already
I begin to wonder
whatever became of you?

for the record,
I miss
your
face.

the dispositions
changed
and we deserve a
trial

and for the record

I miss
your

face.

for the tricycle of a night, I conclude my life is becoming a literary event and I feel the poetry seep through every moment tinged with a beautiful narcissism some would call belief in myself or self-love self-help I'll-help-myself, thanks. I finally discover a glancing insanity of charm and wit- liberation, insanity, perspective, depends (on what) ?

I am slowly a freeman working freely in the free market freaking out in ecstatic *** for the world as a whole and even being kicked out of a pretty girls room for obnoxious insomnia gives me a reason to kiss the clear sky of melancholy happy-sad with another 'thank you' for making me whoever the hell I am, GOD, THANK YOU

it's another beautiful day in paradise, tossing dice to skew the probability in the direction of *it's the beautiful whatever and you're welcome for everything

believe me when I say I'm drunk and n
o one heard you speaking your name I
forgot it Love Dove Treasure Trove open
me to page 127 to see if you believe in any
thing at all, or if something might occur in

talk is cheap

so is gum

so let's buy a pack of

alltalknoaction with a

hit of *allworkandnoplaymakesjackadullboy

I will never

not

crazier and stranger than you was the fact that it

                                                               ­             never

                                                               ­            opened

                                                         ­                      up

I consider myself a pyromaniac by design.
**** me softly with your absence --- you ar
e dead to me as in you are gone, but you
continue to haunt my loneliness with your i
nflicted trauma. and all I want to do is make
you understand that *you are an evil disc of
make-believe in make-up - - - you are not m
y sun - - - you are a cheap fluorescent ligh
tbulb hanging by a dusty chain and it's been e
asy finding a replacement with every step outsi
de - - - even the most overcast days are brighter
than you.

be the cigarette that lets the Manchurian
candidate wear your socks to a job interview
because his are all piled in the corner of his
bedroom like a group of dead Kennedy's... bad
thought will never take you home again. the
good is found beyond your comfort zone, so
ride the waves, captain cherokee! and when
the invisible hand of graduality cleaves you
from my marrow, there is nothing but the irk
of a waterfall beyond my cheek-bone, dripping
from the red corners of his chapped lips,
bleeding in the autumnal creek of Octoberish
winterfreeze  

the poem ended where it did, as my inspiration
faded into caffeine insanity and the cipralex kept
me MDMA'd to the glowing grave.

beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful ! ! !

we've all seen each other from a distance - never behind the eyes, where in time, we find ourselves eyeing the mind we all hypothesize lies inside - but can you look behind your eyes and see this mind you're so convinced is in hiding? where is the mind that keeps lighting my iris to allow for this writing?

the same question begs a Q and A session with the mesh inside insanity- my congestion, depression, transgression, suppression- Civilization and It's Discontents- it's inaccurate content, its torment to the inner accent I would consent to except I'm too poor to see you anew as I accrue symbolism and make do- I love you. All of you.

Through this fickle piece of data floating through space-time I make rhymes and say I'm a poet- but all I am are the words that are spoken so potent, I don't even live here inside of my head, I'm just a guest at best- perhaps a bird making nest for the rest of my life- after that, the soul flies into the radio wave of the grave where my behaviour is so unpredictable, it's unthinkable - I become what is represented in the word 'God,' 'Brahmin,' 'Ultimate reality,' the finger pointing at the moon and not the symbolist insanity - I

become

your

sight,

_ _ _

I

become

your

underbite.

you asked who you met the other weekend at that party - let's just say, you met a part of me. you met a version of you who you knew the moment you exited your mothers womb - the great thoughtless void you enjoyed - toyed with - left to sink into faceless space so you could run this pointless race and have fun doing it.

you can't win the human race, because the finish line is hiding in the that space behind your face - it's like you cross the line, and you die. disappear - and it all goes back inside the box - the creatures, the cash, and the clocks - a vulture squacks as your feet rot inside your socks and the trees mock your transience - the universe is a wave of ambiance monitoring itself through every iris shaping words to papyrus.

