The intermittent, distant rumbling in the skies was suggestive of chronic flatulence. The sun struggled in futility to shine – like a crying child who had been forced to smile. Lightning flashed in quick successions, momentarily throwing brilliant streaks of white light across the room. The angry growl of thunder that followed was enough to send a troop of Howler monkeys scampering for safety.

The lights flickered as though unable to make up their minds to stay or not to. But apparently, the wind had zero tolerance for such petty indecisiveness. And like an enraged, stimulated, demented animal, it gusted through the windows and doors, hauling loose papers, light bulbs in every direction, shattering the bulbs to smithereens, as if to punish them for being so fickle. The lights died.

Thick black blankets eerily stretched across the skies with gusto, menacingly extinguishing whatever was left of the sun’s brilliance. More rumbles and flashes followed in royal herald of the impending storm. And in no time, slick sheets of rain torrentially came pouring down, cascading the roofs to form puddles almost as soon as they hit the ground.

​I looked in horror, fervently praying that whoever God had appointed to build the ark in our time had not diverted the funds. I was trapped in the office, and I knew exactly what this meant…flood, scarcity of buses, hiked transport fares, heavy taffic and very likely, at least one month of blackout.
It would be another three hours of steady downpour before the rain eventually stopped, as gracefully as it had been ushered in.
I picked up my bag, rolled up my trousers in earnest anticipation of the inevitable flood, and made my way home.

​To my utter bewilderment, there were no floods! The lights from the street lamps cast a soft golden glow on the slick roads, seemingly creating mirages of pools of water from afar off. But they were mere illusions. The gurgling sound coming from the underground drainage was proof of where all the water had gone. It was a strange sight. Like some alien cyborg from space had been fiddling with a time machine that had accidentally propelled us twenty years into the future.

My new world was a three-fold utopian dream. So surreal!
I could see beautiful, high-rise, state of the art edifices with mind-blowing architectural designs that blatantly seemed to defy the laws of gravity. I could see world-class hospitals that admitted ailing dignitaries from around the world and top-notch schools that offered scholarships to deserving indigenous and international students.
Sure enough, this was Nigeria! The Nigeria we all dreamed of.

And there was light…electricity! - In myriad of colours that seemed to have been dispersed from several colossal disco ***** via *“wireless fidelity” technology. I strained to hear the noise from generators, but I was disappointed. I couldn’t even hear the all too familiar cacophony of horns blaring, conductors shouting, loud discordant music, rattling vehicle engines etc. It was like everyone and everything had taken a crash course on orderliness.

I saw a vibrant transportation system that included high speed railway lines, paved road networks that looked like a child’s doodles, first-class air strips and efficient sea transportation.
I saw a working government - one that had provided the critical infrastructure for her people.

I saw a nation with a large industrialized economy, where the dividends of democracy had been delivered to the people by their government. One consciously founded on equity and honesty of purpose, and courageously sustained by unfaltering faithfulness and unwavering patriotism.      
A nation whose economic boost did not come solely from crude oil exploration and production, but also from crude oil refining, agriculture, manufacturing, infrastructure, food, services, tourism, automobiles, transportation, education etc.
A nation that thronged with international investors from all walks of life, who were not in the least afraid to invest in her.

And then, I saw her people. A people proud of their citizenship.
A people proud to be called NIGERIANS.
A people who were not given to religious, political, or tribal bigotry.
A people who individually and collectively, gallantly bore the torch of the vision of their heroes past.
A people who earnestly and persistently worked to see only goods “Made in Nigeria” sold in their markets.

Where there was once despair, I saw hope. Where there was once fear, i saw security. Where there was once disgruntlement, I saw satisfaction. Where there was once poverty, I saw wealth opportunities and where there was unemployment, I saw jobs. Death had given way to life and life to hope.

I started, as I felt something cold and wet trickle down my forehead. It was droplets of rain from a leak in the roof just above my head. I was still in my office, I never left. The rain had lulled me to sleep. Even more sadly, I realized it had all been a dream.
Slowly and regretfully, I packed my things and left for home. It was pitch black outside as I carefully waded through the polluted waters, jauntily holding my bag, more because I was afraid to lose it in the flood than in a hopeless bid to dignify the situation.

Two hours later, I crawled into bed. I did not have to turn the lights off…the electric poles had gone for a swim. A very long one.


© ONUGHA EBELE VICTORIA

They're building something out of nothing
They want to understand beginnings
At what expense to singularity
To what expanse to make a copy
A quirk for a quark

What if it falls in the right hands
It's a challenge of the world
Not just for nation over nation
Not just for dollar over dollar
Two billion notions down the drain

And still we're competing
Abandoning logic
Emptying pockets
For bankers and robbers
Conductors of a runaway train

Made up of cowboy hats
And wrist watches
And ***** tonics
Floating in pools of oil
Wombs of oil

Bodies moved and liquor spilled
Hands got up and all felt good
Music created a flow and rhythm became nourishment
Five senses became three
Lovers were formed and lovers were lost
Tears fell and mixed with the liquor
Injuries occurred
Enemies were made...

Bodies still moved and liquor spilled
Hearts were broken and hearts were delighted
Curves appealed to the eyes and grasps occurred
Smiles became kisses and
Kisses became conductors of emotions and desires
*** resulted and smiles occurred...

Bodies moved and liquor spilled
They all went home and memories were erased

                                                         ­          -Conscious

There's a sizable difference
between our lives and existence.
But, we can cover the distance
with an epic persistence.

We should try out indifference
without leaving our imprints
and cast away our existence
to the edge of fickle brilliance.

Shatter the paradigm
Thirsty soul, enrich, affirm, flame the winter fire
The playa calls out to everything you are or will ever be
Resonate as the eye of the storm
Unfurl your colors and let them fly among the other banners

Walk onto the playa, a man strapped
with a guitar, nine harmonicas, one morraca, a melodica, a journal,
and a soul full of childlike wonderment radiating love.

