and i trek'd through the pre-dawn cold
skating along the rail tracks,
to boulder jumping a ravine
                   (where were Japhy's ducks to guide?)
and into a deaden'd grass field.
tapping tip of foot to avoid watery pitfalls
while flanked by rusted railyard
and ****-addled recreational plot;
cat ****'d chemical smell wafts from as
December's north wind fights a toothless perverting force.
the macadame is barren as rainfell desert
and the animals propel by combustion
in effort to scavenge Capitalism's ****
                   predawn
'fore the burliest awaken with hunger.

my eyes ache at the end of a day
and i find myself counting hours –
hours slept, hours awake, but
no memory of the expanse remains,
other than the hours, and hours, and days.
and i smoke another cigarette, smoke
another cigarette, and my eyes
glaze over with a seven-yard stare.
i can see onward for days,
i have been outward for days,
and yet hours, the hours, the days
resemble piecemeal beige walls that
echo my arguments back upon me.
and they close in – but not in that crazy way –
as the carpet buckles under enclosing movement,
and a door’s been left open leading
out to the consumption of souls.
or so the walls have foretold.

ever pressing freedom with
words to follow suit;
simple utensil awaiting its full potential
as strokes find spacings dissevering letters,
leaving fractured symbols intangible.
my blood be shed to fill some well,
to be drawn within a reservoir
and found scrawled in repetition
     blue rose, blue rose, blue rose
and free we are from complexities,
to laze along the banks of Lotus fields
and feast, and quaff, and lull ‘fore
remorse stings at return across Oceans.
as Urania casts colors upon
a sky of fading Sun, awaiting to show
Her mass brilliance of stars. each, a soul
lending guidance since time-beginning –

- - - abrupt ending

time thought of long words and
the sun’s life as it burns,
never minding the hip or the un–
as the cat awaiting shores
looses his body to
the darkness of the year,
lame-eyed ******* wrote thirteen
in repetition. lingering on Vonnegut.
unnamed, land-lover ran between
the death of the night and day,
creating waste. riding on, rinding on.
hoarse questions grew as
tea scalded palate and man tapped
his heart in waste of thought.
drawn by claims of a saxophonist,
******* wolfish with stolen cigarette,
spouting roundabout racial slurs
called the Ocean’s syllables.

i am become as ignorance,
i am the one who refuses mathematics
to save myself the death of beauty.
i am my fathers’ lackadaisical prodigy,
i am the one who plans for plans
and never follows through –
maintaining self-controlled anarchy.
destroy myself in paradox.
i am my souls’ awakening,
i am the one who lingers in
the hindbrain and find myself
never questioned – never analyzed.
look’d over with lack of repetition.
i am become laid bare upon
your chest of bronzed censure.
i am become as isolation.
i am become as words that linger.

- - - and i have been thirteen years out,
thirteen cast out, in it to
impress with some congress
and break a rhyming scheme
with some unrelated information
that could – and would –
ramble on and on, trapped in a
roundabout and listless format
pressed upon from birth in
mimicking action of that conception.
of anyones, of graphic denial
to linger in bliss and in blind
parasitic servitude.
- - - and i went for a cigarette,
and basked in the sun on a
November-ending day.
and i thought
of my plans, and how i am
pathing myself; and i thought
of my writing, and how i am
advancing myself; and i thought
of my life, and how i am
fulfilling myself; and i thought
of my death, and will i be
able to accept myself. and in on
in repetition, once again
in haste, in waste, in mending
of past-lives and weaving their
threads into this greater fabric.
- - - and my **** is constantly hard,
and i try to be shameful of Sin
on the long winter nights.
then there’s a point in exhaustion
when the mind stops. stoic absence.
“what brought you to this town?”
a bad decision, a woman.
“mind if i pray’d for you?”
if you want.
“mind if i pray’d right now?”
one hand grasped in both of his,
‘oh heavenly . .’
kindness out into the world.
and my ***** constantly hard
and my lungs tarred
and a harsh word traded for prayer.
- - - and perception becomes skew’d
with the last drop of sanity
cryin’ forth to ride the snake,
to nip at Apollo’s heels in
his retreat at the end of night.
and to wail from my place of rest
at the loss of the Sun’s mistress,
to the loss of a lover given.
logic null’d by the body of another,
inert love, nothing more than
a little friction.
we press’d against each other
with hopes that we could
impress upon anothers physicality.
venial sin, so long as confess’d.
congenial sins we are bound to regress.
- - - and i beg to be set free,
beg to be loose’d,
to have the notch that is me
relieved of a taut string.
to feel my force release’d
through the heart of another.
to be witness to a love
called ones own while Ross
wails on with his epic poem.
we fail as the red and white
haul us to a stroboscoping stop –
intermittent breathing and panic.

