Wrote this while my best friend since childhood and I drove 1300 miles to South Florida on a whim for Spring Break. It's epic, so get comfortable.

"Approachable but you wouldn't know it.  Proclamations of the Romantically Challenged"

Day one.

We meet, old friends...watch old friends...become old friends again.
We find our lost grins, ones only shared with our closer than kin.
Thin shagrins of lasting cynicism and sinister pasts are masks to the blasts we got away with and lived to tell the tale.
Alas, we are sons and friends first, not last.
We cling to our good old glory stories past,
But at last the time is new, our trip begins.
Wheels burn, stomachs churn.
Our aspired souls yearn,
to fire the liars and unconcerned.
We head for the East coast.
With temperatures rising,
approaching unseen horizons,
rejecting the superficially tantalizing,
we begin to feel our tattered souls wisen.
Talking a new talk, calculating the steps to walk a new walk.
Testifying our pains, devilishly dodging heavenly rains, the bitter bites but invites change.
Watching yourself in a friend, a cynical kidder gone bitter.
Your mirror becomes your babysitter.
We search our hearts and back again down I-10.
We find strength and talk about things friends for life can only talk about on a walk about.
We lift some Spirits to lift our spirits.
Night falls,
we arrive alive… our walk about calls 1,365 miles in 18 hours.

Day two begins.

Meet and greet with the beach.
Get a handle on some handy sandals,
some nicotine candy and butane candles.
A fifth of Daniels.
Jack and Jose will duel this day.
"You know it's know your fault, pass the lime and salt," ends most answers before noon.
Let's take some dares with the local fare, shadowing the glare of our wear and tear.
The sun fries,
windy sands fly,
waves pacify,
dropped bikini tops glimpsed from the corner of our eye, testify.
The Sun sets.

Shuffing off the nightlife status-quo of Clematis Row, we turn our walkabout into a Palm Beach Safari...Club.
Whoa! Rows and rows of walking, talking shows barely clothed from head to tanned toes.
Making funnies about hunting honies preying on money.
The unattainable passes. We tap our glasses.
"Point in case, what a waste, such tragedies as these, a lot of money and a little cheese meets a little ****** in high cut sleeves, low-cut cleaves & cuts way above the knees.
Our cuts are deep. Bartender, two Yagers please."

Low and behold…on those stools sit no fools.
Breaking all rules.
with Coronas as fuel,
we inflate our jewels.
As we coach our approach, mentioning "I-10 and back again" prompts grins,
hides our cynicism and sins,
then, moving in to win friends.
Names and places put to faces, careful glancing, winks and dancing.
Alright, the trips to the bathroom are getting old.
Warm smiles once cold, honest questions and truths told…no souls sold…we fold? Hmmmm.
We leave and arrive alive.
Caffine and nicotine stay the scene until the wee hours overpower us.

Day three unfolds

The sun rises and the ocean calls.
Old molds broken
No lies spoken.
No need to peddle your life away settling on the day-to-day following peers falsely content and full of contempt.
Eyes turn bright,
the Sun pours over night,
dolphin, lime and salt,
golfing talk,
day approaches night.
Less tense and more pensive,
more apprehensive and less expensive,
even so we head out to even the evening,
to end our grieving and start achieving....something.
Latitude changes have rearranged our attitude gauges.
So we choose West Palm's Clematis Row to show us how a little rude,
lude and tattooed could clue us in on the anew.
Fools with jewels.
Girls with rules.
Uncool tools abound.
We walk this street of sleekish freaks,
the falsely meek,
lions that squeak.
"Club Respectables" is dubbed rejectables as the objectionable scene is seen as a scheme by vampires with recessive genes.
Next is Spanky's…Best described as "A frat boy fishing pole contest to tackle box in bait shack." One bucket of beer away from "I got your back Jack in case of attack."
We move along.
Colombia Supreme brewed proceeding it's fine grind and American Online becomes the sign of the times swaying us to stay and play at an Internet Cafe.

"I could live here," proclaims a cynical kidder once bitter now soothed by the sea spray and salty air.