Share the highest self
receive others in the same saintly light
"Buddha", "Buddha"
Man the poet's post, gift a poem to whatever brave adventurer
finds their way to your dusty shore
Be a beacon of spontaneous joy among the other bright lights
Engage in the mystic pleasures of Black Rock City with a lustful curiosity reserved only for the most devout Bacchanalian Priest,
standing amid the pagan ****, waving spilled goblets
like an overflowing gaggle of drunken pirates singing a wild tune,
arms sweeping and fists swinging in clever rocking harmony,
conductors composing romantic chaos

Love being alive.
Love putting your feet in the dirt and smelling the dry air.
Hear the birds singing unknowable songs that you were born to follow, Feel the sun on your skin, let your Self burn.
Walk amongst trees and wrap your arms around rooted giants
as you hurtle through space

Connect and feel balanced within this paradoxical existence
of constant change,
lightly hold the hand of letting go
See into people's eyes,
Create new channels for awakening.
Be a romantic and cherish womanly love and lust.
Enjoy the embrace of hands, union of lips,
and the primal enlightenment afforded by duality.
Attend jazz nights at pirate mead bars and write dizzy poetry in comfy corners. Share art. Speak spanish and play guitar.

This waking life is a dream, is it not?
Dream of exploration, in the material and spiritual realm.
People are endlessly fascinating, dream of meeting them all.
Continual realization of the oneness of all life is a sustained dream,
trust your path and part within this grand symphony,
the light of the festivals may provide clues,
fearlessly be a seeker of these chances.

Be ready for genuine human interaction,
be brave enough to ask the forbidden questions,
and wild enough to attempt at the answers.
We all carry a piece of the puzzle, find community,
a place where many pieces can come together
to bask in the glory of life.
Add your own piece of light to shine in the desert.
Sit amongst philosophers and rebels in the shade,
revel in the mystery together.

We lay down together.  

Unable to move.  

Our smell the same.  

Skin stretched out.  

Holding each other’s hand.

The days and weeks we hadn’t been eating properly didn’t show on her figure as it did mine.  She still looked full.  

Muscles and waist growing tighter, thinner.  But hers,
Hers

Her face, *******, lips, hadn’t changed.

An animal in love with beauty.  Old beauty, future beauty.

Bulgaria, Estonia, Latvia.  We had been travelling Europe for some time.  That’s where we were.  One of those places.  All of them.

And the heat kept beating, making me sweat.  
It made her sweat too.  
But we always had enough energy to be together.  

                  As our bodies become hungrier, our need for each others skin increased.  
                  Her sighs and moans and thighs becoming louder.  Penetrating darkness.  
                  The cicadas.  Black trees.  Collapsing.  Grinding.  Feeding.

Our love, returning to dusk my dear...  

Giving life back to the morning.  Killing each other.
Controlling hell.

A stretch of green.  Hard hills.  
Sand inside our **** and hair;
The ground, and her perfect smell.

We stand-up, and continue to walk through the breeze towards the train station.
I pray the monies been wired.  We stop.  I pull her into myself.  
Tell her all these things.  

She smiles  
our bodies join  
and hills the size of Gods

                                                           ­      Became nothing again.

                                                         ­                          :::
            

‘We will be fine.’

She said gracefully.

                                                    ­                               :::

            

There was nothing at the station hardly  
but a shop was open in the blazing afternoon
the unknown shop-keeper didn’t smile
but sold us enough with what we had to get us drunk;

There were no people or trains/we had five hours to burn until the next one came
the day stretched out and up into the evening as we laughed and screamed like two boiling oysters drunk in a kitchen time passed into and through the hours we wound around each other like two fighting seas her thighs tensing with absolute strength on my lap moaning from her stomach and into the sky

as I did
we kissed again, slowly and absolute - celebrating release
making the day travel into night

my back lay against the cold wood of the station seat
we began to wind down.
and the need for hope faded as we both began to sleep

I said one last thing to her to make her laugh a little, before we rested in wait for the last train.

She began to curl into rest, her hair across my lap, but I notice that she sees one more thing before her eyes shut.  She was looking down to the end of the station where the entrance was.  Her eyes burst.  Her laughter stopped like a match being put out.  
Her nails dig into my leg.

I smile down telling her she can’t fool me with the same old tricks; then I look too.

He was coming.

He moved like slow clay.

‘No.’

‘There’s just one of him... I can take him.'

We have to get this train...’  I think.

His lips lay still like two grey worms on top of each other.  Emotion.
Less.  Moving towards us.

And there was no-where else for us to go.  No more running.  
And I wouldn’t have run even if I could.

And this is what I thought seconds before he was near us.





11.46 pm.
the train nears
the night mixing with the hopeless age of the station
gently moving her body to one side I began to run at the man walking towards us
i call every mutilated thought I can from my mind and air
silence them
and pour them only into my movemnet

He was Russian like her.  Old school Russian.  No sympathy for an English ******* wanna be saviour like me.

No sympathy.
I jumped into the air - I could see he hadn’t expected that  
the time I hung there expanded for miles dying slower than normal
i have time to see his cold receding head,
the lines across his wide brow/the shoulders of a man half-bull
eyes etched into wood
he looks up as I connect

I land an elbow directly to his face before I land fully catching him with my momentum
all of my weight landing on his nose and mouth
‘let this slow him down’  I ask fate
the adrenalin jack-knifing through my body like a restless rush of pure red almost bringing it to a halt
tt rocks him, a little...
next: left
left
straight right
the biggest one i've  
Blood.

His head hung slightly low in sudden contemplation and pain
he still has a lot left.  I think

A gorilla dancing with a fly.

i follow up with more punches
his hand shoots for my throat faster than I can react

I can punch.  But he’s taken many a man like me.  
I think




No air.




I hear Russian
And parts of the station again.
I hear her voice
Straight in its pitch and unchanging melody
But-without-the-laughter.  
I can tell she’s scared from the way she puts too many words in her sentences, too fast.  
I see his grey outline pushing a much smaller one against the wall.
I think about Natashka back inside one of those rooms.

