In the top most window of an old oversized house, there is a boy looking out…

I leaked my emotions through the familiar window as I watched this slow motion explosion of layered light brightly engulf the sky.

The room itself a simple place, where I’d come years earlier in emergency of a bad dream or scary thought. Now itself becoming a bad dream of a memory, stale with regrets and unhappiness.

That’s the thing, this house is nothing but things, of which I’ve been surrounded by my entire life. Moving from room to room as the memories and anger build up just enough to wreck the room before moving onto the next. An unexplained ****** of compressed claustrophobic anger and depression of a tortured mind.

defeat birds
---emerges
(yesterday) see you
almost a tale
no end

a faint line
----dated a while ago
(life) whose wonder
a short story
author unknown

I fear in fact,
the true culprit of most ends,
is no disease or accident,
no suicide or overdose;
but that moment,
when it becomes reality:
We will not achieve the dreams we had set out our whole lives to accomplish.
The moment we know that we can't care for our loved ones forever.
The second we realize all hope is lost and our heart unfortunately,
yet inevitably,
Breaks and Bursts for a final time.
The whispers of our hopes and dreams echoing out into eternity.
Into lives past, forward, and parallel
to being fulfilled in other times...
And once again,
We are Lost and Wandering.

I'm a slave to my hair, my hair is a construct of ego, ego is a construct of superego, superego is a construct of id and id begs for release -
Water and space and light and room to live free from context, ravenous and unsatisfied, I reach stalemate on the come up and surrender unconditionally on the comedown, I'm getting sick I'm getting sick I belong in jail, I belong in an elsewhere that never manifests except in the moments half awake between waves of sleep and dreams, and waking light on skin I can't recognize, did Christ recognize his own skin on the cedar? Could he tell his body was holy slick with blood and the lashes of whips and nails driven deep into hands? Could he be honest about his situation then, and if not, who among us can be honest? Who among us has not sunk our teeth into something unreal and sweet? I want this, I crave this kind of waste, shot up with suicides and Americana, what is more American than apathy? Don't you agree? Don't you see you're just like me? I want a new way, I want pure energy. I want something so raw it bleeds in my hands. I want distant shorelines and lines of demarcation and I want to run full speed into something all night and never get there, aesthetic and substance, fighting for power over two guitars and a drum beat and a voice, droning out platitudes about forgiveness and an abstract sense of love, I don't resist anything in this way but rather become submerged in it, allow it to roll and crash over me as long as my breath holds, fire a rifle at the sun and call it a small victory but phyrric because it took more out of me than I'm willing to admit, and for nothing,
I'm coming unstuck, America you're coming unstuck with me, I address you as judge and jury and executioner when we both know I am guilty too, I deserve that mercy seat as much as you and I can't look you in the eyes anymore because we look too much alike, who pulled the trigger, who gave the order, who payed the taxes, is this blood on my hands? We've both built our egos on an idea of beauty that doesn't hold up to scrutiny, but the clinic is all full up tonight run those tests tomorrow, find out where it went wrong and smother it

Take the poet out of the voice, what is left?
What happens when we force honesty for qualitative judgement?
What happens to an art form when we force it to dance for us?
What does it become?
Is this a process of bastardization or a fulfillment of prophecy?
Take the poet out of the poem, what remains?
I want to know if this will outlive us, if we became Prometheus martyrs for something or nothing, or a story on someone else's walls, in someone else's heart, in something not so easily killed,
Or are we jerking off into a void? And if so, is that wrong if it works? What price is too high for honesty of expression? How much is too much?
This pen wants to die,
This notebook wants to die,
What have I done to them?

~
reeds jut skyward
like spears in the hands of marching soldiers
below, rank mud squishes underfoot
we creep as near to silent as possible

crossing rusted strands of barbed wire
we enter private and protected ponds
with ninja stealth we take position
crouched in bramble
we cast thin line delicately into the void

slight tremors find my eager fingertips
as insomniac bass feel for tasty treats
slimy lips extend and inhale
******* worm and hook deep inside

my father snaps his fingers twice
the sound of a job well done
I feel his strong hand grip my shoulder
and look back to see his toothy grin
shine in the moonlight  /