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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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.

sitting on steps while
laundry dries. head aches
from time between last
rest and next; the concussives
haunted a skittish-dreaming
mind. hallucinating footsteps
while alone, but nothing
worse than demons seen
walking the streets of dawn.

scarred and marred of arms
and soul; waiting to heal
knowing can only flip on
owned heel. slip a bit while
rushing with lil' mlle in back-
ground smilin' imperfection
and seeing all loss possible;
knowing, as always, perfection
as the greatest joke. then laughing,
denying self-owned scrying eyes.
then another, her strut offset by
sky way too blue in in an early morning.
body contrasting,
blinding eyes long dead to vision.

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.

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

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.'

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.

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.'

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.

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.

i remember being alone;
all done for sake of exploration.
plaster'd walls till copy paper
gain'd some ground, infinities
of translucent words.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

- - - 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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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