I think about her sorrow and strong will.  
Defiant, but captive.  

I was certain at every turn that she was misleading me.  
(She was)
She had bent my logic so far back it stayed there and made sense again
like a wild contortionist miming a perfect song

I had travelled miles to find her
after three months of dream I finally did.

“ah Jerome”.  
She Said.

We drank and made love for hours.  
reality adjusted to us
not the other way around

dark forms behind the curtains of an apartment
a bed of velvet sweat
wrapped around you, inside you.  

*****.  No air.  New life.
  
“Jerome”  She said after three days.
“You-must-go.  I have lied.  They come here when I call them.  They make you give money...”
“I know hon.”  I said.

“Lets go.”

We made final, violent, love.  
And then left.
I will now owe ‘at least 25,000 Euro’s’ she tells me

I figure it’s all worth-it
“That’s alright”  I reply
and light up as we leave the building





My rib-cage roars into the ground with disgust and rage.  
My remaining spirit pours into my hands and knees as I rise.
A dead sprinter.
A dead man
still rising;
A spitting snarl.  A scream.
The rats are woken.  
Old angels are woken.  
And I ask all the beer drunk spirits that are close to help me.

I tackle him hard into the wall, we crash into Natashka
but she moves just in time, even his legs are heavy, they slow my rage,
i only manage to get one, its under my right arm, held with both hands, my left leg steps inside his remaining right, behind it, I pull, the trip works,
he falls.  

I hear the train.  I follow me in
again
all I have in the world is surprise
and his squat body is the strength of three of mine
emptied into one.

And at the maddest of times it’s the strangest of things you remember:  
i see the lights of the train flashing across her whole body
and for a moment she transforms
and is complete light...

I’ve climbing on top of him
i strike down with the madness of ten days drunk on whiskey.  
aortas ventricle pulse

His powerful fingers grasping at my limbs trying to stop me, but it’s no use.
spears made of bone ****** down into his face
and the old angels watch, as I connect, drooling and enjoying the show, happy to throw me a few chips

His arms begin to flop down like tired wild animals returning to sleep
and perhaps my fury and revulsion can break even him
my hands on her body;
i force her on the train with the last of our money
the conductors can only see two drunks fighting beside a beautiful bystander.
I force her on.

“Jerome.”  She says screaming.

A clay hand takes my breath again as it locks around my mouth from behind me.  
I manage to hold the door shut long enough while being suffocated so that the train is moving with her inside
and when the train is leaving, I finally feel joy.

“Jerome.”  She says still.

And  finally I hear not.  

Not the man choking me or the time of day.  
In the seconds that my lungs drown, I feel only the bliss of having known you, a last toast before I rest within the driving sea, salt-water changing my lungs
but I know my last action was with all my soul, my mind, my body.

Natashka, I drink to you, fully.  Finally.
This thought fills my gut.
His hands across my mouth, my eyes begin to shut.
Her smell.  

That was the last thing I thought about.



                                                       ­                                ...




I’m looking down at my body, the Russian’s beside me breathing hard.
Tired.  Big.

And then to my shock I see Natashka again.  
Walking from the far end of the station back to the area where all the scrapping happened;
one of her knees bleeding and ripped, she limps, as if something is completely broken, her foot perhaps, out of time with the rest of her body.  

She drags her handicapped body all the way towards me and clay man standing beside me.
I can only watch.
When her tattered body gets close, I get to see all the cuts, one side of herself is badly damaged where she jumped from the train
and dislocated half the joints in her body

And when she is only a reach away from him.  She touches his chest.
Hands that can change anything.

And I look at them both.  
And death saves you from nothing at all.  
You just observe the same things, at a slower pace, from a different position;

you try to tell the suicides this, but; few want to listen...
there’s nothing wrong with oblivion, just remember that once you’re there, you still need something to do...

I break down.  Knees hitting the ground.
I see her body slide into him, closer, her hand disappears behind his back
like thin snake wondering around a rock
searching

Now

she stands pointing his own gun at him.  A shot goes into his head.  No hesitation.  Now she looks down at me, beside my choked corpse, a gun still in her hand. Weeping.

My hand wants to reach up to her.  
I can't.  

Another bullet fired
it discharges through her mouth, destroying her head.

Now she lays down beside me too
between me and russian hit man

The station endures our blood as we bleed out
forming one river that trickles down onto the tracks and gutter
you can’t tell whose blood is whose
or who is bleeding out the most

I look up at a light-bulb in the roof;
it tenses one more time, making the mosquitoes dance in quiet frenzy, before it lets out a final scream, cracking out of life.  Going-out-softly.

My head comes back down and I see another person standing only a few steps away from me.

With a turn of her head she suddenly flicks me a half-smile
the kind she knows I like
the kind that rips the spirit right out from your chest and makes it feel good.

Before we begin to walk away together something makes me turn
and we both look behind ourselves. The Russian looks down at his body too, the lines in his face are still, and yet we know how he feels.

He looks across at us as we walk away down the tracks
we can see only the deep set hoods of his brow, shadows for eyes;
he moves his feet slightly so he now faces us flat

he raises one of his palms
as the other searches for his cigarettes
in the first movement I have seen him make casually all-day

I hear him say the words:

“Do svidaniya. Moi druz'ya. Byt' khorosho"

And although his language isn’t mine, I know this means:

"Goodbye."

"My Friends."

"Be well."

                                                         ­                             ...

.                                
Tangled threads of beaming light                          
Yesterday today and tomorrows blessing            
As we borrow pity and switch the beat                    
Hands held high, praising praising                      
The glory that sits upon our blistered feet           
And we dare not utter sleep        
                     
*We are the minds counterpart
Heavy in the contexts
A linger in the words felt
Through the hollows door
An explicit glance through the past
And therefore our future

Blue-grayish waves lap summer's sun-drenched beaches,
eternal, soothing rhythm, an enduring melody, into the soul it reaches.
Neighboring celestial bodies, conductors of the tides, creating eon's symphony,
        embracing, pacifying music: a choral harmony.

