beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances

beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers

beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers

beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane

beep beep

beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!

beep! beep!

beep! beep!

beep! beep!

beep! beep!

Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.

It is a startling thing
To find the reality in the mood,
To see the nearness in the attitude,
All of this like a dyers pen, writing softly on the soul,
Feeling the damp cloth beneath, feeling the warmth
Of the body,
As it finds itself,
With each stroke, and turn, and guided groove
Of the pen,
Which rests so gently against
The cloth,
Brushing it, touching it, making the feel of it
So soft, so gentle, with a touch of roughness
That makes it real.

1
We are
walking streets unknown
wearing headphones and apple products inserted into our flesh like addicts
all around an angry empty black tar pit throwing in capitalism and old socks
sloshing in snow and dancing in sun and basking in rain
vile and putrid beauteous dancers on stages indoors
twirling drunken swirlygigs and pirouettes underneath shattered naked lights
caressing the skin of the stars on early LSD mornings after long nights of jazz and jokes
taking buses and trains to avoid the dangers of atmospheric destruction
staying up late listening to your “Howl” in prison shaped dorm rooms blowing cigarettes out windows
we are those
who sweating and giggling make furious love lying on rocks under autumn leaves with the wind at 3am in september
with singed fingertips and blue eyes and red skin and dark hair smiling in the sunlight on porches
with circular gravitational searing earthmarks on our ashtray skin because we lost ourselves
we are actors
we are dancers
we are painters
  we are writers
     we are angels
    we are lovers
    we are killers
  we are dyers
we are drinkers
we are smokers
we are children
walking to the moon and back every night on tattered shoes and squelching socks haze of smoke
sitting on rocks and drinking until our kidneys scream in pain and demand we go home for the night because it is getting too late and they are getting worried
refilling zippos with stink and fluid and lighting countless tobacco stains for our lungs on wintry days in new york
taking showers at 3AM because we can't sleep and unlike any activity we are not exhausted
driving until the sunsets and crying in the drivers seat window because we are falling out of ourselves   into our own heads
blaring rock and roll or jazz in our small cell block on herb fueled afternoons reading Eliot in our beds
sitting at our desks pencilpushing out the last of our minds onto screens because nowhere else will take them willingly
wasting our time happily because we don't wish to save it for when we are old and unhappy so we choose to be young and unhappy instead
we sing songs of stars and satanic ****** rituals outside of symposiums for the sardonic
we are standing on the edges of buildings and nobody is telling us whether or not to oak leaf tumble until we hit the brick
sadly slumped in bottomed out chairs we zone our somethings or somehows in claustrophobic rooms
daydreaming daddies and dandelions and drip drops of pitter patters on tin childhood roofs

Bring your chin to the edge of the table and roll your tongue out
flat like a dead slug, take a scraping of your taste buds
conventional speech will now be banished, puns vanish,
in conversation, dense condescension, identify by sleeve
trust isn't earned anymore, intercept all personalities as duds,
that's what you rotate in circles for, segregated communities, one cannot always deceive  
cut the scarlet letter for your disorder in the roof of your mouth if the warnings are something you somehow mismanage
don't you realize you're living with everybody's instability?

Before you're down a dead end road,
slow down and process the information overload
there's no privacy in the path of progress,
your secrets better not exist, regress, be meaningless or harmless
literal translations marked in the margins by martyrs
dancing like satyrs on their victorious gravesites, the effort a culmination, they pun-ish  
for all the good their culture does in vindictive service to selective silence, it seems remiss
that essays and humor, misunderstood wit; one misstep all they lash
dyers on hills who recolor the grit and reality of the past
censorship is a dangerous tool
ask any oppressed voice

Censorship changes history's very imagery
omits thought, will, obstacles and triumph and choice!

You are human, your nerves are raw and your heart beats like a drum
when the hand that strikes it stirs your blood, let the outcries come
poetry is unbridled in revolution, furious in chains
a brand that scars the bleary eyes behind all stifled ideas, corked within your brains
the thunder of marches inspired by speeches, the movements and power wielded by wordsmiths
sheer influence that shames Mjolnir or Excalibur, when a million speak as one, cry as one, the tears of one million are torrent rains
within the wildest eyes, brightest minds, purest hearts and kindest souls, waits this now-waning gift
for who can rightly rise in today's vast opera of need?

They call for everything all at once, who can genuinely lead?
All I can say to be honest, not certain, but true
is that thinking different isn't bad;
it's a waste of being an individual to let anyone else do your thinking for you.

When the cab swerves
Between Judaism and Romanesque
That turn is on top
It could deffo get you wrecked

Just past the Rialto
If your cabbie ain't sharp enough
It could all go castrallto
***** ground into dust


But thank Christ that don't occur that much
You get home safe most days
The oversteer compensated
He straightens up For the front page
That could have happened
The day after the next
About some seatbelt deniers
Who ended up in a hedge
The latest o the dyers.