early morning and
we will make it fast
with the words and
training awakened
thought. of Heaven,
of Hell, of destruction
concerning elder proph-
ecies and speculations on
the existence of man for
the past couple aeons.
and prevalent forces flow
through energetic lines of
muscle mass, each a heart-
string of the wholly vessel
not yet turned carbon. and
now we repeat of prior state-
ment of I the Destroyer.
consuming of the firmament
so that the rest of the yeast
is thrown into some Darwinian
existence. (of which, I probably
eviscerated actual meaning)
consume, consume, and move
onward towards a larger chunk
of the firmament. and early mourning,
early turning on of the greater light
that is the electrical charge of
this vessel's circadian rhythm.
and moving on, moving back into
self-reticence. and i give myself,
i give myself alone. and please,
oh please, destroy me of what
i once was of a past life.

your left breast;
we were talkin'
about cosmonauts.
heads in the clouds
with no want or
worry to never see
this sphere's crust.
we would disconnect
from they. with no
lies from the eyes
we open'd palms in
welcoming fashions.
your right breast;
lying on fetid couch,
nodding off and the
ambience was a dri-
ving bass line. little
trickle, claiming no
worse than usual.
nod, and trail'd off.
slurs and abbrevi-
ated acronyms. sta-
nding in awe of emoti-
onless lack of reaction.

you hand'd me a handful,
you hand'd her a handful,
you retain'd your handful -
done by sight, something
rare to be a good omen.
eyes met collectively
as we contemplated.
dry musty taste, almost retch'd.
the sun shone bright, and
it was too late to turn back.
we giggled a bit at first, and
you found miss'd cap.
pop'd it. commenced vomiting.
your tryp never peak'd.
your chick laid on blue lounge chair
calling me over. commenting:
"it looks like ground beef, doesn't it?"
her finger pointing at
pile of *****. my stomach churning,
vision as well,
collapsed into chair in shade.
-- lapse in space,
it had come on too fast, too hard,
and i went to find more driftwood.
my fire had become sacred,
burning only the long dead.
the brined and dried.
i skid down scree hill on heels
to find snake on my path;
startled, it slid off -
no concern.
drift'd from initial plan to
explore an alter'd world,
saw spider and *****'d.
cleansed.
and back to collecting my driftwood.
fire raging midday,
lounging in shad;
sun raging midday,
cruising out this end'd tryp;
wondering in constant if that
spider ever had his tryp.

TRANSCIENCE:
misspell it every time. somewhat
quite sure it’s intentional. feel i
might be due a nightmare. have
been throwin’ too much weight
on the psyche. pressing
my worth
more and more out of existence.
and i am more disciplined than
i allow myself to believe.
with awkward schedule fulfilling
each day, awakening to death
and the Sun’s mistress giving
chase. with each sun set
and rise, i drift. world witnesses
rebirth. continual birth,
and everything turns out
in the end.      (no fatalist)
goat’s head on the wall,
staring as i can barely scrawl.
eyes that see beyond this vessel,
to search a span of sleeping lives.
and cold wind gusting, i’m
all too focus’d.
if only a pocket warmer to
thaw these clench’d muscles,
nothing more than tepid
flesh. nothing, endless flesh.
found broken lines,
found blur’d thought,
i awaken.
  - and may they never be
    found having to cook
    with premium pony meat.
too cryptic. i lost it. and now
the Muse of Nothingness
brings the other, brings
the middle ground. continue
to brake and simplify. at
long without it,
the Sea Wolf always finds me.
and if to change places, it
would be much the same as
how this vessel seeks the Sun.
and i
am consumption of sacrament.
and i
am beauty all inclusive.
and i
am crass, purposeful, in misleading.
and i
am prone to not caring for
making sense.
and i
am Lotus Eater re-emergent.
and i
am bound to sound like
a slow burning. like a little.

