quandering, pondering
and whiskey has become
first and only desk liquor. now
digressing to the Blue Eyed
beauty writ of this the final
page of notebook. and now,
reflecting on this early hour.
an hour when the goat's
head stares thru to soul
with always lifeless eyes. stares
thru this soul with lack of
energy, with entire days'
lack of consumption. and with
ease this one has been long
and gone in falsified attraction
of angelfaced Blue Eyed
matriarch; this one patriarch.
thought entirely conceived. contrac-
epted by reality of situation. by
reality in general sense, yet words
spew unfiltered with lingering hope
behind slanted smile. shying stares,
all the while watching from eyes'
corners. voices of all but her's
fall deaf; vessels otherwise mute to
concerns not of the Blue Eye's. and
here this one finds self lost to rom-
anticized thoughts knowing they can
be found sterilized via logic.
contradicting always, yet
no brass holding finger locked to
joint. and realizations of actual
place spears forehead; spears fore-
brain. disrupting what is preconceived
concerning entangled souls. hair falling
aside temples. point of restraint, this
one must end before depression catches
hold; this one calling abrupt ending.

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.

- - - there are the days when
i savor my isolation,
i savor my freedom.
in this state is when
Urania came forth
to lift my chin,
to lift my gaze
from finite walking-path
unto Eternity of existence.
She placated me, brought me
to surrender of my Self.
and i lay staring at the ceiling,
longing for a little rest knowing
i did this to myself, and
i don’t complain to you.
- - - there came a conclusion of
self-destruction as
the only thing to depend on.
and i destroy myself
through entertainment
while
fighting tooth and nail to survive.
- - - Sunday 5.30ante.
began Friday 9.30post,
Saturday 9.30post is twenty-four.
i am four short of thirty-six.
and my turbulent stomach awaits
the imbibement of a hard benzo –
(shorten’d word to be hip.
[also the reason i used an infinitive])
by this point i am deranged
and trace mildly. not just
a fancied flight alongside a reality
my mind deceives me of. not
just an insaned delirium
i perpetrate. maintain. sustain.

disdain.

space to insure emphasis,
- - - have i been outward too long.
i sweat naked in the snow thanking,
no Deity,
but instead handful of
multi-color’d, shaped, strength downers.
and i smell’d on death
perfume of flowers as
its figure look’d me over –
naked freezing wretch –
and extend’d claw with
rotting flesh no where
in pace with this vessel’s.
i began to blue, and the
shadow of my end
falter’d in my mind.
lungs, in impulse,
heaved air within themselves.
stretching frozen sternum.
- - - let’s take some math,
how about:
zn+1 = zn2 + c
i am patient,
please explain in detail.

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.

[ final, before flight ]
learnt through dusty feet
and stomachs growlin’ their
dyin’ growls. days and weeks
with leakin’ roof, and
nature’s bountiful army
marchin’ on and through.
candle-lit synthetic canvas
absorbin’ fired raditation,
*** upon baked ground
starin’ at drunken fire pit –
conversed two hours, and
with dawn one side meld’d
in the dancin’ orange and reds.
walk’d macadame, in full June
the tar bubbled to the surface
and patch’d holed soles –
surfaced skin, turn’d black.
graveyard of gypsum;
burnt out child’s playground;
horse protectin’ territory, or life;
pawnin’ everything not bolt’d down –
death of materialism,
birth of a ******* mentality.
bought Black-and-Milds so to
reroll a few cigarettes,
save wood tip for later use.
save everything for later use,
stash everything for later use.
stab’d in stupidity and
made to mend the wound with
worries of:
   will i use this hand again?
[ C ]
cryin’ for Annie, cryin’ out,
knowin’ she will return without
my concern. knowin’ she’s
probably rummagin’
through some neighbor’s house.
cryin’ out. cryin’ out.
lyin’ down on pallet’d floor,
gettin’ usher’d out so
she could ****.
[ A ]
mouse detectives on VHS,
an awkward glance at left –
all the signs, none of the glory.
misdirectin’ for no reason,
reappearin’ without reason,
disappearin’ for every reason.
[ T ]
road impart’d day’s heat
through all the night, and
moon lit unknown paths.
cryin’ out, peddlin’ faster,
carryin’ weight in
hope at final penance.
no penance.
[ O ]
an artist’s rush,
turn’d paper to masterpiece
with seemin’ lack of effort.
stole heart, keel’d in, cast off to
placebo girl in roomate’s bed.

