Without no clout,
Is it al we’re here to do,
Passersby in the doorway,
Don’t even say hello,

Leave without a word,
Is everyone so strange,
That the silence,
Becomes normal,

You’re too sensitive,
You just wouldn’t understand,
The plight,
Of living without a clout,
A nameless face,
Standing on the edge,
Looking down and seeing,
What the hell am I trying to see,
If not for the immensity of self,
I’d extinguish,
Is there some way to make you,
Understand the plight,
Of living without flight,
A nameless being trapped inside,
A conscious reliving,
Retelling of someone else’s life,
This is not me talking at all,
This is not the world moving past,
This is just the untouchable,
Reaching out,
For something of substance,
I hope you understand,
I plead that I don’t offend,
To live without a clout is hard,
To live in the clouds,
In the mountains,
A hermit permit,
Something of a dream,
With colored horizons to dine on,
With sympathetic ears on the wind,
With simple living it is much harder,
To feel the humdrum doldrums of,
Mild, dramatic existence,
Meandering,
Wandering like an aesetic,
Draped in holy flesh,
Constantly revolving around the same players,
The same feelings,
That are never the same,
Trying to find the words to say,
To make it all worth while,
To stop and say wait,
This was all just for this.

There was a rolling hill,
The fog disappeared behind it,
As the sultry apparition floated,
Past the lamp post,
The striking flame of beauty,
Shone a-glimpsed,
Curtly,
Playfully,
Wistful,
Strolled onwards up the hill,
To gaze over the darkened grass,
The multitudes of inference,
The dazzling emptiness of night,
The peace of the buzzing insects,
Sweetly,
Softly,
Calmly,
All there was,
Was over that hill,
On the other side,
Waiting,
Breathing,
Tired,
The land stretched,
Ethereal ghosts played above,
In the clouds,
They shook loose the pinset,
The rush of water hit her face.

The Ecuadorians sit languishingly in the stairwell,
Staring at their cell phones,
The bizarre circus of humanity is about to begin,
As I wade through the perpetual crowd,
To dive in the back,
To my unknown fate,
There are characters,
Waned and waxed figures,
They caress trinkets,
They ****** their egos,
They stretch their forlorned backs,
They stroke their everlasting devices,
They return day after day,
There I am,
Making due with the,
Space,
I’ll stand and see,
If being personable,
Really makes a difference.

If it doesn’t,
I shall be a hermit,
Permit,
I will delude to the hills,
To a town far away,
To the ocean,
To the many faces,
Torn from pages,
Of someone else’s yearbooks,
To the anonymity of pure intension,
I’ll curl on my back every night,
Waiting for the end,
Content in the bleakness,
For what’s the point anymore,
The rugs have been pulled,
Time and blood spilt,
Salvation waits in the word,
The solitary significance that,
Arises from the perfect form,
The daring unrest of the thought,
The silly unkempt ruling,
The turbulence of being,
Ripples across ages,
Hoping to hold dear,
The image so clear,
No matter foolish sages,
This was all just the ends to a mean.

These are our times,
Each of us in our cyber shells,
Stagnantly appealed to atrophy,
Sailing in search of the long
                Lost spirit,
That one gleam in our existence,
That esteemed ambrosia,
Callused palms,
          Achin’ back
Stars shooting themselves,
Through our wings.

We can dance on moonlight,
We can sing right to the earth,
We can move atop,
          Saunter into the horizon
Yet we safely sit nestled,
Afraid of our neighbors,
A new paranoia,
McCarthyism eat your heart out,
          They’ll ban freedom,
          They’ll root us out,
If only we could come together,
I fear,
That no one is left,
To live as,
The fearless had.
That the once,
Benevolent virtue,
Of being human,
In all that horrid splendor,
Has washed away,
The spirit left on the shore,
Waving.

I haven’t seen anything,
Like the Ol’ Seraphim saw,
Or the Ol’ Duluoz saw,
O has it all been lost,
Somehow the latency has produced,
A grand homogenized pile of ****.
With everyone afraid of the shadow,
Imagined,
Looming overhead,
Heating the backs,
Tearing at the truth at heart,
The sight unbearable,
People try to be people.

The impact of what had happened,
Now riding the rails,
Still on the course,
This wild horse will take,

Things will always change,
There are truisms to be had,
Dissolved into the land,
I hope for a band to come out,

A real group,
A bunch of people all there,
Out there,
In here,
Over there,
Everywhere,
That can think,
Feel,
See,
Be seen,
Communicate,
Chanting,
Silently,
Beheaded,
Buddha-fied,
Chr­istly,
Godliness,
They are bare,
Naked,
Covered in the filth,
Of pure humanity,
Celebrating breath,
Creating something,
It wouldn’t all have to make sense,
Some of it may be hard to follow,
--misinterpreted—
Partitioned as pure nonsense,
The lama lama ding blah blah,
Could come off as that fevored,
Sought after rhythms,
Straight ahead to the main destiny,
That inevitable fortitude,
Caught in the clouds,
Foretold by the unseen Unknown,
Chaos imbedded in our skin,
Slinking off,
Erupting into the cosmos,
Connecting our bemused souls,
Like the rain toppling down the mountain,
No picture can encapsulate
This mosaic of mankind,
But this is our time,
Right here and now,
While the whole thing is still moving,
Almost tripping over its own feet,
As it has always done,
The sigh of relief when,
In the blindest revelation,
In the darkest caves of ignorance,
In the coursing waters,
In the towering worlds here,
Even the truest of falsehoods,
Makes the whole thing called life,
Worth a ****.























