“And I will never speak again. Under the oath and influence of a strong McGinley epiphany and the sounds of ululating wind in the middle of the canopied trees, I can’t survive stilly. The world is bendy and twisty and sick and murky while I’m restless, I’m reckless, in a state of pensive impersonation. And I will never speak again. Not from the heart, not from the lips, not from the attention. And I will never speak again. Not of the cloudily fluffed beard of the sky, not of the Freudian climate of old minds, not of the rude chef on the high coasts, not of the cases at the high courts. If you can’t think of your next move you’re on the which way lost ad on a deadly roundabout to the roadhouse diner, where food is filled with poison and drinks blessed with the earthy spit of a failed love. Inky, wicked and sparkly cavalcades marching in squares to show their compassion for the other sides, but I have control on my side, on my side of the sunken district of deep-dyed detachment. And I will never speak again. Not to you, or Charles Bukowski or even a heroin chick. Schools of balladry, schools of medicine, and institutions of shiny dirt atop pillars with inscriptions in confusing letters to confuse the heads of kids meant to take lightly the distress that flows from expansion- sanctuaries of blackness falling off themselves into erosion, into illusion. And I will never speak again. Not in the crescent-shaped regions of the Riviera, not in front of the palisades, not in the lifetime of my brave systole, never in a little room. Heady, steady and race to the eternal burn. Come on, come on, come on, come on”
Unplugged grunge minute on TV.
Electric seconds grizzling in the static stares.
Manic hours at the Hawaiian harbors.
“Maybe I should play the bawdy saloons in the black villages. Maybe Algerians are my true calling. Maybe morgues are my native habitat. Maybe I should stroll through Big Sur or an island”
An occult moon, a spaceman tripping on there. Life’s full of desire, death’s full of desire. Swoop, voodoo, hoodoo. Voodoo, hoodoo, swoop.
Possibly it all goes wrong. Possibly I’m blessed. It’s a dim heaven. Possibly, I am born. The chances fade out from the eyes.
I like the ripples of rain outside the salty sills of silicon. I like Mexico, Portugal and I like Cambodia.
Take me through caravans, cook me in a trailer park, boil me in microwaves, leave room for my Rumi, buy me a Byron, bake me a Blake. Take me, take me. From forever, always an angel.
In the mystic lands of existence
Man is the only witness to eternity
Interpreting weddings of profuse interactions
And the partings of paramours
A waste of weeps is one who lazes in fleshed being
Becoming the core of our faith
Are the ferociously still of lost time
In the funerals of all poverty
Lies the true light of happiness
Understanding the cremations of misbegotten freedom
Occurs within the glow of multiple syllables
Of culture and vital force.
Begging, thieving and lying
Amidst an endless life
Funny tries, dangerous trials blinded by the sparking rain.
I have my life, Light my life
Tomorrow knows how we suffer today
And T.S Eliot may know how we may have suffered yesterday
We've escaped certain times, like distant future and such
Jim Morrison is looking for us in all the wrong phases
Of eras, days and purposes.
Ever since I collaterally collapsed
I've been hearing Space Oddity.
But I'm not my own this time around,
You may be on your own in a forgotten world
I'm just gone
leaning for the opacity of a nightly abstraction.
I think it was an archaic Portuguese map that led me to to the opening sequences of eternity, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I have the triggering capacity to choose what I need to be closer to. The Swiss people dive into azures and dance around me, the ultramarine finish and I’m finally freed, freer than my corrupt feelings. How the yellow lights glimmer warmly around me and I can catch all the graciousness and slide it into a fresh pocket on my faded velvet vest, I was still preparing for climbing the suicidal pulpit rock to attain a rewarding varnish. I feel colorful amid the rocky parades celebrating all the good people; when I’m hit by heavy hitting happiness, when I’m concentrating on all that is pointing towards a still and unimportant infinity that will never kills noble refrains. Shadows of the swan’s shrines and the meadows of cypress trees, with a cloudy clarity kissing the lips of land as it reacts to my introduction, my manifestation of an alive unreality- life’s afterword. And I had watched from my window the squalling flamingos, the bouquets of hydrangeas and a symbolic pizzazz withstanding albums of the horror of a burnt time past-the truths that bring a humane world so much closer. When I was receding the last land of synthetic fallacies, the stairway and the following tunnel ran until I wanted it to; as I cycled my tandem alone with all my souvenirs and felt the arthritic rhythm of the demonically painted ramparts, on a dark night of ripples and the final calls of religious video games. What I’ve had was enough to suffice the label of a happy mess. I do realize now that I was, in fact, a speck whose only movement arose from the tantrum of a screaming child of an evolved creed, and most other times I stood still and the normalcy and insanity were in my flying head. Wild daylight spent feeding vagabonds in the lake. Prints of celluloid making trances chalking heaven and translating it to a happy-happy afterword. A thousand kilos could always help a little in the heat of a staggering sentence and gesture thanks to the pullers who helped me knock on the tolerating temples of the seventh heaven. È una casa celeste che desideravo e amavo, amore vero e prese magiche che fluiscono dal detto vero amore. But its too late. I’ll be hearing fanfares and violins to greet me at a mansion, the home of the firmaments.