Enlightenment heightened by a magic man,
near night's end, inspires an O'Shea's Black and Tan.
The crowd mocks and baulks the sidewalk scene from the patio Pub Dubbed Irish.
We greet the ground,
not the masses' frown,
seat our ***** down,
toast our glasses of black and brown,
our bitters with bite wash down the bitter frowns we normally wear out in our hometown.
"That's a sharp Harp's and sinister Guinness; can I get a witness?"

We head back down our beaten path, writing our epitaphs and usual eulogies...But you know that the "place" or your "space" will change your face, one makes the case."If you sound bitter and you look bitter, chances are you are bitter."
I begin to smile during our final mile of token jokes,
Corona smokes,
shiny Harley spokes.
We leave and arrive alive at the realization,
we have things to strive for in our lives.  
We smoke and joke and poke fun at the run down broken blokes we were before our fun in the sun had begun.
  
Day four begins.
  
We embark for the Ozarks. Our souls at ease.
Save the scene...the last palm tree's waving leaves,  
we wave our palms and leave.
1300 miles more,  
Pushing the morning hour of four,  
empty coffee cups galore,  
moonings a score,  
pedal to the floor,  
memories and more,  
we knew we would be back for more.  
Suddenly learning how insane our inane claims of waning fame should hold no shame,
we reframe our game.
Upon our return…
the strength to strive, take back our broken banks and breaking backs.
Less taxing, more relaxing..."it could happen"... eliquinent waxing.
As we search our hearts and back again, down I-10,we find the strength in things you can only talk about on a walk about,
but that's what it was all about.
By R.Craig David-copyrighted 1995

The fair buildings that have seen the yester-years
bask in twilight.
Generations of footsteps and handprints
have worn and wrinkled them.
The wisen walls have overheard conversations
both whispered in confidence and declared in boldness,
and the floors have long absorbed
the tears, blood and sweat of characters
in their own private dramas
played out within these walls.

You and I will never see what the buildings have watched,
hear what they’ve listened to
all those years –
the stories each brick and mortar holds in secret.

And twilights and days will pass
till the impending moment comes, when,
along with concrete pounded into dusts,
gone will be these flickers of images,
the memories of these fleeting lives,
buried,
like tapes and film rolls burned
by the progress of time.

This is a poem from a high school student to the high school teachers,
And those I'm referring to better know who they are.

To the school teachers who think there cheerleaders,
Grow the hell up.

To the teachers who think being our friend is more important than teaching a lesson,
Grow the hell up.

To the over obsessive fools who rearrange the school constantly,
Wisen the hell up.

To the ******* who spends more than 75% of our budget on sports,
Wisen the hell up.

To the the teachers who force students to act like their children,
Get a ******* life.

To the fools who spend their time on Instagram and Twitter to much,
Get a ******* life.

To the schools that don't know their priorities,
Get your *** in gear.

To the teachers who still are kids, for the last time
GROW THE HELL UP.

Enlighten:
         For the load's far too large for my
         Weary eyelids to share with their
         Lashes, who cut her skin and charge on to
         Urge the blond-bangled mare over the
         Stable's horizon.
         But she lies in
The light kicked from the window's pail and there
Are no tears welling in the pane's corner,
          Nor any lashes to wisen.

You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked upon by drink.
Unwind the vise that clamps around the head
and loose the ***** that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers ****** you.

Bar Born The Tasked Rascals, Art So Set Apart,

As If Not Of This Excepted Floor To Have A Soap Box Well Lit And Sound Bound As To Announce The Service Of All Mankind.

These Hell Bound Sounded Hound, Cranking Out A Numbness Of Flashing Rights To The Clearest Inner Outside Light, All Bug Repellent In Its Shaded Cast, As If The Main Mast Full Gale And Expecting The White Whale To Summon The Squall Of All, The White Bl;blizzard Of Darkened Davy Jones Host.

Late For The Event In Our Black Sly Right Tight Ties, Tux Not The Occasion Of Such A Dinner In The Coral Castles And Measured Counted And Weighed Sand Grains In Hand, All Ring Around The Rosie And Pocket Full Of  We Are The World.

