The Harningway

When the liquor’s got your bones in it—
your ash, skin, and spit—
it’s no longer good for sipping.
Drink that shit.

Siss like leaves
Churning leaves
On May-June wings,
But really all the kisses
Of ice on bare trees.

Wind (with a cartoon curl in it
And bedsheet ghost in it
going oOoO through branches
reaching over your body to put out streetlights
without saying goodnight
(deliberately))
shimmers with static particles
Like the TV kind that perspire in waves
Up and down the spine of sand dunes
Or on a sheet of puddle in a stagnant place
Where little waterbugs disrupt the surface
By impressing themselves upon the water.

When I look at the untouched plain of snow
settled on the road, I cannot tell if the motion I see
Is powder contacting powder
Or the shadow of the snow.

I know it’s not kind for the fortunate to talk about the homeless--

especially when rain pisses cold night early
like a dead drunk on the sidewalk,
filling ditches with frigid water
pooled in ankledeep depressions
unnoticed ‘til rain pisses
gutters down asphalt
heaped in middlestreet impressions.

Heaped against curbstones
fed by asphalt,
the heaps of middlestreet form
blackpool gutters
that shine like sun can’t
off daytime things
matted by diffusion.

On the surface of the blackpools,
the greenlights and redlights
and yellow streaks ripple
like dreamtime falling out of phase
with the walking rhythm of cold-soaked sneakers
squashing ‘long the greenline
ripples of a redlight
nighttime.
Soaked in piss and inconsiderate snow,
it melts before it’s supposed to.

He’s an obvious imbecile,
now handicapped or special. *(exclude?)
A sweetness caps his voice
like the accent of spice
in a cigarette that got wet
then dried then smoked once fished
from under a passenger seat
like a nice surprise—
like a tipped hat
after hello and a brief discussion
of snow and the rain it followed
and whether or not this snow is the symptom
of a cold front;
gone tomorrow,
here today.

He wanted money
to get through the night.

(He had no nurses to give him
what he needed to get through the night)

I gave him cigarettes and useless sentiment instead.

“You look soaked to the bone.
I hope you have someplace to get dry.”

He said,
“Don't worry.
It’s not the rain that gets to me.
It’s this snow.”

A poem about myself.

I’d like for you to lay down
the things you find important,
the people you spend your love on,
lay down your arms and move around with,
touch, laugh and sing with-
Me in my bed

or on my shoulder when there’s no reason not to
except important things
and love and song.

I want to be exceptional.
I found you in the crowd
and you called on me when I said hello
and made myself available.

It’s only fair I am the same
as I imagine you to me.

So I do

Mmm. Yes.
High times when times are final.
The boom hound lapped me by miles.
Its panting echo leapt from the barrel and struck the rim edge,
Rang it like tracers overhead.

The phosphorous melted off the iron
And the ringing echo settled.
The cartridge spins,
and rest.

But Odor remains,
Nestled in the fat of my firing finger.
I’ve anodized my tongue
shredded my palette
stuffed cotton in my mouth.

Another year is going
And so I do.

Vi

The eyes do not grow old. They become
Clouded sometimes—they cross.
They can sour at hot news or curdle
Like ice melting backwards in cold lumps.
They get their globes glazed
By the heavy gravity of positive to negative,
Promoting collision and the worst kind of collusion;
the kind like white on rice or stink on shit
so you can’t see past it— the glaze.
Eyes become afflicted, they do not grow old.
And as we know, the eyes are the window to the soul.

This morning I saw the immortal soul through the eyes
Of a young old woman who smiled at me over her shoulder
From a bravo afternoon sometime around springtime, 1962.

The chicken or the golden egg

Preparing eyes and ears for a day
is no small feat, no feat too small
for a firebrain, for the wireframe
whatsitgonnabe of whileIsleep.

Why else would the damn thing sing
anagram lovesong architecture
all night long?--kicking while I’m down
but not out, out but not out cold.

