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Ⅰ Lonely without a woman blues Yes I’m lonely with my woman gone Talkin’ without her I can only lose sings the blues singer on the street of Chicago, alone, on a trash can on the ***** ground, singing for passer-bys, for nobody. Smoke, cars honking, trash littering, gum getting spit out, crowded shops and diners, alleyways filled w/ homeless, broken, blasted, battered. The Asian and the African, the European and the American, are united not in the ties of art or beauty, but in the ties within and without this ***** ******* city w/ blues singers lining every street. Those who sit in yellow taxi-cabs resting their heads on the windows in the rain, feeling, asking for holiness, for return to Adonai, only to return to studio apartments. Those who turn on CNN and see American bombing Iranian bombing Isrealan bombing Russian bombing Chinan bombing my ******* which is inevitably filled w/ a strangers **** every night. Those who look to the light only to be blinded, cover their eyes only to find that they are blind, unable to see the light anyway. Those who walk to school in uniforms of ***** baggy jeans and forsake the ground under their feet so that they can return home at the end of the day w/o guilt of sin. Those who lay broken and tired in bed at the end of the day from working for eleven dollars an hour. Who yearns for a woman, and retreats into himself out of, not fear, but extreme desire. Who shapeshifts into another, a stronger self, a sexier self, a self without a self, w/o a mind for love, without a mind at all. Who witnesses controlled nuclear tests in Nevada from a mind too ***** to realize itself, or unto to realize its flowing tenderness. Who refuses to ask, sitting in a golden ballroom at a golden table, using the pocket-method to play with himself, to ********* into his hand. Who stands in front of Trump Tower, only for an earthquake to bring him into a hidden hell filled w/ endless greed and meaningless sexuality. When the Capitalists and the Marxists and nuclear bombs have all had their fun what hope will they have for a peace within themselves, without knowledge of peace? When yearnings and thoughts in the darkness are lightened and they're forced to stare at their ugliness? When to circle freedom w/o touching it and voided the sight of the green pasture of the ancient temples? When the contributions to hedonism outgrow the contributions to the arts? when all technol- ogy becomes a ring of hedonism? When there ceases to be an anchor of love and all love collapses into hate? When sleep ceases to cure drowsiness and the only remedy is to stay up until midnight for neverending ****** When *** serves to create nothing but loneliness and no longer is there any or innocence to be had ever? When novelists sit down at a typewriter w/ their **** in their hand and write down only what gets them off and publish it to be read by other ***** novelists jerking off? When newspaper articles read headlines of plagueings of controversy mixed w/ plagueings of bombings? When they are cuffed on sidewalks screaming and left there through the night, hands and long hair hanging above them? When bulges of bulges of neverending **** and ***** reach the end of the plain of the White House and declare as their own, only for different ***** and ***** to return and retake it, and repeating repeating repeating? When the only bringings of the Constitution are miscalculations and unfortunate rumors and misgivings of the human spirit, and called out by cynical pseudo-intellectuals w/ their ***** up their own ******** When the blues singer goes out of tune and picks up his guitar and retreats into his home in dirt of a city w/ a name long forgotten? When the ordained minister is so overwhelmed w/ desire he is forced to be dragged to an asylum never to be spoken to again? When the asylum is overrun w/ ***** ordained ministers and is forced to release them back into the wild and set upon their prey, crying, screaming? When the tears become invisible droplets in a downpour of other tears, of the cries of mothers fathers children? When the sky is so black as the night that the stars are visible more in the daytime, and the constellations become Picassoesque nightmares? When the history book are left on the ground, thrown out windows, used as toilet paper, clinging to ******** When they are constantly high on dope and live for the dope, die for the dope, can no longer function w/o a drug fueled trip to Las Vegas? When April is not the month of bliss or the month of degradation but just another month in a neverending year, years, neverending? When the excellent joys of youth are forgotten and only to be remembered in the journals of those aging in a forgotten psychiatric center? When the Odysseus of today is less of a polytropos and more of a polytripper, bringing w/ him only drunken made up tales of bards and ***** When traincars stop moving in the middle of their tracks, leaving those inside to pound on walls, windows, steel? When theatres cease to show films and instead show pornographical misadventures featuring a character named O who gives a **** When the last sunbeam of the day reaches down, giving light to the moon and releasing all those who bathe in it’s light, in it’s misgivings? When the shores of Egypt cross onto the shores of New Mexico, creating a new shore filled w/ Prostitutes upon prostitutes upon prostitutes? When a black cat crosses unto the path ahead and curses all those to cross, that will cross w/ bad luck? When I am too tired to take another step and fall onto the floor in front of my door in the hallway of my apartment building in Chicago? Ⅱ A field of wheat in midwest America, withering into that which only brings fear, longing. Rye ceases to be grown in