Placid, glistening lake with fall moon's luminescent splendor,  
silvery, reflective mirror, still and serene, lying quietly in slumber.
Bright, streaming rays, upon the surface, become as two entwined eternally,
        brilliantly flowing: a beacon of tranquility.

White, pristine snow upon the meadow on a winter's early morning,
softly sown, caressing Mother Earth, pure and alluring.
Sol's rays shimmering on crystal flakes, a mosaic luminosity,
        sparkling diamond facets: a blanket of serenity.

Dew-covered fields patched with spring's wild flowers,
dazzling array, vibrant and alive, displaying rainbow's colors.  
A zephyr stirs bouquets of aromatic splendor, emerging reality,
       a living portrait masterpiece--a canvas of vitality.

Nature, an ageless composer, conceiving kaleidoscope showcases,
perennial seasons casting actors on scores of different stages.
Wise is it, from time to time, to pause in awe and humble reverence,
      and view a master artist's majestic, grand performance.

Dripping ***, she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!

Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013

Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed  
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.

The rain starts to fall.

To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
        Her bag and telephone
would
match
        but for a shade.

The rain starts to fall.

Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
        the under side of an old mattress.

The rain starts to fall.

Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.

The rain starts to fall.

The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.

The air is cool.

There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.

Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.

Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.

"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"

Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture

why is everything matching?
       (they got off at the same station)

Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.

I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******.

I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.

This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.

The Art of Conversation.

An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.

Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.

The train conductors voice is boredom.

I mistake ambient noise for music.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R          e          a          c          h.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.

I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.

I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.

I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.

So I wrote a poem for the ages.

...strolling down through the night,
Attacking innocence with a frown,
You've treaded through plastic and savages,
Your face buried beneath a gown,
The odd man in the corner says,
You look so down,
It means,
The forest seems black,
You're packed,
We're all long-gone.

You can kick and scream all you want,
But you'll get lost in the cold,
'Cause the Brave New Pathway is so old.

So you're a Good Man with,
all your Good Looks,
You're a manufacturer of,
Pretty Protest Books,
But your abiding venom is
So full of False Love
You're not a rebel, though you think not,
But you're just too many levels above.

You can kick and scream all you want,
But you'll get lost in the cold,
'Cause the Brave New Pathway is so old.

With your mass thinking codas, oh how you talk,
When you don't fall, there's still the straight bold lines that you walk,
With your gathered myths and conductors, in maths you all speak,
You ask yourself, is everyone so unique?
But by now, you're feeling ill,
You may not understand it,
Those hands of yours are too virginal,
You're not some natural-born bandit.

See, you can kick and scream all you want,
But you'll get lost in the cold,
'Cause the Brave New Pathway is so old.

You've strung some fallen multitude,
Some blind-eyed folks from lost and found,
Don't yet quit all the servitude,
Such groups can't be strung around,
You need respect,
You must check,
That everyone else is bound.
So you've gotten Anarchic Insurance,
Through all these Marxist hooks,
But what an abhorrence,
Your still safe and sound,
Just look at this mess, all of this!

You can kick and scream all you want,
But you'll get lost in the cold,
'Cause the Brave New Pathway is so old.

So you look down,
As you have on your hands,
A few clowns from a circus,
You phony philosopher,
You've let all your new fraud,
Work on us.
There should be some law,
Against having you claw
Your masquerades,
And magic through every one of these sold cities.
And even though you say,
Your imagination's not dead,
You've still read,
And forced every Order of Dictation.

You can kick and scream all you want,
But you'll get lost in the cold,
'Cause the Brave New Pathway is so old.

So you walk along with your pen down,
Past each fancy, carved stone column,
Then a voice says 'don't let your terms down'.
It's a naked fool looking solemn.
But you're still glaring and weeping,
You say 'I simply don't understand'
Then the man says, all out and fleeting,
'It's time for rebirth, When will you give a hand?'

So you're giving up,
You can see, you will stop,
So you can feel something now, if at all.

Now you're wandering past this site,
Of a landscape of metal and rust,
You're in the middle of some walkabout,
Your face coated in dust.
Now, thinking you're some Human Poet,
You go write on how you feel,
When the King Palate comes storming,
And you say 'Is this even real?'

But it's going too fast,
Any truth cannot last,
You're a lie by its own.
But you think you'll still find
Your Glittering Gold.

So you run through into this room,
With this Artist named Rome,
And with his lover, Salo,
They go off and buy you a home,
They have murals of circles,
And Open City souls,
They paint the 120 Days of Flesh,
And all these dead patrols.
They say, as they go about in a thresh,
Only Night has its fantasies,
Before burning your house down.
You won't see any end of dusk comin' around,
You're always a ***,
Your lawyers are decades gone,
Go back to all your Christs and El Dorados.

So when you weave yourself,
Out of that forest,
Don't be paid so attention to,
Don't be bleak,
As every night
Has its unabashed
Intellectual freak.
And before you go,
Between the statues under some sheik,
Remember, this very night
That's when you come...

I don’t want to become a Creative Writer because I usually suspect that being a Creative Writer is a lot like having a Pretty Face.

When I wake up at 7:24 instead of 7:00 like I always plan to, and my nearly empty journal falls out of my bed, and I look in the mirror at my vaguely pink eyes and that cowlick I have on the right side of my forehead, I do not feel Creative. I also do not feel like I have a Pretty Face. Mostly, I feel very tried, and frustrated that I am going to be exactly seven minutes late to work like I am on every Monday and Wednesday.

Men and people who were almost-men have told me that I have a Pretty Face. At the poetry things I have gone to, the presenters have called me some variant of Creative Writer. I smile with all of my teeth when they say it, because it is a compliment and I know that when I receive a compliment I am supposed to smile like this, a little crooked and a little coy and a lot humble, even though I know that I am only an occasionally creative writer with a face that is pretty in the right light with the right liquid eyeliner.