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)

i find myself exhaust'd
without words to fill
the gaps between breathes
standing in a garage
scavenging ashtray for
more cigarette than ****.
feelings of a cut and run
history. always cyclical, always
flooding. again, repeating.
i may not be able to
tell the future, but
i will laugh should we make it
together. my memories
have been lost before, never
quite wiped clean.
i once could live.
these days writ of longings,
of fated desperations, writ
of corner'd separations
while eyes haze and lids droop.
while connections are made
between the breaks in
statements you had to say.
lemme be straight, i am done.
taken to apathy. absconding
with nil thought of leaving
negative remembrances behind.
leaving yellow-paged notebooks
of a past life.
days of the deifiers, days of their
fat-trimming inquisition. For
the flesh lusteth against Spirit,
and the Spirit against the flesh.
and those were scrawnier days.

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.

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.

no where near the 24th hour even though
my hand shakes jittery. pen drawing right
to left, hand of the uncertain quivering.
i focus a bit too much and found this self set
unnerved after having been awake far longer
than i tend to make usual.
     (plenty are the unusual in this
          the current long dark)
so much longer than usual that i've resorted
to gin and orange juice, and it's been a long
while since such this encounter. perhaps
my rhythm is lost, perhaps this is my path in
life for the time being, perhaps eternity will
find me answered.
     (and in a new year the days
          grow longer once again)
and losing track of the hours, of the days,
when the greater portion of time is spent in
silence. but, in truth and whole, i never
failed to miss the unexpected moments that
interloped. and i rummage through the past
of yellowing notebooks - those coffee stained
and warped yet the words never bled. words
expressing thinking, drinking, and some
hazy hallucinations. of how a trio was
able to remove the world from me. and it was
fine. no real panic, deifiers only want to trim
a little fat. and these just happen to be my
scrawny days.
     (for the flesh lusteth against
                   the Spirit,
      and the Spirit again the flesh)
and it's awkward to attempt an explanation of
how i watch the static ripple across the ceiling.
after a few days, the eyes begin to desensitize
of the weather. after a few days, there is no
longer a sleep pattern; all that's left is to
become biphasic. and after these few days,
how is better to explain an inexpressible
than with words i don't quite understand?

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.

and i'll make it up to you
by buying all the ****** of Amsterdam.
not just rent, but buy.
and i keep walking in circles
as my thoughts do the same.
and i am waiting for
the break, the peak.
and my pack looses cigarettes
with every circle drawn.
and hey hey, my my.
and i skip a step.

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

losing it, losing all
and sleep came in
a six hour flight.
thrown clear of the
abscessed daylight
and losing longing
early in the night.
and longing for err
little thing to walk
by, wigglin' and
they say we were
friends. but not quite
in understanding of
this concept of that
word thrown clear of
pitying mouth and
lossless droning voice.
losing it, losing all
and err thing ever
considered truth or
actuality. though, and
in truth of truth, these
are wasted words.
wasted for purpose out-
side of another. no pur-
pose to any other when
isolation was formed as
moral dogma, when prefe-
rence is towards burnt hands
in place of yard-stick lashings.

delving for memories, and when
i begin to account for one
my mind is already moving on
to the next. the next. the next
subconscious whim to
cause expression of itself.
and onward. i am not quite sure
i can tell you the future. hell,
i knew the moment i acknowledged
you, thought of your existence again,
you'd come questioning.
twenty minutes,
that's all it required.
twenty minutes,
as if a spans of the
last year had never happen'd.
twenty minutes,
simple question ask'd of me
from you. inquiring of my welfare.
do you not remember the
night you rip'd from the ground
my tent. with me inside.
    deliberate pause.
i gave you reason, of course.
as much as i am a devil these days,
i was worse then.
    to left of door upon entering.
i gave you reason without
doubt, but i knew where
your mind would go.
i knew without question.
i knew because he drag'd
you through a parking lot
by the hair. long, beautiful.
i embraced you
when you question'd why;
i embraced you
when you understood;
and i wiped tears from cheeks
when you couldn't believe what
you understood. i was there
but never seen, figurehead
for your old-fashion'd typewriter.
you, i've never forgotten.
second house i knew to be yours,
over by the college.
roach infest'd, general pest
infest'd. when you had
the younger boy around.
     drank whiskey with him when he was sick.
     had to leave shortly after arriving.
awkward settings. not sure
him and i were ever friends.
quite sure you arranged
competition between us two.
him, boyfriend;
me, the close friend.
boyfriend got ****** and problems.
i got you when sleep was no answer,
i got you when substance matter'd.

