and here had you to come
along again, to turn but
rut down-in again. why
of purpose bound-to-barter
by the wind in ragged
motion; trees don't sway,
but, more-so, break and fray
when antithetic priest-like
figures moan-chant away
the now, the new, that
coming for-into a wounded
day.  a channel/offair.

some Catholic catharsis
and massively multiplying
paradigm shift;
do you fight the thought-flow?
through the catacombs
where you're nothing?
precipitate of participation
and attempted, forced, alliteration;
inconsistency, and in kind,
    (and onward Christian solider,
               play your cards right)
chomp the *******; maybe
out of context. always
throwing context; pseudo-
attempting contrast. scribblings
about the ancient gods.
random, fleeting, fancied-thought.
      in an abstract field at night;
at nigh. to be repetitive, and
in dredging the past of words
long-since winded. when
is the cohesive era played-
through of these little uttered lives?
these faulting breathless lines?

to come back to this, after much
a long minute, feels like a *****
returned to brothel; perhaps the
harshness of the analogy is hype-
rbole. won't let a Crowley
****-block me; sun's
  too bright for that.
      should shower,
         but drink wine,
    and this is perhaps a poor
         reactionary response; ironic;
the ironned-iconic. pressed to be
           pre-dressed, and no need to cut
  a styled up-do;
                the hair isn't quite real,
anyhow. all-quite polyeurathane,
   or polysylvester, or
              never too keen for poly-
anything.          now hold up.
      nah, keep on the
          struttin' along, there's a better
one than you follows a
                 winger's lead.
             smoking cigarettes at the window
     while she sleeps; thine own eyes
        never stop in faltering-rest,
then restless-hoping that
                   pen-scrawls, window
   scraping sides when opened,
smoking a cigarette at the window;
           rattle-restless, hope
      is a beggar, but we are manifest;
                choosers can't be beggars.

(making sure the
     crease is tight)

     bringing in massive amounts of
information in past few weeks; past
month finding excel for creative-effort.
     consolidation may be required; maybe
a bit of desolation left to wake. in wake.
had to specify; to make sure.
     quite some worded-path here-found
us our footfalls lay silent; untrodden
under-growth. the Void carries no sound.
     found Earthen-detachment after
land swept in tidaled-tears. seas colored
gray, reflection of vision lost from Light.
     retracted narration, refracted thought,
forcing pan-plane sight; listen, bones yet
vibrate once more. another time; now.
     pallet-hoarding bricks enough to path spanses in thought-memory. burn the
bridges while building; two birds,
one self-destruction.
     allegorical immolation; sat in silence a bit too far out there. synchronicity; some
perfect-hidden stalker.
     allegorical cave; words with no promise
of unison in conveyance. leading around
some Tree Of Flashing Visions.
     all-aligned eyesight as the sun dawns.
swimming head; mental-cud of knowledge.
at influx of Ones' differed perception.

                                   (making sure the
                                          grease is slight)

god isn't all back-talk,
but why do we ignore?
again repeated to save
the sleeper;
why not save yourself?
what may come after? and,
now writing by guided
half-light of morning;
purples hues, and
incandescent colorblindness
of a growing dawn.
drop your shoulders,
quit tying knots throughout
your back; how
can the Holy Fire strike
through layers of caked icing?
******* wash it away,
******* dust the flour
from your hair, attempt to
self-(lost the next word)
to remember
you came forth from nothing
to be gifted self-determination.
and realize, even god is cyclical
upon our dimension;
    wane to gain,
   return for praise from yearn.
there's fear, if only
because there's reality.
chills through spine, radiating
outward under skin; this is
melody's echo chamber -
hyperbolic time chamber in metre.

OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.

gods will author great disaster
to empty plenty-enough vessels. man
has always known man; blinded,
and heretical vehemence, testing
flaws cited by narrator. listeners,
to ennui, while dust-devils rise,
and fall, with time
to unheard metric-rhythm.
(never did we start the ticking-pace)
too stubborn, feuding selves to turn
brand around and unto Deity's forehead;
wrists given to be bound, willingly.
as always done for a chance at conne-
action through-vessel-from-soul
to shunt the earth;
dead now, always, also again
to beckon me in two and along
lost thought with the words
left to draft, held in mind.

