walk away.
We know the truth
its ugly, and juggles crack pipes.

She asked me how I was doing.
She had a look to her, a sincere and open look, a look that invited honesty and expressed compassion.
It painted her face with invitation.
But it didn't just sit thick and flat like paint does.
It didn't just hang itself dull and useless around her head like a dollar store party banner.
It beamed out.
It reached a comforting hand.
It spoke, and so like a fool I told her the truth.

I told her that I was thinking about the universe.
That I was thinking about my significance as a human in its whole scheme.
My importance on this little rock.
This little rock floating as lonely and forsaken as it does around that star we named the sun.

I said I was thinking about how lonely and forsaken I felt.
Just me,
and how could a single person feel like this.
Swimming in an icy pool of his own thoughts.
Maybe these where the only things isolating me from all of my fellow men;
wrapping me in a blanket of isolation;
a blanket as thick and unforgiving as a strait jacket.
A shield.
A shield surgically attached to me,
and the weight of it's breaking me,
if I cut it away it would **** me.
The open wound bleeding out thoughts and emotions
into a ruby pool filled with letter and symbols
misspelled words and distorted swirling grease slick memories
an alphabet soup of insanity.
Maybe this is why I am alone.

I said I was thinking about love;
about who I could share it with;
about why it's important;
about why I don't feel it;
about why it makes me cry,
just as much as it makes me laugh.

I said I think about fantastic nights of true splendor;
about road ways paved with gold;
about endlessly open and kind people;
about everyone i ever cared for being with me:
Happy.
Laughing.
Like they describe the heaven I don't believe in.

I said I think about god.
About a sad man in the clouds who looks down on us in our darkest hours and seems to do nothing.

I said I think about evil,
or Satan,
or sin,
or abominations.
All of the things that seem to show up just when I feel safe to shake me and tell me to run;
run away from my comfort;
run away from my happiness;
run away from the truths I thought I found.
All of the things that shake me and tell me not to trust:
not to believe,
not to give in.

I said I think about other people.
How beautiful and serene some of them seem to me.
How some of them seem just like I am.
How I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better.
How I could sacrifice.
How I could bring them to a better place than I find myself.
How I could make myself useful, or decent.
If not in anyone else's opinion at least in my own.
How I could have an effect,
at least on this tiny rock spinning jut as alone and scared as I am
around a sun destined to destroy me.

I said I think about ending it all,
or starting over.
Becoming a different person:
a different face,
a different voice,
a different name,
a different body,
in a different place,
with different clothes,
knowing different people.
Knowing people who know nothing of who I really am.

I said I think of how I describe myself
and how its irrelevant to who I actually am.

I said I think about sadness:
and anger,
and chaos,
and i cant keep it strait anymore.

Once I was done spilling these things.
Once I had peeled back my shield and bled out for her.
She looked at me with those open loving eyes,
and without wasting a moment,
or displaying hesitance;
She Said:

"I know just how you feel"

the ***** that I give
are in inverse proportion
to the ***** I drink

I do not understand you,
your wants,
needs,
aspirations,
or fears.
I suppose you want me to give you everything;
but with an air of resentment;
as if you owe me something.
I suppose you want me to tell you a million entertaining and amazing stories,
but leave out just enough,
to maintain some unreal and foolish air of mystery.
I suppose you want me to come and save you,
to be there for you at every beck and call
but let you do things yourself to maintain independence
or dignity.
I may never call out to you for myself,
or express loneliness,
to avoid being needy,
or obsessive,
and yet my rugged independence is:
foolish,
childlike,
******* stubborn.
The consistent contradiction that surrounds me
leaves me speculating about you.
About your reasons.
More than i speculate on the origin of the stars;
more than i speculate on the meaning in life;
more than i speculate on the existence of god.
More than these things,
you leave me depraved,
and wanting more.

