blonde-hair'd beauty of
the Midwest, i love you.

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.

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

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

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

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'.

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)

resting, cross-legged; cigarette
smoke rising - ***** lit den-
esque situation. nothing, up
from bottom but knowing the
superfluous. phoenix reference
and unnecessary adjectives
go here.
                                            (lapse)
body aches, lack of sleep.
vessel ill-treated with
absolute knowledge. all
this torn muscle must
rebuild stronger. penance;
words to get by.
                                            (lapse)
in-line, even when the lines
ran dry. clever with no more
thought, and patient always.
something certain about
breathless expression.
                                           ¡Salud!
and last sup of whiskey. and.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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

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.

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

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.

i need to see the sun rise this day;
for feet elucidated of patterns
followed upon an earth. wearied
or aching, knees to find
rest on Katahdin's summit;
fictionalized place of birthed sun.
now mythos, now dawn and
an arrow sure to have missed
the moon's lover. fired
by childhood mockery
while birds awakened song.
i need to see the sun rise this day;
for eyes be witness of intri-
cacies entwined upon an earth.

constant staring at scribblings
on the wall, wasting time. pages
stayed with tape and tacks with
words having found understanding
of how the Universe ticks --
*******.
thoughts scrawled before first
past life, put there by hand of
hopeful idealism. writ before,
then enacted through guise of
terrible excuses --
*******.
movement through with attempted
realization, and refusing quarter
for ends to selfish means. then
prying image to subjugate logic.
then onward selfish movement --
*****.
abated a time, then in the fourth
past life, perhaps sought retained.
though all lives cry out for adap-
tation. all crying out to leap,
to find the next waiting, the
one to find the prior salient --
digresser.
fourth found temporary per-
manence with excelling
from deceitful path traversed.
the changing of names follows
change from di- to noc-turnal,
with distance never relinquishing
hold that follows image of sub-
jugation --
metamaniac.

(making sure the
     crease is tight)

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

                                   (making sure the
                                          grease is slight)

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

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.

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.

[ 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

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.

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.

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.

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

                   yeah?

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

get ****** first --
    alright, where to now?

something's wrong, more so
different. brash-lashed
lethargy. biding patience
as its *****; not keen to
waiting. especially if there's
understanding of procrastination
when patience is non-necessary.
rush to waste; ****, that's perfect.
******* perfect poetic self-illumination.

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

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

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?"

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)

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

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.

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.

Borges; this one
starts by your name.

fate did not want us;
fate wanted our words;
for yours to question mine.
to disenfranchise was its
goal on that July-ending day
in that smoke-fogged bar.
i shot true and drank with
heavied hand. you approached.
random-heaved spine, and you
were coverd by butterflies.
asked of life and responded:
      i owe the Universe some
           ******* poetry.
the question reciprocated but
you were found without breath.
time found us parting
with civilized talking of a
pre-determined clandestineship.
our fate quelled in that bar
on that July-ending day.

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

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.

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 ****.

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

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

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.

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.

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

i am a ****, yeah;
i am an *******, oh yeah;
to resume for all.

sun rising; wail the
sirens of recognition.
tat-tatting away frost.