burn **** down, whatever,
don't give a **** to prattle on
in youthless connection;
shown fear in a handful of dust, then
a lotta life on their face.
at least not all go hungry.
transcend dead-time,
know now how to be alive,
to find decisions forgotten of history.
now, walk away with interest at zero;
     stronger than enslaver.
     trying to frolic without
letting time fly, but check it out,
where did these rings come from? like
basic-complacency, sprouted
like grain, like burial flowers
wilted and browned; death in a hand-
full of dust, swept
in circles. tripping
in the muddle-colored puddles
with curious thought,
'When did the line
          move farther up the path?'

no longer scraping by
on less than best-intensity
hoping to strive
when never forging the effort
required to initiate willpower.
distract yourself into a wholly-
wholesome hell; from never,
to withered creativity
spurned of falsely-fading
memories. remember
to burn out right quick
when dawn rises;
always post-guidance.
(a giant to personify the weak)
to now remember, to now
give away obstinate pleasures,
accepting that,
perhaps -
*******, and say definitely -
there was never a forgotten-name
in a self-pressed image
within range of another's
perception. (exspansing)
feet still stink; grounded
yet? meandering along
patient-timing and aligning.
        "drink water, you growing boy."

there always-once will
lie anxiety from doubt
of the living without vessel;
only dies if it accepts
that kinda thing.
the less I know, the better,
with knees pulled to chest;
leaving small angles to
rest some paper and rest a wrist.
rest a forced stylus
leaving *******-blanks,
skanking up information.
[(like a harlot named Antounette)
I've never known an Antounette]
drugged and drawn, across tack-
board and it hurts,
but only till it doesn't;
rub salt into it till it bleeds.
there always-once will
be fawning for whom become
a character-study;
whom wandered along after
fingers were snipped.
swear, some joke of fate;
drawn in own creation, lame;
shredded over their creation,
fame.   constant pain of character
exuding into air, and, must be,
always downward.

starting with periwinkle,
when they say I'm colorblind
I cough a bit;
tarred-up heart, doncha
know, bless your little heart then.
I could run wild, given highs
that rare to lull;
now, a call to cull. I willing,
force the slaved ego.
I said never to capitulate;
how obstinate,      I;
swearing prostrate.
I, crying why?
"To live of metre,
  for to die in metre,   of course."
pretty cold-blooded, a moment
for I when I needs an eye;
prostrate, perfect,
composing ****** structure
in order for I to redeem
a gaze from hand
[when clock tick-tocks]
through wound of perfect grace.
feel all awkward, shut
the door right quick;
"Who the **** was that?"
               Suzie Black,
why you sulking around this I?;
why you balking around some lie?

in disguised fashion,
and contemporary flair -
****-laden euphemism -
rushing thoughtless at
bricked wall.
knowingly, no way
through, though run
on tip-toes to
gain agility of ancestors.
pseudo rain-dance;
      is that cultural
      or is it racism?
no room at the bottom anyhow;
we'll linger here
developing emotional interlingua
as means to better,
to comprehend gaped chasm;
allusions, perhaps
it's a bit more magic
oriented than prior presumed.
            (the ever consumed)
then fretful sitting,
continued curiosities of death;
      (perhaps hyperbolic?)
feet still stink ten years later
while linger understanding
of sepsis; is this life infected?
is this a gangrenous growth
in existence;
was dead at birth,
and rehearsed the gurgles
prone to an actor's drowning
monologue. euphemism?
perhaps only rhyming to
schism metric longings.

. . remember the Light. protecting what you used to waste. leave a legacy to ruin; acting a whole-while with lead-in brand, and one-night stand. HURRAY! running on, and always why cry to care and burden all with your emotions? how instatic are you? **** it; too quite. play a dealt hand for once; never be good enough. and **** whoever puts the cork in wine. and, no, you'll never be good enough; and you can sleep, or you can ******* die.

we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come harmonize. if not us,
then hunger-pains growling
can lead the line. and maybe
throw some stones to judge the
water sat tranquil; air
as other viscosity. breath-
less diving, racing stones to
bottom, yet vessel, feigning,
finds panic without gills.
hold breath till they find
their evolving times; die to
repetition, (along the way,
a few million times) we tend
to lose track, though. often.
always. another word here
to describe mans' deceptive time.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on along
and let us cease rocks thrown
through water at
the man trying so hard to drown.
the man hoping so full that
his organs be traded; skip
effort of a couple millennia.
like darkening skin without a sun;
evading darkness as well as Light.
striding on and over, bringing
prophetic words to forced-truth
on par servilitous, as
the mind's eye shuts another time;
perchanced final, no death knell.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come see him float the stones
thrown to water's bed, on back
of he whom failed to adapt.
failed to rush the process;
failed to see himself as the first -
beginning, to start the queue.
the stones had long been yearning
to float as not to be
any longer thrown-judgement.