I often find myself in dreams;
in beautiful or haunting scenarios.
Cold and sparkling places filled with the most magnificent sunlight,
rays shoot between pillars and dye entire courtyards calidoscope cream colored majesty,
flowers burst spontaniously on walls, I breathe crystal clouds into the brisk air around me.
The wonder before my eyes bring me to my knee's
and my throat is run dry with exhaultations of pleasure.
Dark forests surround me,
with wet leaves that stick to the ground, the trees, my feet;
unnamed and unrecognized creatures screech in the trees;
my eyes dart back and forth to find a safe place to hide;
sweat runs down my hollowed cheeks;
my jaw locks my tongue between a painful cage of grinding teeth.
I can never succeed in finding anywhere comforting,
as quick and panicd as I fly.
Like a drugged rat in a circular maze my every sense is alive with panic.
The air smells rank, thick with decomposure and earth.
I know it, but the smell itself evades me.
Such unreal and haunting scenarios.
I feel life itself has become unbelievable.
Every clock I read scrambbles itself,
numbers twisting and contorting uncontrollably
like the strange uncomfortable shapes I bend myself into upon waking.
They are just as tired as I am.
They try to evade there duties and posts,
before I can figure out when the **** I am.
Then of course nothing is forever.
Time is only relative.
Infinity is just a sideways 8;
just like god is only real with a capital G.
The walls know these things just as well as I do,
afraid of there mortality they aviod being used,
and when I lean againt them for support they become unwilling,
dissolving against my touch and leaving me to fall perplexed to the other side.
To the unknown things that await me there.
In transition I picture them,
("them" even are an abstract
fuzzy features barely recognizable as human
but still formed enough to inspire fear, or love)
smiling or licking there lips,
forks and knives and plates at the ready,
to tear me open as I land.
I feel fuzzy as I glide or crumble through the wall,
pieces of me wanting to interact with its substance,
but no one of them is strong enough to hold me in or up against it,
and so I complete my way through at last.
My fears and pictures of the other side are null now.
They scurry and dissapate like cockroaches at the flip of a switch;
like drunken minors at the sudden sweep of a spotlight;
like the leaves of a dieing tree in a wind storm;
like the morals of an insane man;
like couples at last call.
I land with a soft thud on the snowy ground outside.
Even with all of this being so unreal, it couldnt be a dream.
Who would dream such mundane things?
Who pictures themselves as such a grotesk figure;
when the world awaits them,
and they could embody every image or hero they ever admired.
Who would create a place like this.
I suppose I would.
With a smug sense of irony I dust the snow or ashes off of myself as I stand
and wander off into the uneventul landscape before me,
but uneventful isn't appropriate to decribe this place.
It doesn't fit.
Just like entertaining doesn't quite fit a clown.
I walk like I'm on the moon
and with each building step and effort I float a little higher
like niel armstrong conquouring that awe inspiring ball in the sky.
I bounce light footed and bewildered through the desolate landscape
untill finnally I level off and soar up,
up above the buildings.
Forward,
forward through the wind and the trees.
Over,
over the slopes and the hills and the clouds.
Into,
into the stratosphere, and beyond the earth to where there is no air for me to breathe.
But I can breathe
and I gulp down sweet nothing with willful and unexplored ignorance.
Freefloating through space I find myself next to that american hero's immortalized steps
finally centered and landed on the surface of that cold rock.
People fear this orb as magical, or controlling
but i stand on it, and feel nothing.
I look down at my home
  at my planet;
   at all of the people I could ever know;
     at every experience I could ever hold dear;
at all of existence.
And my throat tightens up
my heart pounds like a fightened bird
trying to escape from the cage of ribs its trapped in.
I feel myself drifting off
becoming light again
falling asleep
or waking up in a cold sweat
wrapped lonely in my blankets;
but who dreams of these kinds of things?

Despite my best efforts,
still i fail.
Despite careful planning,
despite long hours of contemplation,
despite endless nights awake in the heat of an inner debate,
despite all loss of faith and abandonment of previous principles
just to try to find some new way.
Still i am lost, and can not be redeemed.
My mind bashes itself to pieces on these questions,
and not only does the answer evade me
but the question itself
becomes fuzzy and unclear
a static saturated radio flying away
in the cab of a filthy car
Driven no doubt by some saggy eyed *******
a smoker who eats out alot
wrappers and ash stuck to grease stains
cover the interior.
Wait.
What am i trying to find out?
Why does it matter?
Who cares?
Do i?
Who am i?
Still, grasping blindly in the dark of human knowledge,
in the tainted waters of my own memory,
I can find nothing.
Nothing for myself.
Nothing for anyone else,
no purpose,
no inspiration.
Loss,
loss and desperation.
I spit in the face of your compensations
offered up like tasteless party favours
for my incompetence.
Pity, plead, or beg
these are not the actions I engage in.
I am too stupid,
too proud.
I wish only to be left alone
only to be untouched
twitching and broken
in the toxic and shard filled mental pool
of my own making.

It's only on days like this that i think about it
it being us and whatever i wished that was.
Past and future coliding into this infinitely sad present.
The window to my left shows only grey, and wet
because its only on cold wet days like this that i think about it
but it always changes , happy, or sad, or indiffrent, it, never seems to improve.
It being us and whatever i should stop wishing that was,
but to stop thinking is harder than it seems, i have to distract myself
and the window to my left shows only grey, and wet.
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to settle or be satisfied
always changing; happy, sad, indiffrent, never seeming to improve.
I draw pictures, write words, hum songs, punch walls, and blacken my lungs with second rate tar
but i never stop thinking, with as hard as it is to distract myself.
Sure sometimes i can get my mind to other things, happier things, but
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to be satisfied, or settle on real happyness.
The things i do settle on, are disturbing or violent.
I draw ****** pictures, write sadistic words, hum funeral songs, punch walls, and blacken my soul with second rate filth,
no matter where i turn all i see is sadness, and slowly i think i might be losing hope and sanity.
Sure my mind can sometimes get to other happier things but
they are all fake, to me at least, and i have nothing to be happy about.
I settle the disturbing or violent things i can do
on my guilt, i don't know what was dreams, reality, movies, books
memories of the past and future coliding into this infinitely sad view of the present.