Is It Insulting To Find A Tear Of The Torn Sided Fine, I'm Fine, **** Son, He Said He Is Fine... Is It? Is It Really Fine To Be So Kind As To Look Endlessly For The Truer Shine Of Ones Kine?

Wasted And Laid Barren In The Worlds Cup Over Flowing In The Digital Futures Markets, As We The Rip Torn, Black Eyed Beauties Of The Breeded Horse Smart
Before The Cart As It Was Said On A Wednesday Clay Shaped Self As The Potter Fell Over From A Heart Attack Just By The Mention Of My **** Name.

Was It This Simple Setting To Round In The Tails Tucked And ******, So Sad The Signs Were Of Mine Own Hand In The Mixed Bag Of Tricks All To Call The Summons A Court So Full Of Our Truths And Burdens And Labors Of Love And Hate, So Late This Judgement Of Set Aside The Ritual Tribes Dance To Call In The Rain, Only , As If, To Walk In The Birth Of A Giants Framed Hunch Back To Back And Caned By Cains Marked Hand.

To You This Might Seem A Tale So Riddled In Riddles A Rippling Crass Shaven ***, A Holler In Yonder Holler Or That Of A Dieing Mans Need To Cast Blame In The Way To Say, How Were We Ever Insane To Think On A Moments Notice Again That Shove To The Edge Of Wonder And Fulfillment Did He Dare To Craft A Sinking Ships Last Gasp, Or Were It A Was Not Of Lifted Simpleton And Worries Nots, To Blur The Feelings We All Seem To Hang Close To Our Hearts As To Say In A Screaming Tones Silent As Dogs Whimpers Oh , For Gods Sake , Forget Me Not...

The Cast Of Unwitting Jerry Cans Half Empty From The Storm Troopers Gaze, They The False And Amazed Wonders Of The Free World To Tempt Your Massive Thought And Considerations And Brain Power Looking Eye To Eye Through These Cell Phone Towers Of Joyous Tizzy And Spinning A Dice Of Little Means To A Giving.
What Does One Find? A Mere Chance To Work This Entire Poem And Line Into A Trout Of Creek Feed Leisure Time?

Or Is It Ones Worth To Graft The Strangest Brew In The Me And You, For All Time, Due To The Constraints Of The Time, Time And Half A Time Notion For Us To Hang This Heart Of Mine On.

I Do Declare, That In A Star Upon My Wishing Fest'iva And Nova In The Go No And No Doze Moments In Clear And Unfettered Satiation In Full Regalia A Black Mass So Fryer Tuck That You Can Not Star Too Long For The Sake Of The Pornographic Nature Of Thier Thrusting Fuckery In The Tupperware Tasted Cakes And Lemonaded Hast To Widen The Soul Of A Young Generations Boats They Care To Float , Yet To Prison My Dear Captain For The Sense Of Revenge Is Upon The Shoulders Of Those So Bewildered And Lost As To Find Sovereign Thought One Un-steal Able And Last We Could Count, One Above And Beyond The Coat You Brought To Warm Your Bones In Cigar Shaped Houses Floating Not Thine Boat With Stolen Blood Soaked And Still Depending On The Boys Heart Well To Wish Your Sudden Captivity In Audience And Nature To Stroke A Hearts Choke, For I The Warden And The Boastful  **** To Say, Oh Dear Friend They Think This Turn About Fair In Play Is Nothing But A Hopeful And Sick Joke...
Wisen This And That Cat Of Their Lost Abundance In Hate Filled Crafting Law And Law Out Has Your Trust Of Ever Kept Wasteful Play Dates Upon The Bare Backs Of Us And Our Children , Oh No , No, They Will Surly Not Take Your Announcement Of True Give A **** And Care In Such A Wondrously Deep Falling Hazy Gaze, No, They Are The Turds They Are About To **** Upon The Very Day They Proclaimed For Pigs To Never Fly.
Has This Been Lost In The Translation Of Brilliant Minds Eye To The Worded Version Of The By And By The Way, This Is Our **** House And We Are Now Here To Play The Hail Mary Of The **** Day, Or Was It That We Were To Gateraid The Bench Warmers And Arm Chair The Play By Play, All **** And Hands Out Of Reach, To Breach The Wealth Of Those So Ready To Cast Us A Lot Of Heart Ache And Diverse Diversions Of Race Hate And War Upon Every Shore?
I Say, Stand And Be Brilliant Whether They Can Understand A ******* Word You Say, For Truly It Is Only The Call To The Right And The Left, For They Left Us In Harms Way Day After Day, That Is Till Today, For You Are My Brother And My Sister, And On This What Do You Have To Say?
I Say, Take The Power Back My ***, We Are The Power And Its Planted State Of Non Affair In Foreign Affairs To The Truth Be This Our Back Yard Is Our Forward Guard And Today Is The Day We Defend The Whistles And Blowers Of The Stated Truth Among The Liars And Thieves, For If We Dare Not To Defend These True Human Beings, Then Whom Will Find The Basket To Round The Ends Of The Pews Of The Needed Death Total In The Burial Of Not Their Own Corpse But The Nature Of A Word And Its Meaning, For Freedom Will Then Be A Marketable Stock Traded And Made You A Trader On The Gold And Bar None, Son, We Will Have Lost In Every Single Sum.

