It was 5:59 AM when the night ended,
When the night was completely quiet,
Yet, a song moaned incomprehensible verses,
and the portable heater vibrated,
the living room,
like a garden with fresh soil,
ready to be planted with thoughts ideas theories and laughs,
cigarettes half smoked in cups,
a few still swan-ly maneuvering smoke from the neck of the beer bottle,
Everything was good,
an accomplished sensation rushed over me,
with the warm sway of bourbon,
jackets socks shoes pants were sprawled across the floor,
no *** but still,
the sensation of ***, the mind. ******* itself,
being undressed by other Mad Like minds:
lust starving, love adventuring, money coasting, wisdom hungry.
Beside me the trashed 20 dollar sofas occupied by ***** blankets with *** stains and tiny shards of glass with two wise mad men, passionately sleeping, passionately dreaming.
A skinny tall window is in my peripheral vision,
a peripheral vision of the waking city,
of street lights flickering on and off,
the occasional beat-up car trudging along sadly with the wheels and eyes tired,
exhausted,
the car comes to a parking space,
behind the dumpster and it is lost,

The day was pure,
for 30 minutes to an hour,
the day was pure,
I had spent my 10 dollars on bourbon and cheap malt liquor,
which was gas money,
now it was fuel,
for the soul,
the body,
the path,
the vision,
the beauty,
we drove downtown in a blue Oldsmobile with the left tail light out,
while listening to classical music as homeless women and men,
walked heavily in their thin clothes,thin bodies,and torn clothes,
the liquor store was beautiful.
Sad, beautiful, in the way Beethoven's violin sonata No. 5 is,
the building was small,
originally a tiny home,
tall,
with a window destined by the Theological Gods,
to be gazed out of by a youthful girl,
completely fascinated by the world,
the occasional insect that would crawl across the window unknowing,
Unknowing of suffer, of girl, of boy, ***, good teeth, nice shoes, women, lovers, success,failure,death, and oil.
The insect crosses the window perhaps returning to its home,

Hauntingly Georg Trakl divine dead vines engulf the back, like a missing boy hugged by his Grandmother her old aged timed hands holding tight, the sides, where the rib cage of a naked women would be, and the roof of the remodeled destined window girl gazing house,

dead tired, and dead plastic blue and black and red milk crates are thrown out into backyard,
romantically sad,
the only sign of life is the neon 'OPEN' gleaming maliciously on the front door,

Driving back to Anthony's apartment,
made up whiskey jugs,
jugs crafted to be drunken by a platoon of war hungry sailors,
with letter perfumed coated writing lover girls in dresses,
waving their hands, their hearts, their ****** loyalty,
waiting for their man to return,
Braved,

But Anthony was no sailor,
he could out drink a platoon of sailors and still make love to a girl named Clementine with avocado eyes,

as we drive, passing dry and grayed used car lots, and pedestrians. Anthony asks,over the piano and violin,if we should go on a walk through the forest with our freshly purchased liquor.
I agree.
The piano continues on, as does an old black man at the bus stop,
mixing whiskey and orange juice, secretly between his old legs.

We laugh, and both praise him.

Our adventure beginning late in the night,
already drunk on the strong cheap malt liquor,
we bravely enter,
either the mouth,
the bowels,
the ****,
of the forest,
taking a tall can of liquor with us,
avoiding the sharp thin snapping tree limbs from our faces while lighting cigarettes,
passing the liquor between on another,

At peace finally,
comforted by the physical mix of chaos and beauty,
the drunk howling God cursing yelling mad hobo,
some where deep in the thick hairs of the forest,
the freight train smoothing by,
like a mothers eye,
and the distant trickle of a stream waterfall,
we sat in the wet,muddy ground,
monk like,
passing the cigarette,
the cheap malt liquor,
two mad,
wisdom monks,
observing,
the chaos,
the beauty,
our dharma,
our christ,
our buddha,
our temple.

I'm tired of all the Furniture,
starin' at me,
the lamp is up,
all **** night,
the books,
talk so loud the lice,
wake up,
go away,
December,
keep me locked up in a,
shack tower,
and all the,
walls,
say nothing,
while looking at the ceiling,
my spanish leather hand me down shoes,
sit,
in the corner,
with the smell of,
history.

Ocean of sounds,
lights are forever,
Gods,
are forgotten,
while man,
is forever,
like a lost letter,
like an abondoned car,
like a kiss,
like her eyes,
that Sailors and jail keepers,
carve her image,
onto wood,
Ocean of thoughts,
storm of eyes,
palm of hope,
palm of destiny,
as we all,
sigh,
reminiscing.

