Something about the way we relate to each other -
Doing 80 down opposing ends of the same grand highway, strung out in shades of purgatory and sunset, listening to the hymns our fathers taught us before they stopped believing, imagining how easy it used to be to get lost and never be found again, back before they had us by the throats every moment waking or sleeping, this is the kind of thing I live to romanticize,
When we used to talk about Howl you said it lived within me, in the back of my throat desperate to escape into something larger, and when you used to write poems I always wanted to leave the room, there have always been things I couldn't put to words, and yet I still can't stand to leave things undiscussed,
I couldn't give winter the dignity of a graceful death, always listening for the first breeze of spring and falling asleep before things pick up,
And dreaming of a freedom from all of this context; the world has always been big enough without you, and once you bet me I couldn't out run the setting sun knowing full well this is the only fight I have left to lose, and I have yet to accept that responsibility.
In the end everyone has the same question for everyone else, and everyone has the same answer phrased differently:
I wanna
I wanna
I wanna be adored
I need to
I need to
I need to be adored

3 score and ten, late winter hanging on like the bitter kiss of lovers not ready to die, there isn't much I could tell you about the morning sky or dying alone you haven't already figured out on your own, in a car bruised and cracked, the skin of knuckles after too many fights to stay inspired, while patterns take shape above my visions: the still living ghosts of the cars we crashed, the kisses we forgot to photograph, the photographs we forgot to kiss, the wolves we kept at bay only to find them sitting across our dinner tables asking about the weather, next week the same as this one, and for at least five more weeks after that one, if you believe in that sort of thing, I still don't know how to talk to people about what matters to them, and I wake up hearing my grandfathers last few coughs every few hours, I once thought I could burn solutions into my hands for all the problems they were not willing to recognize, now I wonder if I just didn't believe hard enough in the healing process, my dead eyes watching the turn of conspiracies between a pale girls shoulder blades as she sleeps and thinking about the exceptions to all rules, except this one:
If I wake you up, there will be hell to pay

The poet smokes an imaginary cigarette - a technique he has seen before and stolen from someone far more genuine,
He says,
Never trust a person who cannot own their vices,
There is something sinister here you are not allowed to see,
and sinners all the congregation voice their agreements -
The poet then waits for the audience to voice their agreements before continuing
With renewed vigor from this show of validation, the poet begins the descent into madness:
A former acquaintance who says:
"Man, you used to be so cool"
Reflections on this theme:
Consider: the hands of winter pushing their fingers into a mouth washed clean by bleach and hospital rooms, just to ruin it all over again, full reset, back to the top, just where the fall looks most appealing.
Consider: How little room there is in small Ohio towns for caskets and how I chose not to follow up two decades of suicide with such a dramatic final act more for the sake of convenience than anything else,
(See: Disorder, See: Broken, See: Dysfunctional)
Consider: The lines counted out, the hymns of junkies coming through stereos, the promises of futures rolled up and ignited, the pill bottles empty on a 9 month relapse cycle, the come up, the comedown, if this is supposed to be fun when is it supposed to start,
Consider: The weight of a switchblade tucked in a jacket, a flask in the back pocket of jeans, a flip top box of cigarettes to fidget with in anxious situations,
Consider: That if we all have such crosses to bear it's amazing that more of us don't develop messiah complexes
Consider: Humility, Consider: Dignity
(please, I haven't)
Consider: The faces of my enemies, all of whom I am sure will get into Heaven, and I hope they burn the bridge behind them,
Consider: The faces of my friends, and thank them for the ride from the drunken outskirts of a city called defeat to this very moment,
Consider: The last words my best friend spoke to me before he decided he would rather overdose than let the cancer eat his pride,
"There is no need for farewells here, you know what you have to do and so do I, and if I catch you at a better time, or a better place, we will have much to discuss"
Consider: The fact that I am paraphrasing here, and I will never forgive myself for that
Consider: The massive world shaking voice of a tiny girl who loved the forest so much she hung herself in it so she would never have to leave,
Consider: That because of light pollution there aren't very many stars I can see from here that I can name after these people in my memory,
Consider: The face of this land after we have left it - and try to forgive all of the people who walk across your scars without acknowledging them
Consider: That one day they will divine prophecies from the ashes of the fires you burn out
Consider: Making them worth reading
Consider: The goodnight kisses of crooked girls who have never truly seen themselves in the morning and can only guess incorrectly that it is not beautiful,
Consider: Where you are now
Consider: A place to rebuild
Consider: That everything I traded to get to this point has been survival instinct, and believe me when I say I have built shrines for every step of the way and I pray to the patron saint of each one every night,
Consider: That the poet still has no idea how to apologize when an old acquaintance looks him in the eyes and says,
"You used to be so cool"