So ? What Shall We Say On The Day, After Today, Is It Called To My Marrow, A Bone To Pick Or It Be Said, My Love And My Grace Held High And Loud In This Place, For Tomorrow Is Ours In Every Way And Let The Truth Ring Of Loves Grace And Abundance Was Set Free In The Hearts Of All Mankind, For Ours Is The Ever After And None Shall Steal What Resides In Our Hearts,



None Apart From The Part As A Whole, And None A Hole For The Whole To Find Reason Nor Scored Cause To Abhor The Truth Of Ones Core Who Longs At All Cost To Be Free. If I Must Choose Freedom Or Peace, I Choose Freedom At The Very Cost Of Peace, For If Peace Is Without Freedom, Then Whose Peace Is It You Speak And Whose Freedom Did That Peace Cost Them?  As The Obvious Price For The Few To Enjoy A Peace Where The Masses Are Far From At Peace Nor Are That In Any Way Free.

I back track my steps until once again i feel cold pavement on my heels and the dewy grass has retreated to once again stretching to receive the sun. I bump into the same glass door, the *** still warm as though i had just let go if it, it jabs me in my side forcing me to acknowledge my collision as I face the transparent barrier to what I once thought was home. Its so smoky in there that I can hardly recognize the countenances of my old friends; greed, lust, hate, ******, drugs, envy. I shake my head squinting to read their name tags but the air is too thick for oil stone to sharpen and they're so busy till I realize they don't see me right there. staring. I want to say hi, tell em' the world is cool they shoulda' wisened up like me. All I did was tell a lil white lie but if you're like me, and you wisen' up, you too my dear friend may smell the crisp scent of the greener side. And boom there I was back with my crew. Formerly known as lies, my tag clearly now says pride.

do you ever miss the rain?

which one?

that one.

yeah i do.

the simple feelings of safety

the smell of the rain

the similarity of home

where you didnt care about technicality

or psychology

when nobody cared about each other but felt home

do you miss the old screen?

you mean the OS?

no the screen

where it was simple but complex

the feeling of the rain mixed

feeling of friends

not that feeling

the other feeling

the similarity of the old layout

not old the better one

yeah the better one

where it seemed as if you knew it for so long

but you didn't

when everyone was innocent

no sketches

playing at home with no pressure

with a head that stops when you stop

the feeling of feeling as if the adults know everything out there

where you felt as if being sad was just a myth

miss the old room?

which one?

the magical one

where your imagination ruled the emptiness

now filled with a head that is technical as it can be

why?

because maturing

looking at the abyss called reality

where everybody is a child

being an adult is just a myth

everybody feels alone, feels selfish, trying to wisen up

they can’t

because you just can't

wise people aren't wise

they aren't adults

they are just children

acting like adults

people want to get on top

why?

because

why?

why not?

everybody looks up to you

everybody obeys to your rules

they aren't forced to or obliged to

they just do

why?

because they are searching for an example of an adult

they search for a person to look up to that no one can look down on you for

but when you are the person on top

you still feel alone

you don't feel complete

you feel like a child

but then you look for another person to look up to

there are no other

so the cycle continues

everybody stomping on each other

we are on top of a flying rock and everyone is focused on looking down upon people with different imaginary views

why?

why not just have fun?

do you ever miss the rain?

which one?

