pain, pain,
regardless of the pain
i will be here in the rear-view
skating past and saying
'hell-ohhell-no'
to the passerby's in Jeep's and Prius
and Camry's
and Adidas shoes
all tattered and bled along highways
and back-roads of life.

when Robin Williams died by belt self-suffocation,
i was back in the dark of a previous mind and i cried
*** i saw myself in his suicide.
i saw my darkness colored in with pitch-black pastels,
*****,
grass-stains,
and infidelity..
toffee from a homeless man
and
i hand him a cigarette.

my lungs were never my life-force - -
my lungs were never my life-force - -

all the blurry peripheral city lights
dancing in my withheld tears
as i marched from Douglas to Yates
and the old Korean karaoke bar
with the silent tv
dancing asians moving mouth-muscles for nothing
as the song sings someone else to sleep in Seoul..

the unwashed windows 3 floors up the office building are the strangest thing i noticed in this delicate flood of hopelessness, seagulls screeching from spider-men perches
on street-lamp,
power-line,
construction crane

"I want to be a man again
*I want to be a mannequin."

I sat behind the barricade between the street, the bar, and the park overlooking that glistening pause-asteric of the water... my phone was clamped closed at zero battery life so I was alone with the city and the city was alone with me. as subtly as I could, I pulled my pipe from the bottom of my over-encumbered backpack satiated with 6 books (and they tell me knowledge is power, but they'll probably just drive me insane with question after question after question because the study of the world is one in which the brain falls victim to exponential growth 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256)

MY SKULL ISN'T BIG ENOUGH

I couldn't find my grinder, so I tore the bud by hand. More than half a nug was spent, pushed solid in place like a **** mound about to reach apocalyptic ****** thanks to the soft clitoral bonfire of a red Bic lighter.

blaze, set, and fade til you rise again
little stoner boy.