Why else’d the damn thing sing
if not to steel my stupid flesh
against the ugliness of calendar
sunshine? Could it be reporting

some bizarre subplot? Or
is it time for shuteye?

Subjection

Faith takes guts no one is ready to spill
Sincerity aside from a white guilt or a lost american war
Come on. Isn't common.

Thoughts of things primary frightening and discouraged
Passionate pacification sinks sleepily into our eyes
To participate only in pretty prepared screen action

To forget our wills and make them small
To make a choice only between malls
That new bag is the best you can do
You're free! Don't define, do!

And the people cry at one another, deafening and clear:

Flee to screen or mall or weed!
Two philosophers have disagreed!

Any object can be you!
And you can finally be an object too!

Summer 2009

I dont work a job in the day
and I have no time for hobbies
Instead I stand in my doorway and chew gristly questions
That taste like cigarette filters
That most people have chewed and digested by college
But I had doubt jammed in my gears
A four year old anxiety boy kept asking
Probably just sparking the apathy wheels
Into tension
To see some kind of motion
If only it were a daily grind (pun in tension)

I'm lazy and bored with the day
Its ideas refuse to entertain me and so I too often return the favor
I fuck around like I'm making a point
Personify everything, then argue with the sun for cutting and running
The heated sky apart
And petition (bitch) him later about the sweat in your shorts
And the ache in my gut that joins the chorus of shouting things
A loud nature, I wish it was polite
Left me some peace

Left my head out of it

At least attempted harmony if they have to go on like they do
Gave me better sentences to write than I do

_

For now

Go back to choking on half baked faith
Read about an ascetic you'd hate to meet
And an old ecclesiast's poem gilded in black ink
Running with the same thoughts you've had

Then dip it in the fountain doubts and wash it clean
Isn't that easier to read?
To forget?
Now swallow the rest of those loose connections
And pray you have intentions in your intestines

If I could
You know I would
Be lying nude under moonlight
In the crevice between three converging boulders
Whose carpetbraid of moss is continually refreshed
By a steady sheet of spring water.

I want to see the fresh water clear,
I want to see cold water dark,
And I want the water's shim passing over my thigh to update me on the condition of the stars.

In the ice of a brook bed on the cannibal days of summer,
I am nude when the rain stops and the wind returns comfort
To the stones that moon like lizards do at sun, on them
When I am far too drunk to lull my head to see the stars myself.

***

Beaneath willow shade--
Willow not weepy, just swaying,
Shading--
Lightning bugs are happy teasing
Off my meters distant.

Lying in the vessel of a stream,
The shim updates my reality.

Round up round up
point 60

Time is 60
and 60 is from now
Till time runs out
And the knob is switched to 40

Switch switch stitch:
My pants go from the washer.

Plastic’s on the crumble
Soapsgone
And the lovely girls who scrubbed our clothes are gone.

Now we spit groundwater down a box
And churn filthy rags
Till brainslikepruneslike virgin fingers do
Set too long in solution.

6 time is 4 time is wage time.
Join the one big union!

It waits clear, conceived in sheets of farble
Draped down portholes
And sheaved in white appliance.

Behind door one two three:
Convenience

TV meanness

Isleislefreshness

Your door, NUMBER 4,
Has not so much inside;
Your cook machine,
Your watch and clean,
AC ISP.

Soon we’ll find our structure stuck like towers of cold aluminum
Where fireproof furniture can’t break windows
And the screen behind my mirror tells me all the things I told myself
behind a mirror once.

“You display the symptoms of Vitamin D deficiency.”

So take your breakfast down
before dash pinch sitdown--

eat it up eat it up.

Then bark news,
fuck,
and done begins again.

Dur Bee Gee

Intelligence is crystalline.
Nature is not.

What about matter craves homogeny?
Why do the elements of life circumvent unity?

Why is all I say bullshit?

Must everything contradict itself?

Either

Sometimes there are things
That make you think
Everything will be okay.