Why is the moon
So close to our hearts?
While the hot sun
Burns love before it starts
We can look
Into lunar eyes
While the solar winds
Carry our goodbyes
Does the moon love us
Because we return its gaze?
Does the sun remain bitter
Because we close our eyes to its rays?
The moon guides our lonely night
An audience to our dreams
While the sun awakens our delusions
And reveals all our schemes
It knows
Unforgiving in its intensity
It knows
It offers us no pity
So we run to our lover
At night as it smiles
Soothing our tired eyes
Understanding all our trials
The sun... a solitary sight
Dominates our horizon
The furnace of life
It does not embrace or wisen
Though we walk with a chill
And beg for a warm heart
It seems distant
I always feel apart
Tonight I will await
The understanding moon
Though you reflect the scolding sun
It is you who makes me swoon

The mouth sans teeth
Indicates
That
To get wisdom
You have to lose something valuable

How strange a tide… apathetic to its core.
Novichok in the system — we’ve already hit the floor.
Not without warning for the interested few.
Sure, indigo on the spectrum, but black in our view.
Our prophets are wary, lamenting for the lot.
The glass thicker than ever: they’re forced to watch them rot.
Let’s not dilute it over biscuits and tea.
We’re addicted to passion; it drains both you and me.
Quit cold turkey; we’ll wither and die within the week.
We blew past the sabbath; so muddle on and be meek.
Telephone the skies, but the network is full:
We put off the harvest — our calls all but null.
“Don’t think just breathe and wait for the pull of the plug.”
There’s a way, truth, and life; but deafness is the most popular drug.
Our water is muddy; the dolls’ overjoyed.
Reject all the falsehoods; their eyes shimmer from the void.
I’m here to remind you there’s more than you think.
Dead end paths are common; they want you to sink.
Exist behind ego and you’ll miss the horizon.
Perspective’s a gift if you’re looking to wisen.
Races aren’t games for an aspiring professional.
Throw out your excuses you don’t need a confessional.
There’s anguish in the conviction; you’ll be forced to commit.
But sleep-walking is pervasive; few actually submit.

a lot more knowing how it turns out decades later
maybe been a bit bolder instead of hoping
been Brasher wore tighter pants sent out longing stares with
all the confidence  Elvis would'a
I would have instead of walking by the Jackson sister's house
stayed and threw pebbles into their bedroom windows
or  boldly walked up knocked on their door and faced their dad
his six five tallness and said I think I love your daughters
and stood toe to toe and face to belt buckle with
confidence knowing you have to try to shine
have to light a fire to burn
have to live to die
instead of just fading away
the decades it took me to wisen up
I thought I was trying
it was so timid
I'd a bent the rules more
had I just known

we all all ALL are great!
I hate nothing but disagree, that nature is wondrous and heaven has to be
earned. nature is cruel.
I have noticed , her cruelness is obvious. Nothing
about life is ever fair.Our being here is enough. Enough to claim our fair share.
It matters not your heritage color creed or ***, your identity is guaranteed
by your breath.
Anyone who disagrees is
ignorance
small
un-evolved.
Tell me how you can call another an ape or less than you.
Tell me you  hold yourself as superior, and I will pray you wisen up.
tell me your kind holds some place in history better than
anyone's.
Breath red blood, skin , of all colors, nationalities,
ethnicities, religions, none are differences. We all breathe. We eat we strive to procreate. We claim our rights as fair in the sea of nature's indifference,
who might claim a rabbit for a wolf's dinner,
a wolf for a Bear's. My forefathers and yours are dead. They fertilized the
ground we walk on. And their bones and hearts made soil that we walk on and toil on as
equals today.
There can be no different argument.