- - - abrupt ending

these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate ****'d soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.

and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.

losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.

we went to Little Blue
that summer in a ***'d car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i *****'d behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
   two hours time gone;
returning,
   scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
   we lit their paths with
   torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.

walking into smoke shop,
hoping to find a girl named
Expectations. hoping she'll
have legs, eyes, all the usual
contrived sights. careful, con-
trolled tiny burns. no one's
blowing up the bridges.
no one is trying for attention.
hoping to catch it strutting like
a Bird of Paradise. strutting
isolated, too lazed to clear the
grounds. too lazed to give too
much of a **** for attraction.
lips broken by the winter wind,
lonesome travelling with
Expectations aside. she's waiting.
hoping. to rise, to strive, to arrive
at finality. and then onward. and
then **** Expectations after.
gripping hands, mine alone,
forcing friction to dry qualm'd
sweats. to remove embarrassment
of inaction in inexperienced persons.
citing her, citing everything
foreseen and predict'd. all in
hopes at removing consequence,
but Expectations' voice threw tog-
ether a string of words unbecoming
of her vocabulary. they were unbe-
coming for a girl in that place of society.

walking out, rebuffing time and ad-
vances. fighting this mortal fight for
invincibility. to be of highland descent.
amending to Expectations on the side.
amending for waste of sacred days. lights
cast where darkness was. and these thoughts
enlightened by Son of Vonnegut on his
northward journey for Nirvana.
spitting blood, searching for immortality.
******* Expectations. *******
up life in the blood-lust. throwing a second
pair of shoes in the trash. waiting to ask
questions of persons un-wanting when questions
unwanted ask'd by persons of a cloud'd past.
and the infection is in the heart, is in the soul,
is in the lungs. with each words' passing from
putrid mouth, with each word infect'd in entirety.
pushing into the world meaningless
****. these un-embodied words are only a
passing lip-service, and have never relfect'd -
never realized - on the recant'd lives they've
run thru. nor the current running. recanting,
redacting, refracting - a disease of distraction.
Expectations lurking by ruined road.
that chance to rise, to strive, never
let her more than some inch of give.

holding prejudices, clinging with
desperation. held by throat.
sacrificial lamb found through
re-imaged scapegoat. watching
hours fleet, awaiting death
of muscles strength. awaiting
ravenous claws at pit's bottom.
Expectations peeking through
slit'd fingers, avoiding direct
contact of vision. learn-
ing to forget promises.
her eyes shine hazel.
learning of life, roots grind the ground
as scapegoat - throat released - gnarls hair
in fingers. feet force avalanche of scree
falling in eyes of ones attached ravenous claws.

silent with-holdings. Expectations
with hand over heart. spitting blood,
and whoa. something's not right.
Expectations *******, partial nakedness
and truth of truth. tears of mud caked
mountains. weighing down, and stare
never longer leaves the ground. and
blood turn'd stone, spitting worlds
with creationist vigor. making some-
thing for sake of nothing and feet
fall to repetitive rhythms. Expectations
falling, Expectations *******,
Expectations' hazel-stained eyes.

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.

i sat at her typewriter
wearin’ plain white v-neck,
plaid WalMart shorts marr’d.
i sat at her typewriter
as we discuss’d life problems.
i sat at her typewriter
dividing interest between her and
the powerful feeling received
through uniform ballyhoo.
i sat at her typewriter
feinging, waiting for her
to say she’s too drunk.
i sat at her typewriter
as she went on with her
first-world problems.
i sat at her typewriter
as they exchanged
insults yell’d and
shard’d glass of broken jars.
i sat at her typewriter
as she dispensed her drug.
i sat at her typewriter
when her and the secondary-Virgo
did move to grind.
i sat at her typewriter
as i forged fragment’d
statements to poetry.
i sat at her typewriter
when she had
that look in her eyes.
i sat at her typewriter
as my life end’d.
i sat at her typewriter
after the snow sweat.
i sat at her typewriter
when she snap’d the spine of
her first horse Sassafras.
i sat at her typewriter
when i deluded myself
about loving her.
i sat at her typewriter
never any longer.

