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Needed what I never got --

got what no one should have --

now I yearn for what no one should,

and it hurts like
a dog tethered in the yard
barking its fool head off

and no one is coming home
The smell
   of smoke from my father's Winston
   in a Datsun Z
   on a hot day in California
        in the summer, the crinkle
        of a bag of chips

with the wind ripping
through the window, a skip
through the cities between
there and home

Childhood
memories like
ashes in an ashtray
Letting go of the pain,
it falls to the earth,

an anchor
to the torment of men,

a world on fire,
where I breathe smoke and dream
of a dreamless sleep.
The wind blows;
turning the sail, I allow
an aimless drifting, between
the billows, caring nothing
for the ****** of the gale

and everything
for the pistoning
of the wave
I put myself in,
partition myself off,
sever the tie.

Separate, umbilically
severed but

still connected at the belly

A vehicle in
the stars, a pair of
legs dangling in
eternity

Wandering alone
in the wastes,

with you,
my significance
in the void.
I have not written in years.
There is always someone watching.
Someone is always there.
We cannot get out. This is the trap.

Everything is known - not by us.
What we have discovered is irrelevant.
Discovery is inevitable by the law of the trap.

Someone is always there.
Someone is always watching.

This is the trap.

We learn in,
we live in,
we enjoy,
we love,
the trap.

We are finished.

Someone is here.
We cannot escape.

Who cares why?

These words
are the last.
Time is over.
[The lines of the hands formed a complex map]

Reality strikes
The days pass by
Two lines
Different seasons
Separate stations

[Reality hitting on the rocks]

Curve line erasing the good things of the past
2 drops of water falling on the way to the office
  |        |
  |        |
  |        |  Old soundtrack passes over parallel tracks
Theater full, broken line

Days pass and pass
Birthdays pass, not words
Difficult to pretend to be well
No words happen

Places I’m not, line closed
Places you are not, closed line

Romanticism doesn’t feel the same as maps on our maps
2 parallel drops fall
|                               |
The game hits me against the rocks
You don’t follow me in a straight line

[Reality catches me]

there are no words
there is nothing
thick fog

The same lines
Now they are parallel
Your reality hits

[The lines in my hand no longer form a map]

   - Codelandandmore // 4:00 PM ©
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