America, only can there be an assortment of dust, black, and the weaknesses brought on by two hundred fifty years. I sit in the back of an almost empty room contemplating feelings long buried within a long corridor kept in the back of my mind. Contemplating friendship, *** money, loneliness, poetry, *** the New York Times, *** more *** I walk through the streets of Chicago naked and with no name like many of those I see and carry w/ me their desire for accountability of what they know is guilty, when the fault is not to be theirs. I wake up and am unable to recognize the ceiling above me, my resting place, the neverending maze, a home, a home. There’s snow falling from my open window into my bedroom, laying on my carpet, colding my feet as I step, walk along on it. Staying up late into the night sitting on a cold bench looking up at the stars, still visible, an unlit cigarette in my hand, contemplating should I light it? What can I call up late at night to ease me to sleep and whisper to me? I try not to repeat myself in lines with an empty notebook and listen to crying, tears falling, the sound of aging bringing changes upon changes to become unrecognizable. Looking with my face inches away from the infinite knowledge in my palm too unable to search meaningfully. Reading quietly in my empty room to search for a self I can love so that I can become what in the end I really want to be. Making love to a girl light years away from me wishing to be as close as the air, who really did nothing wrong but still is unable to bring an end to April. I pawn vintage letterboxes so that I can escape from an unending present into a rose tinted past which I am willing to accept. Ancient texts overwritten to follow in the footsteps of that past, but ultimately missing the point and the beauty, failing ourselves. Reaching rhythms rapping on the wall, blasting, making my ears bleed, a blood that can only be washed away by the whispers of time. Ⅲ Makob with me when she wrote me a letter and I was too tired too drunk to care. Makob with me when lightning shook the angels, bringing down heaven from above only for us to taste only flames. Makob with me when I am the man of sorrows, who’s punished by the lord, by the rejection the lord. Makob with me when cattle grazes into the North and light ceases to be dripped down from the sun. Makob! Into the arms of a man who promises to hold me throughout the night! Makob! Away from my typewriter! Makob! Carrying with me into the pantheon the screams of my Mother! Makob! Crying in the daytime in the nighttime for Mother, I miss you! Makob! For Allah for Buddha for Adonai for Christ! Makob! Makob for all! All Makob! Ⅳ I am born out the womb and into the world into Mother, sloth into Father, envy into Sister, gluttony into Brother, lust into Adam, pride into David, greed into Chicago, wrath.
0
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 11:27 AM UTC
max-william-steele
Chicago
Ⅰ Lonely without a woman blues Yes I’m lonely with my woman gone Talkin’ without her I can only lose sings the blues singer on the street of Chicago, alone, on a trash can on the ***** ground, singing for passer-bys, for nobody. Smoke, cars honking, trash littering, gum getting spit out, crowded shops and diners, alleyways filled w/ homeless, broken, blasted, battered. The Asian and the African, the European and the American, are united not in the ties of art or beauty, but in the ties within and without this ***** ******* city w/ blues singers lining every street. Those who sit in yellow taxi-cabs resting their heads on the windows in the rain, feeling, asking for holiness, for return to Adonai, only to return to studio apartments. Those who turn on CNN and see American bombing Iranian bombing Isrealan bombing Russian bombing Chinan bombing my ******* which is inevitably filled w/ a strangers **** every night. Those who look to the light only to be blinded, cover their eyes only to find that they are blind, unable to see the light anyway. Those who walk to school in uniforms of ***** baggy jeans and forsake the ground under their feet so that they can return home at the end of the day w/o guilt of sin. Those who lay broken and tired in bed at the end of the day from working for eleven dollars an hour. Who yearns for a woman, and retreats into himself out of, not fear, but extreme desire. Who shapeshifts into another, a stronger self, a sexier self, a self without a self, w/o a mind for love, without a mind at all. Who witnesses controlled nuclear tests in Nevada from a mind too ***** to realize itself, or unto to realize its flowing tenderness. Who refuses to ask, sitting in a golden ballroom at a golden table, using the pocket-method to play with himself, to ********* into his hand. Who stands in front of Trump Tower, only for an earthquake to bring him into a hidden hell filled w/ endless greed and meaningless sexuality. When the Capitalists and the Marxists and nuclear bombs have all had their fun what hope will they have for a peace within themselves, without knowledge of peace? When yearnings and thoughts in the darkness are lightened and they're forced to stare at their ugliness? When to circle freedom w/o touching it and voided the sight of the green pasture of the ancient temples? When the contributions to hedonism outgrow the contributions to the arts? when all technol- ogy becomes a ring of hedonism? When there ceases to be an anchor of love and all love collapses into hate? When sleep ceases to cure drowsiness and the only remedy is to stay up until midnight for neverending ****** When *** serves to create nothing but loneliness and no longer is there any or innocence to be had ever? When novelists sit down at a typewriter w/ their **** in their hand and write down only what gets them off and