Drawing in Dawn:

The sight of it,
The sun,
Being birthed,
From the womb,
Of the Horizon.

I draw a breath,
As I watch,
Reminiscent of,
The Moon,
Entangled in,
The eternal,
Nightly web.

The forces,
The push and pull,
Waves in,
Counter balance,
Like the,
Drawing in of,
Embrace,
The pull of,
Ever drawing time.























The dusty rag tumbled down the mountain,
Only to be shunned by everyone,
Destitute in absolute desolation,
Roaming as it had always done.

Then it came to rest beside the grove,
In an inlet that rang with melodious wonder,
It became awashed by the world’s beauty,
Lost in the splendor of it all.

Time passed faster as the grace seeped in,
The pores of its flesh inflated, elated,
The flash of fiery thunder roared,
The sand fell onto its back, and dust returned.

Time had come to move on and break aloof,
From the fortitude and pleasure allotted,
For the call of the wind was too great,
To ignore for any longer.

I would like to pontificate like that mad ones,
Like the predecessors that eluded me,
And my concurrent mad generation,
The system and analysis may have differentiated,
Deteriorated by becoming Behemoth,
The beat ones,
They still exist,
They wear
An auspicious mask,
An ethereal cloth,
A vivacious sole to the shoes,
Those brand new shoes,
Jack bought after he came down from Desolation,
To where I selfishly want to traverse,
Some time spent,
Alone,
Sitting holding my **** in my hand,
The other held to my chest,
Palm outward to the world,
Inclusive vibes working their magic,
To travel through the ages,
To greet the mad sages,
To feel the smaller world of the past,
Immense in difference,
Eerily similar that it hasn’t changed,
Since then.

Under the guise that there could be a group,
A saying,
A path or a system,
Or lack thereof,
Or the most holy of disciplines,
Or of the tyrannical free verse,
O of the makings of man,
O of the make believes of man,
Constantly flowing and winding,
The river we all flow through,
Some paddle,
Some lay on their backs and careen,
Heads tucked away below,
Under the guise,
Deprived of identity,
Yet given one by the mass hysteria,
The glowing moths under the streetlamp,
That cascade with the wind,
That dance to the holy rhythm,
O that holy rhythm,
O that holy dance,
O that wondrous make believes,
How easily the rock is swayed,
Submerged in the water.

By and by the world doesn’t make sense,
Though it turns,
It doesn’t pass,
While it encircles and trances,
It never escapes,
It isn’t truly free,
It isn’t even controlled,
Would the world learn from its mistakes?

My head itches incredibly tonight,
The flames rising and being fanned,
Teemed and tousled,
Tortured by it,
Right down the ***** of my helm,
My teeth still drenched in sage flavor,
Through my crimson gums,
With my sapphire tongue,
Down my emerald ridged tepid throat,
Straight to my crystalline heart,
Onyxed lungs.

Are hands enveloping one another?
Is there really a superior or just annihilation,
Human characteristic,
To be undoubtedly,
The strange and elated,
Co-exist with destructive and all consuming,
Fluorescent corpses live,
Bridging the gap,
The celestial brain of man,

It is hung,
like portraits,
Atrocities, Unfurled,
Achievements unbound,
Like a flash,
The hallway gave way,

Our Minds,
The evolved mind we all share,
Yet so ambled that in groups,
Tribalism,
The merits and true wit emerges,
Gathered around the madhouse flame,
Dancing hysterically into the night,
Naked, Barren, Diluted,
Then after some time,
People judged such acts of pure expression,
As not the norm,
It bared not conformity,
Altho, All this breathed from the same species,
We are not far from a re-conceived
Coliseum,
It all happened in an instant,
As the hallway broke away,
It left nothing in its wake,
This everlasting second,
This beacon in time,
Amounts to the cultivated,
"Truths"
We all interpret,
The Byproduct I,
Simply is all other things,
reacting to all other things,
Right now, the concept,
Someone is having a much different,
Interpretation,
Time, relatively,
Exists in its own vacuum,
Outside the Walls of the Hallway,
A being has exited one brief iota,

Justified and right were the means,
that had met the end,
All the waves that,
were lost beyond the bend,
Came round back again,
It all makes sense now,
All things obvious,
Lost in our perception,
Only a particle of the Cosmos,

I thought I'd get it out,
That the only thing to this,
Is to understand that for all of Thee,
There are many more,
And all that uniqueness,
In one moment,
Ubiquitous,
It wouldn't be lost,
Out there in Natural Wilderness...

