Jealous of a person that I don't even know
Angry with the person that let me go
I hardly recognize who I am anymore
Never have I harbored this much bitterness before

Walk me through the differences between me and her
Like walking the whole distance California to Virginia
A task so vast it seems insurmountable
Tell me what it means to you to promise things in double

Do you take her to the same places you and I would go
The thought of her tainting our lookout is enough to make me burn
Take her hammocking in our tree in the park close to school
At galaxie view remember when it was my body lying next to you

West Beach, Thousand Steps, Newport 56
Huntington, Laguna, San Diego for a switch
There is nothing new you possibly could do
Drive the whole coast searching, but you and I did that too

I hope I drive her crazy
I honestly hope she hates me
I hope I cause you lots of problems because your dreams still portray me
Realizing on the daily how you mistakenly betrayed me

I hope when you're with her you feel haunted with regret
I hope the thrill falls flat and conversation lies dead
And you walk away painfully aware
Of the fact that what we had was rare

Not every girl can take the late night thoughts you gave me
If you write her paragraphs past midnight
Then you're downright ******* crazy
Playing house with every person who is duped into the role play

If anyone asks, jealousy made me

I carry it on my back
when I'm here, I'm not really here
parts of me are scattered in different places
it's a little exciting, but mostly unsettling
I never unpack
my mind moves, and sometimes my body can't keep up
I am in so many parts that sometimes I lose some of the pieces
it's hard to keep it all together, especially the tiny bits
I don't live here, but I'd like to
I take the 78 to the 5 to the 405 to the 22,
the 405 to the 710 to the 5 to the 101
and I'm off at sunset.
I am trying to build something,
but it is hard without a foundation.
it is hard to build something out of a suitcase.

It is true one mind sees bloodsport in the heavens
and cringes in dread of feeling
kindly, like if that were me, what would I do but die?

nada, right, pass on

thank y'mam, feeling kinda woozy, ever after
seeing
2020 on TV…

Google the violence, ohshitnoknowknow we all know
enough evil to know it don't work like on TV, ever
after one burn, you know, fire works, every time,
to destroy at the touch

thunder, such a holy sound in the desert summer moment
on earth, around the middle,
not too cold in the winter
makes too hot to work in the summer, just
fine.

That's right. Life is like that, if you live in the right state of mind.

Back to the Future, once more, it is
always on or in the library,
ask libby, who in the whole world
before

my generation… we who did not get
stuck wishing we would die
before we got old…
who among us now is we the people minded?
Post war knower bubblers expand
until we pop like matured
pods of what people can be if we live this long.

Trouble your own house, inherit the wind,
as part of the meek inheritance agreement accepted
with the weather.

Earthlings all, hear ye, severe storms are part of the deal.
Free ticts to ever after on Bucky Fuller's spaceship,
Sagan's pale blue dot,
live to tell

we learned no lie may be belived and be survived.

We first saw earth from the moon.
More boomers blew minds beyond their
own imaginings, back then,
listen in radioman's
morphic broadcasts
from Khai Vinh,
the fishnet factory,
legendary - now ifier loosed for the attention paid

do you hear what I hear?
did we know the meaning in happy Sisyphus,
or did we find it known and tag along?
Like a rolling stone.

Underneath a sun baked deck in San Jose
A flower was born.
Sun dappled, it unfurled its small green hands toward the lawn where
Globes of water still sat on the shoulders
Of green grasses to catch a glimpse of the sky,
who's cool breath had so recently whispered them into being.

Every day, as the sun peeked through the
Slats of gray wooden decay, the focus of it's impeccably golden eye would enevitably fall upon the delicate petals of a small blue flower.

Where had it come from, such a flower? Fallen out of its sleeve on the way to the garden? Had it been blown astray in one big gust? Where were the other flowers then?

They are gone. The Partridges disbanded long ago and left in their place a corpse
of tortured cedar, concrete, and angry hot metal. All now home to one small blue flower, who dances whenever given the chance in the spotlight of it all.

I only tell you this because because I watched that flower die this summer. After a gaggle of men pealed back the carcass-home, a flood of light came tumbling down upon all that had unknowingly benefitted from its protection, mostly weeds.

I should say, the lawn was the first to fall, well before the house itself, though it fought valiantly.
Hoisting its mystical morning globes skyward, like an offering. Golden death still spread like a flood across the lawn, catching every unshaded corner until all was bleached and unremarkable to look upon.

I remember how odd it must've looked, one blue flower shooting up from the grey mounds and yellowed grasses. How excited I was to see something so small and beautiful set free. How long I lingered there waiting for it to die.

Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing  I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.

As stately as a Redwood and as strong
as the gray cliffs of the Sierras,
as warm as the sun on the kelp-strewn sand.
I remember her musical voice and I hear
the murmur of the waves
and the whisper of the wind
in the Eucalyptus trees.
I see the limitless ocean and sky,
remembering her beautiful blue-green eyes.

Sunshine, Birdsong;
Early morning breeze.
Quiet.
The comedown off of loud sound
that was the night before.
Psychedelic fizzles that sizzle the mind-
This I've begun to adore.
George,
offering me a warm smile & friendly breakfast-
The beginning of sound.
Midday found,
the hippies begun to emerge.
A surge of smoke sent up into the sky.
Oh my,
So merry that I could
Party with the Pranksters.
The Danksters,
the dabbers,
the peace lovin' blissful blabbers.
A family of freaks
that speaks to me
And this love that I've been after.