Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
Albido
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Or
Completely snuffed
Mountain
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Buffet
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.

Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless

To give a place
To the missed

That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.

Odysseus
Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of
Helios

No,
These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
Sowed
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Eloah.

Today I shed some tired eyes
Under leaves, leaves with corners
and sharp edges
Today I shed some weary legs
Upward over the mountain
down into the streams
The fragrant and decaying
The cloying and the stagnant
Odd how a man can look over miles of open country
& see nothing but subdivisions
Odd how a man can look at another
& **** for a belief
Odd how a man can smile into the empty bottle
& see no light through the glass
Bones buried under sand a time, bulldozed another foot deeper
Someones kid hidden behind a picture in a wallet
We hid somewhere, in those bushes in the field
Hid from ourselves
Listened to the creek and tried to decipher language
The tea your brewed sits cold in my hands
And the smiles you shared sit cold in my lips
We drank together on the beach, me and these guys
Selling cigarettes to put food on the table
While their sisters sold themselves
And all I could decipher through my drunkness
Was that I wasn't supposed to be there
Never was, never was

I sit with these ugly ballpoint words and think of you
I sit with these grasshopper thoughts and think of nothing
I sit with my feet in still water, my eyes on dead clouds
I think of the broken days
Blackout wine bottle days
Writing on the wall on where to ride trains to
Through New Mexico, to drift
Fall off the face of it for a while
Bootknife nights

We spoke through the cigarette smoke
How we didn't choke I'm not sure
Made me put them down
For good

It was odd, watching those dogs eat those camels
In the sand dunes
The bodies of a car accident lopsided and covered in someones
sheets
Drove for days, small cities, large refineries
An empty ocean that seemed to carry its sand into the horizon
Dune after dune
Somehow we bargained a pack of smokes for two
Saudi riyal

I drank to much and said to little, she always said
Over and gone, pictures on the fridge
Sleeping at 2, waking at 5
Eyes heavy and the first cigarette
A cup of coffee and the slow realization
That the sun remains to rise

shaking phone call over discombobulated voices,
astroprojecting vocalizations through times pace,
my body wants to time travel to you,
through the regret free policy
has generated some regret
when smoked lungs need removal
so the chained spirit
can be unbinded
navigating through carcingentic fogs,
housing warming warning waning ways
downloading the feeling
well a copy of them,
similar to the copy of god
glanced at in the trees,
similar to the copy of god
hanging around my dinar table,
and i can't find the file
in the cobwebs of facts
containing previous knowledge
literalizing textureal distructions
of dreaming an alternative
where we could still be friends

The golden baby
In the last slice of Mardigras cake

A half dollar
Well after they stopped being printed

A rare right sided conch
When most others are left

Are the rare treasures I find buried underneath

The glass bird
Dainty as can be
And the size of a nail

The miniature tea cup
A full set
Spoon and all

The Minni and Miki
Mouse holiday wear
mini collectibles

Miniature Kitty Kat
Pouches
In four different colors

Are the tiny bobbles I couldn’t bear to part with

The multitudes of dice
From classic six sided
To 8 To 12
Even dice in dice
More than can be counted

Erasers by the gazillions
Stingrays, baseball gloves
Eraser pencils with missing erasers
And a baby head detached from the body

Keychains, by the plenty
Sunglasses, Weapons
Dream catchers, bird’s with bells, all sorts
Of strange and curious oddities attached to a chain

Coins, many sizes countries
Fake, real
Dinar, Rupee, Euro, dollar,
Replica of ancient yuan

Jewelry-
Don’t even get me started
Necklaces, bracelets
Rings and earrings
Even though my ears aren’t pierced!

My hoarding tendencies coming to light in this
Curious collection of collections
Also known as
The objects in my closet

i know that the english,
in their post-colonial reassertion
of identity
are easy, low-hanging fruits
worthy of ******* arguments...

but...
you see...
i share the same phonetic
encoding as them...
and, where i come from...

komtur... meant something!
as did
the word kaptur: hood...
i'm certainly not
someone who's to say something
"out of place"...
back east?
      a Sas?
   a Sas is a Sas:
there was even a house of Sas
back...
   "where": wherever i'm "from"...

but... a schwabe?
the Preuße have been juggled
throughout the years...
some speak the polish
dialect of kashubian,
some became integrated
into the vicinity of
                         königsberg...

clearly i have no
imagination to write out
an archetypical story...
which is why i have,
"resorted" to refreshing
history,
via, what i find to be
the most... desecrated
of the cognitive faculties:
memory...

sure, feeling how lazy
i already am...
   is this the point
where some ****-
      (-stani)
   will teach me about how:
Kashmiri chilli
powder is milder than
than conventional
chilli powder?
  or is this the point he'll
turn around and tell me:
how the vikings
     founded kiev?
which is it?

      see... back east...
we don't call them...
  "zee geermans"...
   we call them the schwabe:
szwabs...
    (shvabs)...
  which is a bit different
to calling them the prussians...
since the prussians,
being the extended:
   pomeranian...
  are not considered baltic...
or, whatever you...
dare to classify them...

and this "vierte *****" of
the E.U.?
    i'm sorry...
   sharing of sentiments
were not unanimous?
  good... thankfully...
a few countries kept their
currency intact...
england...
     poland, czech republic,
sweden,
         hungary,
  wow...a hydra with five
heads...
   like...
someone managed
to ***** the heads on
spines of these people
and then ended up
clarifying:
    babushka! pole-dance!
it's like: ******* will never
get the joke,
until...
   there no longer a joke...
well...
there's also the
leu...
   the lev...
    dinar...
     kuna...
            not as long the people
retain their own currency,
will... the "vierte *****"
take to a strangle-hold
on... prospect... this:

         die deutschetraum...
of, something,
unified...
having morphed from
the heilig römer *****...

  ah... but you already know
who's strapped
to the currency,
and who isn't...
who has an authentic voice /
veto...
   and who has only
a disauthentic "voice" / vote...
right?

no currency...
    no voice-over...
no ******* charlie chaplin
doing goose-stepping
in dutch clogs...
                  savvy?