She sells sea shells.
In seclude sacred sanctuaries.
And other assoreed.
Temporary Autonomous Zones

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.

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

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.

Please God.
Please.
Just give me.

One

Good

Day

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.

I remember tomorrow.
Potential immanent.
The truth.
So far away.
And.
Fragile.
I guess something had to break.
Down inside of me.
And, now.
I'm losing everyday.
To passages.
Written in time.

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'm a mouldy old country song.
Straining in the din.
Of a poorly lit room.
And the prescience.
Is impending.
An apocalypse.
In the tired warble.
Of an old crusty man.

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.

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

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

And ignore.
Your situation.

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.

I'm not gonna make it.
Passed that line.
Into normal.
And all the responsibilities.
I'm not capable.
Of having.

So, instead.
It's just sheer panic and trying.
Not to die.
Through these invisible meaningless.
Meals.  I eat.
To keep myself alive.

And the acid burn of my.
Aborted attempts.
At being something more.
Than anger.
Frustration.
Walking through anonymous streets.
Chased out of the pubilc.

With no one.
To talk to.

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.

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?

There's nothing left.
But that low dull buzz.
Of snow.
On a static screen.
And my mind.
Trying to find a reason.

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

Imagining.

Vomitting.

In their plates.

I woke up in right now.
When I was really back there.
Apprehensive and afraid.

Nervous that nothing would pan out.

Never did.
Never was gonna be anything magnificent.
Not even mediocre.
Just a failed.
Life.

The idioms of my persona fluctuate with time.
Some new intuition that speaks to your soul.
Which to me, is just,
An aesthetic.
An overall style.

It's always so late when I decide to wake up.
All you catch is my exit.

I see myself.
Sitting there.
Wondering how to respond.
To the way that you're smiling.

So.
I awkwardly bare my teeth.
Trying no to stare in your eyes.
With my cold.
Dead.

Confused.
Eyes.

Trying to fake an emotion.
Anything.
Human.

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.

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.

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.

I'm trapped in that constant motion.
Held over from homelessness.
Thinking I always need to leave.
Wherever I am.
Chain smoking past available.
Into bad habits.
And not wanted.
Just a random.
Piece of trash.
That salvages itself.

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'm obsessively repeating it in my head.
The regret.
The shame.
The urge to die.

When I think of all the things.
I just.
Didn't do.

Wasting my life for nothing.
Conversations reduce.
To a few grunts.