The trouble with Creative Writers is that their paper crowns start to make them recognizable to people. People recognize them and then they are forced to wave their pencils around like the conductors of a silent song with whatever rhythm is currently in style in the artistic world, and if they hit the wrong note, people tell them they don’t deserve that crown. That Creative Writer is a faker if I ever saw one, the people say. She pretends to be something special. If she wants to get to know you, she will probably tell you a poem instead of telling you what she means.

The trouble with Pretty Faces is that people get so angry at them that they get called fake, too, if they’re lucky. The first day that the Pretty Face shows up to her yoga class without makeup on, or with a friendly zit in the dimple on her chin, people do a lot of pointing. They point and snicker, because that is what we are supposed to do with pretenders. When the truth gets revealed, we like to publish headlines about it and jump up and down with our index fingers out, screaming that we knew it all along. We love to find out that other people’s good things are not real. I don’t know why that is, but I know it is true.

The people in charge rarely give you any power for your titles. The Creative Writer’s paper crown is usually one that she made for herself—you can tell because she gets really frustrated when it starts to sag, weighed down by an accidental cliché about boys’ tears or the rain. Paper disintegrates in water, did you know that? And the Pretty Face probably had a snaggletooth until she was thirteen, so she feels like a fraud even if no one has called her one this week.

I like reading stories and theories by writers who we all took a vote on and decided are definitely both authentically Creative and Important, even if we did not give them those titles until after they died and became noble corpses with hardly any face at all. Sometimes I think that we are incapable of calling anything important until it is gone. I like writing about them because writing about writers is a marvelous loophole—no one but other academics ever questions it, so the popular opinion stays on my side.

One time, a man at a bar in a yellow polo told me that my Face was not Pretty enough for me to laugh like such a tease. I wrote a poem about it and read it at a conference with a toothy mask on, people loved it, and then I decided I did not want that to be my livelihood.

I woke up from a bad dream trembling under the strength of deformed uncertainty. On this quiet, sweet night I dreamed that my mask is melting. Nakedness beneath terribly surprised me, I felt bare while disgustingly beautiful pink skin stuck out from beneath magnificently repulsive layer of white chalk which ran down my face in the beans. In single moment thousands fluorescent drops of days passed before my blue eyes and thousands of miles of  pictures mixed as psychedelic assemblage. I was hoping that I would for ever float on silk of big circus tent, the place between sleep and wake and that I will never be touched by reality pedestrians or nightmare riders. Returned from a long journey dedicated to the cult of friendship riding on a brass beast sentenced to a breakdown. Return is a successful escape from the curious conductors who wear chains and key, maneuvering between spacecrafts driven by hesitative captains, sliding in between hot geysers of alcoholic delirium on the crystal surface of Arctic ice. Sweet and bitter is the view over always the same icy peaks that cast always different shadows, while the foamy rugged hillsides are blurred with the haze of responsibility, sunny with the light of honesty, depending on the morning. I rub my eyes while my mask, of which I am very grateful, still persistently covers the lines of my face and I wonder whether kilometers traveled last night were part of a dream or reality?

Salient Cannibal

i am famous example: a cuckold
of light
i've lamed conductors maimed seducers
and committed a variety of sadness
please lay deep in me the confederacy
of
photo copy girl.
fin.

I don't know the date, but I was seven or eight
When we moved from the Midwest plains
To the Cascade Range, where the foothills boast
Tall mountains, like Shuksan.

We found a home out there, amidst fresh mountain air,
Where pine forests never end,
In a western land, with a vista grand,
Where the clouds and the mountains blend.

Its deceptive skies fill your mind with lies.
The horizon seems to flow.
Your eyes can't tell the ocean's swell
From the clouds, or the mountain snow.

We traveled out west on my mother's quest
To leave our city life of ease.
She believed in her heart, that with a brand new start
She might heal her from her dread disease.

She sought cleaner air, because her lungs were frail,
With disease, which soon would **** her.
And we rode a train you will know by name;
It was the mighty Empire Builder.

The scenes I saw from the railroad car
Filled my heart with boyish wonder.
I saw wolves and elk and mountain goats,
As I rode those wheels of thunder.

I was nearly asleep as we reached a peak
At a place that's call Gold Basin.
But when our Porter spoke I became alert
To a marvelous revelation.

There's an eight-mile tunnel that goes through the heart
Of a mountain of solid stone,
Which he wanted me to witness for my own self;
It's a sight some have never known.

Porter came back around when we stopped at a town,
Where he said we would stay until nine.
So, should we leave the train, to hurry back again,
Or we'd Risk getting left behind.

I stayed on the train, seeing nothing gained,
With only ten minutes to roam.
There was mom and me, and my sister Sharee',
But My brother went off all alone!

Why Danny left the train is still not plain;
I guess he wanted to scout things out.
He was in a shop filled with souvenirs
When they gave the "All aboard!" shout.

But my brother, Dan, never heard a thing,
He was awed with rich emotion.
His mind was filled with strange new sights,
Not the sound of a train in motion.

When we saw him from from the dining car--
Mother called to pull the brake chain.
Some folks took bets that a boy of ten
Could never out-run a train.

Have you ever felt fear like a winter's chill
On a dog-day's summer night?
Have you lost all hope, knew you couldn't cope,
In the face of terrible fright?

Have your knees ever swayed in a rubbery way?
Have you paled, thinking all's in vain?
Then you'll know about the fright a boy felt that night,
When he raced to catch a train.

Danny nearly fell, but he ran quite well
As he sprinted for the gate
Of the train's caboose, where conductors roost.
They pulled him in like he had no weight.

I was proud that day when folks had to pay
Money lost, when they bet on the train.
Because my brother had won his race against time,
While I basked in the glow of his fame.

And I bask today in a similar way,
When my world gets out of kilter.
I remember how a boy once raced a train,
And beat the mighty Empire builder.

leaking pearl ear rings
shining
she sings of
glass.

In the images mirrored she
has borrowed a lifetime
and more
conductors who then wrote
and loaned
her the score
tampering with time
she learns how to mime
the words,

vocal chords shot by
the distill of
a thousand and one
mountain men
high on the skyline
an end to a lifetime
a drink to another
old friend.