I think I'm hilarious
you're just jealous
and to others you call me
overzealous

but you know I'm right
and to avoid being wrong
singing harder, instead just change
the song

you're going to be fine
it's just your time
to finally wisen up and
learn to rhyme

the song is more fun
when we sing along
even if the words
always come out wrong

a little bit of happiness
and a lot more patience
maybe can save this ****
instead of having to change stations

days like these... i am left without any writing
ambition...
        was there any to begin with?
ambition... and writing?
                   i wouldn't call it anything: more -
this unnecessary more it already has become...
it's not an ambition,
but it's also not an escapism...
         it's sure as hell not some...
                    take on sylvia plath or anne sexton:
"treatment"...
writing either comes... or it doesn't...
and if it does: it does... and if it doesn't: with days
such as these: it really shouldn't...
but my once favourite jukebox is feeding
me a glitch... very old videos of content creators
and "new" music...
so i felt inclined to comment on that...
otherwise a snapshot of the day:
the t.v. didn't need me...
             but i still managed to squeeze in one
episode of gangs of london...
and i'll be ******* if anti-t.v. people wouldn't
find this gripping: zombie-eating-brains...
day... a very continental breakfast...
work in the garden...
                     then marinating some pork and chicken...
piri-piri and tomato puree: with additions...
like paprika, taekyung powder and tatlı (e)
ipek pul biber - turkish i'm guessing for sweet pepper
flakes... a dash of apple cider vinegar...

the pork marinated in... dijon mustard...
soya sauce... honey... garlic... etc. etc.
  
you can most certainly undercook pork...
best with undercooked beef:
well it's on a bbq...
                  it's not some fine dining...
among the neighbours... i wanted what the gardens
could be used for... since...
i see myself on a desert island with people
in the vicinity strapped to b.d.s.m. gizmos
indoors... not even for a suntan is the garden
used... or for... watching birds...
i can count at least 10 different types...
sitting and having a lazy cigarette...

     but chicken! you can't undercook it!
but getting it just right... well... chances of overcooking
it as slim...
more slim than overcooking pork or beef...
people who want a stake well done shouldn't
ever be allowed to eat steaks to begin with...
in the old restaurant... the smoking section...
the non-smoking section...
a section for people eating stakes...
and people of the bland persuasion that
want to doubly-butcher their beef:
the roast beef section...
all the gravy... all the trimmings...
the baked potatoes the yorkshire puds...

yeah... that might work...
        so much for reading up on schizophrenia
in julian jaynes': the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind:
halal: implied idiot in hebrew...
not it implies kosher in arabic...
  and the "analogue i"...
             anything of psychology from the 60s
and an "i" with a prefix: just fine...

for lack of a better narrative:
a through (b) starting from (a) and ending up
at (c): here's a narrative with a quantum
leap... a lost pocket of reference:
IV + XV = XIX!

                    that happened come mid-day...
and a welcome break on the "throne of thrones":
alias for a *******...
to use the body in such a way that
the mind can be: more... but less and less
a constipation... more: akin to the unconscious
liver / kidney... a sponge central of
the connectivity of eyes, ears and prickly skin:
goosebumps...

"analogue": more like... collage...
an "enzyme" thrown into a "harem" of rats...
to subsequently watch them scuttle away
in... or... better... lifting a nearing rot
piece of wood... and finding the "grub"
cower when exposed to sunlight...
spiders... earthworms... house centipedes:
living in the garden...
analogue: continuously variable physical quantity
except for... a break in continuity...
and the invitation of: quality...
   zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance...
quality, quality, quality...

               alive in a truly: "static": status quo world...
or thereabouts...
supposed so...
when i can forget that the mind has by extension...
soul and god involved...
on its laissez-fair good days...
in an armchair of plotting an escape with
merely a breath...
               high minded: needs for "reading"...