For Americans
And human beings,
Whatever you may be…
There are things that say
You’ll be OK.

For instance,

Have you ever seen the freeway
-All big and wide
And made of concrete-
Go on forever
Like it's always been there?

And heart surgery?
Can you believe
All that?

I saw a picture tonight
Of English bobbies
Passing storm troopers
Like what the fuck are you
Dressed up like that for?

Fake guns in hand,
Clubs on belts,
Like hey,
I’ve never felt either.

One day
Some boy
Find toy
What joy

desperate measures

A flaying spray shot his heart loose,
from quarters too many to find a culprit
as he knelt wondering after a will.
Ripped it onto the floor to soak in a cowards brine.
every drug mixed on
and flowing over
the oily floor
The angry organ slid back and forth in the pool
like it was trying to drown itself.
He fretted straight, fifteen years of thought blazed too hot and (of course) he fucking lunged for it.
He slipped on the floor as he scraped it, sticky and still bleeding out of the mess.
He took a bite with the hope he could still digest.

I lit four years on fire and blew the ashes into the face of the sky
a funnel cloud formed that shot the air straight through me so I fell backwards on to the wet grass
the ashes had slid back down and filled my lungs until I coughed and coughed and finally forgot everything
when I woke up the years were back on my chest all written out, just like before, in gold letters in every language
from the beginning I noticed my own handwriting and watched it start out
ugly, simple, and interesting
and then improve so fast,
dip,
improve,
and dip until it faded
into what looked like just smears
of ash and melted gold
so I gave up on burning it
and put it back in my pocket.

just adjusting my hair

you've only really been looking for that one night.
the one where instead of cold water on your head,
warm hands pour down your neck.
soft words on your ears and lips
easy thinking
speaking
showing
you'd meet eyes
with your new opponent,
your partner in crimes
who tears out your guts
while singing your praises
who tears out your guts
and stitches up the wound with her eyelashes.
then you (you and her) would light your ears with the same song,
and realize you've both felt the same pulse burn up the air in your chest.

This space station is on FIYAH!

This space station is on FIYAH!

Oh snap,
Lady Mackwah’guhwaun! Follow my lead.
Left foot, right tentacle…

-Your face extension
curl my boney shoulders-

-Your nutrition tubes
manusilk upon my neck-

Follow my lead, my love.
Follow my trailing left hand…

Can you see beyond this dense and violent smoke?
I doubt. Trail my hand.
Follow my loving arm.

Mind not the THUMP THUMP BANGS
of the offending battlefleet.

I’ll lead you to salvation,
my Qwarn’migon.

Breathe slow.
The smoke is thick.
Luck is our salvation.

The Terrorforms? Our end.

I kiss you sweetly upon the thresh of the escape lock,
“We made it, get in.”

The metal iris opens.

A single capacity mocks our love,
But you know what must be done.

“Your kiss is sweet, my love. I’ll never forget,”
You say as I push you into the pod.

She calls, “MY LOVE!”

and I slap the button.

‘LAUNCH
She is gone but saw my smile.
Satisfied by the fact
The one I love has touched my life,
I am justified to fight.

Sunrise over mars

The sun rises up a lonely lump
-one two three of them

The furthest place I see
Sol by grace.

:Whispered edges.
Unexplained proximity
Caught upon the ledges

:Do I see it there?
Caught upon the ledges?

The second cycle calls clearly
-flat and smeared and straight
--Its empty pledges promise,
“Someday you’ll be here.”

The third and closest tacit,
rife and riven, bare.
-It speaks of something different
--something not quite there

BUT HO
Are there
HO
Are they there…

Their features burst across my screen
-their boney piles edge,
Piled
Rimmed and there.
Call me, “Visit here”
.
.
.

So I sit a stone that looks like seat
And rest beneath its shade.

The air I breathe is cold

-That sun is rising?
Does it set?
Or is it simply there?

White and small.
Whispered,
White.
Sky above not Blue?