Dark haird goddess,
wolf hunt siren smile,
blue blue blue,
eyes,
it's snowing,
in my plastic room,
dead world war 2 grandfather,
in my blue rocking chair,
she is leaving on a plane,
feabuary 6th,
i think i'll take the tamed highway,
a gold place,
silver pawn shop,
back to Texas,
in that green motel,
i'll look for that,
pawned birth stone bracelet.

waiting for a sprang ankle,
or a whiff of cheap cigarette smoke,

some nights,
a spanish guitar keeps me up,
thinking of Georgia,
and the women,
it has stolen from me,

like winter,
has stolen the birds.

Butterfly ash,
forgoteen on the petal,
of an orange chirping afternoon,
stain spot,
of coffee,
or lipstick,
trailing too a violin shop,
with tiny finger prints,
left on the shop window,
a moths wisdom,
fluttering by my wool ear,
it listens too unsolved symphonies,
or graveless Mozart,
and leaves at 2 a.m.,
out my window,
and when i wake,
the moth is back,
standing on 6a.m.,
there is nothing to say,
so it stays.

Her wintered sky eyes,
are birds,
a frozen pond,
where fearless children,
challenge the fallen apple,

she is Beethovens forgotten dream,
Beethovens missplaced song,
saties replaced piano key,
Savios hitchiked vision of Toronto,
As she sleeps,
Gymnopedies,
silently creeps from her nostril,
Filling the vents,
with mortals beauty,
and immortalities last breath.

let down your Nevada hair,
you are a haiku,

my dream catcher is in pieces,
on my chest,
like clipped fingernails,
or washed ashore,
sea shells,
like unprepared jazz players,

my radio is crying,
the 30's,
my bed won't budge,
the novels,
like acoustic night women,
bare,
with constellations,
hyrogliphics and cigarette brands,
branded on their backs.

Night,
          is my lover,
                              with long brown hair,
                                              green eyes,
                                         like texas stream,
                                        with tiny crawdads,
                                        living in the mud,
Night,
           a melody,
                            possibly composed,
                                  by Beethoven,
                                      one night,
                                  on purple ***,
                               that sailors drink,
                                  after a storm,
                                   and land,
                                is as unfamiliar,
                                yet is fantasized,
                                  like the ******,
                            dreaming of **** kiss,
Night,
           long road,
                             Dharma bound,
                                                         bare foot,
                                                           ­               hungry.

Money hungry,
the hairy blacked belly,
growls like a street mutt guarding his,
conquered bird,
his belly shines rib bones,
his nose is dry,
too many nights,
prowling potholed downtown slummed streets,
his rib cage glows,
like a diamond,
or a pond late at night,
his paws are sore and bulge like his glorious-mutt-society-tortured eyes,
I offer him my silence,
still,
with my eyes on his,
my body sore with long legs lovers,
and sleepless A.M. Nights,
and we both agree,
to part ways,
and leave him to his bird,
and me to the nights,
and that seemingly endless orange illuminated road,
with my paws in my pockets,
looking for my bird.

girl in purple dress,
you are thin,
skin,
white yet fogging blue,
like the shadow,
of the Moons glow,
on the back porch,
where a spanish uno rosa,
is pink petal-less,
Girl thin moon shine purple dress,
you are the,
winter abandoned rose,
which I still reminisce,
just like side walks,
roads,
and windows,
do,
after it rains.

Buttoning his red jacket,
the lights of his apartment,
all burnt out,
his tiny plastic radio,
statically oozes a sad long performance,
of something incredible,
something that hurts the spine,
and makes him,
sit down on the floor,
His window is dark,
though the sun,
may come up any moment,
passionately exposing it self,
over tall romantic brick downtown city buildings,
made of something too incredible,
to paint,
There is a sound,
there is a love,
there is a death,
there is a dog,
a ***** who never loved,
and her High heeled Stiletto Siren Song Shoes,
are immortal,
close enough to the grave yard,
where her mother was buried 100 times ago,

I pray,
I dip my ******* Vinegar burn,
There are no
Decembers
There is no,
Crimson Highlight of dawn,

His mind is an old Blue car,
stuck in R,
a drunk driver,
Taxi-ing Tourists to hell,
Nevada crumbles like old make up on a woman’s,
tired face,

how long
will a kiss last,
as the sun,
breathes down your neck,
how long,
will beauty last,
standing ****,
in winter,
Barely starving.
I am forged Dream Catcher,
I am prosthetic limb,
holding onto a false Diamond,
Rhyming Georgia's Orange enveloped letter,
never to be returned,
never to be read,
never to be painted Green,
like the personification Mortality
or a strand
of her Night Rose hair,
still in a drawer,
next to a broken lighter.

With rubble in a desert Town,
Flowers,
Roses and Cacti Grow,
and like mold,
slowly descending onto a painting of a family from the 20's
like a male lover,
descending on another,
kissing his Vice lips.
A.M. Holy
A.M. Cursed
A motel sings mutely on a braille guitar
oh lover
of Cleopatra
birth sister
beauty of mine is obscure and faintly ugly
like a smile
of a killer
or a sky scrapper
who is exhausted
looking over beauty
studying the divine words
of Neruda and his over coat
hiding his pistol of Words
and nymphomaniac disastrous love affairs of the beauty of the human mind
digging
and sweating occasionally dying for the hope
for the hope
for the hope
of something Pure

like the moon
and its Phase
of light,
shining down,
and a man,
too drunk to love.
He descends into a place,
the Rabbit hole of imagination
where everlasting is clear
like a good day in San Antonio.