    so much for catching up on my posthumous
writings of the pickwick papers by dickens...
maybe another perfect day...
a most perfect day: to be neither in love...
nor an angel of vengence...
                    to not hate but laze...
and by laze i implore myself to stress:
turn the brain into a kidney
and say: the kidney will not think...
the brain doesn't have to:
nor that it ever did...
where is my... exoskeleton of thought,
conscience, "consciousness"... soul and god?
drifting away with the clouds
while i remember the bones... the ****...
the esophagus rhetoric of backwards: if i wish...
and down the flush "alley":
literally... a choice of words riddled with
misnomers because: by misnomer it's so much
easier to forget a bank filled brimming with:
"too many" nouns...

back to music...
the only new music is the old music...
a chance refreshing of a fugazi catalogue:
nomeansno came up...
"intelligent punk rock" from the canadian
west coast...
so much verbiage in the description...

new music... yeah? fostermother - fostermother (2020)...
clouds taste satanic - the glitter of infinite hell (2017)...
for me... new implied:
godspeed! you, black emperor...

i must be getting old... 34 is pretty daft:
if it must be deemed as old...
            well... let's put it this way...
bukowski because: why not?
   that classical music "lost plot"...
classical music... it's such a tedium...
        fair enough for an event...
but i can't reinvent a bedroom an armchair...
a hunched body of crow metaphor bliss with it...
too strict the club and entry requirements...

jazz has aged so well...
whatever it was supposed to be with its worth
of the 20th century with the beatniks...
the choir girls... the homosexuals and the trumpet
players... the "experimental" load o' *******...
******* or no *******...
certainly no ******* dunked into mint mayo...
to state the extremes...
  
today... the 21st century is only 20 years old...
and i'm listening to gerry mulligan's night lights...
and: it's beyond... what's supposed
to age for the generic applause...
lazy trumpet... lazy guitar...
gerry mulligan... chet baker... kenny burrel...
not big orchestral jazz bands...
shady bars... and if i walked into a brothel
that played jazz than that...
tapeworm hypnosis of boomboomboom...
i'd consider it a church and a harem and never:
subsequently leave...

i took out the garbage: pretty adamant to
do all the right sort of recycling...
1963... that's what? 57 years ago...
the 1990s sitcoms missed the influences...
the thoroughfare of soap-opera marathons
from either england, turkey or mexico...

of the mention new music:
i'm not... "ageing"... i've reached a boring
plateau... the old flame of youth...
has fazed out...
             new music: i don't have an energy
for it...
music when growing up:
that i will still listen to... pearl jam...
offspring, silverchair... king crimson(?)...
but the new stuff...
old **** galore... better with some jazz than...
sometimes: yes... the odd excuse for Prokofiev...
but... pretending to be the maestro...
waving one's hands about in some sort
of vague appreciation: when a woman,
and drunk: it's good to know i can see cringe...
and it's my mother...

          perhaps: it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
but that would have implied:
having children... and a gambler's luck...
i never liked gambling...
the most i ever gambled was probably
2 quid on football scores...
a quid on the national... a religious institution
in england... for that one race...
i don't like gambling...
i like... the blank page inquisitive of me...
centipede of eyes...
c.c.t.v. god of wish-fulfilled omni-presence
of the litany of adjectives...
but that doesn't really matter...

it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
after all... i would be...
but that rome was built on fostering children:
somewhat... that's also a novel idea...
but dealing with 50% of you in a son or daughter...
with grandchildren that's only a 25% replica
of you...
        god forbid ******: talking about 75% of you...
if the rich started to clone themselves:
i can't imagine the hell: but a mirror is enough
to face once a day...
twice a month is just enough too...

jazz has aged really well...
2020 is a good year for jazz and even if there's no
wine... there's the lazy ms. amber...
classical music peaked in the 20th c. for me...
i can, i will... appreciate it...
if i want to give my heart a chance
to steal my eyes and create a waterfall of emotions...