The sky is gray?
The sky is grey?
The sun,
My sol is blue.

I wonder…
Does this seat of stone
Protect me from ambition?

Does this final resting place
Forgive my cold ambition?

Math? I dunno

Rearrange your toys and magazines
- replace them with bold whatsits

Tie a knot that can’t be loosed
Or break it to your will

Subside upon your meager dealings.
Die by complex numbers.

Never share those cold conclusions
That God will draw by numbers.

Made their day

I am slumped
I am slumped

slumped my elbows into bar

Hello! He sits
And says hello
And slumps into the bar

What what what! the fuck you want?
To talk?
and smile and kid?

‘I am not your friend,’
I thought
But smiled

I am not your friend,
“Hello?”

initial questions
simple,
free,

-where you from
-what you do
-what this weather be?

Humid dew.

Answers of the kindest kind,
Like, “Hey, how you?
How we do?”

Then stories,
Stories,
STORIES!

--One time when I’s your age,
I rode, my friend beside,
we rode the highway
and came beside
some ladies riding high…
--My buddy had this sick ass Bug
tricked out
-No shit
--and I smiled, waving, ‘hi!’
-like, “HEY BABE”
--Ya,
-Like, “Hey babe”
--And know what?
?What?
---The front trunk
?The what?
--The trunk was set in front
?No shit!
--Went FWOOM!
--and BAM!
!Haha!
--I tried my best…
--We looked our cool…
--But hood, you know,
--Went ‘cross the windscreen,
--we couldn’t see a thing!

--The girls began to laugh and squeal
!I’m sure you made their day.
--We pulled emergency lane
--and laughed and did our thing

HAHA!

You know…

These things happen…

At least we made their day.

Godspeak

Gods plan.
.
Gods plan?
.
Do you think He gives a fuck?

He loves,
He cherishes;
We his Children-
He our Shepard…

The Capitol Letter that begins Our QUESTIONS.

But He,
Him, What?

… do they really give a fuck?

Tell you what:
If I were them? I’d not.
.
.
.

Am I wrong? Blaspheme
In channeling reality?

Lets begin:

I almighty create the ether;
My nothing is substrate.

My bones are matter,
Breathe is energy,
and My heart beats uncertainty.

I created you>
I and not you,
the Stone, the Dust and the Stars.

In a box of sand
I’ve built
a strange and lively stock.

-greedy negatives
-ponderous positives
A finely cultivated herd
where My misconceptions lie.

No. You living,
my true stock
are not the ones who think
or breathe by lung
or gill or wooden tendril.

My stock is more than most believe…

Hardly seen,
not free,
and they… WE… cannot see.

-My being do not breathe,
-My being do not see

We are inanimate.

Beings left to be

full,
strong
and simple in anatomy.

You
here,
cursed to wonder,

--whimper for your bread—

You are those who try to find
My Being in Your head.

Fuck

This sick fuck…
This ‘I gotta piss and feelin sick fuck.’
Is the way it’s got to be sometimes,
So it seems.

Sometimes you gotta punish your gut
And flay your lungs
To feel like night’s worth being.

Sometimes you gotta shit your stuff
To feel like, “HEY,
I’ve had enough.”

Sick Sons

A glowing green and amber bright
Of an early night explosion
Atomic separation and divine speculation
Removed the dawn of blue
And opened on a man browned by sun
Lost between the crawling earth and sweetly golden sun
When his sight was in the venom of his thought
He coughed and spluttered so hard
His broken rib ached
And followed him out
The sprayed and sparkling green
Of the savannah's evening sun

And behold

Spring 9

Ambivalence is one of those words you never knew the meaning to
But said around saying like you meant it
-The puddles grow like mud grows around puddles
And flowers and buds on tree tips I pick
pull apart da da da

I saw it today and said Well Hey, lets look it up
-an emotion of equal opposites
Love and hate
Couldn’t care less but talk about constant

And boom thunder like “YES, THERE IS A WORLD OUTSIDE THE WALLS of your room, your home, your friends family and electronic interaction, down the 2.2 neighborhood that would be dirty brick fire escapes and light confusion if you had your way
I’m talking to you
me
Brief deposits of escape dressed as trip to bank
one day cash
and errands that recollect

Life like hate like yell retreats and yell again

All the interaction I can handle

Dying for stimulation of a cigarette worth screaming
three beer what the fuck I’m doing to my life
and pills that take you up down up down up down.

