.i haven't been here in a long time, a long long time, perhaps as far back as seven years... but i just started to remember: to hunger... this is my mecca, this is my vatican... and there's no such place as such, no Nashville, no Deep South for me, since the "problem" of da- (there) is not really a problem... i have lodged this place in my head and heart and bowels so far down that it cannot exist outside of me in the physical world... i guess i'm about to revise a spell in this place for a few days or so... mind you: no one is licking anyone's feet or washing them for that matter, to pay undue compliments, to **** up: i hate rap... blah blah this, blah blah that... there's nothing cool about, too much urban squalor... and what did ever spawn if not a bleached-hair mouth-off? beside not having the hands: i'd do what eric clapton would have done... gravitate to the blues... and nothing sooths like some whiskey gingi and the blues... cliché or no cliché... but all the hippies have their music and their drugs, the stoners have their stoner rock, the rastas have their reggae... i have my blues and whiskey... my heart can finally rest for a day or two... in something the whiskey will translate for the elevated purpose of: liberation... it took me seven years to come by these parts... and at the most glorious time... tomorrow i'll become a gardener, maw the grass, cut up a dying grapevine: two years running i made over 10 bottles of the finest of wines... poor ****** died... no one knows how... no more wine making for me come october... with regards to day? it's so relaxing to water the plants... i can't so i won't name them... then playing the shepherd to a busy-body choir boy of a maine ****... shooting water at him to run on home... sultry english july evening... what else if not some blues and some whiskey?

you can see just as much
"becoming" cross-eyed:
i.e.,
straining your eyes to peer
into the vision...
a microcosm of suns,
engulfed
by a layer of ice...
as those those who took
the fungus parasite
route of allowing their
minds to become substitute,
a reaping,
of the minds that sow,
i, scythe in tow,
came to collect
the brimstone harvest...
but... take it from me...
you drink as much as i have...
entertaining cross-eyed
vision?
is just as much
as ingesting psychadelic drugs...
esp. when drinking for
a prolonged period of time,
extending into the night...
as much as i know,
i'm pretty sure
Odin cannot perform
the trans-psychedelic
aspect of vision...
           no Odin can
perform the cross-eyed statement,
no one-eyed creature can...
but i can...
         it's almost like jumping
into the lake
      and opening your eyes
to the world beneath
the sheen of the still mirror...
i've just transcended
the whole psychadelic drugs
tripping base
for group inclusion
politics...
i sat, perched on a windowsill
like a crow,
and...
cross-eyed...
i saw all of this in
an avaliable microcosm,
readied,
for the plunder
by a ready mind...
        perhaps no thought
is an axe...
but it is, for now.