Footfalls trick, bright treats and false echoes of barefoot freedom on the wheels of a lonesome traveler. Racing with the freak-shows of emotive dependency and beastly storms, all the while taking the earth in an easy embrace. Documenting the torrential thunder, exploding into the hydraulic clouds, letting sleeping canines astray. An endless show of inexpensive excitement blazes through the body and the spirit, shares the body with the mind through vilely tolling bells, and sets the desolation beyond vanishing. On the roads, in the seas where the population is limited to grazing hands of artist, writers, angels and surreal surrenders, the cruises bloom bluesy, in the chosen boulevards of the hues, and the sudden rules of the fluorescent moon. Running away the life, envisaging away the time honestly, beautifully, coolly and collectively. Navy jeans, loose tee-shirts, boggling noiseless pen and paper to never prevent glee from gleaming. Like stars in liquor stores through well-heeled borders or through the long branches of Californian pride. Truthful office drinkers and blank jazz hummers in a summertime set and rise, racing to the games of mountain dew in crazy denim, the lucky ones without incessant desire.
Ecstatic swoons and our eternal condition
Cheer us, cheer us!
You know how the air whistles “Kathleen”
Later is greater than never
Won’t you turn on the kitchen stove?
And see the blue flaming through the punctured metal.
Ya, ya, yay whoosh
Goes the Neppytune and the earthy baby
Over in space system
And the streets of Paris claim the pasts
Over the dead-end Oh, Oh! Of tge visionary neighbor.
I'll miss it forever.
I oughta run from the big druggie vengeance
Of the canyon birds,
Of their calcium feathers,
They're dying like a million mountain races.
No one compares to you, great nosy sea
And not to your whoosh-thud sounds when you squeeze
Hear me hear from you!
Little kip-upsurge-Oh, no hush now.
It all looks decent for the broken tokens of my sorrow.
I’ll have to smash the edge of tomorrow.
But you remember what you borrow.
Consequently I won’t have to follow
You thru to the foggy and hollow
Cave that you call home.
THE STATIC IS UNRAVELING,
Now that the water left me.
I WASN'T ANYTHING,
Give me a quest or a question,
GIVE ME SOMETHING or EVEN EVERYTHING
Let the blasts in deserted hands be
A CALMATIVE OR THE END
What we have-what you had.
Dark, dark grains in the crops of betrayal.
A maudlin sensation worth all despise.
The daytime shining, and a nighttime good for us.
Absent as an adage.
Severe, severe. Ever so sinisterly.
Warnings to all holding time, holding company.
The moments decimated by remains,
The moments punctuated by loss,
Prove severe, sinister. Ever so severely.
Viscera strewn over the light,
Over the skirt of the country,
In the alarming accents.
Accelerate the abducts of trailing dungarees,
Of weathermen, sinner men,
Like the radio reverie we’re living in.
Strangled sobs and dangling sounds,
Sonorous to the sheath armies brittle bridge.
The newness of blooming nurseries set in a sphere
The aerated abilities of passion trapped in an aviary
The noon of good expressions quilting a menagerie
Havoc in an awakening.
In a dream of adventure,
You're there and I'm there,
With the greed and the bliss,
Awake in an abyss.
I’ll look for you in movie screens, I’ll look for you magazines. I’m taking off the sirens scene .