You see…
Spring time is a return to poetry. HOW POETIC
The threat of death returns with breathe. Life and funerals comment on your own.
Three years it was before the end. It being what?what?what?
Ask what I’ve done in three-
All things in three-
Did my colon explode? Thank god.
Did my lupus bring me down like a bummer? Thank god no.
Did I lose my mind and shit my pants and cry on sight my daughter?
Cry at the grave of my mother?

No. Yet here I am, pissing my pants and feeling sorry for myself. Inflicting scotch in place of psychotherapy. Pissing poetry in place of productivity. Here I am with my feet up demanding the unreading world PAY ATTENTION to my mouth farts
offer up the proverbial shit to my unbaring.
Spit it backwards and tell me I done did a good damn job.
Tell me I didn’t.

All in place of a walk. The dim walk a fresh rain provides the unbridled mind. Should I have taken one instead? Is a stream of self-referential-self-condensation unworthy of its own criticism? Should I have left it up to nature to provide me imagery and a consequence? Is it up to me to find the parallels in a puddle and a daffodil, or is it up to me to cry like I mean it?
Where in what does telling tell—who and why do mean it?

Spit it out!

Top it off and cover it in foil for the road!

Shit your pants and cry for sleep—fucking frightened the final remnants of your thinking crumble to the delugetime erosion

Ancient castles

Grandson curled against your four generations won’t slow the phantom color artifact spasms
corroding your brain

Can’t stop the rain and couldn’t save your bed

And I can’t plug gravity’s drain

Only with your death do I begin to see again
That bodies are what bodies are
And death is here again

Death is here again.
Spring is here again.
New life spits its answer back,
“DEATH IS HERE AGAIN!”

Vietnam

Tell you what…
If you hand me that drink there, boy, I’ll tell you one more story. It’ll be a short one. It’ll be a good one, but I don’t have the time to make it lengthy. I don’t have the time to take sips. Give me that drink and let me drink it down, and I’ve got one more story in me before I go.

It was after the war. You’ve heard that before.
Fwoom boom kill boom OH LORD OH LORD. One time on my LST I was gunning and BOOM shit got heavy. Friend O’Leary came and said we gotta ditch! And I said one more stitch
Bumbumbumacross a line-a trees they shootin from
And chop chop chop a line a trees went down.
He grabbed and spit ‘lets go yold fool’ and pulled me by my shirt WE RAN
And BOOM an RPG went bam

You’d never believe it. The thing went off right behind me. Poor O’Leary thought it ended me. He told me later that he saw the fire and that was that, thought I was gibbed for good. He hit the deck.

And BOOM the RPG went BAM. Before it hit I’s runnin and it hit I’s runnin still, and I look down and see my friend pissin hisself all knocked out and spread across the deck. I landed on my feet, boy believe me when I say I landed on my feet runnin, Oleary thought I was good as dead. I picked him by his collar and said ‘Lets get the fuck out!’ and I mighta been a ghost the way he looked at me. Wasn’t till the bullets stopped that he said he saw me dead. NO SUCH LUCK I said and took a smoke from’im. Never said no since.