Out beyond any world we could conceive,
There is a being, Omnireal, Superimposed,
Stands twenty feet tall, more or less,
Decreasing and increasing at will,
To suit the needs it possesses,
The being would be incredulous to us,
The existence of this being,
Is only existent because of omnirealism,
That is,The reality is given because of,
its own discretion, under emphatic atrophy,
an ouroboros, a colloquial spiral,
Reaching into the expansiveness to the
Entire Realm,
Existence Existing,
Existing on Existence,
Setting into a dreamtown land,
Now this being,
Since reality has befallen it,
How would the midset be,
Contained,
Realized,
Conceived,
Forthwith, the makings of its identity,
Intelligence, Conciousness, Mentality, Entirety,
Assembled in an enviornment,
of its own Omniworldlyness, otherworldly,
Yet still, concrete, immalleable, seething, breathing
Unable to make dramatic change,
Until the final moment,
Where in the end, reality caves in on itself,
Becoming reborn, reincarnate, Big Bang,
Into the same rhythm, echoing,
Reverberating into negating ripples.

I found my mom's ****,
I guess Ill be existential and say,
it,
I'm high on the ****,
Brown in a mold of somewhat,
Stale fashion,
compressed,
yet still
surprisingly
*Wonderous

I have left my carcass,
withering, shriveled in the sun,
Bloated, floating in the seabed,
Carried away, eroded by evering wind,
Embodied, embraced in the flames of the pyre.

The true gift that we all share,
Is nothing,
Our mark of the time and space,
of our,
Moments,
Then this time,
Is everything.

Can I withstand the world
As it quakes beneath my feet?
Back to back with constant corrosion,
In the face of impending doom?

The motif of my life is
greenish-purple, no-one
likes that color,
nor understands its
taste.

What can I contribute but,
my simple words,
oblivious,
well really not caring,
of the reaction to it,
that is, that I wonder where these words
will lead?

Opie Okies,
pursed lips,
Midwestern turn,
of phrase,
Grubby,
makeshift enterprise,
Whose building,
has ol' ***** wisemen,
sittin' on the porch,
chewing the fat,
of the fish caught,
cheaply from the dock,
Their faces branded,
a top the flickering neon billboard,
A majestic pile of gleaming ****,
A ****** statement,
under breath,
That is America today

Open your ears to the dead beat,
Open your eyes affixed to the wall,
Open your mind to the ever-flowing ether,
Open your heart so one might hear the call.

To the wild, arcane, gilded centurions,
To the ambient, intangible outcomes,
Enfolded in the very fabric,
We trudge across, frolic and sway.

Almighty pendulum of surrender,
flickering on the lake beset before us,
A sea, an ocean, the vacuum of space.
Dark; the color that mows the harvest

It's a strange feeling,
Sangre in the veins,
flowing erratically,
order born in the chaos,
folding and engulfing,
every chasm's atom matter,
Shifting minuscule,
Ordained, ambition, careening,
hopefully landing gracefully.

Torn winter sight,
Cartoon loneliness,
Speaking slavishly,
Under the breath.

Trying to lose,
the way,
by gaining,
a path,

Set forth quasi-fold,
Sorted under magnetism,
The cloudy silver sigh,
Serpent hissed,
Past the foyer,

Cast aside belonging,
Become silent,
And have it come to past.

Those sols,                                                                     Wings,
They shutter,                                                                 Magnificent,
In order,                                                                         Radiating feather,
To reconvene                                                                 Trailing stars,
On the scene.

Their folded,                                                                   Picturesque,
Ripe skin,                                                                        Flawless perfection,
No single,                                                                        Evolution,
Colour,                                                                            Has begun.
Cheeked tower,

Head; Neck;
Body curled,
Lotus legs,
Beneath,
Flaccid teeth.

Thunapa
*** Sherop
Faruk Sharanmah
Mu Talamut,
Kal Farmalutut,
Jat Malut,
Salut,
Matreetah,
Sopa,
Masheep,
Thunapa.

The company had told the
Little soldier where to go,
Jut down the street,
Not far at all...
Turned out to be an adventure,
All its own,
It took on its own breath,
its own face,
its own figure,
its own voice,
its own life!
You know those days when,
After it all transpires,
You look back,
And it's its own thing...