Thwarting the charge of saddening silence is a new sanguinity. Heading towards a vortex to illuminate the veils coolly, heading onward a Hungarian arcade, basking in a wishy-washy western factory, the haberdashery. Whatever causes torsion in the poems of my form persists only in the lost side of my inner self as a shriveled memory. Magically a moment is dim heaven lit singly by a golden bulb, set in discotheque valley. Gerund- cindering the plume of albatross crest as the flock of them voyages ahead the zone of rear twilight. Quartets on ashy Thursdays, two memories of burnt Mondays. The static drift that comes from honeyed others, sweetens the cargo, sweetens the crew, and conquers the passenger to a propelled story in the purgatory tempest. Colloquial is the crux of the affair that’s pretty in the wickedness of the edgy, blankly canvassed words amassing the art of fortunes.
“You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow…”
Homeless and heavy with the bevy of faults, and heady with the pace of electric sessions to cure the homogenous core. To a land that’s far off the marvel of a lonesome gallery, here in the alley degreed in vanity and guffaws. The daunting windblown doors of bars with a flushed female singer, in a black tight skirt and a black tight top with blonde hair shining in dilated eyes.
Upbeat smolders, upbeat smolders. Thru East Hampton, New York, Manhattan. Subterranean and Pacific rows of echoes. Shiny trails of rock music.
Ambient experimentation, ambient experimentation.
Ashen sweater, ashen man. Gunshots over guitars. Poe raven. Life underground, all cheering, high soaring, freewheeling, critics abhorring.
The city is full of countless keepers with a custard emotion, daydream, and delusions of the young navy, twisty friends. It isn’t their first time, it’s there to air the last time, the generation of white lines, and he’s a nice singer and the band leader, there to beat forever, to beat forever.
Those tender thickets of floral poetry,
Printed on pulp pages,
Which have something to do with your crashing feet,
Something to do with the roaring beat,
Are made of pebbles dressed in aquatic fauna,
Echoing footsteps over dingy and hollow covers.
Again, neap tide moon, neap tide beach day. Bad day at Black Rock.
Into the hotel, Bosnian luxury.
Furnished room of surprises.
Shoulders and arms, sunrises.
Onto the road, the hourly road trip.
A minute volume happily.
“Open up to the leisure world of distinctive types. That’s how I feel, the place I’m going seems so full of exciting characters. Scandalous magazines and oceanic nights soothed by the plurality of the meantime, I’m free and I can’t feel nothing but the strange weather. After the bright victory and the bitter surf of futurist ambivalence, I’ve got a handle of the tide. At least for now, but I don’t have to consider anything but ‘now’, for now anyway. Beat-beat-beat-la-la-La. Surfing on the wavering vividness of voodoo space and gypsy time, take me higher to that place in the city lights where the silhouetted fingers of tree adorn the strip of concrete pavement with a starry look. By the means of a venerated banner that crinkles prettily in that special song of sunlight and the performance of Warhol people. Fame-fifteen minutes-trash magic-agony fiend no more. Even when the stage doesn’t work in rarity, it works in the sparkling hope of fantastic silk in the shadow of a radio show’s talk. Through the frenzies of several cold radiances that flash before me, I have finally decided on one, not settled but decided. An abundance of road days could bank me to the Rhine, Rhone or the Rheidol, I’ll stay and shake with pleasure. Churning, burning a definite plop of the blue dahlia. Go-come-leave-stay, you don’t have a sign”
Here’s a world to which I like to sing along. All the pretty stars, the paradise art, sunny jazz, coca-cola, black beaches, Italian cinema, and capable poetry, stable poetry; Peruvian poetry! The whole world is in a cult, they beat the heart and they sing rivers. With feathers in their hair, they fall on watery streets. But the collection of colors is clear- you can see most everything. Caesium, Lithium, Vienna, and sunshine. You could be smoking in the neon lights at gas stations but can you see the European days perfumed with celestial freedom and ending time at Alcatraz or a Caribbean island.
Forests feathered with ferns, snow salting the ground, pages webbed with words and the brain grassed with dreams. I’m funning away my life, dreaming away my time.