- and perhaps new music...
i missed what became emo...
although i was still around for a.f.i.'s sing
the sorrow album...
how?                         filofax...
floppy disk 3.5"... dial-up... age of empires...
final fantasy VII... KMFDM: juke joint jezebel...
******... choke: doo...

sometimes the sorrows of:
not being part of the chinese one child state policy...
mother's fear... birthday...
may... 1986... chernobyl: 26th april 1986...
a nice whittle tattoo i too have...
if i had wings: i had one removed...
thankfully the shoulder-blade was kept
intact...

perhaps a brother, perhaps a sister...
perhaps my own little scoop of "solipsism"...
burden of "genius"...
no angel, no demon...
just a companion of: posit in sigma -
displaced attributes...
            weasel... a way out...
                   groom of spaghetti tangles...
      that turn into tapeworms that
turn into placentas and
foetuses in the sky: fully membraned
egos of confrontations...

                libido blues: but the "idiots"
will surive: double their claims of harvest!
numbers have no coinicidence
of effortless heart that do no:
necessarily buckle...
shoe-shine georgie met the hyper-inflated
cultural exchange: excuse...
for this trough: the pigs would eat...
the dogs would eat...
met with grimmaces...

              jazz allows me to wisen...
i can walk into a room filled with air...
scratchings of violins and...
i cna ignore the music...
take to treating it as... less...
an altar for maggot sacrifice...
a gig an altar of the idols...
i can escape it with attired and ulterior
motives...
captivate myself with a game of chess:
thought only: without playing anything
beside metaphorical chess...
as i will be playing metaphorical poker...
not actual poker...

imagine my anticipation of a circus:
******... a poatcard from either Tangiers
or Istambul...
crocodile juice from Kiev...
magic mushrooms from Helsinki...
but that's just my luck...
sober... nationalistic peoples...
Loon'don...
the welsh the scots and the ghouls of
gaelic on the "periphery"...
Dublin or "somewhere"...

                    and ms. amber and deciding...
what to do with the leftoever
rainbow trout caviar i used for christmas...
once... and now will have to use once
more... somehow...

thank god for this gift...
and this day... so easily... so made...
pristined and made by per se a complexity...
and... almost literally:
the best idea for coughing up fog.

The only streetlight for miles.
A lone standing work of art.
Moths flutter and bugs’ trials
to get into the light, use all their heart.
The vast black horizon
is filled with monsters and demons.
A place known to wisen
those who can find enough esteem in
their emotional fortitude
to take shadows to heart,
and let the blackness intrude
like a night’s work of art.
Those that stroll through black clouds
didn’t choose this jail sentence.
A mind that tortures out loud,
life feeling painfully defenseless.
There may be hope that still sings
I pray that it does.
Because in that darkness with things
I roam clenching my jaws.
I can see that lone light
I seem to walk circles around.
Hope’s singing just might
lead me to glowing ground.

~kb

In this life what did you grow up believing? I grew up believing in God, that miracles can happen to anyone. As long as you believe in His word, and live for Him, and give Him praise anything is possible through Jesus Christ.
I believe that love is something that God himself finds for yo where you expect it or not, mostly it's when you don't expect it. And it happens sooner than you know. But through all of the things that you been through in life, makes your faith in God stronger and the faith helps you wisen and strengthen your love between you and your lover.
I believe that in our children here on earth is our real faith, that is where real faith lies on them, because they have faith in us for everything we do for them. No matter what they rely on us.
I believe that when you are struggling no matter what it is, that you should pray and ask God what you should do. Just remember God does test your faith every single day of your life. If you just trust in Him, He will show you the way out. Sometimes it may seem as if you don't or can't find the right way.
I believe that you should always be there for your parents because, they were always there for you. If you do that and honor them in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior and obey His commandments, He will bless you with anything that you can imagine.
I believe that in this society today, the Christians of today need to pray hard for these children in schools, and anywhere in the United States. There is so much evil and wrong doings in this world that we really need the Lord our God to help us out! So pray hard for America.

Hopping to other states
After one encounter
Downright despicable
Yet understandable
Maybe today it'll be time
To break the habit
That makes you blind
Doom will not follow
Wisen up
Unless you like being hollow
Accompany your side
For this world needs a sight
Sore eyes
To enlightened
Free of fear
Dashed of despair
Keep me in sight
It'll be alright
Running leaves behind problems
Another day
No one can run forever.