This entailed,
Most likely chronologically,
But with the arrival,
back to where I started,
Twas the same thought as,
The chariot approacheth,
O'er the Horizon,
In the deadlands,
On the line,
Lulling her to sleep,
Then along it came,
Not the vessel,
But the urn,
Of Being!
All dressed in hats; except one,
they wandered into,
the frequently adjacent pub,
They were striving,
Starving,
Well worth a sonder,
As I commented,
One responded curtly,
They all did in their own way,
But the Black-Fedora-ed,
Burgundy-Suited man,
Cigaro in hand,
Said he liked my backpack,
(It isn't even mine!)
The last bus approaches, The bus driver calls me back,
Wrong transfer,
I have a feeling,
That he was the most,
Diligent guy they had,
And that I was me,
And I mistook one thing,
That me being able to be there,
would be a first for him,
The john Wayne of Pain,
What's more painful than being,
The maniac bus driver,
Honked at almost every stop,
Some kids got on the wrong way,
Told 'em it was the other way,
Cantankerous old bebop behind the wheel,
Notches another disappointment,
In his leather sides.
As the bus made the,
bewildering turn to everyone else,
I was used to it,
Better for me,
Confusion rose like hot air,
But I thanked the mad,    mad
                                   mad,  mad,
                                       mad,
                                              MAD!
Driver of,
The crazed,
City Night,
I walked,
With my music playing,
crossed paths with the only,
homeless guy I ever see.
Thinking back I should've
Given him the pass,
To get somewhere,
actually I tried one time,
He told me he didn't like,
the bus,
On that nightly traveler,
He went Cold.

What could be behind the door?
Possibly more?
Or more of the same,
relics treasures of the arcane,
or insight; to the core?

Our benign social conscious grew,
Into dogma righteousness flew,
Up above the heaven's heights,
plunge below eternal nights,
You tell you to be you.

***; death; ****; HORROR...
...Love; serenity; ambrosia; ORDER...

Simulated visions
Narcotic apparitions
The thundering seashore.

Even though the mind is never,
at rest,
Expounding upon itslef ambiguously,
Even though we are stopped; at the end,
we are racing!
At this moment,
we all understand ourselves,
with little flaws, faults and fallacies,
About what we're all about,
Even though it all makes sense,
the next turn, corner, windowsill,
Threshold doors float.
flow,
Our consciousness is infallable,
The hubiris of this satire,
That all persons,
At this moment,
Even though the brain constantly perceives,
In our little grandiose heads,
We have it all figured out,
The system of environment has,
been analyzed,
The results were,
inconclusive,
Yet we persist,
even though,
at the flip of a switch,
after all is said and done,
even though we knew our
Ultimate Truth,
sought after,
strived and toiled for,
even understanding chiral inversions,
fractal combustion,
The makeshift mind,
Never failing,
The unbending will,
gleefully wisping,
singing and swaying,
Sunlight beaming,
Booming,
Across the faces,
Flashing on scattered specks,
even though our ugliness,
is beauty,
even though,
love conquers all,
even though,
Truth,
Is malleable,
Our stubborn straight-forwardness,
Makes that realization rigid.

Their eyes gleamed in the night,
perplexed, perpetuated, petrified,
gregarious fixtures devour their limelight,
Makeshift creations encircle their heads.
It was a real pain in their ***!
Why couldn't it all fly by?
Why couldn't the ***** lass be persuaded,
what would have happened to their dreams?
Dazzled and shattered on monotonous hallways,
exaggerated?

From Tangiers, to Rome, to St. Bonifacius,
to the Alamo, to the great wide divide,
to the moon, to the stars, to the planets
make believe,
To the hearts of corrupt men,
to the mouths of babes,
to the sacrilege of Dodger stadium,
to the horn swallowed backings,
to the secret north,
to the abundant sand,
to the wild tranquil forest,
to the bars in lonesome towns,
to the sickly cries of organs,
to the carpets in the calls,
to the strumpets on the corner,
to the craters of the face,
to the markets and vultures.

Did you ever wonder why
clouds drift in the sky
have you ever felt the touch
filled up and throttled,
sombre like a key.
Did you ever see the rising tide,
reach past the mountainside,
has it ever made it past,
cast and crass,
would you ever be the same?

The meek are in the pocket,
of the powerful,
The artist is in the pocket,
of the authority.
The authority; cops,
are in the pocket of the law,
The law is made up,
by politicians,
Their deceptive truths,
puppeteered by criminals; gangsters.
The ruthless tyrants are,
in the pocket of the
malnourished, emaciated, gaunt,
faceless demon,
Shriveled and terrifying,
pock marked arms outstretched,
Slithering up the back,
Recanted by the one,
Absolute wisdom,
Of the meek,
The beggars are in the pocket,
The vagabond fools and jesters,
The guru shaman mystic ascetics,
That journey,
Yet never set foot,
Whom hermitage,
Is a pilgrimage,
To where the Absence of mind,
Isn't Mindful,
It is just simplicity,
Sacrilegious ease,
The safety of the Pocket.

I had arrived after the long trek,
Richer as I had experienced the
frozen hearth that sits above,
The clueless heads,
Met atop the clouds,
The tracks sent a wind tunnel,
forcing our backs, to the limits,to the corner of the world,
The nexus that,
Formed our nostalgia,
Even traveled beyond,
reached over our pre-existent,
omnipresent,
pre-frontal cortex,
breaking context,
calculated alignments,
evaporated,
Translucent beings,
Whispered,
Trailed,
Washed along the frost,
That bath of pure biting numbness,
Meandering souls awashed,
Clamoring to fiery shores.
Warm bodies,
Women,
Good Food & Drink,
Not in this forsaken place,
An outlandish request,
From otherworldly lands.