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.

orange juice and a rabid flight
of love for you but not the kind
of love requiring either bent
over the counter. the kind
of love where what is one
is alls'. is everyones', is
everything and there is never
one - either side - going wanting
for our emotions shared are
those mutually lost in the greater
mass of what humanity has
culled into their concept of
social awareness and some
chick ranting about the collective
consciousness. they're evil, or so
told. and onward, always forward
but never straight to remember
a perpetual motion of the hands
controlled by the soul -
that's what's called the mind these days.
forgone, for a single word,
far gone and lost in the wind with
sails ripping from the flushed canvas
swollen by the trade winds -
not those trade winds, but ours.
our conversation and appreciation,
and this allegory - metaphor more likely -
is of the soul being the true vessel
when the vessel is the last vessel,
and to please the dying vessel,
repeat in infinity this ******* cycle
of Samsara. en eternal vessel of meat
ground fine to be filtered through
silicone. this is our ship, this spurned
burger of muscles that succumbs
to parasites finding us pork.
eat the ****, gain the trich unlike caring
Canadians who destroyed the
pig in them. destroyed the mentality of
what is wrong but quit? why ever try
for greater, and learning is not an
end to a means. and again the souls
vessel - allegorized Ulysses proper -
is in metaphor a ship, breath the trade
winds and wisdom precious cargo.
the null are bandits, the haired beast
of both the North and South . .
barbarous action through organization
and labeling of existence as A to B,
as A to Z, and realize that means
twenty-six is the end.

in same place as last writing, wondering
what context this end of sweating will
bring. what this one's lackadaisical - to
juxtapose, let's write Bardical - musings
are found to be. treacherous thoughts pa-
tterned, knit in pearls of alternating colors
from the many revelized experiences of the
months since fleeted. this one's catacombed
mind filled with ex-grievances, and a once
real question of primordial retaliation. of
how to revoke Nature's iron grasp thought
to be called deity's divined fate of this kilned
clay vessel. and wondering on creation, life
given only to spite slaves formed of fire. and
now to leave aside psychpomic thoughts, and
now to return to ground. to stand firm upon an
earth that is essence entirety of this one's base
of creation. only, blood absorbed in place of
retained in circulation. going back, traversing
thought, bringing forth the white man's implic-
ation as ruler of time though known always that
circulation must cease, must become no longer
fluid. and with history being that of the sole
victor. that of labeling, defining, forcing selfish
perception as truth. and this one realizes reason
in fire's hatred of earth. to need to burn out, to
need to consume, but fire lacks choice of will to
action. this one can never leave aside idyllic thou-
ght of a primordial war of elements merged.
digressing, even though the end must find full-
circle. I the Destroyer writing in hopes of finding
thoughts on We the Emerging, all the while
Gregorian has foreseen existence from time beg-
inning. guaranteeing only that structure will
survive time's ending. history of sorts pre-writ
day for day for week for years for aeons of never
ceasing circulation. all the while, victor shedding
for the earth to absorb. Thoth the great, the great,
the great; of lacking elemental composition. the only
one in this one's knowledge whom defies either
circulation of absorption. We the Emerging consume
of the firmament. He the great, the great, the great
witnessing from without the firmament. He the
ancestors taking trice-form to malleate clay from
perpetual fermentation. and digressing more, but
again stating the achievement of culmination of words.
this one stating understanding that perceiving self
as a psychopomp stems from earthen forged vanity.
and all writ is true in belief of prisca theologia.
perhaps this one's words are found to be Hermetic,
found defying interred ideologies as ink rushes to
awaken We the Emerging before dreaming mind
collides with the dawn. and perhaps only Nature may
be found as decided for those taking their cycles of
mindless bliss. and digressing, merging trained-thought
into the next. merged here to be found, We the Emergent
modernity with open palms for another's thoughts. and
here to be found, this one, of I the Destroyer choosing
a percepted chaos to the permanent pre-dawn bliss.

exhaust’d thru months of
stress’d quandaries. have
clear’d the worst. and
i ripped through older
pages, stealing the words
that sound’d best. the
only ones
able to fluidly
patch fragments. brake.
been a long couple day(s);
singular, i guess. and
the sassy black chick,
she doesn’t give a ****.
never did. and friend is
asking why, asking
questions of the sky.
  - what if what’s complicated
     is so because we never
     let it be easy?
infectious thoughts of
what to do to complicate, or
of how we might proliferate.
and ringing:
  - why not just be easy?
and ringing:
  - you’re just going to have to
    stop having fun for a while.
and ringing:
  - i mean, not quit, but
    ease up. don’t spend
    your money.
knowing is ninety-percent
of the problem with
stubbornness. and remem-
bering when first told
to get on with it –
to let go –
the other ten-percent.
and being one day closer –
to be one minute closer –
brings restlessness. and
i lay my head to rest, if
only to pass time as lids
squeeze light from eyes.
and thoughts, peaceful a
moment prior, begin to
rage. to thrash and stomp.
to draw from dead qualms
and questions. and past
turbulences become reali-
gn’d.      yet,
most were left behind or
under the Pinelawn.
something missing,
memories of how her
**** were like tiger claws.
brake.       get on with it.
and the vessels of my eye
throb in ticks. forcing
metronome. and i count the
seconds, the seconds
on minutes
on hours
on eternity. and if
i were here – if
i were awake – when
the sun came ‘round,
then perhaps the metro-
nomes tick would cease. or,
let it go, get on with the
passing of time.
getting on with it, to
force the dawn sun
to rise of me.