hunger slates itself of this one's
vessel. demanding piety, demanding
existence. requesting change of
scenery, seeking change for
firm foundation. that of trench
burrowed deep and reinforced in ma-
ster fashion with land unfamiliar.

so i got these emotion things
i don't quite know how to express
when every face i see
is yours
with some odd personality
conceal'd by eyes a milky-hazel.
there's some reason you are
the end vowel in CATO,
there's some reason you're
only five lines long.
we found in passing mutual interest
trump'd by your own,
and you squander'd my time.
it's late now, and
the dead Greek's guitar
weeps after learning
hands which once graced it
would never again caress.
after a minute,
i follow'd in a
wake left by fleeting feet,
in attempt at egress, but
our beautiful mountain was gone.
i don't sleep these days,
i wouldn't credit you,
the devil went to bed with us
and he sleeps pretty good.
no, i wouldn't credit you.
credit due this silent machine
of mathematics and neuro-electric rhythms,
sparking, igniting,
some neuroleptic response
as i lapse in paradox.

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.

ebbing, glass of whiskey.
cigarette lit while vessel’s
tummy wails away what
with its unfed loneliness.
two months out, about that
by now. anyhow. paletted
sleep bringing afternoon
awakening, and a walk
with peripherals on view
over shoulder. waiting for
past lives’ names to be
called out in order to
settle some debt. the kind
left at large with a flee-
ting disappearance. no name
ever spoken, eyes on guard
over shoulder. watching –
guarding – another strive at
the rekindled want for
anonymity. more a continuation
of some loner’s morning vespers.
whispers from the microcastle
thrown through – thrown beyond –
balustraded stone into the
-macro.   four months out,
and this radiator hisses to
life. hisses to remind that
not all is free, nor guaran-
teed inherent. reminding this
vessel of wants to be
thirteen out. that far out,
realizing it’s been some time
since the lines have ran dry.
prolific, think the word’s
antithesis; no, only practice
expression of breathless words.
fourteen out, wanting of this
vessel’s christening to done
been blooded by thoughts
unspewed as eyes affix the
tiny shadows ceilings cast.

and love of winter,
found absent though
i do not lament it –
i lament the loss of my ****.
lament as the sun rises.
and acts of valor,
acts of ******* or –suasion,
trail’d off as words
spew forth in riptide.
forth to recreate, to wipe clean.
and censured nods exchange,
we met not eyes, you were
only in my vision’s drift. in my
field of autonomous response.
and in repose at end of day,
all my colors in restful
form. harmonious form.
substantiated form.
and discernable of madness,
reparable non-sense to draw
some drifting vision.
to draw upon jaded gaze
cloak’d defensive.
and i wander the thoughts,
i wander the right
emptiness in your eyes.
and i wander on.

and the little white girls walk in
with their school sweats on,
smilin' all precious innocent like
with hair that never goes awry.

and the dictionary is tellin’ me
words ive been using for years
never really existed, and then
i look’d up existential crisis.

and the cold wind turns tan’d
skin pale as blood recedes to
more important portions of a
body preferenc’d warmer times.

and the words i have to say
i want to erase without a second
notion, but i cannot for fear of
loss of thoughts not yet conceived.

and the knowledge of having been a
mystic misplaced, once recess’d
to a span of  sleeping lives
allow’d to be found incarnate.