- Picture by Timothy Price
“Warnings take hell and high water. Eyes race to the sick of the stomach. All the losses I’ve started to watch, all the urges I’ve tried make me want to rush while I’m still alive off the blood. Meet me somewhere where the hearses go to heaven, in the twelfth hour of closing verve, in the middle of the effervescing haze as the sun shines whitely and decorates the neck of the sky. I wouldn’t lie, I won’t make a sound. Take the fault from me and I’ll fix myself till eternity. I’ll remember it well, like the rain of my reasons and the pump of my problems, if I have a memory of occurring left to my head it’s getting dim, too dim to look at the brightness, if I keep dreaming then I’ll find a day that stands still, a day that doesn’t subtract the happy times. My heart goes on chanting its beat like an anxious prayer, my mind keeps being nervous. I can’t survive if this is the act of this lounge, it’s too psychotic and wintry. You have to take me right now, aneurysm, be faithful like a euphemism if not then forget it – I’m just going to crack readily, redly. But If I get away from this dark hold, I’ll run to a great Caribbean summer, I’ll run, run, run”
Grey lady, her spaceman darling, and their blue flower child, falling over the darkened days of November, dancing circles around the cruel sphere, taking the second exit to Tijuana for it’s the psychedelic hours around the Hollywood Hills. They’ve got decorated foreheads, skin colors that were coming off, a poised recline, smoky fame smoking off the orifices, lying about dying over the only wish of being a fashion, living on Venus hotel on Jupiter Boulevard, orbiting the roads, inspiring hurricanes in supermarkets, feeling birth, frazzling the air.
But when telephones discuss the obscene click of their tongues on the day of naked rain, it’s all under a bridge of setting. Disease, friends, frizzed hair, sadness, interludes of drunkenness over meditation, sweat, moans, spit – all in the sleep of their spirit.
Happiness knows when to electrify and when to keep up all night, for when they’re coasting away to the ports, they sing with umpteen of colors and they’ve got their love honey springing in Illinois, footloose howls of laughter- they know when to flow away in a trip.
But no, the thoughts are everywhere, the flying harm above is thundering like the stares, money caught the fire, flowers aren’t in bloom anymore, the glory of their free story lost in the poems of bummers in the land of baying critique.
Holy past, a grave, cemeteries of July heat, sunglasses to save from the flare of time. Death baby. Cruising present the sinister adults that got their guiltlessness bluntly scattered. Searing the dream of world-weary wars, and sizzling with the lance of having the world to go to war with, against the brooding bunches and heavy-metal squads. They’re the specimen of their own head, the captains of an old hole, vigilantes that create dangerously and write notes on acidic liberation while humming the national anthem.
Goodbye into the beginning, hold onto the festival of sunrises. Goodbye, this is the end, beautiful medley philosophy. Hilltop jumps, unconventional silence, violent carnivals riding to the crash but that’s alright, causative fun is no surprise.
On the Scattered Street…
Here down on the polar tide,
How the magic is in the now.
The little shops with guns and shoes,
And the saloons showing buzz cuts and bangs.
It can all go mad and melt,
When there’s nothing good to pause onto.
For me, there was tarragon and chervil.
Over cheese, Cheddar cheese.
While looking down, dim down.
And rocking off the seventh floor,
With mermaid videos and knock-off illustrations of Monaco.
I tell you your life isn’t that hard.
Nobody thinks that’s all. All that’s all.
The actor out on the loan had earned himself a mistress from around the funeral grounds.
Peyote was bedding the wildness of the soil on the day of blooming grief, budding in every casket, in the glisten of every colored iris and butterfly wings breaking at the hold of barefooted angels. All this and the awful truth. But that’s a party later on. He remembered Show Boat, He forgot Singing in the Rain. Tied to the eye of the sun’s dress, with the tint of jazzy rainbows strolling through the gentle whirls in the lyrical immediacy of the blustery weather. It’s all the things he was, streets via well-heeled borders, glowing orange in the castles looming over Albert Camus’s climb back to town, Bands crucifying candelabras to the vacancy of hollowed, disillusioned park benches. Waiting for somebody very mad to fabricate confessions for storming new best friends in the gloomy vanish of epic glory. Monuments walking on water, waiting to give birth to an independent contribution someday, born with the pride of homeless grace. Walk, walking between the railroads which you can call home, a bony road dressed in white cement wearing emerald paint blighted by the mission joy.