we are the sound, and we are the silence

we are the peace, and we are the violence

we are the religion, and we are the science

we are the doctors, and we are the clients

we are all enemies in secret alliance

what is the sound of one hand clapping? (clap hand)
so much for zen... so much for Rimbaud, I rub my eyes with cayenne so you can laugh at my pain and say, "now that's a comedian," he's sweating, look at the grease on his chin. look how he declares war on himself when he tries to find zen, he's giving up with this 'trying' as a way of trying again, he's crying again, sighing, seeking, writing, tightening the loosening bolts in his skull as he seeks out his peace in the peeled potato where the point is to think of potatoes, not Plato, not Aristotle, oh God oh I condemn all these looping mazed thoughts to a bottle

first, it's beer, then it's wine, then it's ketamine time till I finally find there is nothing to find and I'm fine but the feeling is gone in the morning...
we've all seen each other from a distance - never behind the eyes, where in time, we find ourselves eyeing the mind we all hypothesize lies inside - but can you look behind your eyes and see this mind you're so convinced is in hiding? where is the mind that keeps lighting my iris to allow for this writing?

and she is a mist who flew through me- lingered- and now she has passed- the beach is clear as day and I can see for thousands of miles around me. I  am free. She was a fog- the only thing standing between me and the clarity of mind I deserved. the ambiance of mist is a beautiful anomaly, but eventually a life lived in overcast conditions begins to drain the mind of clarity and well-being. it was inevitable; the mist would eventually clear. and the sun has returned to show me - *all weather clads the earth, but forever and always I shine above the clouds.

over the edge of the unitary verse written in the solitary confinement of the mind is where you went insane and began hallucinating the life you live today. there were flowers and knives. flowers and knives, waterfalls. countless counties all incorporated into greater provinces which collapsed into imaginary boundaries rung-up at the cash register as 'nation-states.' you waited months for nothing, only to toy with more escapist sentiment in the forked decision between reckless abandon and suicide. who are you to feel so entitled? who are you to imagine this life is something one could arrange from the silk and ore left strewn throughout the clear-cut forest of your atomic quarks or dendrites from string theory you can only create as a mental mural and never more? in the wake of your last moment in-sanity (prior to your exit from the womb) - you asked me what I meant when I was silent. I told you nothing - not as statement, but as silence - and you simply whistled and wailed in an ecstatic blend of distress and joy, happiness and sadness, elation and indifference, loathing and love - who was the angel detaching your pod from the mother-ship? you have never seen your mother from the outside before. you have only known her intimately - been a part of her. been her very soul. you have never multiplied like this before and that's what it is to know yourself. having children is your soul in transit - your soul multiplied by 2 - finally, the child gazes into your eyes and knows itself. knows who it used to be. knows it's departure is simply the addition of its perspective to the ever dividing multiverse. dust to dust, ashes to ashes one whispers upon the death bed. light to dark, something to nothing one whispers upon the death bed. the multiverse is a binary sequence of 0 and 1 in perpetuity - from birth to death to death to life to life to gone to gone to found from something to nothing to nowhere to you

reading these words

hearing them spoken

you are dreaming

you are always dreaming

you are a truth come dream and a dream come true

and you forgot. you still forget. you will never remember.

*you will never remember.

if i meant nothing to you the w
indows are not my friends and
the wind hits me my response i
s always 'ow! so who was i to
begin with? broken, disgusted
with this man made tragedy c
alled * l i f e * and who was i to
begin with? holden caulfield or
dead, perhaps, or said as you s
peak of me in past tense and i
speak of you with tenseness of
the neuron you are always smi
ling in my mind and you are al
ways smiling for someone else a
nd you never cry for me and as y
ou fade in the physical you becom
e the ghost inside of me haunting
every waking moment and dream
s. and dreams, for godsakes, drea
ms. i was never your other half bu
t you were mine - and i am looking o
utwards for solutions because the insi
de has been lampooned scorched eart
h history no longer eats me alive, you
are not dead - but you are not alive i
nside my head - you simply gaze and
smile and i know that smile is not for
me - he thrusts his throbbing **** ba
ck inside and you forget me with ever
y heaving breath and every successful
****** - i map the categories of a boo
kstore and the crevasses of my mind on
ly to find you with every corner turned
and every door i open.