. . make no sound; reminded of the friends loved and left. all the shame to how the fates will rain on you. oh how the days will rain on you. when too much room with the blink of an eye, something surreal, and the paranoia runs deep till anxious at base of soul. lilting. i want to be in freedom now; i will not wait forever; i want to sing till Babylon falls. (somehow i can't get through) why would i lie for. what would i lie for? who could i lie for? all my friends are my enemies and all those secrets that can never die. a little obsessed with death? (but memory) HOWL, *******. (birds of prey that mock the night) oh you ghost i'm craving most; spontaneous breath.

dreamlike sea-swollen
hair; tossled-storms.
you'll ruin this marker.
you'll ruin this life.

. . love is shaped, like cities burning; tracing fingers, soot and ashes. (yeah, kinda like that) don't get high off the marker; ****, yeah, we got there through wasting a ****** addict's table.
(hope you ******* read this)
pain is as much coping as it is a distraction; let the **** go. you're not held near-high; you know this. you know; where and what are you? slanted text, and there was given too much effort; too much thought; too much this self. birds of prey that mock the night, blood-howling animals, and YOU ARE NO BEAST. through the darkness, through the night; obviate names from your learned-nature long before the thought of landing. this world made for ending; howl, *******.

. .  he claimed to be a grid-diver; always sinking before being noticed. claimed himself impressed at this vessel's soul-detachment. once learned, be effective when ready to vanish; when ready to oust self from, well, anything requiring absolute dispersion. now though, feeling, all the leaving has been wasted energy; has been a lesson. of futility through, always learning, but i cannot escape mirrored-judgement. i will always remain near-center, until a vessel's final wastings. we wander not forward with end sought in mind, yet still forward with appreciation in understanding death-in-form already reaches out to affect influence. once ego, death requitted this once infant with affection and no grand-stand when revoked or rebuked of eternity's place upon him. sent loose unto waiting-game, meant for to conquer Sun and Time; death-hands applauding selfish-sincerity. wasting a gracious gift of lifted finger, continue, found lacking in all sincerity while sweating nervous thought of interaction. now, to be more than, well, more so beyond an existential probability. giving up to what knows next, covered in ink, and syncing words below riptide and current, but ******* drowning the vessel shall always over-ride; always over-ride; always over-arrive and come on too strong.
then slip when rebuffed.

starting, this power that's been so very
missed; longing, staring, as instrument become
effigy. no one tried burning it, though. maybe
a stake pre-posted could have helped with
that; then again, people don't like to be told
where, and most importantly what, to burn in
ritual. some family traditions die hard, or more
so, don't die at all. much like turtles - figure it
out; that's some analaphor. (that's some mis-
pronunciation, huh) and, here's a little add-in:
time will find this half-sheet; something, some
intangible being means to an answer. I never
even posed a question; paradoxical. You kept
me aware when a trip went a little too hard.
i have a timidness when thought turns to losing
this vessel. i'll ******* lose it someday, of course,
mind the blind; there, worlds not shined. hasn't
been but their static for some time. work from
the bottom once more; a henge of stones named
a pyramid - that thought crashed, but a quick
wit could bring us back around to the topic of
catacombs. but, nope. nothing.

you are here, now; present and attentive.
blood-tipped pen, to scrawl some paragraph to
give feel of absence. wait, wait, dropped it.
    you are here, now; present and attentive. come
back to that character left to be narrated. (whole
third-person sorta thing.
    you've let to want for a time now. let to a time far outstretched by
initial understanding, or even seen at beginning
doctrination for assistance in hibernation.
    a winter where start; three come-to-gone in pace.

these writings
continued tho-
ught on ident-
ity. in hiding
i had grown -
one side of the
footfalls may -
though hope not -
fall on another's path.
i must go alone, my
writing, found broken
lines, found blurry thought.
awaken. this Reality is to write
the Void; some Muse of Nothingness.