I have consumed,
The godhead fungus,
Once again,
Upon upset stomach,
I will watch,
my mind unravle,
become undone,
rewound,
renewed,
possibility of destruction,
Omnipresense,
Tho, the word topple over,
the mountains fall to the sea,
none of this worries I,
For creation comes,
From the depths of the depraved,
Relentless,
Hospitable,
Passion flow like rivers,
Juxtaposed round the ignited,
Universe,
Cosmos,
Atomic Circus.

Borne under the good sign,
Or the bad,
If the enigma caught on,
to the trailing self,
it would be a question,
would the superlative,
be monstrous?
Or the make shift believer;
Would it all make sense?
Scribbles...
Either I have signed my life
or destroyed it,
In the pursuit.
It is the mental mind,
That produced this end,
The markings the etching,
That causes a chasm,
It will obliterate the skies!
Magnitude.
The sense of belittlement,
had been extinguished,
The tribes borne of the future,
would marvel at etchings,
Engraved in sand,
The beauty all extinguished,
Among the belittled beauty, at,
simple existence,
of complex life,
The hereditary displacement,
coherent to our establishment,

There is a latency
in progression,
The mixture's
Teeth,
Bind,
Conform
In singularity,
The future forgets itself,
the zen logic is missing,
between pustules,
between synapses,
between the heavy,
and the lucid.

Last night I dreamed a million dreams,
                   :One for each star shining overhead
A million visions,
                   :The tidal night washing me away
I lived a million lives
                   :The lunacy of night
And died a million deaths,
                   :The imbecility of dawn

What the **** is wrong with you America?
Why can't you wake up and see,
Why aren't you craving more,
Doesn't the sight of obvious injustice,
make you shudder and quake,

The pawn shops, the walls, the harems,
The grotesque, vile eating establishments,
The silly, sadistic joke of their,
devourous wake,
The prison sentence of commercial onslaught,
The centers,
The hubs,
The craters in the sand,
The dead pools,
The pool halls,
The mess halls,
The halls
and walls,
Mingled together,
Why haven't you made the distinction;
Why haven't we done anything,
Indeed...
                 Who are you to ask?
I felt a crushing depression,
being among the people,
we all sat and glared,
my normal disposition,
unaligned by the new line,
the path unknown made me
Feel Uneasy,
I always pull out my Kerouac,
and start massaging my brain,
feeling the nostalgia of a past
                Soul,
             a zero soul,
            a poet's cries,
         reach my ears, the innards,
                resonate out the mix,
    usually it works,
          But the bus driver yelled at my ***** *** for not knowing
Hamline, of Course!
         He said it seven times.
Inside the current trend of atrocity,
      in the heart,
             the core,
                   the honey,
  in the mad swirl of current trends,
       the sway,
              swirling of the dilapidated ocean,
I was returning work shoes that were,
                                    (I hadn't bought them, but were intended for a                   now terminated co-worker)
Given me, but two sizes too big, floppy.
She talked to her supervisor.
(Should've just walked out with the new pair)
Supershit said no over walkie,
"try yo luck at the counter."
Went to the counter,
to try my luck,
Striked conversation,
with a rough,
dusty girl,
who told me they had ******* at her
for being there too long.
I just wanted to get the **** outta there.
I handed the box to Lucy (cashier)
She besmirchenly said no,
I didn't fight the decision.
Which I felt will always haunt,
a moment in my mind's heart.

I should've stood up and
pulled off my shoes and
whamped her for what
she represented,
None of it made sense,
I asked nicely,
I mean was I supposed
to walk barefoot in these
subzero temperatures?
Lackluster I slunk away,
None of it matters,
I positioned myself
toward the
beacon twin,
The personification of
Racism!

The super Target across from
the Mart of Wal,
Whose merchants bumble,
yet I made no progress,
speaking distressfully,
influently for them,
While the policeman shelved the chips,
I spoke as courteous as any,
yet was torn away,
tuned asunder,
Lumbered over to the far off
sigh, Red...
They don't even have,
work shoes at Targé,
What does that say America?
The serpent silly sneakers,
laughing and hissing as I leave.

The bus is right there and
I have to catch it,
Lest I spend another half hour,
outside in this turmoil of frost,
In a wheel of torture and rejection,
always missing the bus to,
seek warmth,
Thought I would be hit by oncoming car
but made a mad dash to the door,
Just in time to be ticked off
at the empire,
at the ruminating,
the fermenting,
the rheumatoid arthritis,
affecting the fingers of careful planners,,
the scent o futility,
the fertility of existence was barren,
anything...
something... I'll pop up 'ventually

There I groaned,
retracing my steps in my brain,
but would end up at a
better launch,
in the ***** of downtown.