It was after the war. You’ve heard that before. I was home again in my hometown, my homeState, VERMONT, and I spent a few months kicking it, that habbit, picked up, you know, from the war. It was like that there. My CO sold the stuff, and half of us was hard on it. Somin when we needed it, need that slow down cool down, shoot down sneaky fucks doing sneaky shit…

They’re not kidding when they say them little girls had grenades strapped their backs. Why you think we shot em down when we went into town? It’s no joke. All kindsa nonsense. Crafty fucks. You know they use’ta ride stationary bikes to power their hospitals down in them tunnels. HELL YEAH! No joke. Crafty folk. Now you see on TV some mother-fucking yuppie spinnin smoothies in his driveway thinking he’s the hottest shit since hot fudge Sundays. Fuck’em. I ever tell you the time they put up mines round the dock at HoTonWayne? We came in and luckily had a SEAL team at the time. One of these bad mothers on deck saw the bobbin porcupine headin’ to the side and he dived right in. All by himself he swam the thing aside.

But yeah, my CO sold the stuff and all us boys thought, ‘Why not?’ Hell, we used to soak our joints in the stuff and smoke before battle, sometimes spark ‘em if it came. You never knew when it would happen, but it did, and we were ready. I tell you what, if it wasn’t for that stuff keeping us calm, keeping us numb, that woulda been that. I took a bullet myself, stoned as fuck. If I wasn’t, It’d be a whole nother story! Took a bullet and kept going. Saved a buddy a mine. If I wasn’t, SHIT. I’da lied there like a bitch. It was just an arm, but that shit hurts, if I wasn’t so high I couldn’ta rammed him down that bayonet.

Red, a black boy straight offa farm from Carolina. That boy never owned a pair’a boots before he joined. Red, you know them kind, a little Indian blood in’em. Anyway, I heard the poor bastard went home and offed himself. He knocked up some whore and couldn’t get a visa to bring her home. After a dozen years he lost it and put on his dress, medals and all, he told his mother he was going back to Vietnam and BOOM, went into the bathroom and blew his brains out. They say you never get away; she’ll gets ya sooner or later.

So I got home and it took me a while to kick the stuff, but I did. Ever since I only drank, god bless. I found a woman and I found a job. Roofing, but it was a job. I’d saved enough to buy some land, and I made enough to buy some wood, so I built ourselves a home. Me and my woman lived in that home, we couldn’t have kids, but we lived in a home.

That reminds me, a friend of mine found a woman and a home. He rented it from his Mom, but it was his. At that point he was a cop or something, and he lived on the beach, I only talked to him on the phone—never saw it. Sounded like a good deal, but the poor bastard got cancer. Bitch left him. Yeah he smoked, but he was out there in the thick of it. Agent Orange. Miracle then, but shit, since--anything but. Uncle Sam saw him through, but Sam’s the one who stuck it in his chest to begin with. God damn shame. Couldn’t hold his head up by the end of it. Died at the beach. Not a bad place to go, but still. You never get away, she’s gonna get’ya sooner or later.

So yeah, where was I? Yeah,
So there I am in my home with my job. The home I built with my bare fucking hands. But you know what? That wasn’t enough. I “DRANK TOO MUCH”-- that bitch, blonde bitch. What she know? What’d she ever do? Suck my dicks’about all, and she got my house for it. So yeah, how’s that for one last story? How’s that for one last story? S’why I’m here on this bench eating the hotdog you bought me. That’s why I’m here in my boots with my guitar you’re holding. Why don’t you fuck off home back to your mommy?

Personal Mind

Tonight I’ve written the best shit I’ve ever written.
To some I’m somewhat drunk, to some I’m commendably drunk, to me I’m sufficiently drunk.
As such, my level of intoxication is sufficient as best, and should only be considered in the most subjective fashion.
I have heard that the most passionate of writers do their writing while intoxicated.
I have read that the most prolific writers write regardless of intoxication.
And I imagine that the most worthy writers do their writing with little regard to their mental or physical state.

I hope that writing is worthwhile in the end.
I enjoy the work of authors who completed their work many years before my birth,
many of whom constructed those works before the intricacies of my world were laid.
I hope that the world I live in will not continue without incorporating their ideas into its workings, and I pray that the world these writers have created will not exclude the sick meanderings of my own personal mind.