returning with response;
returned are the sounds
of Daytimers,
reluctant to rest -
that droning mechanical
metronome,
and voices staccatoed.
what words follow?
(any more resin?)
and, here we ******* are,
with a *******
adventure - when
were so many projects
started? no stupidity,
foreseen mistakes diverted -
averted; reverted;
           perverted?
       (rhyming of the introverted)

allow us beget
the nigh-times,
when running,
      screaming,
out unto the night;
      scrap the fire in your head.
marvel at emoted removal
from renaissance of self-
implication, mayhaps this
time without screaming, without
Yelling;      times post-passionate.
direct line of sight,
pop the blinds
and come see the reality;
becoming,
always embarrassingly patient,
and upfront representative is flawed.
**** the right thing.
the same exact spot;
the aways self-same.
**** it to loss;
sliced thumb to bone,
luckily the left-hand,
and not the Hand of Creation.
(unused potentiality,
most likely)
and at times,
make it wholly
so unbearable
so that you'll never forget
the purposed-reason
behind changes in survival;
**** a memory on memory on memory;
be cold,
be uncomfortable,
be the resonance
found plucked of soul.

how to ask someone,
        "Did you give me
         a cursed object?"
then come back
a moment, to surge
in the direct current
of channeled simplicity;
laughing at endless skies.
and there was a moment when
you cared how others saw
you;
a fraction of the sum.
a fraction of One.
still, senses know that
they're running for pace
but not in challenge for a
confident solar plexus;
main-veined ring finger.
(go explore, do it well)
and like a cursed object,
was more a power
surging hallucinations;
light that fire in your head.
(be well and fine,
if this is the right;
this is as well as meditate)
this is not the wrong.
this is gulping black coffee
scalding words instead of tongue;
losing muscular expression
if only a time-temporary maneuver
over head, and then forward
movement with no self-impressions.

originally, you came here to copy
a poem, then there came this
spontaneous *******.
i luck out, and can keep up a
responsibility for the drunk-***
and fu- (*******) saddggoddamn
it i finally got this typer typing. but,
still, why do i keep expecting
someone to come walking in the
front door?; why am i complacent
to thought of some ephemeral intruder.
and, watching eyes hallucinate
from corners, one hell of a talent
by use of self-destruction;
self-evisceration, but how
was that precision of language?
why are you lingering, now,
still here? how
about let it ******* go;
good me like you used to, and
all over-the-place is a kinda
way of life. (feeling wasted;
trashed) there's never been prison,
listening to privileged rock star;
kinda in for ******.
all he did was smile,
and he shook guards' hands.
validating them,
more so to get in any head;
willing patients a preference.
(let 'em guess their illness,
discounts if right;
derisive mocking, otherwise)
now, guessing around too long,
a rise of sun to brighten . . . nope,
segue **** from out your ***:
    In first light, wax poetic.
    In the night, wax tragic.
Paper may burn but
                  Words will escape.
            Lawrence Ferlinghetti;
****** that up, huh, LawF?
bet he wore bowler derbies, and
money-down if a three-piece suit.
                             (betting on vanity)

prattling on, in fit of insanity,
and there was, almost, a
lost teacup of whiskey,
yet saved by practical skill,
and i had just picked up
that cup. this is melodrama.
feeling quite off-place,
comma,
who will ******* abate -
will placate - actuality
if this vessel finds itself
as lost cause?  (guess
question unanswered;
left) promise you, that one,
nor any other cat,
is real. forged truths placed
with mind not prone
to retaliation; generational rest-
rictions for those come second?
(who came second?)    won't be funny.
surprised to continue, but
****, we all saw it, chuckled
effective appreciation.
now, float the dead ones home;
never be good enough,
quietly, just look like
the magazines. just like you.
just like me.

fear, not
      waking again;
                cored-understanding.
          fear, found
               pseudo-rational,
   in light of possibility.
           in light of Self-doubt;
           when the Conscience whispers.
                 constant murmurs,
"did you love them?"
                 when shut-eyed,
"will they remember?"
    anxious thought, rampant
                              at ending; yearning,
             rampant in drifting. yearning,
   for the lighthearted, only; yearning,
       from Self's-center, only,
                    there already.