listen. steal what joy you can
when living this violent and
short life. a single time-line --
a period lived -- is an epoch
ruminating with none.
we are cats awaiting guts
strung -- whole intestine, specific --
for better resonance from hallowed
body. from hand-crafted hollowed mass.
perhaps this gutted vessel imbibed
the desk-liquor with hope and
want for muse of mans' own hands.
perhaps John Henry split my heart,
and i seek retribution with pointless
pen strokes. smoking, intention
broke from form, if only to deceive
that these hands will never callous
climbing mountains. will never
rip wide this chest. will never
witness in true this full-moon heart.
perhaps stubbornness will prevail,
per chance I will be found
witness of the ball-lightning
striking valley walls and boulders,
perched ageless, are haven sought.

out-seeking the world in
crave of ascertation. to
crave realization of know-
ledge, of others’ wisdom.
seeking experience via lack
of self-preservation, but
the sun rises for this land
of the Old Settlers.
[/thesis]
force settled the young to
drybed rivers. all with killer
statement epitaphs, that is,
words to remember as
darkness follow’d rifle blast –
white shame’s legacy.
images of barbarism as
a means of civilizing, of settling,
pioneering. and cowboy is
racist to the non-farmers of
Texas.       (are farmers a race?)
doesn't matter when
they write the epitaphs.

large beer, with time to
waste. gulping in hopes
at abating stagnant
feel of current existence.
cold and clear night with Spring
hiding 'round the corner
ready to stab out perpetual
cycle for existence. such a
shaming from titled time-
spanse of weather by its
coming and going without
even illusion of choice.
(suppose the Universe never
had a major role in Romanticism)
suppose space will never find
need for periods defined through
titles; suppose man finds
comfort in definitions and syllabic
expression. haikus are, after all,
a buffer between worlds.
digressing with another cigarette,
knowing shouldn't what with
breath being true connection of
worlds. quality of being alluded
to quality of connection and a
vessel's sense of existence.
then, taking time to inhale,
knowing breath given finds
caustic continued life. realizing,
a drowning man cares naught for
quality of final fighting gasp.

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.

to buy a book at half-ten with
no time wasting. go back, await
instructions ‘cause ****** will
have their trinkets, with novelty
of accented voice. and i once
would talk often of a love – let’s
separate that word from ‘*****’.
often of a love, but am rare to
fall to elaboration. and through
contemplation the soul may
ascend to knowledge of the
Form of the Good, penultimate
object of Knowledge but not
Knowledge. and often writ of
this love, writ of what was to be
then and never now. never to find
affirmation in fleeting memory.
oxymoronic oblate of the mind
– this soul. attempting for attainment
of Kenosis. shambling i wandered,
rambling i wandered, and humbly
wandering on to pluck till times
and times are done. and
the dogs of this life have re-
moved dearest effects. in turn, sho-
wing the vanity in materialism.
end turn, showing futility in ret-
ention and the sun's continuous gro-
wth forcing abatement of winters’
vespers. cradling a gourd filled with
oil from the skin of ages, to reflect
micorocosms of preceived death.
those silver apples of the moon. and
when vespers return in color, when
the ground aches tensing muscles.
this love, if only the conjunctions
had been denied. perhaps by abor-
tion of if, then could have been a
block for now. these times found
oblate of memory by zealous self-
truth of the wronged past, and
humbled by skewed memory of
the hermit on unseen path for
Kenosis. unseen growth of
those golden apples of the sun.

after noon, awake now
for eight hours with
another twelve awaiting.
a sweating summer for
advancement of 'talented
young author'; reading,
writings, and ennui towards
those not wanting to be
found in sight. Lucien
stabbed his twice in the
chest, then weighted and
drowned the body feigning
dead. insanity claimed,
a brilliant success to freedom
after emaciating and claiming
another's mortal soul. claimed
was blood-stained Lucky Strikes,
and Lucien smoked the last one.