Anya is lying next to me like a dormant sheet. The bed wears her as unassorted dress and I sit perked to her right, righting?

Writing.

What I'm writing about is better left unsaid for the darling teens afraid of themselves and unable to psychoanalyze through their fancied word. I guess I am a little afraid of myself but I'm not afraid to admit it and, if you ask the state, I'm an adult now. No ******* darling teen so you can tag your assumptions at the front door.

Anya slept over here last night and it's almost like the last 2 days are some ecstatic, beautiful blur. I can prove to you my state of disbelief by describing my Freudian revelation of a dream.

We were all down at the theatre. There was some strange minor citadel at the top of good old 1913 where some slightly chubby early-20's daughter-of-a-railroad-man watched these strangely Shakespearean woes on the street below. A little bleak and depressing.

I assume we were here for a movie. It was me, Anya, Felicia, and Chris. I could tell Anya liked me but I wasn't sure how to present my VCR of a heart to her and ask for the chance. So I didn't say a word. Instead I tossed boomerang smiles as the daughter-of-a-railroad-man gawked at my progressively punctured lung 2-stories up. I started trying to talk to Felicia because she seemed familiar and more likely, but she was taking photos of smoke-stacks and materializing groups of people so she had no time to listen, and I woefully backed off with an 'I'll tell you later, I guess.'

Things moved quickly at that point and it was like jogging through a Philip K. **** novel. I'd waited too long and Chris had his arm around Anya. I then backed off assuming the worst and as soon as I woke up I realized the dream had revealed a legion of my insecurities all out on a drill away from the main barracks, ready to march closer-to or away from my field of battle *** it was a question of Ghandi or God now.

A battle on open fields? Or non-violent resistance?

The funnier part of waking up was that my dream had been profoundly upsetting and darkly self-fulfilling, but this time it was a dream and what I woke up to wasn't the neutral dune of the everyday life of distraction, but one of those profoundly holy literature’s of the past 2000 years.

I suppose the biggest revelation the dream gave was the observation of my never asserting myself, nor in pursuit. Just the head-tilt mope of a poet with a bleeding heart that not only denies the need for bandage, but keeps double checking the hole is big enough to bleed but small enough not to **** me.

Have you ever seen those kinds of cars that look like they have teeth and eyes and noses?

tell me you believe in ghosts s
o i know who to believe / when
the time comes to ****** / all o
ver the ghost of your face / i pr
omise i won't forget to lie / and t
ell you that i love you / i cann
ot love you / because it is typical
to fear love when the chest is ope
n / the treasure found / and you l
ie dying with your heart still beati
ng in the October nightlife / believe
me when i tell you i wanted nothin
g / but

guts

(all you'll ever see are the shattered remains of our power game and my quest to retain my weight on the scale- - I'll never let you see the bone you broke, the piece you took, or the impossible daydreams of a solvent-sycophantic and hopeless romantic- - the fantasies of a happy ending I will entertain until the next lover appears and sees I repaired my soul with gold filler)

I will clamor atop mountains and fire flares from Everest to contest the interrelated anonymity of can'ts and don't's and wasted places with covered spaces taken by sadists with nothing left but the trace of a face; have-not's become robots in the mist of my nicotine blood-clot, distraught because it's all a ******* weak-spot

if you hit hard enough.

if you spit far enough.

if you write like it might make a difference and not just a scuff on the new polished hood of a ******* Mercedes Benz..

who are you again?

- - -

I tackled my trousers like they were Bowser in Mario, I'm still looking for my own impresario.. go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind.
as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. scared, frightened, lost to evil affinity with zilch for priority.

I'm aimless. Goalless and faceless a ghoul who wishes to fill his void with school.. but the rule is disillusioned, imprisoned and moving, and written on loose-leaf like life.