“ . . and even if, crazed, he ends up
by losing the understanding of his visions,
at least he has seen them!”
content’d the loss of action to thought.

patient waiting, time to
allow an ease from cacophonic
pupil dilation into a more
constrict perception of the
world around. rain falls
gentle, facilitating the
transfer, as low-fi ambiance
jams on. some thunder in
distance, paling in comparison
to the vocal sparks in the night.
flittering and wisp-like, urging
ever forward. urging:
         'Come out of this a mess,
                  or not at all.'
manifestations, much as Red-Eye,
enticing to come up and dance with
death. to keep the measure through
turn for turn and twist for twist.
know the hooded Death missed
time again, giving the
                '. . or not at all'
                         another chance
to strike true. another chance to
set the eyes out in feast, when
morality shall be felled and the
vocal sparks sublimate to ever
only being rare thunder in the
distance. with flash of luminescence,
storm never given chance to weather.

10.   express beauty
        you forget sometimes it's yours
9.     interest in experience
        the couple, the ***'d blonde, yourself
8.     it's just beers
        and onward into the nights
7.     create meticulous noise
        an organic grocer turn'd –
        you figure it out ( i won't )
6.     make awkward impressions
        the night we tryp'd
5.

4.

3.

2.     know silence

1.     refer to ten,
        don't defend the things you've done.

venturing out, early morning -
closer to pre-noon - for smokes
and beer. seeing the gathered
rain in ditches, watching how it
flows by how the mud ebbs.
standing at side of road waiting
to cross as a layer of water develops
on jacket. gas station, gave the
woman a ten. she returned a ten and
three saying it was a twenty given;
corrected her, felt like a ****. left the
ten on counter and exited. standing,
waiting to cross again, cop, cop. they
continued on. ( funny, the things
noticed after a long night ) crossed the
road and walking in a self-conscious
manner, cop. sharp right through
apartment complex onto washed-out
back alley. an old stomping ground.
came up sixty five cents short for beer,
and owner smiled,
        'We'll scrape it out of
               the vacuum.'
not sure if he understood the
magnitude of my appreciation.

headaches from a lack of
rested eyes, but at least
the chill jams be rollin'. and
goin' close to thirty-six this
round. closer to insanity
than my own long dark,
long gone, long vicious
stares lost to souls woes.
what feels like death-throws
pressed from the mind of
the Great Lord. and i
am always present with thee.
to go a bit ancient, to
feel a body left out too long --
words echo through distance
of Nous the Supreme,
of we the everywhere. echo
from place without
physical existence and the
plethora of priests
willingly waiting to corral
lost souls, the endless
bound and fettered. con-
flating all deitys' names
and the cults following.
waiting to cull from pens
where labels hang. priests
force head hung low, hair
cleared of nape. ready to
free us for a Pope's feast.
to bring in force a
Vision Limitless, all Light
changing aspect to dark-
ness. Logos descending on
Nature. nay; that shall
be known with the pruning
of reaction and of vindication.
and of Nature's being?
she received the Word,
pronounced herself
the Kosmos Beautiful.

to do the things
you intend to,
to be the person
others cannot see,
to live in the mind
without spoken word,
to smoke cigarettes
in place of consumption,
to refuse any thing
unsuitable to your palate,
to find dissonance and
ride articulate mathematics,
to pierce silence with swears
in drunken lucidity,
to wander affectation
of a better’d body,
to close eyes and know
you’re the only movement present.

remembering sweating together
the summer without cooler air.
we ****'d, project'd insanity,
then dispersed - true summer time
girl. trying to rise, and
  - it's so hot in here
in the middle of the night, at three
ante meridiem. and
  - it's so hot in here
as i drag'd an ice-cool'd rag from
neck down back. and
  - it's so hot in here
as the single open window vent'd
our steam. and no one remembers
hiding between the negatives. no one
remembers their own foot placement.
and i long for the discomfit of that
oven-apartment, talking with her. and
  - just chillin' and drinkin'
have become her life. thirteen on thir-
teen and
  - i'm so tired
in the sense of a Kesey character. to lose
everyone when no one was there.
  - what the ****?
    why is this life not over yet?
and being over this, over the readiness
to die. conquer'd once, realizing the
true deception at its reemergence.