i am a survivor, i am a scavenger, i am a man with
no shame. i am an artist, i am a writer, i am an
iconoclast. i am a lover, i am a creator, i am a
destroyer. i am quality, i am worthless, i am absence.
i am man, i am conqueror, i am world-ender. i am an
addict, i am old, i am wizened. i am free, i am
young, i am unnurtured. i am secret, i am becoming,
i am a wreck. i am a shadow, i am oblivious, i am
obvious. i am obscene, i am abhorrent, i am hidden. i
am a seeker, i abstain – i am a liar. i am a deceiver, i am
an actor, i am unknowable. i am entirety, i am
citizen, i am insolence. i am thought, i am concept, i
am revoked. i am wanderer, i am thoughtless, i am
lost. i am undying, i am inured, i am fleeting. i am
alive, i am mythologized, i am end. i am a thief, i am
a monster, i am alive. i am a philosopher, i am a
thinker, i am superfluous. i am good, i am evil, i am
unaligned. i am pragmastic, i am irrational, i am
common sanity. i am emotional, i am withheld, i am
interred. i am new, i am ruined, i am interregna. i am
proper, i am erased, i am discrection. i am sought, i
am not, i am simple. i am somnolent, i am erratic, i
am errancy. i am abstinence, i am uncontrolled, i am
the world. i am fraught, i am emptiness, i am
humanity. i am dandelion, i am magnolia, i am an
albatross. i am talent, i am intelligence, i am
fettered.    i am here and now, i am then and when,
                     i am done.
i am malice, i am harm, i am self-destruction.
i am a fighter, i am encephalic, i am lost.
i am alone, i am alive, i am free.

standing the foot’s placement,
standing firm upon ground –
inner part of the firmament.
lasting two days, feet free’d in
levitating affects. mind, the
utter blank canvas. color
me complacent, color me adjacent,
color me a complete loss. irreparable.
two feet in place of a once four.
foundation, strength to build tall
some structure of love for my
blonde-hair’d beauty of the Midwest.
saw in ‘er somethin’, more nothin’
than anything. and this foundation’s
anchor stripped. two feet in place
of once four. irreconcilable, color me
a complete loss wanting all the
little honies, in the raw. healthier
that way, what with the better part
wanting no part. wise men, the one’s
seekin’ their own wisdom. their words
are ‘high-holy’, their ears catching err
syllables. feign deaf if their syllables
are not the ones being annunciated.
pushing past yesterday,
hoping this force can turn perpetual
motion, to the county line. away from
prying eyes with hundred reasons
to ****. don’t stop till the cops come
in, and don’t stop till the cops come
in.
–if you’re Jesus Christ, man,
  i’ll be the ******* anti-Christ.
then coffee nulling images of shotgun
splatter. trying to rise. blasting now to
obviate noise of the morning coming,
–came here looking to be a pastor.
  kinda fell off the deep end since.
right, right.
–zombies back into the picture.
  better by the side.
back into the picture with life, with love,
with an eighteen car garage. lonesome,
something like that. to be awake when
the sun rises again. rising to explain a
hipster’s crystal sky. the eyes never
lye, don’t forget what’s been done.
don’t defend the trailing fallacies or
absences. and we’ve become un-
welcome, become destined, being
unfriend’d. but even these cats may
look at a King, though they’re in
some disgusting race to the end.
cops comin’ in, cops ******’ on
everything adjoin’d the scene. truly,
they’re some different form of hipster.
hip sir?  nah, sir.  nothin’ at all, and
don’t get got. smash those erry day
low prices with a strange fascination
for fascism. play it, play from the
******* heart, play to tear the *******
sky apart. to set out in tearing to destroy
the welfare ghettos. true Americana,
this welfare culture. with powder’d
nose and quivering lungs. reflections in
the pupil, a vain mirror for the souls
of others. a feel of miles, a feel of being
lost as its own adventure. nothing more than
a kid from Califax, a kid pushing onlys,
a kid smoking Marlboros to cure
hangovers, a kid with enough life for
years worth of days.

questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.

and only reading, only
input dulls nerves to
the truth in word.
without output, wi-
thout application of
garnered (no, acrrued)
intelligence then wh-
ere can be the soul
to wisdom. and exper-
ience is part found-
ation, and without sec-
ondary support man
shall stand alone his
selful house. and
cries in question of
fairness, the redundant,
as an aspect of Life.
as a driving force,
one that seizes with
each lurch. and those
cries echo from a plane
A to B life when we
are not vertical in Na-
ture, but instead we
slide from top knot
down some rope strung
by supreme benefactor.
to be caught in a noose
on the way down, or
to slip sublime and free
from the burns left
on the palms of existence.