I'm worth the hype.

but I'm not your type, I'm your type-face and font, san-serif you flaunt, and look at us now, it's just blood on our hands.. our names written out in childlike comic sans. we wanted, we waned, we haunted, we craned

our necks

to look past the deck

saw islands as specs

in the distance.

this whole life is persistence, and some hallow insistence that I am much more than industrial pistons.. so listen

you wanted this, and I wanted that.. I'm not so pretty with eyelashes to bat, so instead I still sit and I sat.. past tense and all that, but the grammar is last in my mind as I tap on the keyboard.

"Sing Free Bird!" screams the crowd. "Be a Free Bird!" I vowed

to myself.. on a shelf, eyes wide open and melting the matter that makes up this tattered trash called reality; but in all actuality I'm actually insane. plain as a bagel washed-off in the rain.. and just as soggy.

just as groggy. just a hot-key for those who forgot me ( and they're all free... now).  

I wipe the sweat off my brow as I cow-tow to the ouch in my bones, a lack of texts to my phone as I read Buddhist koans while my stomach moans like the fall of the Roman Empire. my entire life is on fire.. or was. now it's just moldy, just old bread with a fuzz.. so I tossed it again and forgot about zen because it's irrelevant, not a 10 out of 10, I can name off the labels, samsara, nirvana, brahmanic, the Lama.. but somehow I'm just as empowered to cower.. to tower above like a camera angle provided by angels who dangle on quantum entanglement.  

I strangle myself in profundity, it's no fun to be me.. sometimes. but what do I see when I turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know that it's mine.

and I'm fine. as long as it's mine, I'm fine. I'll find my right rhymes as finite time slithers by. I'll find my right rhymes by the day that I die. and we'll all sigh in relief..

*** then I'll finally be the thief to steal your attention with words such as these:
go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind. as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. head spinning in constant affinity.

**finishing.

vested drearily over
a malty figure- eyes
are a dignified craft
of years spent perfecting
the grass of imperfection.
glasses prove that to
sharpen the mind, you
must dull the iris-- blink
twice every 14 seconds
as if he just woke up.
success is but happiness
of the absurd, and his
guise accepts the
statement that life is

so real

it's *surreal.

met her in the net
of wage-slave- airy.
she was an innocent
to death; a cloud
pedestrian waiting
at the back of the
line (because it wont
be her turn for another 30
years).

I handed her

a cigarette and she asked
me what I was looking at.

"The steet," I said, vocal
jut between glaciers of
phlegm,

"cobblestone
is so magnificent at
4 AM."

if you're in a dark place, where
you want to lash out with pettiness
and anger.. you want to insult someone,
express how hurt you are by what they
did.. do it. lose yourself in that dark place..
embrace it. become inspired with terror and
anger and malice. the 'enlightened' approach
is overrated.. it is also unnatural. be free to
express anger, sadness, malice.. embrace your
shadow. stop running from it. stop violently
repressing it with manners and futile attempts
at self-improvement. embrace your ego, because
the greatest ego trip is to think you have transcended
the ego. enlightenment is everything, because 'everything'
is non-dual. you are still a Buddha if you run your mouth
with angry knives. 'Nice' can be violent, because 'nice' can
imply self-oppression. Free yourself with a needed 'hey,
*******!'

you're alive. so you might as well admit it. lose
yourself both in beauty and in terror. let all of
it set you on fire with inspiration, and admit
that, sometimes, you really do just want to
watch the world burn, otherwise there is no
room for anything else to grow. let yourself
stoop to that level and admit you house evil
as well as good. you are night and day. it's
all part of the mad dance of life, so you
might as well turn the music up and stop
holding yourself down tooth-and-nail in
order to save face.

your anger is a beautiful thing. embrace it.
your sadness is a beautiful thing. embrace it.
your life is a beautiful thing. embrace it.

every last inch of it. every nook and cranny.

every dark vacuum and every bright field.

Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (you nihilistic *****!) she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)

God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")

you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter

*self improvement 46% complete