Quaf

Sometimes there’s the shear pleasure of it—I’m feeling it now.
I’m misspelling words,
Lolling towards the ceiling and gutting its headiness.

Perversion is involved.
My state is not capitalized,
But its God given status is being capitalized upon.

I am reveling in my mistakes.
The intake is a giddy misspelling
And deep breathing my sublime punctuation.

Tomorrow though,
Is another story.

Prostrate Peregrin

Under a brightly carved moon
I paused and lay, before adulthood, to think
A weighted metal box resting solemn on my chest
For a penance I've done three years hence

I leapt a chasm
Of solipsism
To split my legs between duality
And to confirm
Cogito ergo sum

I fled my parents thought
A reasoned path it made
To a home, I knew,
I'll never find rest in

I pitch my tent at the crossroads
And perform comedies for my friends
The pilgrims I meet walking past

Till finally my head is split

(And all my minds collection
Sane coins that I have mentioned
Would spill nameless on stones below
In the locations moonlight rarely shows)

For I chase a guess of love
Whos shy hair would brush past and mumble poisoned
Regrets in a saliva I find
On all the shirts that I like

Then I stumble drunken back together
Into the pale light I'd lay whole and hopeless in
A cracked and resealed self
Held together by the pressure
Of the computer sodden with poetry unwritten
Resting heavy on my chest

Two Pages From a Lost Notebook

I found these two bits of nonsense today.  I don't remember when it is that I wrote them.  They are not much and not complete, but I have not written for quite some time now and I hope that this will give me a reason to try again.  

1:

Graph paper and cigarettes

Black ink and time lost

Late Rent paid in cash

Now I can't sleep at all.

Lost my mind or I hope

There is such a reason

For this all to seem strange

Still I can't find my words.

I should have known better

If I coud I would not

Go back to those places

I left to get here.

2:

It's getting late

but I don't sleep

I'll stay awake

and think about it all...

The times we had

nothing to do

but sit around

let's huff some glue.

Nocturnal Theology

Bone marrow and body fat
collide on an illuminated dance floor you are begged to join on
That lights your way to being estranged
And losing yourself in mechanical connection
That would suggest to your heart
A misfired misgiving
The fault of Eros
A misaimed dart
You collect your thoughts and discard them as quickly
A sip and drink take you straight
To the simple participation you never would have made
And lost yourself along the way
In her flaming hair
And the golden cavern carved
In the small of her back

So there I tripped
I brought too much
I tend to think now that
Your honesty will weigh you down
When you consider the pose and placement
Next to a smooth sort not your own
That will move and contort its way free
With a shifting of the beat
And your shot was drawn back blue
The arrow straight and true
For your part
That fault of Eros
A misaimed dart

That which wanders and builds aimlessly
Lost and wondering among the eternity of blue, careless stars
Who scream their own meaning and exhale understanding
Silly, mean man who should know he adds up to less
Than the turtle, the stars, and the crescent
That he saw in the blinding flashlight thrown bright
from the mechanical chariot uglier than the pagans
It wrote a crossed choice
Among the symbols of a soldered separation
Added up to less than

The loss and change hanging in the forum air
Of all the natural shapes he saw
And could still feel beating

The Past Is Imposed

You were shocked so apparent ivory white
Because you saw a fresh face and I was pixilated
My fate present to those not available
Holy latin men of misspent theological speculation
Set out a bed of roses ridden with thorns in which I could
Bury my soul in remorse
That horrible flavor of taste known
The flavor seeping and seductive which might relieve that burning (doubted)
Percussion of a citizen
Civis romanus sum he protests as the hornets swarm his parade of opinions
His soul ripped open to
A God bewildered by honesty
In a world entirely enticed by the muse a society so apparently
Built on the MOMA
A mother mischosen and a virgin no longer
Her conception most concentrated in that logical peal that
Shatters thought and brings the thoughtful to their knees
but leaves your love so free
Whether in small town meadow
Or abstract new york ghetto
That child of Europe just runs in circles
Wounded and crying for a parent who will never come
To the soul still captivated by her result and loss
A feminist ephemeral that draws on the death of third worldlings
Simple minded fools in form
Lost bodies on display
In their prejudice and innocence