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.

shirtless on porch,
beer and smoke after
days of filth. now,
washed body, cleansed
mind, though fretting
tightened rope of the
self-fettering variety --
taut enough for to
never be found complacent.
one of many a mortal sin
being cycled by this mortal
vessel. indulging in denial that
everything is one, and one is
nothing, and circular rhetoric is
nothing more than the semantics
of trying too hard to not try.
creating symbolism with
understanding the reaping
could never be perennial --
forming rituals to coincide with
the now, yet without devotion of
pious ages past. this in know-
ledge that once the flame dies,
none will be re-lit.

early morning funk,
cold comin' in, winter's here.
waiting the minutes.

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?"

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?

thoughtless and lamed with
want for comforting sleep.
though, without willing
dedication to lie down along-
side sensory deprivation. yet
willing enough to accept the
seven-yard stare benzo addicts
view the world by. how she
glazed the world by, and then
said that developing parasite of
child had no father. claiming it
immaculate while those milky
hazel eyes refused to meet level.
she was always knelt in prayer
of god. that being personification.
that being, a night ****** up with
no chance at memory concerning
the divine touch of ******’ deity.
refutal cut short by egress thru
balcony door to rain ***** upon
neighbor’s windshield. claiming
illness, but knowing she had lost a
race against tolerance shone from
deadened come-on eyes. returning,
graceless, she sought the rocking chair
and structured her breathing. head
leaning against rest as her thinned
figure nodded while murmurs begging it
immaculate convulsed from pursed lips.
her, praying of ******’ deity to again
avoid end’s sole darkness.

and they couldn’t afford fifteen
dollars. they couldn’t afford the
news. neither could i, and the reali-
zation that feeling alone is not being.
when comments on survival, i see
only a frozen bridge and man wrap’d
in tatter’d seat cover. he stuff’d new-
spaper from feet to neck. using
others’ trash to survive, staying warm
thru mans’ attrocities document’d.
by the news we couldn’t afford. and
i see all the faces i used to recognize.
i remember now of the familiar faces
but don’t have the time to justify
their lies. nor do i have the mind. it’s
been a minute, and lions flood a
room advanced from normality.
     regain control.
and my name is
          Ziun,
and my words are
          **** it,
and my thoughts
          cryptic,
and my body
          homeless again.
found in transition, runoff from
times of scavenging and foregoing
shame. found in transition from times
of the blood-flood’d valleys of dest-
roy’d lips. found in transition,
head’d from reliance to other
persons. to other substances. found
in transitions and the wind has rav-
aged my body. and i’d wail, wail in
spite of lazed vibrating chords.
his  vocalizing:
   – don’t forget to sneak off and
      get rid of it. just show up with      
      wine, then we're *******.
and this cat knew my first girl after
she was no longer; and this cat knew
my first girl of regret after i pass’d
her up.
   – calling sister midnight
a first time thru, palms face opposite
as we extend right. to feel in diffe-
rent tones as this train of thought is
derailing, digressing, regressing to
swastikas.
      (lemme redact that)
and please think no less of my words
based on the words chosen,
based on these infinite love-affairs.

hello again odd-book,
been a minute since
breathless words have
fallen here. since this
hand struck words from
self-interred meter. and
longer still since pen-
aided conception has glown
through adverbial muck.
    and again odd-book,
with pages of many facet,
resentment is not found
when returning to
             the Universal.
repentance with slurred
words – with qualming hands –
never again to feel necessitation
when returning home. when
returning with seriousless
vanity to witness some re-
flection of age since past.
    and here odd-book,
has been created metic-
ulous noise. here has been
beauty expressed, alongside
glory’s antithesis. here be-
came an ‘I’ that is new,
that is ruined and interregna,
that’s in whole encephalic.
    and here again, odd-book,
       “i am dandelion,
            i am magnolia,
               i am albatross."