I kicked myself when it
said my transfer was expired,
with no way to tell time,
I just paid the man,
Then kicked myself because,
I must've used the older one,
from the former veranda
of the morning 'fore all this,

Now I kicked myself off the bus
pulling the yellow halt cord prematurely,
then walked the snowy,
lonely streets,
the cascading thunder of cars,
shoveling the air around,
the city sighing beneath my feet,
Walked past and contemplated
jumping on the little
platform between the
stages of the coaches
of the train...
16... to 17,
St. Louis Park,
Where began the loud,
obnoxious cacophony,
Obliterating my remaining faith in humanity,
The reason for this rant,
in solitude now,
in grateful sorrow,
in menacing tones,
the joke,
that we should all wake the **** up...

A B-boy girlie,
talked of pounding *****,
taming ***,
                                                    (how literate heroes will view this is outrageous)
Her counterpart with fisherman,
camouflage hat,
remarks of suckin' **** for two dollas.
I pretended to put my headphones in,
silencing the onslaught,
of inhumanity.
I had already gone through
my circles of hell,
that charlatan-laden circus of consumerism,
Now on the home stretch were,
these monstrosities,
mocking everyone in the bus
They talked of drink indulged,
The B-boy girl was the ringleader,
it was apparent,
the lackey sat behind her,
taking pictures, documenting?
and sharing images on devices,
that all amounted to,
nothing,
but tragic decline.
They spoke of dads in jails,
They spewed out nonsense,
They reminisced of fights,
The B-boy girl had a cast on her arm,
She had lied and told the
story of how she had
coldly beaten someone in the ice.
how brutish and untrue.
Obviously I didn't have words until now,
after arriving finally to my haven away,
to express,
in the mullings here,
on the pages of existence,
That we all need to
WAKE UP AMERICA!!!!

Gentle contemplation,
    of the dark hands,
         sinking into the dark,
               cold land,
          hammering cold,
       real spikes into,
   the cool, cruel land.

In my peripherals,
     I could see the flashing
          of their sirens,
               of the fires on doorsteps,
           of idiocy secreting from
        the bus ride,
     express line to the
twin world

The haunting hollow lights,
       of the bell tower,
            as if floating,
                its wall invisible,
Just like those cursed, darkened hands,
Digging into the granite of
  the lands,
     bleak,
        accepting all freaks,
           of a certain caliber ,
They make up the nimrods,
       Roaming Wall,
           Visibly,
In the dimmest light,
     you can't see a spark,
          a depressing aspect,
Behind sad woolen eyes,
       transfixed on the betterment,
a raptured glance,
          the promising view,
The contrasting composition,
      that everything might.
          not turn out alright,
    and that's
preferable.

We'll all fry,
or we'll comply,
clouds billow-ballow 'cross the top,
Quick, chilled electric bodies,
Make contact in the cold dark,'The beacon of the lonely,
O so dear and ethereal entertain,
******* with head lice and light,
Naked to the wrath of night,
If not cradled, bathed in wreck,
Limitations of levitation

While watching Nick Jr.
At 3 AM,
I realized,
That I should comply,
the best word out there,
the one most up to date,
top of the line,
descriptor of how I view this,
that a person,
On that personal journey,
Has the ability to take things,
as they come,
The right to comply and accept,
subtle resistance,
sparks make in the dark,
or complain and argue,
With our fair lady Reality,
Our comfort zones snug in the couch,

Softening our undersides,
cradling our egos,
tingles of nostalgia tickle the nostrils,
A temptation of non-timelessness,
Themes have evolved,
While evolving the themes decreased,
Sensation dwindled,
Mankind found daily interaction difficult.

Rallying in treasured desert halls,
Painted absurd pink propaganda soliloquies,
Fill the hall,
Shut the door,
See it all come down,
The exhaustion,
The living nights,
Scarred Skies,
Makeshift holes of the soul,
Realign and try,
For the love of God; try,
Better that your tethers are secure,
It makes the construction workers,
Safe; all up there,
Cold as can be,
Shivering at 100° desolation,
moving like creme statues,
Up there,
That tie to the platform
Preserves the sonder,
That fact that,
Someone is up to what they are up to,
Paranoia shouts find out,
Passivity says let it be,
midsentence it all makes sense,
tat the net of being,
flies along the bleating radar,
the seismic adventures of man,
Trampolines collective consciousness,
Floating together in the void,
Finding our footholds,
our tethers,
they are our feathers,
ironically,
the bonds that
caress in segments,
the grand confusion of time,
the singing buffoons in the void,
the crazy madmen we all are,
daily psychosis pills,
Excrement recipient,
that moment to moment,
preservation of existence,
Seems everything is going to hell,
in a hand basket,
yet the cave blares within,
a source of nihilistic capitalization,
Banging infants in Foot Lockers,
It should outrage,
All that progress is accomplishing,
segregation,
The isle of a certain strain,
The mental stimulants are similar,
they age appropriately,
it is comparative,
that we all understand,
Complying,
Sizing up and making the gentle leap,
In the wake it wouldn't mind,
if the time was right,
when you're ready,
then the exchange may happen,
A future can be fathomed,
Braving the Unknown's womb,
Past and present collide,
They lie,
Side by side,
like tin soldiers in the mud,
Anguish,
What fortune lies on our sidewalks,
What can be said,
About O so crazy madmen,
As they contort in the Unknown,
What is the amount worthy,
Assessed in some lab,
Looking down the lens we'd assume,
Kerouac atoms abound,
the Samsara principle,
of all them principles and none,
because we fraternize,
we tempt the fates,
Gerald said,
We exist in the scripts,
we sing on the shows,
we don't accept or comply,
we should look around,
and see Others,
A renouncing of old habits,
Don't call me a Dadaist,
*******,
I'm into the  primitivism,
in respect to our attention span,
we have a grip on ourselves,
almost,
Fatalistically we are born on the,
crest of a wave,
eternally throttled by chaos,
when the wave sank its teeth,
into the sands of the immediate generation's side,
That reins are there,
Now more than ever,
I guess we are too far gone,
That's what those fanatic fatalists think.