shiver'd awake,
no rain-guard on your tent.
beautiful to see the stars
when that drunk sends you spinning,
but it got cold. real cold.
the two of you went for
cigarettes. necessary,
after a blur'd night
with raiding raccoons.
****'d the night before,
****'d the morning after;
you were right hungover.
while gone,
i built the fire to cook.
(that fire,
that fire was my baby)
rations were raid'd
by wildlife in the night,
left were a can of
chili and some fritos.
knifed the top off can,
began breakfast.
your return brought
cigarettes,
hair of the dog,
excitement at the day beginning.
mention'd dog hair,
available only after
raccoon raids and sinking cans.
night prior we weren't
as drunk as i think.
i remember. i guess.
it fix'd us up, though,
as our immoderate breakfast hit home.

if i have to explain it to you
then it probably never existed
in a well-represent'd enough form
to deserve acknowledgement of
the highly embellish'd state
of your own mind and actions
that brought the mingling of
souls once cherish'd abroad
sunken to fetters of not chains
but words with meaning as
the force propelling them
paradoxical in that
propulsion is antithetical
in terms of the definition 'fetter'.

scribbling through pain of
wrist and tensed forearms
brought bettered by repetition
thru peddled death of calves
and ruined bowels of pre-
cancered prostate. constant
film of excreted toxins and
another cigarette only suffo-
cates these already humid-
battered lungs. another trip
out of doors only brings
realization of the heat inside,
buried deep beneath time-
pressured skin. some heart
forcing beats even though
cells have hardened via emo-
tionally evolved polysaccha-
rides. perhaps times' gain of
addiction finds lack of release
of toxins, perhaps the devel-
opment of a superior being
detached. lies, and realized,
wholly-owned and flawed
chitin formed of prior life,
formed of shared chemicals
of plasma-like water shed.
and called abrupt ending,
and lack of self-perspective
found lead-in to ending the
reign of self. ending some
reign of I the Destroyer.

origination of Satanism,
tied Buddhism to hedonism –
to bastardize the -isms.
not fitting, not where i am
supposed to be.
if Napoleon were alive this
moment, think he’d be living
the life i’ve led? prememories
causing us to be learn’d
without having ever experienced.
recurring Josephine.
    (epigenetics)
to be found implant’d upon all
those slivers. beyond physical.
and Hemingway tactics:
   “each line is a waste if
     every line is not its own story.”
reason to state, ease up. relax,
drink up and write. all is implicit.
come back less ****’d up, with
no more quotes, drop hyphens and
speak.
– unintelligent men will
   die for their cause.
   intelligent men will
   live forever for their cause.
reality of once homelessness.
oh, how stark. was waiting
to lose self for a better perspective.
– if you wanna know a man,
   know the world when he was twenty.
was restless for wisdom, was
starved for communion,
and my eyes again will ache.
    (this time it’s just a line)
and a dog ate the last papers –
how terribly frustrating.
        break.     and all conversations
are destined to progress.
– don’t you know you shouldn’t
   do that? it could stain the carpet.

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.

expect digression, misspelling,
self-formed words. and for this
to be a long one, therefore not
worth reading.

ten hours, but of awakening for
twenty or so. drinking wine from
bottle to gauge consumption, but
also because that's how one
should show how much of a classy
mother-****** they are. drinking
and re-reading, the prior being
some kinda sin for a writer.
   of Hemginway:
      'Write drunk, edit sober.'
rules worth breaking and many
a lack of luck permeates. and
this one writes for you. canvas-
flapped this loss of arm. that's
a prior reference, by the way.
he was ruined of them; ruined
a curse propagation brought him.
to rise and wage however a
******* could, yet that however
brought an end in entirety. and
after a summer sweating, and
after a once and always absol-
ution of this winter madness.
    (the only cure has ever been
          isolation and deprecation)
always fleet-footed in the stressed
moments of the everyday. and
writing here, writing of this the
last few pages, expressioned in
particular voice. recanting
never these sacred art, defending
never the choices made nor whims
of soul or vessel. and breaking, and
influenced - to cite the adjective of
'inspired' - this phonetic will ounces
out restrained. restrained. next line.

summer of sweating, again
on felted couch from curb
side. no longer living from,
but now found (seen in)
comfort and time to brake.
running is stature set, now
for-to no longer from-to.
reticence in lingering good-
ness of lustless vessel. lust-
ful psyche. lustful soul, and
all know that exists of the
brain. epicenter, and natal
first-formed. far from first
sitting in some whispering
abyss. in absence of a whole-
some feeling, in preparation
of returning unity thru dis-
tanced words. questioning,
ever questioning the thoughts
wayfaring through the soul
in vehemence. teachers with
a breath never in speech, but
ages' ink pressed in repetition,
trouncing some threshold.
breaking imagined barriers, and
Harry Morgan's creator might
scoff at this ink of lacking age.

