writing, more than considered normal.
especially with the distraction i've
brought. reading back more, and
i'm surprised time-to-time at the
style and such *******. and perhaps
this is hell. perhaps. *****-driver
as only way out. think about it.
perhaps this is in truth Samsara.
perhaps. then the question why
this vessel is a failure. purpose and
reason for this reiterate. perhaps it
was the purple highlighting of some
sacred text. perhaps, but digressing.
thoughtless with head throbbing as if
coming up. lack of slaap, lack of true rest,
and the hallucinatory aspect has kicked
in. a bit late. though, the wind
looked awful wavey today. and red was
quite loud. perhaps only a hang over,
if only that logic weren't quashed by
absence of rainbows and unicorns.
perhaps if only, but digressing.

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

H73112

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

H8412

steel gray waters past
               land and sea are
               lived much
               -- in fact,
               personally represented and
   hey,
           how divided are you now?
           coming off eight years of a
     hundred days missed?
                by ending breath,
             the air was taken in chord
             and mimicked some expectant energy.
   you're somewhere, getting there
   only by will of the day(s).

eatting bread to sustain
when days run head-long
and redaction of preservation
runs rampant. smiling,
season changing mentality;
that of slight insanity.
never stonewalled even
by sane and keening mind.
not leaving to spite the
long-dark's cyclical reaping;
to glide the ice this time 'round.

into space with stares
while they fleet along foot-path;
a week's time till it's been
twenty and six times round. and
distraction of perfumed air lingers,
ending season towards thought
that what will come will run on
leaving syllables pathed out
even though return is not expected.
return never expected; actually,
**** Expectations of memory.
reality, now is further truth of
memory than receding ages.

what the **** is the point anymore?

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.

she grip'd my hand
in front of her boy. between the
two there were four kids,
she age'd in at twenty-six and
i never caught his. twenty-nine
he call'd me, and thirty
thrown at crony -
come on man,
just ask for a cigarette.
conversation ensued in air of
reeking oil and acrid smoke,
thankful for the backs of chairs.

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

i owe the Universe some ******* poetry.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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 hots 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.

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.

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.

“train tracks claim Christian.”
starting with statement from
a dozen past lives’ back,
ruminating on his comment:
    “you speak as if your
      life is already over.”
and yes, my words conveyed
ring contempt of future seen
through these old-soul eyes.
seen – vision inters experience –
with a soul blooded by existential
understanding. and staring at
fixed point of cell’s wall,
questioning myself aloud:
    “what happened to
      this monastic wanderer?”
simply responded in thought,
response of breathless word:
     that is not your purpose
     in this rebirthing. and,
    “IT WILL NOT BE NEAT. POP”
that once barefooted vagrancy
in time of an innocent ideal-
ism, carried through years,
brought honest acceptance
that self-destruction is all we
can ever be certain of. and
if any rule governs the lives i run
footloose through, that is most
hopeful of all, for reconstruction
can and always follows in short
step. coming from vagrant bare feet to
hoping sight not being blinded like
the many listless eaters. and i sit
out, waiting for tracks to build
themselves in directions that in
end only led away from a pure
dawn’s rising sun. awaiting the
meticulous ponding where the
universe might provide haven for
this lotus eater. and once again,
in time of innocent idealism – again,
having learned falsifies – i choose
self-destruction so that i might
come to a reconstruction whose
foundation is not sole reverie.

OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.

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

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.

did you know
there's an island where
you can hunt people?;
free-range of course.
cruelty free.
but there's not a whole
lot of sport to it,
you stay up in a tree -
for days and days -
so that the animals can
become used to your smell.
'cause you dont smell
the same as they.
and they tend to sketch
out with ease, and often.