A feeling of beautiful vulnerability and embarrassment dripping down the length of your spine, focused to a float in your chest and a cloud around your neck gently reminding you of wisp-blank intangibility.. it's that feeling of vacuous shame you had as a teenager after ******* when you had to sit and eat and face your parents dinner, and so you sat in afterglow of cloudy sadness as if all could see but the ache of that shame was a wet wet drip-facet alone in grandmas warm house after everyone's asleep you can see the lights of a ski hill in distance-- that lonely place the soul keeps peeking out of and right now it's so beautiful and you can't face a face but ******* the drip wet wet makes you feel alive-- .. it's an openness out of which a flow of melancholy creeps into the solar plexus and jiggles around in your stomach like liquid in a water balloon.. it is the ache of wholeness and the writer of poetry, an angelic potential to death and a demonic potential to life.. existence is wet, soaking beauty and a sadness inseparable from happiness.

This is your brain on fire. This is your brain at peace.

in the same way you do not choose your ****** orientation, you do not choose whether or not you accept the status quo as is.

if you cannot enjoy a typical wage labor 9 to 5, that is just as much a part of your personal physical constitution as **** or heterosexuality. Just as much as there is a physical difference between the brain of the poet and the brain of the CEO, the gay and the straight, the Buddhist and the Christian, the average and the post-traumatic, the loose and the fundamentalist, the oppressed and the oppressor, the man and the woman.

our world is built on generalization. if it cannot define you as wide, it will narrow and narrow and narrow until the grand generalization can enslave the marginalized categories to it's non-existent objectivism.

God is dead. By God, Nietzsche meant mans search for objectivity.

unlock the *******
door
and burn
your worthless
commandments.

they mean nothing
unless someone agrees.

and they can only
agree
for so
long.

all misery

it seems to me

is rooted

in a lack

of freedom.

fitted dots
to particles
fasting on
insanity

dreaming of
a brittle
sack battle
on beaches

silted rocks
on depth
paternal

hereditary
slush of my
guts and my
guttural
attempts

at
insular
perspective

these

thoughts
are alive
now.

Best of all, there are lives in every skin. They know the words to your favourite language and the aching corporeality of smoke wisps as overused poetic analogy-- sativa with grapefruit, the particulars speak in toungezzz and sometimes I smoke **** and I'm so hungry, but I'm not hungry.. 6 o'clock and Dionysius means what the heaven needs **** done, it's awful-- no misfit twists and yab blam undeclared winter this year we call Fort Summerforever, BLANK, BLAM, expressive bottom-line, you don't look around anymore and check the bookshelves of your lives for those lucid Lucy detailers, trailers a warmer word for tracers, do the replacement parts fit all of the models and every time I went back to Trippy's it was the same guy, $70, oh the whole **** with the slide and all flattened preference to how in-this we are, how imagine how mystical, hanging those mushrooms on the wall, that weird pipe, cover ashes I dunno. In here it was I / thou and the digital paper-- I climb behind the eye and continent for a moment and hear see do 'it was a huge *** bag just filled with all this ****' bazooka balloon. crick the neck to create a feeling, oh but you'll listen to be come and *be