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.

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) ..

and i find myself
barely able to type
of the girl dancing and
teasing me so in that instance
of pure cockhardness
that i am too embarrassed to mention
how i enjoy'd to see her move with such motions.
and i move from her
as i grab another beer
another girl joins in on this
secret intimacy as
you and i joked and laugh'd
and out the door,
not with my whirling dervish of love
but with another man echoing into the night
'just tat Cat-in-Hats over the scars.'

- - - 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.

and i write from uninspired
mind bog’d by quips of past.
      the sixth principle is the sixth principle.
reminders of past negligence
and of harm befell.
      nine. no one knows everything.
and i burst with rage over the details.
pointless aggression in haste of thought.
      the second principle is a state of mind
i will not be obvious for there is
no interest in the plain-sighted.
      the fourth principle is the one and only woman.
i am eccentric   -  am weird  -
and my body hums with intensity.
      two. youll never be alone here on Earth.
long gone are the times of hands to air,
phrase having replaced the physical act –
           **** it –
and i have moved on in inconsistency,
expressing to word one-sided memories.
      third. this is important. this is it.

i want to climb a mountain,
i want to look upon the earth
from a different perspective.
to feel my feet flee from under me,
and to fall -
slip -
into a lucid madness.

i want to feel no fetter
as my body folds upon itself -
twisting free -
as the ground approaches me.
as the . . .
as the sum of existence comes to a point.

to be young and alone,
and your ears just wanna ring
and your eyes just wanna close,
to be young and alone
with no girl for the night.
(born in the wrong place
and at the wrong time)

it was in that one moment
that i was the
perfect level of righteous.
it was in that moment
that my vision
found a point of fixation.
it was in that moment,
when our eyes met -
when i was blinded by radiance -
that i heard myself whisper
' please destroy me. '

these thoughts travel upon
tracks derailed;
awaiting annulment,
awaiting loss,
awaiting rebirth -
awaiting eventual awakening.

"betray your gods
before they betray you,
before they deny you
your Soul."
(but i don't know why)
rearing,
i never spoke up,
to be unnoticed is
easy without a name.

a wanderlust spiritualist's
view of the world -
to be read.    to be found crazy.
and i was layin' me soul down
when i -
a nameless one -
must have whispered
' please, destroy me. '

you abided.

couple hours sitting,
self-inclusive psych time.
when we came to we
grab'd some beer and
went down to the dam'd creek -
namesake of our campsite.
water a constant sixty-degrees even
in triple-digit Oklahoma summers.
immersed myself to avoid
fear of the cold, and
heart palpitated as i
sat down with water up to chest.
began pounding rocks
together. under the water.
like a silent neanderthal
shaping the first tools.
you sank the beers and we linger'd a bit.
children splash'd in deeper water,
she made comments of their endurance.
final thought before head'd home,
no children died on the Titanic.

my loves, the many accumulated mn-
eumonic responses play'd on future
women. ideas based on the poiv-
rottes of idealized affectation past.
cesspools emptied by the horse-tanks
with stelth in the night, but the-
re couldn't be much stealth for a target
reeking of **** and convalescence.
sadness and that odor would
hang heavy in the first cold rains
of winter. transplanting thoughts,
always transplanted emotions of
subjugation. she was waiting for
someone, this now past but once
future poivrotte. feet to be
knock'd from under, body to find
lulling embrace. mind the levitat-
ing affect. mind, the missing
portion of our feint'd love.
and
  - I was always empty and
    both sad and happy
with a third-class train ride, at
mon poivrottes' expense of mentality.
we could used to lay together talk-
king in adult tones through our
child mouths. remembering to poc-
ket fruit to retain our breakfast
from freezing. speaking no truer
words than those utter'd while
embraced. words from the mou-
ths of us children. truer words
never could be counterfeit, never
could be spoken without loss of
conscience. Cezanne-dreams of color,
Impressionist subconscious,
j'adore mon poivrottes. feasting of mo-
vement and staining all around with
the strong cafe au lait. follow'd aper-
itif, following digestifs, following back
to lie. to flow words from our child mo-
uths, we would walk paths through the
woods in the Autumn twilight. the trees
were sculptures having their leaves
stripped bare. walking alongside, we walk'd
ourselves down the same separate path.

