i only watch documentaries about geographical regions, makes sense, seward's folly, about 70,000 inhabitants in that state, half of them living in the capital Anchorage, the rest scattered with huskies - not one car was built keeping this in mind, horsepower yes, but huskypower? no... they can eat 10,000 calories of fish-head soup a day and never tire... blessed companions.*

mind you it was a terrific trip,
the only tour guide being a fine television edit;
the squirrel without trees
and a hole, adding to the hibernating comfort
with grizzly bear fur shed -
we're so poorly evolved to fit the theory
of darwinism - so poorly evolved -
no theologian in me to quantify an existence
of something, but quality-wise,
we're so poorly evolved,
no fur, no hibernating system to automate
a shaking to feed the brain from time to time
a rise of body temperature from -3°C...
out of 6 months of winter and 65 days of perpetual
darkness at the zenith, the omen of
oncoming spring with the northern lights...
we're so poorly adapted in comparison -
i too wish for the Arctic fox's fur rather than Gucci,
hence i wear tracksuit bottoms and find it
easier to scratch my groin of ***** hair whereabouts
and my ***... no fancies beyond -
it makes sense to do these seemingly "caveman"
antics walking the english labyrinth of suburbia
at night, having a few beers and smoking
cigarettes... no guilt, no point of fancy...
so this alaskan gerbil survives the winter because
of the highly evolutionary coping mechanism,
man doesn't have that by-product of evolution,
man is actually the loser in the whole dynamic,
he needs to chop wood, breed huskies for the
sledge joyride, actually use inanimate objects to
sustain himself for the core: warmth, and not wetted...
we haven't really evolved, we simply devolved...
i'm telling you this isn't a theological argument,
it's an argument from observation...
remember the imposition of aesthetics
on the Doberman Pinscher and the Rottweiler,
the "circumcision" of the tail, cutting them short
to speed up the emergence of man's coccyx?
no one played "eugenics" with that -
well, the lynx looks like that, tail cut short
by nature... the king of a decaying moose carcass:
first the ravens came, then the bald-headed eagle,
then the coyote, last the lynx...
the victors of the fight? the ravens, they nibbled
bits of the carcass and hid them in shallow snow
that acted like refrigerators, and ate their investment...
only the intelligent scavengers...
prior to a wolf came in the night and did
a dietary autopsy of opening the carcass up -
up here no parasites, no insects... too cold...
the uppermost town?
i can't remember, extraction of oil bound to be there,
polar foxes and the usual gingers who
moved with men and found the atmosphere pleasing -
but still the fancy of the Chilkat river,
where bald eagles congregate to become fishermen
of salmon, which congregate to swarm and lay caviar...
sitting ducks, the salmon swim upstream,
lay the caviar, become favourable for the bald eagle palette;
but we're so poorly evolved,
we have no fur, no hibernation tactic to sleep
through the harsh winters...
we only have each other - and that doesn't really help
having evolved to be so selfish -
if man evolved he's become too parasitic -
so many dependencies - whether that be from
a herd of grazing cows or organic chickens -
to the excavation of crude materials for warmth -
we're so poorly evolved - it's almost sad -
biology and photosynthesis, chemistry
and hydrochloric acid, physics and gravity -
indeed excuse the gods from poetry and you're
altogether excused from writing it.

the first computers' walls of blinking
lights; spinning reels & AI voice: relay-
switches that could be heard for blocks,
heated to hundreds of degrees, & were
kept behind cement walls:

In 1886, the American Arithmometer
   Company is established in St. Louis,
Missouri to produce and sell an adding
machine invented by William Seward
Burroughs,  grandfather of Beat author
William S. Burroughs [             ];

In 1904, six years after WS Burroughs I's
death, the company moved to Detroit &
changed its name to the Burroughs Adding
Machine Company; soon BAMC was the
biggest adding machine company in America;

Accuracy was the foundation of Burroughs'
work; no ordinary materials were good enough

for his creation.    His drawings were made on
metal plates which could not expand or shrink
by the smallest fraction of an inch; he worked
with hardened tools sharpened to fine points,
& when he struck a center or drew a line, it was
done under a microscope;

William Seward Burroughs I invented a
"calculating machine", first patent filed
in 1885, designed to ease the monotony
of clerical work. He was a founder of the
American Arithmometer Company in 1886,
which later became the Burroughs Adding
Machine Company in 1904, then the Burroughs
Corporation in 1953; & in 1986, merged
with Sperry Corporation to form Unisys:

William Seward Burroughs I was posthumously
inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame

I

The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave

Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing

Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful

No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.

