"MY" MANIFESTO IS AS FLOWS FOLLOWS:
SHE GOES IN THE WIND IN THE EFFERVESCENCE
OF THE NIGHT AND IN GALLANT STRIDES IT
GOES THROUGH THE WIND OF THE CITIES OF
MECHANISMS AND MINDS OF THOSE WHO
SUFFER UNJUSTLY BY THE SIGHT OF THE
MODERN. HE BRINGS THE DOG THE WATER AND
HIS DANCE LIGHTS UP A THOUSAND SHIPS, FOR
HIS HEIGHT BRINGS THE DOG THE WATER OF
THE MACHINE, AND IN THERE AND THEREIN IS
THE ONE THEY CALL LIFE AND HIS COMRADES
OF SORT AND SHAPE AND COLOUR AND SIGHT
AND SOUND. THEY CELEBRATE ALL THAT IS
UNSIGHTLY AND UNGODLY ABOUT A GOD
THERE BE, FOR IT IS ONLY IN BLOOD A MAN
SHALL PAINT THE BRIGHTEST BLUES AND THE
BLUES OF A DEEPER BROWN OF A DEEPER RED
OF A DEEPER DEEP. HE BRINGS THE TIME OF
DEED AND "GO DEEP" SHE SAYS! "GO DEEP!"

Dearest Britni,

I was warmed by your thermal tub, the belly of your indiscretions and the way you held those mule-hearts
in plastic jars beneath the cupboard where your favorite cups and coins were kept.  The magic beat of your fingertips made my skin jump crazy out of my shirt and pants.  I wonder if the turnover has always been this way for you, meaning to say, when the trips always ended did you take back the second pillow into the other room, where your ivory curtains opened, and did you feel the need to lock the door to your bedroom.

The word, 'house guest' implies less visitation privileges than actually took place.  I believe it was more of an involved visit.  There were certainly visitation privileges but there was also visitation writ.  I had to keep my jeans clean.  There were no shoes allowed in the bed.  And extracurricular activities were kept to their time tables-- that is to stay that spontaneity occurred only when it fit into the time table.  I was never much for making you lunch in the morning.  It has always been difficult for me to think of the meals before they happened, though I knew what was in every drawer, every closet, every cabinet.  The insides and outs of a decade of dreams.

In short time I became mesmerized with the perfect patterns in your arms and on your legs.  I could crook my head in a way to look at the sunset from under your arm or stand on a chair to look down at the top of your head.  And then one day you told me I was weird.

This time I wanted to be fulfilled.  I did not want to miss a thing.  I made sure to slide my fingers in between your toes, I squeezed the bottoms of your feet with the bottoms of my feet.  There are many recitals, many performances, and even more personal encounters that cannot be recalled to mind, but I am sure they happened.  If I had the opportunity I would attempt to pick your nose again.  Something I did every chance I had though you abhorred it.  To lick the side of your face, the bottom of your chin, the interior of your armpit, the lengths of your legs, and the rims of your lips-- I lived our life to the fullest.

All interactions were encouraged.  We played in sunlight, in nightlight, during day showers, and ate by the seaside.  We traveled to four states, two lakes, and two oceans.  We drove in excess of 20,000 miles, received fifty-seven parking tickets, five speeding tickets, thirty-five thousand two hundred eighty four compliments, fifty-two salutations, fifteen, "you're an adorable couple," three hundred complimentary access, two free tickets to a museum exhibition, took over one hundred fifty flights between the two of us, and received your father's permission.  We slept in showers, swam in baths, and drank from swimming pools.  We shared the bathroom, the bed, and the kitchen sink.  I memorized how many times you rolled over when sleeping, and you told me what I talked about in my sleep.  I knew the five places you lived at and the four places you wanted to.  We danced in nightclubs, in bars, in schoolyards, in back seats and bedrooms, and ballrooms.  There were fifteen black tie events, one wedding, and over two hundred concerts.  I wrote over fifty thousand poems made over three hundred paintings, and took somewhere around twenty-eight thousand pictures.  I once took you to breakfast every morning for a week and dinner every night.  I bought you one hundred twenty six cups of coffee, fifty-two cocktails, and one Shirley Temple.  I only had to help you change clothes thrice, but I helped you undress over a thousand.  I always remembered to lift up you hair if I helped you put on a jacket, and never made you walk on the street side.

There were over 2,000 bands and artists I introduced you too.  You taught me about fashion, about photography, about being a good person.  We sang in the shower, sang in the car, whispered before falling asleep.  I sent you dozens of flowers and you watered them all.

In my favorite yellow chair I do not have any regrets or any wants.  I fulfilled a life time in two years.  I was an upstanding gentleman, always.  And then out of the blue you didn't want me to touch you anymore.  One time in an airport in DC we ran 48 terminals to see each other again.  You taught me not to be afraid of flying, that it's important to be myself.  And when it ended the first time I wrote you two letters a day for three months.