Down by the remains
of the charcoal pits
ash still spits from
the mouths of the homeless.

‘Once fire is the form of the spectacle the problem
becomes how to set fire to fire.’
—Joshua Clover, ‘My Life in the New Millennium’

i’m back
back with a thunderclap.
no wait, scratch that.
back with a thunderous tone from the seldom seen soul
groaning lonely long sung melodies, if it please.
welcome to a kingdom of dreams
and agony.
a stone’s throw from here:
a face
Unseen.
and somewhere between(:) low
oceans rolling under the moon,
a storm approaching,
crazed wind whirling,
my sails unfurl, searching for the open seas of your gaze;
sick of being furtive;
i live and i yearn and i speak what i learn
and i know when i haven’t earned it,
too often too stern and i know you don’t deserve it,
i know everyone i know and too many more deserve so much more
and for them to have this i live and i yearn!
Justice!
for this i live and i yearn
on the turning earth that gives
no rest to the world weary
left alone
to burn out, i burn out, i burn out
i rise from the ashes
a phoenix grasping wheat and hammer in its talons,
seeking to pass out gifts and set fire
to fire itself, to sing Clover in the streets,
to render the helpless
helpless no longer.
i am (not) unbroken
like infinite waves.
friends fan the flames of my brazen heart
ablaze at three minutes to the midnight of my flagrant soul.
a toll on your life,
a tax on your poverty.
shouting: no more!
shouting: we will not settle for less than we are owed!
shouting: down with the dictatorship of the plutocrat!
shouting: down with the rich Man’s socialism!
shouting: …
in a fantasy, odiously
no more, doubt ridden,
not yet traversed nor even intraversed,
not yet reified, not quite versed;
apartheids’ unovercoming, voices atrophied,
walls rising higher, reception terse
and curse those bless’ed curses
transdescending themselves
in blessings through me!
they haven’t yet found me at my worst
so things couldn’t get worse if i hurt them.

my intentions a mess,
my effect bereft.

wake me from my slumber, let be the aching of my chest;
let the heaviness of my heart be the weight of solidarity;
let be! the political is personal to some, life and death to some:
that’s why i’m so glum, chum,
they’re killing quicker than i finish another straight ***…
****.
and on our own soil too – see, it’s partly not for oil;
blind to land grabs and assets stolen, our toil exploited – that’s what’s up.
can’t handle serfdom? physical, mental, or spiritual health problem?
abject subsistence and misread decisions not assuaged by some other ***?
unconditional basic income?—say what?
choose starvation, hypothermia, suicide, fear—
it’s a numbers game
and every loss is a ******,
it’s ****** up.
state cuts ****, zombie banks ****, transnationals ****, TTIP will ****,
our heroes are experienced
as torturous humiliators and mass murderers in other countries,
it’s ****** up.
and reactions to shock and awe, pollution, imperialism and stolen raw materials be the chorus.
and i hope the NSA and other such state ***** hear clearly what i have to say.
and always from the pools of blood,
money trickles up.
structurally omni-parasitic,
-cataclysmic, -containing
an unlucky lucky one formula;
“profits today, **** tomorrow!”;
a system of mass extinction and violence;
cultures of hate;
distain for compassion;
secret social cleansings;
privatised gain, nationalised pain;
a plaguing absence of understanding;
sanction fetishes;
rational genocides;
wages; ***; television; grumpy cat; death drive;
armies of invisible slaves and pillaged unpeoples,
and sordid crowds of visible ones in denial or denied;
and an honest and patronising pastiche poet!
to not even begin.

but a promise shall be a promise.

weeping won’t get it done.
i shall muster my forces even before four horsemen,
the long attricious charge toward a universal freedom from fear
and hierarchy shattered
under banners of equality axiomatic sworn.
my wingbeat shall be adorned with thunderous applause,
it shall disclose smokescreens and it shall cleanse you of opiates
and not just those you have in mind.
watch me soar, join these skies;
rise above the immoral laws and their warped economic concord;
be aware of where the wealth is hoarded;
don’t concern yourself with lies,
concern yourself with liars and who they’re lying for.
be wary where your desire’s from.
there’s still longer than a long way to go
but your sense of urgency is needed now.
the shadows of the Bomb and of ecological catastrophe now grow longer
than the shadow of death
in any old sad song in history
in scarcity, surrendering abundant potential for post-scarcity
to strings of the superego, demons, conductors, controllers
and orchestrated outrage!
and i know we have more to lose than our chains.
but the view from the night of Terror is of the far off tranquil stars
and the moon never brighter!
bind, unbind, entwine.
i will not leave behind only wasted time.
find yourself, find the source, give out your hand
to dance, to share, suffer, fall—
find the hand of another, there find recourse—
and consider the Call, and consider the Course.

Through the rusted gas heater
The bed bends in this winter wind
I've been looking for a peace of mind
I've been searching for a way to spend my time
But when she came to me
She turned me into some other kind

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling
Peeled white streaks of black brown show
What there is to learn, there is always more know
Too forgetful of the past
None too impressed about the future
The present is all I've got
But when she came I had to stop
And make my way from the bottom to the top

People around me all show to want the same thing
Money, a little power, and a white picket fence
Sport scores and sports cars I hear them roar
We've entered an age where were all wanting more
The grass beneath my feet has browned
Through the thicket I see the sun shine like a crown
And when she came to see me with a frown
I only felt the slow sting of my soul begin to drown

At night when no one is around I listen to these sounds
Dead trains with empty eyed conductors
Their fingers crooked like the beaks of vultures
Dust in their eyes is all they know of nurture
And when the dawn comes and the fawns run
She'll come to me in a faded yellow silhouette
Whistling a tune dangerous as Russian roulette

Sideways breeze rustles the thin white curtain
On the patched' weedy grass they call home
The dogs rest their bodies on a field of bones
Cool March cloud you ruled the sky today
I see no reason to hide this pain, I am here to pay
Four leaf clover in my pocket with my shoe laces untied
When she comes to see me
I hope she don't think that I have lied

