What happened?

I thought we were going to write our names.
On ancient archaic architecture.
In Europe.
As we squated our way across.
The European Empire.
Looking for that good.
In everyone

We would have.
Made love with the Bohemian Eurotrash.
Like us.
Yearning for an adventure across the territory of that Cold War.
Like a Mutually Assured futile resistance.
Against those individual battles.
We fought.

In DDR uniforms.
Crusty jackets and holy clothes
With rabid Communists.
The bishops of our redemption.
A patched messiah.

We were going to storm the Bastille high on acid.
Make love under the Arch Triumph.
And, scream our victory to the ghosts in the Catacombs.
We  would bomb the old histories in every antediluvian city.
Set fire to our heritage, and laugh.
In that blazing dawn.
In that explosion.

In that could have been.

But,
We never really got passed the lawn.
We passed out on the side walk.
And vomited on our shirt.

I feel stuck.
In some indiscernible.
Former life.

I don't feel confident enough.
To do anything.
But, get stuck in the static.
And nostalgia.
Of a song I like.

From.
Long ago.

No more life.
No more.

I just want to recede.
Into the roof of my closed eyes.

Remember I was young and idealistic.
Once.

Some time ago.
In this metered rhythm.

At a certain point.
You get beyond that.
Frustration.
And, enter into.
Resignation.

What's left.
When you've.
Given up.

What is there to do.
But, wait until.
Your body breaks down.

And ignore.
Your situation.

One day it will all.
Catch up to me.

An onslaught of.

Bad habits.
Poor diet.
Self destruction.

I'll disappear.
In an instant.

A week.

All that's left.
Of.
What could have been.

Everything is discouraging.

Right now.

As I can't muster enough dopamine up.
To make me feel better.

Everything is ****.
Everything is pointless.

I can't feel happy.
With this poor diet I'm on.

As soon as I saw her.
I knew.
I couldn't look away.
And, that.
I should leave.

But, I went to her.
When she called.

I had too.

I can **** the confusion.
And paranoia.
With too many substances.
But, I can't turn it.
Off.

That's not.
Possible.

I can't scream through these.
Collapsing lungs.
And dying ambitions.

I can't muffle the constant barrage.
Of die.
Die, and in this glorious emptiness.
Forget.

Everything.
Existence extinguished in a low gurgle.

My last breath.

Release.

Sometimes it seems.
Like being arrested.
Is my life.

I love the fear and panic.
Of the next few moments.

Might decide your life.

Philosophers write pretty.
Words.
But, at a certain point.
Those words.
Write.
Their own truth.

I remember thinking.
How strange it was.
That I felt peace.

Imagining.

Vomitting.

In their plates.

Don't you just wanna.
Scream.
In everyone's.
Face.

I don't care.
Just.
Go away.

Self medicating.
Into that apocalypse.
Of how late is it?
Am I dead?

Love tries to ossify people.
Into that rush of chemicals.
And keeping them just like that time.
You looked a little bit too long.
And, it was more than relaxed on your face.
Cause you couldn't control what you were doing.
Or the words coming out.
Of your mouth.

I don't want love.
It's not functional.
And, it always ends up with.
Acting like I want to stay.

When I'm just there.

For the food.
And the house.
And the shared ****.

Be careful.
Your passion.
Doesn't burn them out.
To the point they malfunction.
And, you can't connect.

I wonder if it hurts more.
To other people.
That I'm not scared to open up.
I just don't want to.

Not with them.

Sorry.

Recurring themes.
Reappear

I can't be crazy to other people.

If I am.
The beautiful what could be.
Dies.

And, it turns out.

I'm a rabid loner.
Who cant get attached.

I have abandoned my life.
For an escape.
From my bad decisions.
My lack of privacy.
And.
My own mind.

The only time I experienced.
Something beautiful.
Something magical.
A moment where I was caught up in some.
External force.
Was when.
I stopped.
Trying to find it.

Oxytocin and dopamine.
Are necessary for.
Love.
And, your emotions.
Can be turned on and off.
With poor diet.
And, less drugs.

I drove across Canada.
At eighteen.
With an artist friend.
To run away from home.
For ***** and giggles.
Driving for days.
And, going mad.
Stuck up in the shrub
The vista of the same tree.
Motorsports on freeways.
The car become an appendage.

I got stuck there in that.
Sunset.
I left in my memory.
Hearing songs.
You remember.
From years ago.
That never sound so sweet.
As when they remind you.
Of something happy.

Optimism doesn't suit me.
As I exist.
As a mote of dust.
In some rundown.
Abandoned.
House.
The low glow of lamplight.
And classic rock.
Stuck in my personal.
Let down.

I yearn for irrelevant.
Laughter.
Something fun.

Instead.

I just blissfully drift.
Into my idea.
My abstraction.

Independent of reality.

I can't get up the energy.
To be interested in your lack.
Of a personality.