late morning -- pretty certain
i am drunk. three point; gotta
laugh at that.
     (there's something about you;
           seems to sync with the Universe)
                         light music,
with reminiscence of myth-
ologized ***** Den.
      (in silent darkness, walls
           vibrated in tonal quality)
***** Den; orange-light hazard
zone. occupied: white skin starving
African child.      (means you could
                              see the collar bones)
    GIMME THAT MOTHER
       ******* AMBIANCE
[(get in the background)
           i don't mean it]
      i do mean i want to sleep.
to be seeking destitution and
continuation of Self -- sac-
rificing wanderlust, genetically
struck?
      i do mean i want to sleep;
passed out a lifetime?    nah,
i lost my voice from recess, but
   **** that sixteen years,
though no waste. no waste,
and again i'll sing with you.

first empty page; they lessen
                 and so on. a drawing
          closes distance, and
    to have missed that middle-branch
                     after searching
                         all the others, when
        thought-seeking meticulousness
                      flawed us --
             distracted by color.
be me some ******* keystone
       disturbance. all this
    *******, self-wrough, and
    seasoned by delicate hands.
                  (a bit of straggled breathing)
    a pale vessel to be burned; not
          so prevalent,
without some sided-suffering
         since denouncement of day-timer.
               cycle too fast,
       when the sun grows;
          burn-out right quick.
approach in calm and
    slothishness, chew nails
to nub, and move with a bit of
      caution. a drawing closes distance.

there was offered a cup
      of coffee to a hallucination;
   some test of disembodiment langors.
           then realizing, these dreams, --
     awaiting some metaphor here --
           are not all dream, and
you can sleep or
      you can ******* die
   as a drawing closes distance.

Three weeks, by now, of
constipated thought; of
hand cramped beyond stretches
of practice. Three weeks spent in attempt of detox. Of mind-numbing lack for inspiration. Mind-numbing words muttered, "I haven't been this ****** up .  ." (in a long time)
Always, ****** the feel-
good of chemical percentages.
Where the green grass grows, is all. Reflecting is all; standing alone
on warming winter sunrise. Slop-
made bed, the corneres left out. Stomach churning, smoking cigarette,
waiting for the coffee to finish.
That good ******* coffee that
held me through the rain.
Another night meant for day,
and this gracious vessel has never
been meagre in following along with the whims of some spongey tissue.
Of letting loose the general acceptance that a brain's attached to spine. 
oh   oh,    oh oh;  that brain'll die
easy some day. Not today, not now,
not but maybe.  (who knows?)
maybe the wrong decision been
made. No questions now;
(after so many cut hands and feet)
they're too small for answers so large.

what the **** is the point anymore?

even though, blood become
               word. and the body
          continues to have to
     metabolize when slumbering,
till a future becomes
        some moved on
                                  parallel universe.
          (mahogany-stained oak grip;
                          she’s the better
               adventure, so don’t slip)
         and the Long Dark sweatings,
                     unusual;
             brambled-feet still stink.
     (it would snow
          in a raging roar)
        wonder, can the crazy
                      be smelled?;
        wonder, does the risen body
                      require metab.?;
        wonder, did he catch a ghost
                      between his teeth?
and now [SELF-DENTISTRY 101]
                     hold on –
         watch this guy
             pull his own tooth.
   (i’m too white
     to keep this a-flow)
but Paul spoke the red, (amanuensis,
    main-saint diggin’ the schizos)
and,            but wait,
       “Jesus spoke in red,” a lone
         cowboy sang.
and colorblind, remember
        and,
                  hold up,
     guy is still working
                that tooth –
     some paper towels,
     pair of pliers,
     someone to hold the light.
             “So I don’t get blood
                 all over my buddy’s bed,”
               [brake]
      “That was a long nerve.
           You hear it pop?”
               [brake]
           “If I was straight white-boy,
                   this’d be easy,”
               [brake]
   but what can follow.

fine, here we go,
and i hate my other
writers. thought to
words i wouldn't
have chosen; thoughts
i wouldn't have thought.
inferiority, and this drunken
stupor caused of imbibing
far too much noise. but
the noise is there, and constant
and constant and repetitious
fallacy spewed forth. accepted
as accepted, and there's the uniques'
flaw.
                      (no one needs you but Q)