The snowy water runs over my dirt stained hands
Free cars drone with broken radiators over free highways
There are two garages with two men I know in them
At last the moon shines through the thick storm clouds
And we put off what we've been wanting to say till now
She's coming through that open door
To show me what I'm breathing for

When I can no longer carry the burden I was born with
Bury me down nameless or tie me to a rock to sink
The waves of the river are gentle here
Look around you, be easy, there is no one near
Breathe the air that keeps you here
Think not only thoughts of comforts, but ones of fear
The best of her is yet to come
So there is no reason to get up and run

You know when there isn't anymore time in the day,
And you're waiting for something good to happen to make the day fit?
Remind yourself, a table is for eating at and the chair is there to sit
Don't rush, take no advice, beware one's who act too nice
Cause' the library is burning and I'm standing here yearning
For what she said to me before I went
Laying there beneath the stars alone in that tent

Faces facing the ember hill stand warmed by the sun
The lake beneath them swimming with shadows
Were all actors on a stage who some see as a cage
But every book that was written, was written page by page
Though some write from hands that are fake
They've always got other things at stake
But I've never seen her so opaque
She's a whispering willow at the line of day break

I saw something I didn't want to see
A land knee deep in a childish permanence
Too obsessed to see past their obvious forlorness
Struck by the thought that perhaps we are lost
So many forgetting that we can find each other
Too many forgotten faces on the streets
Every one fighting to keep their seat
But they know that she can't be beat
As they wipe their worn faces away of grease

At the table in this room surrounded by all this air
The trees dip back and forth in the wind without a care
I see her face blurry in the window from the lamplight outside
The brush I buried stands still in the lack of moonlight
She says my name in the back of my mind
And I've nowhere to go, nowhere to hide
She takes my arm and puts hers around me
A lock with no fit for the key

You hear the sound of couples
dressed high and fancy,
mingle as their souls tap the floor outside,
to the sound of strings, brass, and percussion
tempering themselves for the heat of music.
The passionate movements of bows,
batons, and fingers, to form the wonderful
elegance, behind the masterful music composed
by fellows now long gone.

Ah, to the sounds of majors and minors
my heart feels at ease, to the subtle creaking of chairs,
to the rhythmic chimes and strums of instruments within
the skilled orchestral ensemble. All this,
topped by the eccentric and emphatic movements
of the swift conductors hands, and arms,
watch the spring, when the crescendo arrives
his spring is let loose, and jolts,
currents, swift, sleek, fluent motions, baton in one
passionate turning of pages as music flies on by,
at 4/4 pace.

Oh, the fine thunder of the percussion,
and deepest strums of bass at the right,
combined in a movements finale, to make an
awe-inspiring harmony, that one does not
really expect, with two previous movements
just elegant and peaceful,
such a quickened pace and depth of drum
and strum takes us all by surprise.

Then, Silence,
joyful applause,
continuous applause,
then its all over,
and we head home.

The opus begins in a tentative way
Each character playing their signature phrase
With gesture, with posture, with rhythm and grace
The dancers then enter the stage.

The conductors baton, Imposing control
Directing the tempo and pace
Blues jazz folk rock, rap and rounds
The singers are finding a voice.

The orators speak, the actors declaim
Crafted prose flows from their lips
While jesters and. punsters, irrepressible funsters
Are gagging and cracking their quips.


The master of ceremonies calls all the spots
He hopes the production will gell
The shifters and movers, and technical groovers
Do their jobs amazingly well.


The instruments thunder, brass blares, and strings soar
Drums are the loudest by far
Then silence descends, a pause, the applause
That’s all folks, lets go to the bar.

Break me,
disassemble me if you must
but build me better next time.
I can’t bare another ill-fitting ego.  
Dancing in these ridiculous shoes
outgrown a decade ago
the idiot grin finally yields
to burning blisters.
Even the dance, spun from necessity
is outdated and awkward
In fact, every dance I see
every silly play, every make-work crisis
clumsy, clueless  conductors
orchestrate tone-deaf symphonies
while we dance our days away.

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward before grabbing me by my cranial consciousness container; and with a chiropractic crack, just like that, my chakras connected and I channeled the grizzled ghost of Ol' Ronnie Reagan. He gurgled a “Hello” and grumbled “Just Say No” ... “Did you know my Nancy fancied fucktarded fantasies, or that she believed in batshit lunacy like astrology and necromancy?" ***** better know, it's bros before hoes cuz this ghost with the most is about to get gangsta with my ***** Miki-G... "Yo, Gorbachev, you old goblin goat, wipe off that **** stain on your head and tear down that muthafuckin' wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** Putin ****** in, he gave Ol’ Ron a wink with a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... lowering his headgear he ran slowly while singing a slurred ***** polka rendition of possibly a ***** Riot song. The chorus went something like "******* the Bolsheviks with 11 inch strap-on *****" to which Ronnie replied, “Ewe can dew it to Nancy too!”, as his horns hit cement setting off the biggest supernova block party this side of the galaxy. When the dust settled, everybody was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing this trance that gave me the vision of which you are reading and the bliss about to unfold here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. As I watch the goblin goats manufactured from the genes of Gorbachev graze the galactic grassy knoll, I’m soon seduced by the song of a sidereal siren... KA-BLAM a ******* shipwreck I endure. When I came to, at the end of my rescue, by whom I suspect to be the same starry-eyed saboteur. She whispers somniferously that to be saved I must partake in her hedonist holy communion. “Drink this neutron star wine in remembrance of my taste, distilled from grapes grown on gamma ray vines representing the lust-laced blood of salvation.” I, a blissom blind bavian obviously, find myself beneath an altar awaiting with bated breath and baculus bombé, bewitched by this bathykolpian beauty of absolute perfection, it’s made clear from my enormous ******* that I’m eager to worship betwixt her exquisite bombosity. “I come to you… er... and on you... with this sacrificial offering of byssus ******* and baptismal borborology... but before I implore... first, hit this baetyl of brume and breathe in a Big Bang **** hit of some killer cosmic kush grown on Kepler 452…. *******?”