It will be on that golden day,
with your still flesh milky, marble, majesty, white
skin streaked , saturated, almost blue with lines and pathways
like the picture perfect chizzlings
of mineral vein riddled
gratuitous Greek gods.
It will be on that golden day,
that i kiss the solemn serenade of your soul goodbye
and shuffling sickly, sadly, sorrowfully away from your festive wake ill finally be ready to make
the meat of my downtrodden face shine full
free from that sickening limitless lull
that finally ends
on that golden day. It will be,
truth, light, love, life, celebration bursting free
from the cold darkened shell it inhabited so many years
like a plant sprouting from the sad seed it called home.
These dreams,
this vision,
i have found my purpose.
Like words slipping wild and violent from pursed lips,
there sounds the only truth.
I wish to see,

That golden day.

Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.

Slowly she raised her tired eyes
and began to tally for me
my innumerable inadequacies.
I leaned back tired and shaken
ready to ******* bitter medicine.
There is no sadder statement said about me than the truth,
independence and self reliance present themselves as virtues
but i have come to realize they are the only things
that have led me to be as proud
and as lonely
as i truly am.
Is this all my fault?
Is it in fault,
that i wish i had followed sheep like and blissful
into the norm that breeds satisfaction
or at least some numb equivalent?
For all of you
I will smile,
Wave,
Glisten,
Grimace,
Weep,
and bare wide my yellowed teeth.
Because the bliss that we call freedom,
is just the most subconscious part of obedience.

Sometimes.
Just,
sometimes.
Darkness and music is all you need
as thoughts run aimlessly in a hurried line through your head
just let them pass
          e
    v             r
o        you            

one
     by
        one.
Feel,
       hear,
              smell,
                        taste,
    see
            
but don't try to grasp these things.
Don't try to breed
              s
           h   a
        p         e
             s
from the darkness around you
or pick meaning from the sounds that play songs
on your tired ringing ears.
Do not define your touch, taste, or smell by your broken memories
and associations.
These are not the
f           r
      a
g  m  e  
              n
    ted  
past you grasp to experience.
This is
now
and living.
This darkness,
absence of light.
This music,
m     l      d
     e    o       y.
It will all soon fade to forgotten dreams as well.

The engine's warm now that we're finally off all the main streets,
and sitting in the polished seats of our smooth white metal stallion
we strolled down the slickened scenic highway, silhouetted by the sun beams turned silver
bouncing off the cold bold face of a spherical moon.
The radio licks its numbered teeth back and forth with its spike red tongue
as the knobs are turned to tune and turn up high to hear,
those greats croon
"don't worry babe, we'll be there soon".
My foot falls heavy like a rejected lover when we hit the strait aways
and the wind cant move my whop slick hair on this bright night
can't move it for a **** thing
even with the top down and the whole world spinning against us.
I race to stay within the nights dark complexion
watching out for the only man who can slow me down
pink faced clown lookin to shout "bookim"
"Bookim danno".
My hands wrap white knuckled around the steering wheel
and I chuckle at the frightened look that begins to build up in your gorgeous hazel eyes
when adrenaline filled i swing wide left
to pass the only other car
on this rickety two lane highway.
Back on our side of those magical golden lines
I reach over to settle your shaking thighs
and you grab my arm like it alone could save you.
I picture us
hydroplaning off into a deadly roll through that golden field of wheat
the last thing I would smell would be dirt, dew, fresh spring ground
I smile at the thought
whatever makes you feel better I say
and so you squeeze tighter.
I slip my hand down and off your leg,
up onto the dash
to find and twist the radio ****, blasting out that sweet silky serenade of sleep walking.
I look over and blow a kiss,
but the wind ***** it out the back before it ever reaches your loving lips
and with eyes back on the road I keep on till morning.
Till I can stop with you at sunrise,
and we can rest
and hold hands
and share lips
and tell empty promises, as day breaks on the horizon
and light floods over us
in this stolen drop top caddilac.

We sit together on low whipping cream white plastic chairs,
opposite over a fake fiber board table
covered with cheap and flavorful fair.
The aroma of chili, coconut milk, tea, and greasy noodles fills my mouth and nose
and above us the deafening pattering and smacking
of heavy rain drops landing hard
against the Plexiglas roof  fills my vacant ears.
The night set's in as cold and comfortable
as a fattened fish
at the bottom of an icy lake
and with the sun fully gone now
and the square or street outside empty
the Asian owner opens the garage style glass door,
its metal tracks holding milky white paper orbs full of light above our heads
and he tells us we can smoke a single cigarette in here
safe from the cold and biting rain.
Your eyes watch thousands of minuscule silver streams flow
between the network of cobble stones
like tiny rivers raging mercilessly,
violently,
into the darkened abyss of the storm drain
falling hopelessly over its silent brink.
But my eyes only watch you
with the constant sound of the downpour
sedating my sickly mind
I watch your slender hand
lead up finger tips
to the cold white rolling paper
watch it settle comfortably
between the rosy red of your plump and postured lips
they let back out curved and milky clouds
reminiscent of the sweet swaying of your hips.
I crack a sincere but tired smile,
and put the price and tip under my plate.
We both stand and stretch
and head off slowly, huddled warmly
knowing its been a good night
and finally i feel happy
and i can tell you do too
as a smile spreads slowly across your face
like a tired cat stretching for a long days rest.