with absolute precision of word. perfe-
ction of knowledge, of understanding.
for comprehension of origination and
history likened to something close in
introduction to a new animal. lead-in
to the true worth of a lost train of
thought. with quality of commentary
rare to be made sense of, found pretty
spot on from earlier life. and train of
thought finds unison with subcons-
cious streaming. that, with dreaming
thought, have culminated in child of
analytical mind though allowed to pro-
lapse in priorities. and with such loss
of grip came suffering of progress,
suffering of forward learning. reaching
heights in a lower level of intellect. all-
owed to linger without mental challe
-nge. and contemplated premature, a formed
plan involving no furthuring of positive out-
come. contemplate primordial retaliation.
and left to achieve more than dead, left to be
found in a vacant lot. and more only conc-
erns that of Natural cessation. seen as option
after pinpoint of knowing failure, some
vacant and the rest left to carbon. to return to
the *****, return to the end of procreation
this physical being. and ‘.. fear not
the thorns or the sharp stones on Life’s path’
and both the brambles and shunts are Pride’s
drawing of blood for to deter wisdom from
either being sown or reaped. though being
sees life in spite of ends means with
continuous derangement and isolation of
night, carried through with lack of ful-
mination of soul. and only ******* is
truth in the comment on kindred soul or
shared. remembrance of scribbled table
lost to self-ful faults. ‘Please destroy me’
imbedded in faux veneered black.
and on this day, as in that summer of swea-
ting. time of wasted thought, trading
blood for a bill spot. wasted knowingly
with opinion of perpetual recreation, with
ignoring the scarred body left as image of
******. and heavy are our eyes with the
wine of ages, and ears prevail in under-
standing happenings we wish our
absolute evasion of. heavy in moments
of isolation, we lack self-deprecation in
movements forward without lust for
body or soul. and fifteen with hope to
be infinite of lifetime. with hope for
perfection unobtainable. with words of
‘here lie the remains of him who wrote on
heaven’s face in letters of fire’ echoed forth
man of truth. him beyond we, transcended
thru ages of changed thought. lightening
of the heart and five days out, and
his Prophet portrayed the sails of ships as
coming death. cyclical incarnate and we the
undeniable will to traverse a sea of the poly.
and we the paradisal will to be six days out.

i work, i laze. such pre-
history this vessel holds,
such futuristic perceptions.
writing with no real purpose.
      Wolf Larsen, i am
nothing more than part of
the ferment. i would give
my existence, so as
to be challenged by another.
stable, my consumption is
minimal;      congrats.
learning better how to
curb the supernal longings.
   (they shall never abate)
i am at current unfetter’d,
without grave longings,
  most of all:
we should not try to find
our happiness in others.
take care of your knees –
of yourself – and
do not fear the wind.
to stand upon our own legs,
face the squall, be
found naked in truth.
and time passes with some
ideas, dreams, longings
falling to the wayside. some
turn to ash, others ember.
never admit failure, instead,
realize each floundering as
a chance for learning.
and learn, or don’t
and sleep, or don’t
and smoke, or don’t
and live, or don’t.
say yes, move on.

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.

three day rain, odd to
see the flooded plains
in place of prairie choked
and lit; brightening night.
chilled wind stirs humid
days, sun foresought.
forced to sleep a
few days more.  and:
'i never see the
devil, but i do
see demons.'
stated as people walk the
spring streets covered to
cease rain from drenching.
refusing natural occurence.

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?

“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.

and i’ve lived years of
turbulence; to be loc-
k’d out. problems str-
iking as an adder. pro-
blems adding to the
strike out. end of the
game we all play but
for the lone individ-
ual, and i was hand’d
the pack of smokes
with a ten wrap’d ‘ro-
und. not an act of for-
ced reliance. act of:
  – save your money.
     you need it more
     than i.
and i’ve learn’d to ac-
cept. to receive with
grace and charity, to
offer in grace and ch-
arity. that other ten
percent.       braking.
     January,
year prior, to be found
destitute yet suffer no
one’s restrictions. and
the numb fingers rem-
ind me of my obstina-
nce, remind me that
i’ve been made to suf-
fer the cold.
oh, how the frigid
men slept with a rotg-
ut shank prepared. en-
ding dreams in which
survival is their sunrise.
and i pull’d a scarf over
my face to obviate the
cold. and in the false
spring of year prior, the
trees were trick’d to
give up their leaves
budding life as an
early spring sacrifice.