April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for 'kicks'
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!'
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -

Last night I got lost
in the vast expanses of myself.
Who knew there was so much of me?
While the shifting realities
churned before my black eyes,
changing just after I named them,
I drifted, eyes closed, on an unrestful sea
made of the most chilling noises.
Thrilling voices
soaring from the television,
as I light another cigarette.
My friend, Nicotine, seems colder
tonight.
Unreasonably less vital,
woefully less communicative.
The couch refuses to speak with me as well,
and the only voices are those of the television,
masked and muffled by the dense,
strangely spinning, parallel homes
of the dead, of the living,
of everything but me,
for I am become POET
the describer of worlds!
Laugh now, kid. It's okay.
Blame it on the television, or the acid, or a joke you could swear someone made.
But laugh, because I never knew there was this much of you,
and the things coming out of the deeper waters
are beginning to make me uncomfortable.

It's me, being a broken record
Yeah the expression of Zep-pul
in as in they're good but most people
cared about what they consider an obscure
rock group from "across the water"
Wooo, Awesome - words they say that really describer
something just here in the States to
them that get on my nerves since the
people who utter them find themselves
so worldly I want to know what are they doing being patriotic for.
Tolkien novels and those movies with
Daniel Radcliffe - I'm big deal since
most Americans are about fantasy with a
European bent.
Far out describing a crazy person seems to
be implying that the crazy are a bunch
of simpleton communists if what my
guess is by what they mean by far out is correct.
These are just a few of the utterances of
pinkos in the country who in my opinion want
to overthrow the federal government.

I don't think I've ever heard a tree complain about being just a tree,
About those roots locking them to the ground, or all the things it doesn't get to see,
Maybe they get tired of squirrels and cats, or birds perched on branches they provide,
I wonder if they have some envy under that bark, does jealousy reside inside?
Tomboys climb, canines sniff, a tire swing hangs off a limb,
Do they feel naked in the fall, scared in the winter, do trees imagine what they might have been?
I suppose I could think of a million reasons, way too many to try and name,
For the Oak, the Redwood, Pine and Fir, or Sequoia to complain,
To be just a tree, I imagine must be, quite the unbearable task,
Sentenced to a lifetime of silence, never, crying, never sharing a laugh,
When we call them majestic might they feel miniscule, when we say grand could they be feeling glum,
Not being able to correct my describer, might leave me frustratingly numb,
Still though, I've never heard a tree complain about being, just a tree,
Do you think it could be something as simple, as just a tree is what a tree wants to be?

Thou shall love you unselfishly.
Thou shall protect you faithfully.
If I must stand before weapons meaning you harm.
I do so freely cause it's you that I love.

Thou shall give whatever I have?
Thou shall show you tender, loving care.

A false witness to love I won't be.
I will be the describer telling everything.
Hear these words, my love?
Hear this with truth?

I'm determined to keep these commandments took as vows to you.