now's the mistake; another 36thr. another of these
poor decisions, these stiff hands, and a once seventeen year-
old out in soul for remembrance of *******. and self-destruct-
ion. epochs ago to now, and in writ moment,
a loss of speech. isolation of a decade, but not always.
kinda like alonenness, but not always. kinda like the crossing of a des-
ert during multitudinal suns' rising; endless cessation
from night's innate lonesomeness. kinda, but not always, and
kinda breaking out with the freak outs. maybe there's become
a problem. (light's bleeding to the left) perhaps incite
a disconnection. perhaps that is forward by removal --
that all-evasive isolation. (unresponsive, compulsive) just touch
base again, but by this moment, may have slid right on by. grunged
pants, dirt streaks, to that tepid walk home as rains began. mud-
stains, and at least there's a good ******* cup of coffee waiting . .
        (broken thought)
                            when voice rings out,
                   "Cut your ******* hair!" as of feminism,
               always thought to be self-righteous ****;
                (again, breaking)
                   "Words are cheap, and breath is free." narrative
of own thought in anothers' voice. distracted; fatigued;
waking to coffee and toast. butter and jam, of course. realizing -- ever realizing -- that I will break every wine glass I ever own, and I will
leave it broken. avoiding the shards of shattered glass, at least,
until my foot drags the carpet. until my foot leaves inevitable blooded-trail.
and lips to wound, some kiss of peace felt from soul; after lips are no
longer of cheek, or of wound, they sing out for my life.
Always singing for life, when this voice always wails for the
absence of warming weather. And this voice is of perpetual
*******, often and forever repeating priorly stated words -- if only a line
back. If only there weren't this block. Past weeks, the past hours, have
been found .  . a ******* block. this voice is always falling deaf.

take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****-
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
                         then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
           the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
                                                 [lost it]
         . . repetitious fallacy?
              [got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
             all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
                   our foci,         [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
        a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
            [next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth.                  [break
                        ­to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
       [disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.

such space for creation
without strangled-throat;
without pre-conception there
at fettering length. and i want
to smoke this *******
cigarette right here, right
now, where supined, ego
stoking knowing i can't. i
won't, and i'll just come along
down the road and revolt
against own great Ego; i'll
cycle cyclically some later day.
           pretentious ****,
sometime's we need to be hate.
sometime's there needs to
be contradiction; self-made
chaos in attempt to -- ****,
i don't know. i wanna smoke
this cigarette. i could use
to burn a bit; could use for
a moment's blindness.
                   (you're there right now,
            already. a while now)
could use for a moment's
luminescence out from supine sky -
textured dry-wall. want felt in
the bones; about a nic-fit, about
time to smoke this ******* cigarette.

never was there this
          far gone psychosis;
    fargone in the wealth of body;
      fargone, and ******,
  these ******* hallucinations
         will not leave me be.
   in peace, and yes everything
      waved in the peripherals
  and a mannequin might have
      given fright; they die,
              these hallucinations,
   when left of grace of the corner-
     ed sight.   i'll sleep with the
           light on if the Sun stays
      fettered, if only seconds,
   without arrogance of proof
          that there will be another
     sunrise. (anachronistic,
        that light from
     a square-cut sight)

steel gray waters past
               land and sea are
               lived much
               -- in fact,
               personally represented and
   hey,
           how divided are you now?
           coming off eight years of a
     hundred days missed?
                by ending breath,
             the air was taken in chord
             and mimicked some expectant energy.
   you're somewhere, getting there
   only by will of the day(s).

They passed, I wanted
     to see Alaska's evenings,
and their hunting
   and a household of seven. No
                 one knows. The public
      never noticed how much disrespect
cut corners. I wasn't looking to replace it.
         If they only knew! I promised
    I would do that.
            "What team are you playing on?"
      the applicants' response was proof
positive that the devastation and loss,
            and retyped, Miscarriage. with
   a thin layer of Wite-Out meant
                   to follow the law.
         "You have a couple of choices
   about getting rid of it,
                 naturally." she said. We were bound
by our fierce determination to
        bring new players to the table working
  together, and ensuring a stable
      place of negotiating behind closed doors.
            Along with the five others, I asked,
                   "Want a cookie?"