so, here i sit, having read that semicolons are a ******* tool - im only a partial *******; so, its admissable. in a bar drunk, sass'd, white *****'d, hot as ever-living hell, hoping for a saxophonist. white ******* off bike lock keys in the bathroom as the door is attempted to be opened; "Sorry, we were *******." splurted, what an excuse; white ***** on a bike lock key - protection from theft, i guess. almost out of tobacco, yet i feel i can sustain, excuse me, remain. "i cant believe you did that, ***** crystal." (not what you think (totally what i think)) ambient psychedelia and a saxophonist (shes been mentioned) wailing, wail, whaling; expunge that Conscious ocean as if you were a Japo. yeah, racial slurs racial slurs. im told its 11.55 post on the 7th, but i am quite aware thats a lie. (most knowledge is (vindication symplified and unerred) unaware of what is being typed anymore) ..

coming back
     to a younger format --
                 one with emphasis.
       one that's bold and
     forces my hand,
        forces my voice.
                      and i'll dress it up
               with style,
          with fancy words that
               have syllables more
        than you have age.
   yeah, pretentious a bit.
                         snarky a bit more.
                     after all,
               there has been little to no sleep
                         in a day and some hours.

and to see your feet move upon the stage again
as the audience gasps when you take a leap -
no need for concern, your toes find you nimble.
to witness the fluid, the uninhibited, the Angel
you become when your wings are allowed to unfurl.
and this is how i remember you.

quips scrawled on scraps of paper, written
during a come-down stupor. something
she wrote, and then proceeded to destroy.
(i gathered all the pieces but have become
too lazy to care how she upset herself)
drawings drawn in between sentences,
in between words. in between syllables. drawn
to obviate thought, to put me somewhere
between Zen and poser. (the drugs obviate titles,
but i’d hedge my bets on the latter)
the remains of the Urban Squirrel Hunter –
a mythology of the Grey Fox –
shredded in the maw of a blue heeler-mutt.
written while ******, drunk, and heat-stroked.
poetry of a homeless kid.
ramblings of an alcoholic, ravings of a tweaker,
with commentary by the one who is just visiting –
       self-destruction is all we can ever be certain of.
religion created in a notebook while
doing research on a chemical. figured out what
near-death means, found life by dumb luck.
found life via pocket valiums,
gave up religion while sweating in the snow.

gentle rolling tones
with a knelling as of
old Westerns in ominous times.
when a hero rode up,
hat half-cocked,
ready for his life to be taken.
     but we know that won't happen.
he'd slide off his horse
pistol readied at his waste
and holler,
Come on o'er 'ere now son.
    then gunfire.
          (the Villain always shoots first)
and life is taken and
happiness returns.
the mines are no longer dry.
the cattle are no longer starved.
and the blood feeds the Earth.

- - abrupt ending.

we sit here
wandering, pondering,
       quandring
away the life.
awaiting the flood of
the Universal Ocean
to fill lungs of carbon
with sodium -
salinity in the tissue rising.
we sit here
awaiting Lot's wife,
to be pillar'd in a sense -
to be brined from the soul out.
we sit here
awaiting to be marbled and
pock'd with time,
to rest upon the Ocean's bed
and dream in lucidity -

and dream of the Shores.
and awaken of the Shores.
and feast of the Shores.

we sit here
awaiting in waste, in haste,
in repetition that our feet draw us upon.
we sit here awaiting,
healing of wounds thru time -
and the brambles wrapped tight
and tore of the flesh,
poxing.
limping, hobbling, waltzing on
and a blooded foot drew us home -
drew us onward.