Tomorrow when I wake up I will make the bed, put the music on, smoke a cigarette, then take a shower.  Afterwards I will get dressed, grab my belongings and go get four shots of espresso like I have been doing every day for the past five years.  Everything will be the same.  At the end of the day, after work, after listening to a plethora of music, talking to a plethora of people, I will not talk to you.  After two years two years and 2,163 phone calls, I will not talk to you for two days in a row.  I will lay in my bed and count the mews, but I miss the weight on the mattress, the heat of your whole, the temperature of your voice, and the redolence of your perfume, but I will have no regrets when I rollover thrice, to the right, to the left, and to the right.

This rusty mesh wires gate
    Spreading into other focuses
Dreaming of subtle symbols
Excreting lovely notions
      Kind of float in my own stumble
  Exciting to see what’s next
I get scared and retreat sometimes
  But we all need sanctuary
                            from self image sometimes
       So what will this  stroll come to?
  And mostly it’s sorted ideas,
Fleeting fantasies,
              A whole lot of trying to think or do
Or something
   Forgetting is part of this process too
But I’ll stop to capture the moment
             The way the sun melted into
    Kind of fruity textures contemplating
        Lonely, but pure

Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a cheque and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick/messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolour night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?

Twice hardly could I believe mine eyes
As old sunset did arise
To and fro, the honeysuckle morn
That brought the nascent-sparkling dawn
So surely did I meet
The words so concrete
As grass and dew held sway
And all old scrolls had no delay
For beauty was the mare on which I rode
As the buck-toothed medallion began to corrode
Overlapping streams of great renown
All seeking the final ivory crown
In pillars of smoke, bellows of grass
The hastened steps of many a mass
Send their prayers to remorseful wind
For a useless chance to begin
The rhythms of Eunoia did spring
As the new decrepit moon was beginning

So beset was I with the city’s ills that I had decided to make it muse and dog. It would be from there that I would attain character and breed disdain. It was the city’s beating sun that made my skin crawl with darkness, the streets’ sharp nights that would eviscerate my wiry gut. In the beating, repulsive core of it all: the architect of my passage into all loves unknown. In that quick breath, I am not made a cynic by my pocketed demeanour. The cynics are stiff to love and unmoved by devotion. I am more brutish than those tired men; younger and filled with lashing virility. Through peaks and troughs, by veins and alleys, I am made whole and aware by motion and truth. This truth, I know: that master will cede control to the mammal, that frivolity will make way for chaos. In the age of tired bliss and hopeful terror, I could fasten myself to the reins and decry with swept breath; a vain dust in the wind. Instead, I will run and in that moment, be given up to love. A love so supreme it may gnash and look hideous. It is ill enough to think, and such incisions are the armour of the valiant.

I will stare at impudent reflection, and he will riposte with words that will tear at my suppositions. He will make me absolute- by my doing, and mine alone. In the simple hour, I see that every small movement is a microcosm of my Self. The act of lighting a match is then diluted into the whimsy of sparking the torch with nuclear fission. To be ablaze, then, is good enough and will atone me of my heritage- a heritage of vanity and shallow delight. When all dreams converge upon me, my shackles will cut me and throw me into the loose embrace of freedom. It will be painted in the image of *****, and all peers may peer and gawk, but not me. I have spent the past gazing through stolen periscopes, and piecing that frame of entropy in such lost silence. When the hawk of summer is finally shot dead by the falconer, he will steal its skin and thrive as the griffin of cold bedlam- where nothing grows to be forgotten, and nothing thrives to be forsaken. I will keep one hand open and one eye hidden, to shield my intentions and maintain the prized mark. There, am I not made man and bright by such exodus? Am I still the furrowed animal with sunken brow, sleeping at the behest of the sunset? If salvation will not follow, then I will afford myself time to wait and simmer in the tender visions of tomorrow. Be assured, though, that I lie in wait like the two-legged beast- the same beasts that crawled through the dagger sands and drowned under careless seas. In plight, I retain my name and definition. My mane is left unkempt as it desecrates the horizon behind me- soon to be below. I lie, herdless and tamed by instincts of the Bedouin- a steep and supple corpse. The sun too, knows my name now and it wishes to dominate me. When the white light swallows the grass ahead, I will climb-never crawl- to my cellar and continue to toil at my ill-gotten gains, my unremarkable shape.

i always feel so stuck, like there is this strange expectation of me, like i am not the person they are expecting, they are using, that they are searching for. Or perhaps i constantly feel like that towards everything. I belong, and yet i don't. people belong yet they dont.
constantly trying to beat others, yet never knew be friends with them was really the answer. I am not involving myself enough yet i never want to be. I try then act like I never tried, blame others for annoying me yet allow them to.
I use platforms as an escape from people yet show the same people as a way of being accepted straight after. I do things behind people's backs only to tell everything later. i want to be free yet i have no clue what of.i dont know what is trapping me, but i just know it is. im writing things for myself only to tell them to others.
i message people and they finally reply, then only to feel abandoned again. Things come and go, but never here forever or for very long.
i complain of eyestrain yet stare continuously at the screen like some kind of void for the stress and blame inside me.