Like the Stream
where a boy,
found Divinity.

i am a worm,
who discovered,
you could be a butterfly.
and that river,
we never,
will remember,
stays in my mind,
and i visit it,
at nights, when Ella Fitzgerald ruthlessly comes on the little plastic radio,
and A.M.
will not leave me alone.

Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
***-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,

So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.

Spending Nights cheaply,
television doesn't work,
rats or moths,
have chewed the wires,
now a black square,
sits quiet,
Monk like,
Enlightened,
reflecting me,
dust layer,
my plastic texas radio,
calmly,
oozes,
discharges,
Jazz,
my final cigarette,
silently waiting,
like the television,
like the *****,
patiently watercoloring on red lipstick,
seducing not me,
but my lungs,
the ego.
And I fantasize being in an Italian cafe,
smoking,
with low eyes,
like a hill,
with a Gold hungry man
excavating for Fortune,
or bones of Glory,
and maybe a leaking pipe line,
dripping wisdom.
And a tall Italian goddess,
walks,
appears like a ****** magician,
into the cafe,
as the Italian Night,
dances ****,
the stars like beauty marks,
and quaint street lamps illuminating,
sidewalk puddles,
like jewelry,
worn by an immortal belly dancing siren singer,
who lost her voice,
seducing Gods,
now mute,
cursed to ****** Man by her body.
And she sits down,
her legs dark like mud,
but glistens like the hot Sahara Desert,
and her scent,
is not of Cacti and Lizards,
but of Roses,
but of Rust Michigan,
over comes the roasting beans,
like a house burglar,
or a spider,
creeping up on its fly prey,
enters my nose,
and my recollection of beauty,
is warped,
simply by the way she lightly,
taps,
her fingers,
against her legs,
like a light drizzle,
on a tin shack roof,
after a century of drought.

It was a Spanish night,
outside of his tiny cobbed webbed wooden window,
a war announced itself,
a war without Rifles,
Men,
or Tanks and trucks and grenades and black leather boots,
but a war of something
something more deadly,
something terribly cold,cruel,and
beautiful,
in the spanish night,
men loved women,
men loved men,
women loved men,
women loved women,
Lamps exploding with glorious saintly lights,
illuminating the streets like a ball room for the aristocrats,
everything glistened outside,
and he sat beside his old window,
wearing a ***** old white t-shirt,
lighting a cigarette,
he felt as if he was God,
high above,
looking over everyone,
couples holding hands,
girls in sun dresses,
red shoes,
blue shoes,
green shoes,
yellow eyes,
blue eyes,
red fingernails,
purple fingernails,
brown hair,
black hair,
yellow hair,
white teeth,
bright yellow shirts and beautiful brown skin,
the night was good tonight,
his tiny lamp shimmered on his hairy face,
smiling,
his cigarette smiling with him,
He looked over this,
wild landscape of lovers,
music playing,
women laughing,
kissing,
Being God would be terribly cruel,
he would say to himself,
lighting another cigarette,
this is his lover,
his music,
his,
girl in a bright yellow dress,
with her hair down,
and her eyes are large and brown,
her smile the wingspan of a crow,
Looking out over his Heaven
his window,
a tiny spider crawls across the glass,
stopping,
perhaps looking over the dancers,
the lovers,
the kissers,
the youth,
the night people,
He stared at the spider,
“i know that feeling spider”
he said
“looking over all these dresses,and these dancing feet”
he would say
“it's a curse”
“being godn' all”
and the spider would crawl away,
dissappearing into nothing,
maybe underneath the carpet,
where Dogs or mice have chewed tiny holes,
the clock on the dresser hit 1AM,
and the dancers,
the long haired women,
the men,
the dresses and red shoes and lipstick lips and eyes,
were beginning to leave,
Standing up he walks to his closet,
pulling out a jacket,
pulling out a pair of brown pants,
slipping on socks,
then his leather shoes,
his glasses,
walking down the stairs from his apartment,
he had forgotten his cigarettes,
down the hallway of his apartment,
walking back to his room,
a man and women laughed,
her teeth were white,
and she glowed like the flick of a lighter at night,
when the electric bill hasn't been paid,
he unlocks his door,
and grabbing his pack of cigarettes,
by his Heaven window,
he notices the spider on the window,
no body is out side dancing,
and the Street lights,
seem more peaceful,
and welcoming,
And he walks out into the street,
smelling to-do-soon rain,
his footsteps,
loud,
clacking on the pavement,
like a horses hooves,
and he lights a cigarette,
finally alone with the night,
no longer God.