Pilgrim's Neurosis

Theres a product (for you)
Theres a portion (for me)
There is visible distortion from the fading static glimpses seen through a storm of crushed debris
Crossing a blighted landscape of women with open chests
They smile fiercely while their ribcages glower in the
Sand storm of that benighted landscape where naught will grow
But worry and waste and cynicism
Their breasts drip constantly acidic seeds that plant in the barren golden dust
And make screaming modern infants who are deformed and pitiful
Who cry to their father who is four thousand industrial pistons firing steadily
Through the desolation just over a dune I dare not cross

Funny Story

A drinker of ashes they would have never known me as
As I confidently lifted a tainted glass
Of course my penance was accidental
No profit incidentally
I was drunk merrily
For a change of pace
Probably for the eighth time in the week

And I always say I’d rather be drunk on the ashes of saints
But when push come to shove it’s rarely from above
Something in my sternum presses out and makes my stomach cry
My head crack and my heart strain
And I jerk off and remember I’m lonely again
The bottle always empties (and I remember)
The cigarette burns to the filter of my fingers (and I remember)
And the caffeine sustains me in between (I very rarely forget!)

If I were only material too
If I’m just nicotine and vodka
Will I be emptied?
Or can I run to the point of it all
My baggage in tow
Is there a way home
Should I bow at my childhood bedside?
And drink that new bitter cup of faith
Mixed with the ashes of my favorite saint

schooling

University of Connecticut police reports indicate sketchy results from a recent revealing show brought upon those gathered that evening
An umbrella of protestant tension was mentioned
Reports are sketchy and the ink was smeared
The university claims no responsibility
for their students tears

The End

Its kind of amazing he thought they'd notice
The burns on his hand from the lit tobacco first
To hint towards burns less visible
But everyone defied the axiom
Their smiles and anger a half healed surface
On the fourth degree burns the nicotine stains could have betrayed
He was excellent at hiding for he was a thief who half wanted to be found
To be stripped in the town square for his crimes
With the rest, with everyone
Naked and crying while the hangman was moved
And removed his cloak to join the rest
Stepping off his creaking political platform
To find rest among the wicked

Rest among those despicable wicked selves he knew
he knew so well
he knew the in and outs of that soul
Warmed by their fiery felt feelings
The envy and hate of the normal and average was a comfort at that point
He realized his judgment was a double edged sword only when it fell from his hand and clanked on the planks
His half healed heart tore open from the force of it
and all his thoughts were laid bare in a pageant they all wordlessly watched
with gasped faces and knowing nods

their faces shown the blue night-light of stars that made him smile as a child

The Soldier's "Sober" Conclusions

I can only guess and hope they’ve felt something like what I felt
That caused them to do what I fear I will
And its generational but the generation is faulty its littered with discarded genes in thoughts that were excised by righteous men among the failing
My family’s health slipped through that net and I’m the result a man who can only absorb and type so much and all he’s good at look at what he makes he cant absorb as fast as some but presumes to ascribe faster than a prophet
What a sick shitting little flea of misbegotten misery that little flake on the shoulder of atlas thought he could rest
On his families laurels
On the worlds shoulders
A tipsy, weighted crest

The Soldier Marches to Moscow

Stripped of profusions the pink ones illusions drifting from my dick now sullen and sick with satisfaction grim pacific thought left wasting on the ground of earth erected held by a shaky atlas distracted by harlots on the left and maidens fair that are free but never seem to be drawn what a surprise
caught up in a net of thought whose illusions were wrought by the same blood alcohol content that’s pressed through the same generations my grandfathers deaths liquid obliteration in their thoughts