She went on to explain
   that I could go home and
        let hated prejudice land,
from litter to gossip
           and pretension. My face fell.
   Her bluntness shocked me.
          In the larger scheme of things,
     I also knew that unless I traveled
         without sweltering
                     in conditions that had my
           girls complaining about our priorities:
       fancy food,
         fancy clothes,
           fancy anything. Their efforts
   reminded me of the newly inked
                  tattoos and the mercury
soaring for the water of physical transportation;
       practical became apparent. The answer
   turned out to be yes. "Watch my artwork, Doc!"
                  Trust me,
                                   I know this stuff,
          they want close personal tragedy,
         a fleeting thought, my parents
               sick and hollow. We
   certainly had differences but I loved
        every part of the nickel apiece
                          and
        exotic sweat equity that
                                 was off-limits
                      for many years. Why?
   A sudden, "I'm out of town."
         that they cannot do for a split
               second. No one would ever
       have to know. Into tears,
   "These are really less-than-ideal circumstances."

I sighed and stared at a distraction --
             the ceiling, while one
    brought me tea, I confessed
to thoughts that ran
          the gamut "and time
     is limited." The girls gently
               cooed, and tattooed
                       Alaska
            with respect and an app-
                   reciation for the most valu-
                       able tears of pride.
    The message was pithy and concise
            just like me
        a few months prior, before
             a God-given resource that grew
          together, into
                heavy-duty materialism
   provided for the family. God gives us
        time to choose how
                 to waste it. He doesn't like
     to seem so much more enlightened
                                 than the rest of us but
                  He talked about respect
              for nature, and was adamant about using
   every part of any children with special needs.
                        As my mom had warned me years before,
       I wasn't listening. I remembered the
              Old Testament story of
    "There's nothing alive in there."

proficient in professing,
       busted knuckle on top
   of burned hand -
             these, my penance
      for
  words are sacred; though
               words are wasteful
                    and haste-felt:
        "you're good," he said;
        "people are envious," he said;
        "i didn't even know
                 that was there."
                                             he said.
              this realizing
      now that actions must
                                    call to haste
           in order to catch words'
             promise of sacred verbal contract.
                  [ran long; try again]
always and anyway(s),
       this tongue
               distracted focus -
          thoughtless, stolen
   and marrow aches,
              muscles torn without time
       to allow a rebuild.
                             "you're good," he said.
  but,
              hands are
                        cut,
                            burned,
                 swollen,
       and so terribly winter-stiff.
          "you're good," he said;
"that knife is sharp," i said;
                  "you'll learn." he said.
     promise of sacred
        verbal contract.
                  [ran long; try again]

fumbled getting the key in the
lock. took ‘bout five minutes
before i heard the tumblers click –
nesting in the notch’d metal.
with gentle press, I swung the
door open. light hit me, blind’d,
as my perception bled in constant
to the left. nothing seem’d to have
it’s own place, or space.
i would turn my head from the left,
and the world would be right’d.
stop’d movement,
world bled left, and
i went for the couch.
“Where have you been?”
the maternal commandant.
“Where. Have You. Been?”
    out.
my left-most body
felt stretch’d, felt warp’d.
    out. i’ve been out.
“What’s wrong with you?”
a seconds pause.
“Are you ****’d up?”
she’s got me.
“You are ****’d up,
aren’t you?”
how obvious.
dialogue never left mind
through mouth. knowing better is
ninety-percent of the solution.
of the problem.
“Who are you?”
her voice rising.
“Where is my son?”
her voice peaking.
“What you done with Cole?”
he’s taking a break from this,
this… this reality.
he need’d some time.
she huff’d indignant, and turn’d
to return to a yellow-lit kitchen
where she hots a friend.
both ******, both drunk,
both lost to me through slurs.
    But I am your son;
bleeding left, pupils constrict’d.
    But I am your son;
bleeding left, sour-smelling breath.
    I am your son.
bleeding left, falling right, falling into
the darkness of a thousand-year sleep.

writing, more than considered normal.
especially with the distraction i've
brought. reading back more, and
i'm surprised time-to-time at the
style and such *******. and perhaps
this is hell. perhaps. *****-driver
as only way out. think about it.
perhaps this is in truth Samsara.
perhaps. then the question why
this vessel is a failure. purpose and
reason for this reiterate. perhaps it
was the purple highlighting of some
sacred text. perhaps, but digressing.
thoughtless with head throbbing as if
coming up. lack of slaap, lack of true rest,
and the hallucinatory aspect has kicked
in. a bit late. though, the wind
looked awful wavey today. and red was
quite loud. perhaps only a hang over,
if only that logic weren't quashed by
absence of rainbows and unicorns.
perhaps if only, but digressing.