a man once wrote
   ‘bout this cat –
         the hip cat,
   he said,
           one hip to the
                true scene –
then he wrote
   ‘bout this cat’s
             Tree.
      He hung there
   to cool –
         on His Tree –
      when people thought
          He was too hot.
             He cooled alright –
     in fact –
       that cat became
             so cool
He’s still
                 the
                            hip cat
          ‘round some parts;
               though,
      no parts remain.
some claim to be
       that hot –
          that hip –
     but only those
          truly hip to the
                 scene
        don’t share trees

ambience was communal and jovial,
you sat around. kinda down.
thought flowed through ears and out mouths,
you sat around. inhaling ash.
music was skewed by the white noise of voices,
you sat around. silent to death.
our cooridination had since failed us,
you sat around. eyes focused.
a few egressed, said their goodbyes,
you sat around. exempt from kindness.
more to leave and quietness came,
you sat around. eyes to the ground.
end had come, only we remained,
but you sat around. just around.

particles flitter through the air,
their ending here to be.
those who went against –
i swear –
committed heresy.
ashes of the individuals,
now lay within’ the soil.
Martyrs nurture bodies now,
thankless ones do toil.

instinctive consumption of vitamin C
from bright light to dim light - ever finding darkness.
"i wonder where hes gone?" questioned always,
never let us go. always let you go.
pondering quandries and
"i can never let it go."
pondering quandries and
"my words never fit."
hearing of Ski-Masks,
a final resort for the overwhelmed.

this will be an off the chest one,
a long one,
a crazy (and) derisive one for
we
who once were
i
are now foregone.

we sit here
writing -
startled by the addition of
LOUD
music(?) to my library;
not my taste -
pink floyd
leaks through my
head phones from
the coffee shop speakers.
tea scalded tongue,
she did
warn me,
did she...

- a break,
thats where we
find
ourselves and
wondering what will come
of the fu-
tu-
re
furthur out from
now?

we quiet now,
find ourselves
lulled through
into
another plane
of which -
break end.

this year -
bitter winds find
necessitation in
her
fixation -
as last year
as next year,
til time
cedes.

we write with open head
and fluid mental
projection,
a reality
created
from each of ours
and one into
the next;
'our universe is
vast'
some cry,
of course we
know
it is.

tea no longer
scalds
(
to burn
the flesh away
)
as twangy
guitar follows
snappy snare,
tap tap
tip
tap,
blues wail
away.

- - - to take a ****
to take a cigarette
to take a lover - - -

lover missed,
though
so did the
****;
currents retain
fluidity.

we're done.

the smell of a wood fire drifts and i quaf in attempt of reprieve. my mind wanders to a childhood long since idolized. long since memorialized. long since fallacized. a time when i ran rampant among the trees and found myself King of the land, too young to have yet been owned by the land i reigned over.   i shot arrows through the sky in attempts to **** the sun and rule the dawn. never was i asked, nor did i ask, what made me believe i could do it.    i did because i could.    to earth i came, surrounded in wilderness. surrounded in reality. body shivering as darkness crept the land. freedom supplanting comfort.    companion found, guide through the long darkness. a wolf of lesser origins but equal in spirit to child-King. his quest not for the sun, but its Mistress instead. a quest unending.    stripped of innecessities - child-King - bare as the sun evanesces.    through the forest i ran, wolf by side. ran until air no longer satiated muscles, until i fell upon the ground to rest.    rising, sun awash skin, i stood naked in my truth. the sun, it taunts.  it glares, lingering in pinnacle. constant reminder of the coming long darkness. of the restless forests. of the jagged horrors to stir.

the waters have smoothed due to ebbing
and we know they will swell again
and become turbulent in their time.

and this foreshore will be consumed by Man,
no less consumed by that which drives him.
utilization, degradation, cheap labor cost.

Vonnegut -
      the ******* -
implanted within my
          mind
        a concept -
           the concept -
       of time being illusory
          in such blunt words
                     that i could
          not make sense
       of them until now.

                                    Vonnegut -
                                             the ******* -
                                       stories of
                                       writing stories of
                                            Dresden -
                           is Billy alive these days?

                                                          ­         Vonnegut -
                                                               ­             you ******* -
                                                             your words are
                                                             ­     psychomimetic.
                                             ­     how do you sleep at night
                                                           ­        knowing your words
                                                          g­et people high?

two tough weeks ahead,
slept all day, the night -
time to finish off the schnapps.

H8412

dissipation as fast as the congregation --
restore us to sanity with a rather insane concept.
remove our shortcomings and
may we would grow no taller
nor how could we grow any smaller?
who are we to judge ourselves,
and who are they to dictate
the exact nature of our wrongs?

shot in the dark,
stumbling trepidation as
phantom bullets pierce.

H73112