The moral of the story is about the parameters that we asset to ourselves, what if it was dissolved? The ways we conduct ourselves is in a sense how the world around us functions. What we liken to ourselves, we liken to our environment. A person who is in a dangerous situation is brought there by dangerous behaviors begotten by themselves. The successful are beget by successful, the whimsical by the enchanted, the ferocious by the powerful and the harmless with the stale. There is room for eccentricities, but they only amount in the most absurd way into the protagonist’s predicament.’

These are the woods in which I grew up,
There stood a tree in the middle,
The branches swerved and galloped with the wind,
It seemed to talk sometimes and was helped with the air,
The breath of all earth,
Stretched far out to the mountains and oceans,
Cometh unto this forest and rustles the leaves,

I can climb it, but I choose to admire it from the stump,
Juxtaposed next to it,
There the bark seems to swirl,
The trunk breathes with every passing second,
As the leaves glisten and whistle in the light of this day,
From here the breathe comes easy,
In the woods where I grew up,

The words of the ancients whistled through the pores,
The spark was ignited,
There stood the sweet nectar,
There was the divine beauty,
The stillness and the natural swaying,
Of the cosmos.

He took the series of images as a bad omen,
He whisked up the dust
From ache soaken boots,
From a long painful journey,
He crossed through the desperate world,
This world which is confused,
This world that feels the burning scent of chaos,
The world that has birthed the unknown,
The world where reluctance begins at birth,
The site of a cosmic reaction,
Far growing,
Yet we haven’t left the dark ages,
Where the horizon beats constantly,
And the tides roll in,
And the only ones we have to blame are ourselves,
We curse and spat,
In each other’s eyes,
We’ll poke and ****,
With itchy fingers,
Trying to unearth disaster,

What had become of the lost November?
Where are they?
Where have the people that understood gone to,
Where is the Bukowski voice heard,
In this day and age,
Where did the true humans go?
The spirits still chant and riot,
Glowing in there,
With a mistiful, sorrowful song,
That I will never get to know,
Different times,
Different filigrees surround different lives,
In these trying times.

Earthen desires,
these are diamonds,
that shield our veiled eyes,
trance like sheathed sward,
hidden in the mantle,
a top the mountain,
creatures lurk atop,
Deviled in the mist,
splattered in Lumios,
The crone and spit;
they really are a horrorshow,
Straggling around,
hovering,
hurtling toward,
**Unknown Territory!

You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****,
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.

The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.

An imagined being,
The mitigated reality,
Beset on all sides,
Makes you wither,
in comparison,
to the deception,
To enhance the enviournment aboutnd,
that fits upon themselves the wworld,
Under watch,
kept under lock and key,
the universal truths,
hidden under their *******,
the single timeless entity,
That turns the world over,
in onto itself,
keels into oblivion,
touching back to the abdominal,
fact that it retaliates,
fought behind reason,
Love behind common sense,
The world undone,
By the limitless one,
The being that lasts,
Something,
Beauty,
In repetition,
Found to be prevalent,
In excessive inquiry,
What's and Who's and Why's,
It means no difference,
When facts speak for themselves,
Examples are found in the outside,
Shuddering ample reflections
In the tide pool,
Spiraling.

I sat down after being told,
by the old hungry *****,
Not to worry but there was,
a better spot then this one,
Of course,
The pedistals that sit outside,
occupational windows,
That familiar unknown feeling,
O That town they call Dinky,
There sat a confusing aura,
the pious religious freak said aura,
he talked and gave change,
yet the skull girl,
you could tell,
didn't want any of it,
The scene was joined by Tank,
His armada pockets full,
towering and proclaiming,
fits of oratory rage,
them ******* in Washington.
He saw us and scared the poor muertos,
The friends she was waiting for came and fled with them,
I lumbered after her under duress to myself,
breaking Tank's train of thought
I'm sure,
To tell her sincere,
There are normal people here,
To which her friend said after
they'd gained distance,
"   You must have a target on your back or something!"