No.
I don't ****.
I just drift into rhythm.
And melody.

Wait to die.

Sleeping til six.

Eventually the mystique.
Of not working.
Wears off.

Pointless conversations with cray people.
Who are usually high and looking.
For a way to **** or rob you.
Get old.

One day you wake up from that rebellious.
Romantic.
Utopia.
Of good times.

And, you're missing your teeth.
Nothing in common with.
People you used to be.

I try to tell myself she didn't.
Love me.
But.
She did.
I just ****** it up.
Like I always do.

But,
She still hurts.
To think about.

The way she smiled.
Liked to see me happy.
Enjoyed.
My company.

I can't stop.
Dreaming about her.

I don't want to.
She was my worst mistake.

Maybe I am neurotic.
Repeating myself.
Regurgitating my inner soul.
My internal stream of thought replicating.
Into infinity.

Didn't you want to explode.
Like I did.
Like I yearned.
For a cataclysm.

My grandma was a basket baby.
Living through the revivals.
Held in tents.
Never dreaming of anyone else.
Outside of the farm.
Or the family.
Or the dancehall.
One small novel.
In the backwoods.

There's tall grass.
Hills with groves.
Cactus and painted rock.
Out there.
With the wind.
And the ghosts of the past.
That wasn't too long ago.

Ain't no one.
Not always no good.
Neither are the good ones.
I find.
But.
Doesn't really matter.
You heal or die.
It's it.

You hear crickets and coyotes.
Out there.
With no one else.
For miles.
Secret unknown things.
Happen.
The evidence just.
Disappears.

Somehow he knew me from before.
In the psycheward.
And, he was nice.
But, suicidal.
Screaming into the phone.
That he didn't know where the cows were.
He looked.

Farmer specific suicide prevention.
Exists.

Sometimes you end up driving for hours.
Down grid roads.
Thinking about working away.
The problems.
Or maybe another hit of.
Speed.

You stare out into those infinite horizons.
You see nothing.
No end.
To this stagnant desperation.
So, you chug the last of the whiskey.
Break the bottle against the truck.
And shoot something.

This is subduction.
This is desperation.
This is the void you fill with chaos.

All the junkies knew each other.
In my hometown.
There weren't many of us.
I should probably be dead.
By now.

She said she was *****.
And didn't know where she left her needles.

So I hung out in the kitchen.
Where I could see everything.

Trying to score dope.
In this *****'s house.

With a friend.

Now begins the bare essentials.
Of keeping myself alive.
It takes three days to die.
Of dehydration.

A month.

For food.

The truth is usually.
Muddied with pride.
Exageration.
Hyperbole.
And lies.
But, mine.
Is unbelievable.
Atypical.
And, extreme.
Why share what no one will accept?

I came in on a monday or a tuesday.
I blew in with the wind.
Some seed who drifted into the imagination.
Of some woman.
Who shyly followed me around.
Waiting where I used to be.
To talk.
About something or whatever.

I just never came back.
I was blown with the chaos in my mind.
To go somewhere else or wherever.

I leave the abominable destruction.
Of what could have been.
In the minds of strangers.
Who are always cautious.
And never felt this before.

I have that impulse to scream.
To cry.
To get lost and caught up in that.
Explosion of emotion.

But, I don't.
I can't.
I turn it off and recede.
Into my schizoid understanding of reality.

No one notices me.
On mute.

Which is good.
I can try not to eat.
Or drink.

I don't have.
To be a disappointment.
As I rot alone.

Have you heard this before?
I'm so complicated.
I'm so complex.
I'm so hard to understand.
I'm just a vague nothingness.
That I write with words.
Expressing nothing.
But, my lack of originality.
My reliance on the emotion.
Of poor punctuation.

Maybe if I think through a thousand ways.
Of saying this.
I might find the one.
That's always right.
Instead of a stream of consciousness.
Designed to help me think.
Through a thousand ways.
To say this life.
Just, isn't enough.

I'm stuck there in some anonymous dilapidated chicken coup.
Rotten boards and peeling paint.
Vermin taking up residence in some dusty stuffy run down shack.
As the fields of wheat blow in my imagination.
Cause out here there's just tall grass.
And mummified corpses of varmits.
Skulls you're proud to find.
And some city boys getting tired of the spear grass.

And here I am in some nostalgic memory.
Driving tractors with my grandpa.
Playing in combines.
The smell of gasoline.
The wind knocking something against the wall.

I hope this dying memory collapses on me.
So I can forget it was so.
Long ago.

It seems that poetry has become.
A place to whine.
With form and rhythm.
Simply a minor concern.
In a sea of mediocre futile teenage angst.
Thousands of poorly written love poems.
And possession.
All of it mandated good.
By your own banality.
And fear that you aren't.
That good.

My addendum to you.

I don't care.
It's overall meaningless and futile.

So.
Whatever.
Just leave me alone.