publish it to be read by other ***** novelists jerking off? When newspaper articles read headlines of plagueings of controversy mixed w/ plagueings of bombings? When they are cuffed on sidewalks screaming and left there through the night, hands and long hair hanging above them? When bulges of bulges of neverending **** and ***** reach the end of the plain of the White House and declare as their own, only for different ***** and ***** to return and retake it, and repeating repeating repeating? When the only bringings of the Constitution are miscalculations and unfortunate rumors and misgivings of the human spirit, and called out by cynical pseudo-intellectuals w/ their ***** up their own ******** When the blues singer goes out of tune and picks up his guitar and retreats into his home in dirt of a city w/ a name long forgotten? When the ordained minister is so overwhelmed w/ desire he is forced to be dragged to an asylum never to be spoken to again? When the asylum is overrun w/ ***** ordained ministers and is forced to release them back into the wild and set upon their prey, crying, screaming? When the tears become invisible droplets in a downpour of other tears, of the cries of mothers fathers children? When the sky is so black as the night that the stars are visible more in the daytime, and the constellations become Picassoesque nightmares? When the history book are left on the ground, thrown out windows, used as toilet paper, clinging to ******** When they are constantly high on dope and live for the dope, die for the dope, can no longer function w/o a drug fueled trip to Las Vegas? When April is not the month of bliss or the month of degradation but just another month in a neverending year, years, neverending? When the excellent joys of youth are forgotten and only to be remembered in the journals of those aging in a forgotten psychiatric center? When the Odysseus of today is less of a polytropos and more of a polytripper, bringing w/ him only drunken made up tales of bards and ***** When traincars stop moving in the middle of their tracks, leaving those inside to pound on walls, windows, steel? When theatres cease to show films and instead show pornographical misadventures featuring a character named O who gives a **** When the last sunbeam of the day reaches down, giving light to the moon and releasing all those who bathe in it’s light, in it’s misgivings? When the shores of Egypt cross onto the shores of New Mexico, creating a new shore filled w/ Prostitutes upon prostitutes upon prostitutes? When a black cat crosses unto the path ahead and curses all those to cross, that will cross w/ bad luck? When I am too tired to take another step and fall onto the floor in front of my door in the hallway of my apartment building in Chicago? Ⅱ A field of wheat in midwest America, withering into that which only brings fear, longing. Rye ceases to be grown in America, only can there be an assortment of dust, black, and the weaknesses brought on by two hundred fifty years. I sit in the back of an almost empty room contemplating feelings long buried within a long corridor kept in the back of my mind. Contemplating friendship, *** money, loneliness, poetry, *** the New York Times, *** more *** I walk through the streets of Chicago naked and with no name like many of those I see and carry w/ me their desire for accountability of what they know is guilty, when the fault is not to be theirs. I wake up and am unable to recognize the ceiling above me, my resting place, the neverending maze, a home, a home. There’s snow falling from my open window into my bedroom, laying on my carpet, colding my feet as I step, walk along on it. Staying up late into the night sitting on a cold bench looking up at the stars, still visible, an unlit cigarette in my hand, contemplating should I light it? What can I call up late at night to ease me to sleep and whisper to me? I try not to repeat myself in lines with an empty notebook and listen to crying, tears falling, the sound of aging bringing changes upon changes to become unrecognizable. Looking with my face inches away from the infinite knowledge in my palm too unable to search meaningfully. Reading quietly in my empty room to search for a self I can love so that I can become what in the end I really want to be. Making love to a girl light years away from me wishing to be as close as the air, who really did nothing wrong but still is unable to bring an end to April. I pawn vintage letterboxes so that I can escape from an unending present into a rose tinted past which I am willing to accept. Ancient texts overwritten to follow in the footsteps of that past, but ultimately missing the point and the beauty, failing ourselves. Reaching rhythms rapping on the wall, blasting, making my ears bleed, a blood that can only be washed away by the whispers of time. Ⅲ Makob with me when she wrote me a letter and I was too tired too drunk to care. Makob with me when lightning shook the angels, bringing down heaven from above only for us to taste only flames. Makob with me when I am the man of sorrows, who’s punished by the lord, by the rejection the lord. Makob with me when cattle grazes into the North and light ceases to be dripped down from the sun. Makob! Into the arms of a man who promises to hold me throughout the night! Makob! Away from my typewriter! Makob! Carrying with me into the pantheon the screams of my Mother! Makob! Crying in the daytime in the nighttime for Mother, I miss you! Makob! For Allah for Buddha for Adonai for Christ! Makob! Makob for all! All Makob! Ⅳ I am born out the womb and into the world into Mother, sloth into Father, envy into Sister, gluttony into Brother, lust into Adam, pride into David, greed into Chicago, wrath.
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