II

Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished

Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary

Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page

(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny

The Golden Path

From the song I cover the waterfront a perfect place for a young man to blow his trumpet it has the
Power to blast or the sound that travels like a lone walker along the Warf his sight is fast and jumpy
This like working the trumpet buttons up and down with the blow reaching the end of the gold
Lacquered Bell giving it that soft essential quality a longer stream for when he looks away from the
Immediate Items that hang and pertain to activities of the interchange with the sea yes the blow that
Continues as his eyes looks Seward his emotions entangle themselves in the waves the large heavy body
At a Distance then short and fast as they race forward on the sand then crash and then recedes his
Thoughts Caught by the undertow out into deep waters my soul bring it out the depths that you know
Span the Waters make the arch touch San Francisco bay at this end and the other end touch Monterey
Bay let the Trumpeter pays homage to John Denver who died out in the waters out from Pacific Grove
His plane Went in let the horn catch the torches flame that is set burning at this the water’s edge let it
Show the Burning his voice touched and burned those sweet lyrics into our conscious memory how
Fitting the surf Rolls in his words flow into our heart the trumpet notes set the tone of his life it
Configures and shows in the ocean spray the gifts he shared he gave rocky mountain memories do they
Not rise as we continue our vigil where his earthy journey ended but in the endless waves he will always
Be singing his voice Follows the sunset into shadows of sleep with pleasure we attest to the melody that
His soul was conceived in far west on the Hawaiian sandy beaches you can hear the trumpet peeling so
Appealing As the island girls sway in unison with the palms the soul of Polynesia whispers just under the
Glint of That sweet mellow horn they tell of life lived in a natural paradise the horn reaches back to
Those glory days before cement made its hardness felt truly a little grass shack held some times that are
Lost now when you walk city sidewalks that used to be barefoot paths that you slipped down to tell in a
Setting of pineapples papayas coconuts and sea shells of the love you feel as you steal away under the
Prominent shadow of Diamond Head I pledge to you my love and may we always play and live in this
These sweetest strings of pearl islands that is our home that ole horn picks upon the words about home
So it is seen gleaming in the morning light of San Francisco bay it picks up that international flavor it
Seems to play it says come and ride the cable car listen to the ring of its bell feel it sway know the
Feeling of the steel wheels on those shinning rails catch the a fresh breath as the silk from the shops in
China Town listlessly rise and fall you will feel the tie that stretches unbroken all the way to back to
Ancient Cathy the mystery and wonder that holds a culture in a tight pack where ever the peoples may
Live their roots are deep the wisdom of the parables that are themselves as silk colorful meaningful and
Ever so practical the trumpeter catches that feeling in the chilly morning air when the night follows day
He can be found on the dinner boat that plies the bay you can see Ghirardelli square its height its white
Burning name is a must see and feel and then to go by the Golden Gate the pylons the amber lights the
Black Waters a mix of eerie magnificence pervades your mind as he lays deep on his horn the night
Deepens essential qualities that are uniquely California emerges as the sounds of his horn drifts away on
The waves in the golden state of many golden dreams and paths

I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******* of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******,
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this  accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-****** tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to  be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am  purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****,
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and  gays,
to quench his mad ******  appetite
the turf in which i am a  better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact  gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i  have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly  solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for  liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.

I see a girl
jumping from the Big Dipper
onto the object to which
the action of the sea is directed.

She takes flight,
with the boldness of a Willow Ptarmigan,
and soars high above
Palmer and Seward and the bowl of Anchorage.

She lands atop the snowy slopes
of Denali and carves her way down
into the withered trees of Ghost Forest.

She swims among the Aleutian Islands,
floats on the waves of the Turnagain Arm,
and basks in the waters of the Gastineau Channel.

I see a girl
whose eyes sparkle brighter
than Klondike gold,
and whose voice whispers more beautifully
than the wind that blows
through the great land of Alyeska.

Boy meets girl.
Girl marries boy.
Baby comes nine months later
— blessed little killjoy.

Boy neglects girl.
Girl henpecks boy.
There'll be hell to pay
for slighting Helen of Troy.

Such an elegant fear,
this alliance, and yet,
when it's held in selfish hands
it merrily dissolves,
turning as tedious
and drab as Shakespeare.

Boy annoys girl.
Girl leaves boy.
It takes a special kind of madness
in building to simply then destroy.

Turn the other cheek
and Judas will kiss that one too,
reduce the bairn's fever
by visiting daddy's igloo.

Weekends are pay toilets
and happy meals,
frustration is a word all too real.
When did antipathy begin to rule?
About the time diplomacy was forced
into playing the fool.

The good times no one catalogues,
this life has gone straight to the dogs.
The Iditarod Trail extends
from Seward to Nome.
Run the race and make believe
the kids are tucked in safe at home.

According to Dorothy
there's no place like it.

I went there without you.
I followed rivers to their oceans
as another after another cigarette
hung from the corner of my mouth.
I sat underneath a Seward sunset
and argued with God about
how I didn't want to die
and He kept telling me to
give living a try.
So, I met Satan in
San Diego, and we took a
walk down the Pier as I
folded origami.
I told him I was afraid
of death, but he was distracted
by blondes in bikinis,
so I threw the crane
into the water and watched
as it was devoured by the tide.

I sat with Jesus in Gethsemane
and asked Him if I had a bed in Heaven.
In return, He asked me to stay awake with him,
but the Klonopin was kicking in
and I was too tired to watch Him weep.