I was a ghost in an old haunt, something like 2 AM on a January night living out feedback loops of talks meant for Augusts past when I heard the news -
David Bowie is dead
The man, not the character, not any of the characters
Hero king of the underworld, patron saint for the androgynous and pale, the mad shaman of an age of prophecy, scribe of divine message from the gods of distant worlds, burning rebel heart in drag, bleeding soul at the crest of the first wave that broke down the walls and sent all the young punks marching to war against the world with a switchblade tucked beneath their coats and a steady hand to hold the wheel,
If not for the shoulders of giants we would never see another horizon again,
If not for the madmen with astronaut dreams and bleeding hearts we would never know the beauty in the disorder,
If not for the train that came to take a man to someplace less boring, we would never reach the end of the narrative
And with ties cut and the world at his back,
The man departs, confident he has done all he can do, and that there will always be those who will carry the torch,
And all the freaks in the freak kingdom weep, as only they know how,
And the stars look very different today

Kerouac said that the right words would be simple, so you can imagine my relief when I read about grammar in the obituaries -
So from here on we go off script and the madness will present itself in the ways only it knows how,
passed out on the bathroom floors of dive bars, tapping out the morse code password to the Other Side with credit cards on kitchen tables, singing holy mother if you could see me now to the congregation,
We built our egos around songs about summer in the American south and the northern winters are especially brutal for something so fragile,
Flashes in the rear view mirrors, nerves begging for mercy, one hand clutching miracle and the other annihilation and both feet pressing the gas pedal until it joins in the chorus,
And then, the drums
When it hits you're in this ******* thing for life, no retreat and no regrets, the torn shirt lunatics with lips wrapped around their fathers fathers fathers poison, Thompson fired from the cannon, the veins that ache for the discharge of built up static, and there is nothing to be done about it now so enjoy it the best you can,
When I wake with old news hangover and flashbacks to old time anarchy, I will need strong black coffee to deal with the comedown, that much is certain
The fallout from the detonation covers the windows to my bedroom, and most mornings it's the only way I can recognize my surroundings
And then from the ashes, the words,
And from the words, the poem,
And god, it is so simple

Don't pray for me, in the back seats of interchangeable cars streaking interchangeable nights from here to the edge of manifest destiny, daydreams of sleeping cities on waking seas, whiskey shots in the crowded western fog, chain smoking deaths of mindfulness, of where it starts and where it ends, of friends pledging reverence to Halle Sellasie in wire framed lenses fogged by the afterthoughts of a failed drug test, by the curves of highways beckoning the sick to leave it all behind forever, while all the freaks in the freak kingdom watch Thompson's wave crash against the pier, waiting for the resurgence, the return of the feeling that shook the streets and forced the living to live, and the streets responded, hushed under the shadow of the marquees: This cannot happen on its own. The fight is not yet over and it never will be. Do not lay your arms to rest until they bury you in the rain. Embrace your human war. Leave your house. Make them hear you

Durch Geld , wird die Demokratie ihre eigenen Zerstöre

The decline of the west plays back and forth in newsroom warzones across the America that Samuel Adams died believing in, the promise of a gold lined path to a bygone peace the immigrants can now only dream of, while the sons of the sons of the sons of the sons of their sons close their doors and arm their security systems, there are racks of guns lining every wall and everybody looks ready to go to war, so I might as well join them, the possibility of compromise lies with dozens of boys and girls in dozens of pools of blood across dozens of states and the people cry out enough is enough, and if the decaying capital will not hear us then they must be made to listen, a united front of iron forged from the fires that burned down Missouri, that burned down Los Angeles, that burned down D.C after the soothing voice of the raging masses was shot dead, if my rhetoric is too strong it is because not only are things not moving fast enough they are moving backwards,
When men, leatherbound and arrogant would consider every moment in the spotlight a coronation, the options become clear:
These kings must die so that the country may live