When they come, they box the ripples of Hungarian rain. She’ll be loitering around the Bowery mansions. Bleeding to the drop, scabbing all the lusty lemons to the big fields for hibernation, all islands in the larger commitment of decorating the chest of the city. Sixteen cotton shirts divided between each other. Writing with grease on the walls of Freehold electric stores, taking to the earth their difference. Somedays that’s all he wanted, someone to shuffle with during September nights and March intakes, with the smash of a broken bottle and the glow of a fluorescent moon. House tiled with Big Sur rocks, familiar fatherlands with a country love.
Telltales to tourists in the swing of blueberry fields thru the safari of dreamy states, woody breaths of Vermont. The carriage of rags to the surf shops to be perched on a lifeguard stand, with five strings of starry sweetness interviewed by spectators who pushed to believe that innocence imitates the lost distance between them and the world.
But soon he had to close his eyes since she was leaving home with the expert toss of coherent thoughts. Another loss between love and loathe beating the trigonometry of injecting interpolations by Jerry Garcia. Heaven blesses the thief of problems and lessens the light in a surly life. It all goes right with the operations of administrative intentions that are nice and alright. Studyin’ the great outdoors with his new best friend, the one he found in Tuba City, they jubilated over Raymond Carver’s endless counts in amity poetry. He who had passed through the Further bus and its riders can travel in a healthy way while still in good shape and can picnic amid grass just as long as there is a promised upcoming.
And that was called the bar of two workers on the wrong side of real days. She didn’t know much, he only worked at mind. And the baby TV was giving his head to the guillotine of familial abandon, and the sirens wailed to give way to his end. Ever which way was the bitter victory of the old rangers.
Never an honest world, never a promised tomorrow. Well, never mind.
Upon a day, a while wherefore pain and company, it’s brother dear, come silently.
No eye of fate, this brain has gloomy fear, and this heart has hued bearing changing passions.
Now I’m nothing, 1956. My own mind, the war. Angelic clothes full of tears. When I was a kid, it was better cause I was sorry.
On the path of true and simple happiness lies nothing to deviate. It’s not even a road, it’s an unpretentious setting where you realize you are in some moments of your survival. In rare but honestly the most memorable instances of life, wherever and whatever are enough. It’s enough. Everything is fine, let things be reflection in a wineglass full of cola and contemplation the spring of water from the fountain of showers. I know that what I think isn’t always right and almost never healthy but I can’t stop what I love to do.
“I’m just smashed. Whatever happy moments I have are subtracted from my innermost feeling- my anxiety, my indecisiveness. I can’t lead this life. It has instances where happiness flashes while the other times I’m just swimming with the tide but it turns the minute I catch the drift. Why can’t the water just pick me up and deliver me to the finish line after which I could just freely screw myself up, blare my noises wildly. Why am I young for all the good stuff? Like those decisions and benders and self-destructive behavior. I can see that happiness is taken away in a minute, because that next minute you know more and this extra knowledge destroys the now false shine of momentous morphine of the body, and the morphine of the mind just because it doesn’t conform to facts. I’ll disagree with all moral ethics that I’ve been pushed into believing. It’s all mainstream and plain, bland, bleak, normal with no wave of personal goodness. But I don’t want to think I’m bad. I’m only what I’m trying to be until finally I am tired. After I get tired all I have new is a blacker tone of nothingness. Look at me now, I’m glad because all I say, all I do- everything I do- is true to myself, a human under higher powers. It’s an endless bummer to have a good mind. You get hooked on the scene of depression and the torment is ingeniously genuine and not some made up reason to not be bright. People elsewhere will have to realize that it’s not about us, it’s about forgetting us. Forget about us.”
“I don’t know who I have, everybody seems shallow. They maybe are shallow like salt pits. Are salt pits shallow though? But I still like people, I still love them too, they are the only beings that could actually help me tolerate my survival. I used to like my people-the people I know and have- but now they seem to have been consumed by the ash-like monotone of constancy. Everything has changed dramatically and not fashionably. Change is like charcoal after burning or in my case the past, its like debris left behind after the flood has hit the places. Do all my questions have answer or is it just me at their loss- because I am lost in the finding. A loss is fine, its brilliant, its just the prettiest cover to the endless bummer that has eclipsed my clarity of sight that is wasting and weeping away its time in my mind. My mind is like a disco ball, carnival Ferris-wheel, its just funky and I think its good. I’ll have better people and places after a while, I’m breathing and sweating that’s all that matters in the present. The future is great, I’m carefully collecting colorful clues.”