Is it wrong to feel compassion,
for rebellion,
       for upheaval,
             for revolution,
protests and marches for causes;
gone to the psychedelic winds,
in place come capitalistic mentions,
nominations to the greater things.
Is it futile to believe,
in the triumphs of the few,
         against the many,
having meaning,
          mentality.
      the art of living,
  of flowing upstream,
against wishes of authority,
       the understand,
              but duty dictates,
      otherwise.
The people have the right,
       but not the motivation,
    to enact and will,
          through the teeth of,
                 the oppressors.
We all feel weak,
    yet the power struggle cont.
                                                  (end of page. arrow)
Throughout time,
       Proving ourselves,
Making it through the day,
    Has amounted to the probability,
         The chance we took,
Have we flopped?
         Are we on the floor?
                  Are we able to recover?
Even fatalistically.
        Has anything changed?
Since the works of the older
Generation?
Do we,
     Does our are,
         mean the same as,
       Their output.
   It sounds softer, more real,
Tangible and timeless.
Now our mentality has moved to
A lull
Our enlightenment has
darkented,
Our meaning has,
diluted,
And we feel the numbing venom,
of the very real dream,
of how the world ought to be.

10/23/13

Sam's head,
believed it could fly,
No one told him it couldn't,
One day it flew off,
And with Icarusque wings,
Clipped,
Pierced the resoluting skies,
Seeing all things possible,
At least trying,
Perfection found in failure,
to see the true light,
not understanding,
*ENLIGHTENMENT

Fanaticism is now a mental disorder,
If you don't accept all realities,
disciplines,
teachings,
you accept singular rationales,
To have a complete consciousness ,
within another accepting vessel,
is the artist's gift.
the nightmare shortly follows,
that it wasn't long enough to
remember.

I don't even speak the same language,
Their's is an Enochian epitaph written,
in dark, deep mysterious Sanskrit walls,
awake and be birthed,
into the awaiting chants and arms outstretched,
In a stupor, self imposed,
stamped on this auspicious occasion,
the winds were upturned,
The city scope stretched,
A way I hadn't seen before,
The path led down,
Then collapsed seamlessly into itself,
Sitting in front of these chameleons
and Poseidon Pusifer himself,
two poles to impale,
people like me,
The self is likened to the world world,
The world is likened to the self,
Gravity made the man jump,
the landing broke his fall,
Each moment the breath is breathed,
for every reaction there is a hand,
in waiting,
ready to strike,
Calling out words that don't make no sense,
Feeling things that cease to exist,
they collide,
Splendid omnirealization,
the the world begets,
humanity.

Screamed at the cat,
thought he toppled the cage,
turned out to be the shelf,
didn't have enough time,
to rinse my hair.
Powered to work;
enjoyed the brisk excersice,
accompanied by grotesque ambience,
"What is that ****?"
From the arrogant.
Three man close,
ends as slow as it started,
the ride home had a sidetrack,
acoustic grassland band,
self proclaimed leader was a real A-hole,
wouldn't let me play,
when I finally did they liked it,
but I didn't give two *****.
Accident on the freeway,
as the faces passed by,
none of them saw me,
but the whole congregation was there,
police, bus driver, Metro insurance man on the side,
in full regalia,
witnessing yet another,
one of those days.

The main thing is that life mimicks,
the ones around you are,
you.
The movie failed to realize,
that people around you,
are,
real.
They make up consciousness,
and everything is a,
flying,
dream!

Almost 6 in the morning,
lying on a cloud,
jazz is hinted in the air,
Music is all around me,
whirring,
worry,
Say a little goodbye,
and turn off the light,
It's a wonder why,
why oh why,
that I have felt,
the bare brisk morning,
exhausted under the rain,
I can feel a pull somewhere,
That surreal roadtrip of dear,
afternoon, setting adrift into,
the night's dementia,
Knowing hell is very much at the gates.
Arrogantly sitting in denial,
That we'll need to learn
to
Swim
So high I'm flying,
Then Wham, all of it hits the fan,
Tearing a place down,
Giving no *****,
Common decency and conventional nuisances,
basic human self,
Then their shots are heard,
Each penetrates at a different
angle,
each unique unsuspecting happenin'
dudes.
Waging war on themselves,
Publicly!
Felt the thigh that I was forced,
to **** was whale ****,
I cursed 5 guys & Dinkytown!
Smoldering in the wreckage,
A white Kenyan or a
Brave Lunatic
who gave me three dollars.

Life's Dramaties, traumatizing moments,
Rally together with the inertia of time,
Just as the soul is expounded to its limits,
On the verge of reversing in,
Or gently tugged away/ violently combustion,

The maturity of a timeline,
as if entangled with the world around,
none are spared from eternal embrace,
cosmic or otherwise,
drawn into a twisting, churning,
vortex,
Tunnel...

Oh well, now's a good a time
as any,
Scribble incandescence,
lines with no thought,
as simple as a lie
as life.
The true facets of humanity
exist unfledged in between the
smoke and mirrors,
Created by the Unknown Ones,
disguised as the steel makeup
of this fair city.