taking place at bar after rare occurrence of
an early night. ordered a single whisky and tall beer.
the drunkard opposite found agreement in the random
statements i interjected between him and blonde bartender.
cheaesing his Miller to my whiskey because of false-statement
passed through these winter-warped lips. cheersing, to words
that are false belief. if only to retain him to placated  stupor.
opened book of Style, left-to-right this hand underlining sentences
and rectifying the self-criticism ever present. talking louder,
   'i just don't hear as well as i once could.'
he orders another but sends it to vacant chair adjacent mine.
stumbling, moving from his ritual spot. sitting, he claims
his upbringing as Southern Baptist. after i announced the
denomination to my rearing in childhood.
   'you're a christian, good.'    but
i don't have the heart to elaborate upon the crazed and
pantheistic beliefs i hold in truth.
   'you were baptized and saved?'    i lied,
for truth is my soul will burn in hell according to this man's
-- self-proclaimed sinner -- drunkenly spewed theological underst-
atments. his words slur as he falls into elaboration of Bible conspiracies.
adding a few
   '*****'
                      here and there,
and always in concern of his opinion of Muslims -- awkward.
my boss in background chimes; we had a similar conversation
moments before. now my words betray everything stated during
prior moment. i order another beer then excuse myself to ****.

drop the anxiety and apprehension
face the chance at being reality
ask question of the forgotten memory
                     remember the Godhead?
allow a gaze to lose focus; to fixate
in open, fall back, point-for-point.
                     remember disconnecting from the birds?
recall the countless faces; those to fall behind.
                     remember the Great Mouse Detective?
re-encounter lone asphalt-walks. dewing Spring morning.
face the actuality of being reality
                     remember an ultra-blue sky in contrast?
***** spider; scared scree snake; melting with
polka dots; cats of demonic tongue; a mirror to drown
in; and familiar bed to end a return in.

let's do this.
here we are the in-between.
statement nulled of either
side. no history forced
past, and only warming up
in this the current aba-
ting long dark. and sta-
nding this hovel does so
with each glance of wall
left to right. realizing
four's advancement has
aided in absence of post-
humous thought.
canvas-flapped arm, just
to mention for the occu-
rrence of these words. just
to mention recurring thought
not allowed history. not
yet endowed with the period
of a past list. an in-between,
a valley shooting gallery w-
here the soul bleeds out to
drown the vessel. deep analogies.
a deeper long dark thought in
retreat, only thoughts are to
mystified and this proves Hesse
true.

impromptu drug adventure.
      (terrible incrimination)
              at an end, at least
enough to pass out.
M-dude hit me up, years
out; i'd given up.
      things fall apart.
shoulda trusted in time and
let allow what will.
      NEW AGE HIPPIESTER.
  been alone a while,
had lost faith. still doubtful.
            always aware of kindness,
         sighting with hoped deftness.
                 mind over matter,
                           just keep swimming.
           (Mariner's Revenge Song)
        to keep their nursery
               nice and neat.
   ***** Den
        of present has been
           christined
        to almost pinnacle;
   the list requires
      a few more things.

                   yeah?

rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.

sitting ******, writing with stolen
utensil. i've always been such a moral
animal. eyes feasting, far
gone and achieving six out. broken
wings on a gold standard, once
was an eagle springing forth to fly.
spriting free, up and into war waged
from electrons upon humble air;
red eruptions linger above muted thunder-
head. vessel screamed, 'FETTER!'
in hopes to lull and coax a fleeting spirit;
subtlety is lost when of the flesh. but is preachy
of birth-destination in a Western zodiac, and
resolved of thought by dialogue
    at the
       Pearly Gates
     of, '**** my left nut.'
though, censure for words might be in form
of back-handed divinity; cursed to earth
to rot and whither away. absorbed into misted memory
and lost in timed reluctance. fogged natural
memory with delusion brought forth by addition
of deliriant -- cursed to never rest.
    "I never see the devil, but
       I do see demon." though, that was during a time of
much more coffin rehearsal; time before the Godhead
spots of light emanating of Nothingness unto Nothingness.

i no longer need to be
here, if need there
ever even has been.
and now, most whole,
need precipitates con-
scious effort for to
better participate in
matters that shouldn't
hold my attention. but
they hold my attention.
maybe it's due to
constant lack of exis-
tence, maybe these
feet realize settled
vessel is dying from
need. 'don't fight it.'
their resonant voice
to this restless body
waning with waiting.