“What if I were to bind you up with a sash? Byssus bound with blindfold, and belayed beautifully as can be. Blissom confinement is liberating when not meant to abash. Bestowing to you a masterpiece in *******, a most exquisite ligatured apogee.”

Exhaling miasmic veils of woven haze blindfolds she blows, until we are unable to see. Instead we let our lips caress each others flesh in search of the treasures buried just below. The ritual begins when I go down to taste your nectar of the gods, feel my fingers scrawl spells on your flesh in hieroglyphic haste, Anubis awakes when I invoke he to weigh my heart and become Osiris resurrected, manifested as broken pieces tossed and lost by the tempest of temptation. To traverse this tribulation and emerge triumphant, invoke Isis and find the 13 to complete the puzzle of my psyche. But if you want your toes curled and that shaking sensation, it’s 14 you’ll need to complete the capstone of my ******* obelisk. Then we can transcend by the touch of the tongue, ******* ritual recitation through unspoken glossolalia until we complete our journey to become the Gods of our own creation. Why should we not manifest through sensual sidereal sexuality? Orchestrating a galactic glowing mass of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music produced by Love, Lust, and Longing. Our libidos vibrate as sine waves in harmony with strummed string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors controlling this sonorous ****** symphony riding gravitational waves that will forever ripple throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapses and condenses our atoms, coalescing to produce photons of pure light to illuminate the encroaching dark void of loneliness which desires to devour it all.

You must have been so lovely, Sylvie.
Your song sounds purple, like the underside of rose petals.
It shimmers and flickers in the water of the Seine, held together by a whispering, weaving thread, a voice in the softness.

I know you,
I've seen you.
You're me when I play, the piano keys conductors for all of your loveliness,
Pouring your essence into my heart as I begin to learn your curves and your lines.
I am you, Sylvie, a woman in love,
and I caress the keys and sing with your voice a song in which you are forever imprisoned, captured in a jar and preserved for eternity.

electricity no longer runs through these tired veins.
eyes are shattered glass. vision obscured by a film of numbness.
laughter sits on my chest uneasily, not sure how to fill
the cracks in my heart.
talking has become an anomaly, my voice lost on deaf ears.
no one notices the splintered girl
trying in vain to feel the currents of heat rising,
to feel anything.
what i would give to be able to see lightning in the sky
and to feel the static between my palms.
the purple-white flashes leaving imprints
on the backs of my eyelids,
they make me remember who i used to be.
i miss the crowds and the voices of the broken
acting as conductors of the near tangible energy.
i could have flown into the sky
when i had those nights in the palm of my hand.
i was charged, alive.
sometimes i swore i could see the webs of lightning
raising the hairs on my arms.
it was real to me.
so here i remain
praying for my spark.
just one spark.

Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..

Where are we in Time?
Conductors forfeit their ability
at the edge of the shore
in a veil of solar shadow
syncopated rhythms of motion
disrupted by the presence of revolving carbon masses
within the reach of it's symphony
begins a demonstration
of control before them

call me when your flight lands in Munich
and we can discuss
how the cinder blocks
standing stationary in the walls
like cold queen's guards
meet so seamlessly
they touch so cleanly
never a crack, never a pore

call me when your flight lands in Tampa
and we can talk about
all of the clothes on the floor
folding and crinkling
discontinuing continuum
they haven't been touched since July
and when you call,
we can talk about how they
make my room smell like
gasoline

let me know when you land safely in Munich
and I'd be happy to go on
about the smell of the parking garage
equal parts old rain and new exhaust pipes
and the open air
underneath the moon; so close
that I will grab it out of
the closet sky
and give it to you instead of saying:
        I'm so ******* sorry

let me know when you land safely in Tampa
and we can assume the position
of conductors
of a grand orchestra
of lost crickets and cracking bones
of the dogs barking at
spilled black ink
and chasing the painted Sun
and maybe when the song is over,
we will clean up the mess
and be able to fall in love
with nothingness

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward then grabbed me by my cranial consciousness container; and with a chiropractic crack, just like that, my chakras connected and I channeled the grizzled ghost of Ol' Ronnie Reagan. He gurgled a “Hello” and grumbled “Just Say No. Did you know my Nancy fancied ******* fantasies, and that bedlamite believed in astrology and necromancy? ***** better know, it's bros before hoes cuz this ghost with the most is about to get gangsta with my ***** Miki-G... Yo, Gorbachev, you old goblin goat, wipe off that **** stain on your head and tear down this muthafuckin wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** distilled through Vlad Putin's ego, he gave me a wink from a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... then lowered his headgear and destroyed the blockade like a supernova midnight pool party for Gremlins and grenades. When the dust settled, everything was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing a trance; showing me it was gonna be a great day here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. Where I will watch my goblin goats with genes of Gorbachev, graze the galactic grass while I wait for a companion to come. Another cynical cosmonaut to converse with through this and partake in this holy communion. Where neutron star wine made from the grapes grown on gamma rays represents the life force of beautiful bombshells of red, brunette, and blonde. Lust-laced blood we bathe and become baptized in; breathing from the baetyl of brume taking Big Bang **** hits of killer kush grown on Kepler 452. The haze making it hard to see, when we feast on the flesh force fed to each other; for we are the Gods creating our reality. Leading to a galactic gathering of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music called Love Lust and Longing. Our libidos sing the sine wave sounds and strum the string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors created from stardust now streaming the vibrations of this ****** symphony throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapsing and condensing, the coalescing creates pure light from new stars being born to illuminate the darkness dwelling within us all.

The wonders of the world
Fringing train track paths

Cities of concrete gold
Buses with lingering laughs

Conductors wave to asphalt old
Birds flutter in stone-cold baths

Colors become slightly more bold
As windows sweep the street light past