words through time-eyes,
and life thought left long
with mind for days while
this one sat deterring soul
from body in a foot-lost
night. sun's end, son's end,
and the day's typewriter
just hours from death of man.
awaiting knowledge of grou-
nded truth. ground vessel of
a soylent variety, without
thoughts on past word-loss.
summer existence, like young
girl's expectations of world's
blood left in trashcan. place the
heart, forced sweating to free self
of longer lost sleep. feel right, sleep
longer during the long dark. true
waiting and lack ******* reason
when this cat has gone, been got,
has lost a white-year of quiet memories.
times destroyed, knew to rise hip. knew
to rise onward with cigarette lit of matched
flesh. sense the repetition, remember
away the flesh. blue smoke of fire in the
long dark, in the coming white-year.
sense the memory, ending waste but
still losing knowledge. gaining chaos of
thirteen out, of this one's will to be six out.

broad as a Judas,
not yet frozen in beast's mouth.
sandals; snow and ice.

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.

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 have 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 hosts 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.

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?

tired in the pre-twilit
hours. night spent decon-
structing sentences, rearr-
anging syllable, and pen
marking the superfluous
for removal. and each self-
critical redaction is a
waning on this soul. and,
those thoughts erased,
nothing more than slivers
of soul to be erased - to cease.
though continuing, with
though and soul that emanates
without acknowledgment of death.

i saw stars in your eyes,
i read from a distance
and made you out to be
much smaller.
i found you out to be
nothing more than truth
for existential probability,
quite impersonal. i know.
with intention
i would move my head to
sip on oily day-old coffee,
but to avoid your view
was the main intent. words
move from whence your mouth,
and your eyes beg'd forth a response:
'i am not your Spanish dictionary.'

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.

to oh sweet nothins. to
sitting cross-legged kinda
bluesin', mostly boozin'.
desk-liquor now found
floor-liquor, feelin' a faux
pas here. kinda like a hoodie
over sweater, but that's all
some urban legend. digressing
with complete definition loss,
and stopping when called out.
                                            (lapse)
venturin­g on when foot snag
leads to caught trip. going back.
about ten and eight times
'round, when the sun was to
be overthrown. of when scree
led to blooded footpath home.
starting points are always
turn mythology, and that point's
Muse haunts rest of followed fate.
                                            (lapse)

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 ****.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I am rich
I’ve used my blood
like an extravagance

An archetype of oralcry
whose silence
               smells of cheap wine
A poetman
become an olding messenger boy
O silver tongue of spiritus!
I whoop it up
       in all my wealth
              like Great Mercurio
                      twirling his white ribboned caduceus
                                             in heavened air
Bathed & gowned
               by the Pifs of Prophecy
Asoak in a tub of soft flashes
               I step into talaria
And into my hand
               the twined winged wand was wound

I sat on the toilet of an old forgotten god
and divined a message thereon
I bring it to you
       in cupped hands

got this poem,
already typed up and
ready to roar and ravish,
and it's sititin' there -
typed up -
two blocks in
(name a cardinal direction).
did i mention it's warmer here
than where i was? twenty degrees
above freezin'. warmer.
yeah, well, let's digress back
to this poem mention'd,
it's sittin', just waitin' for
a chance to shine. for
a chance to be express'd,
whatever that may mean.
and i type with blunt'd fingertips,
goin' back to re-dot Is and
removin' Gs, Ds, and random vowels -
realizin', this poem was writ when
absent the true poem. and
i hear the snow falling,
i hear the poem wallowing,
i hear the silence of creation.