Falling thru time

“I make my world close, I put the sign up on the door and rest myself there as I pull threads until I unravel. I make myself smaller until I am invisible within it, even to myself, and I am happy here, with no-one and nothing. I feel desperate for the solace and I curl within it like a comforting blanket, under the layers of my mind.  I know people see me and my eyes are open, but I am closed, and the signs are there.  I will it and I seek it behind this melancholy door, unsure of what hour or for whom I will ever open.”

“So you open up the butterfly doors. There’s magic that travels thru the air that we just leap to breathe, we skip the breaths and they escape us, runs to a louder catcher. We carry our disappointments and we create our disappointments, trying to make our mark in infinity and in space but eventually the weight that comes with it begins to close at its zenith, and then we have to make a climb before we’re abject ashes waiting for another life” 

“It’s so quiet here, but I press my cheek against the wall and feel the vibration of your words.  My heartbeat is an echo and reverberates in return.  Everything is distant and it’s safe that way, and I wonder if I’m capable – of opening the doors, and even what this means. How do you find the a magic in a breath, in a moment? “

“We’re all capable, we’re just not honest enough to kick start commitments to life, its too tiring. But you can’t jump life and then come apart in darkness, all that will remain of us afar our tarnished names- is the old memory, the old mistake that we’re worried about. Now, I’m not saying there’s no fix, there’s always the substantiation of moderation that wavers on the movie screen, while you gobble popcorn and then sleep early for the big meeting at work, but maybe the magic is in the tragedy that we sing about so often”

“But why do we sing about tragedies so often? Is it because our hearts memorize those songs the best? That it’s they that possess the best salt and the zest of our lives? Those tattoos that we live to regret but we love to reflect all the same…. ”

“Do you ever get this feeling, where everyone you know is happy. It’s a snapshot, basically. It won’t last you smiling. But everyone remembers everything that you do, and they love each other for their importance, for their stories, for their being. And then there’s someone for you. And you stretch that smile into your soul, you don’t know any other time, no moments flee, this time seems like a ghost, and you are a ghost, but you’re not fading, you’re in a ghost town. Tragedy exists. It makes happiness more real, it sort of trims the overflowing expectations so you know when to cherish, when to celebrate and when to just misunderstand and close your eyes.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling that it’s easy to trim the edges of happy so brutally that the only bits of happiness I may have kept for a smile are discarded casually, like junk-mail or spam.  Deleted, and my inbox empty just like that.  Sometimes it feels like tragedy is my second skeleton and my best backbone.  Like without it I’ll collapse onto the floor, a ghost like you say, translucent skin and lifeless body.  Tragedy keeps me awake at night and when I see all the happiness I feel like I want to prickle it with a pin to see if it’s real.  See if it will survive if I prod the artificial material or if it’s melancholy disguised in a flimsy dress”

“So you know what I mean? Well you almost know. Nothing compares to the knowing of truth, if you do then you’re God or whatever variation of it is the figure whose name I take in troubled minutes.  But all in all, life isn’t that hard, right? Tell me if you think it’s good, I’ll be happy to know I’m not mad to think that it’s all going to look good somewhere or someplace I will be. Soon, hopefully” 

“You know, I think life can be easy if we let it.  If we notice how there is a glittering stone in the dirt, how that tree grew leaves that are so impossibly lush and glossy and it didn’t even have them yesterday. How our eyes are always beautiful even as our faces contort with emotion and age.  Those things are there for free and for anyone to see.  The only contribution we have to make is noticing.  Taking our minds from the clutches of yesterday and tomorrow and all the could and should and tears and sore hearts and just let ourselves wander in the open and lavish and expansive arms of today. Dancing, moving, laughing. Even in the micro-moments among everything else. That’s what freedom feels like to me.  Putting down all my baggage and my luggage and feeling all the everything of the right now. And not caring if people or even myself think I’m good or kind or beautiful or strong.  Just putting all that down and finding my actual skeleton, my first one, the one that is me”

“Hmm. I guess I never thought of it that way, the good way. I mean, I did once say that maybe we have to accept peace within chaos, and now I think we do. No one knows how long we have, so we work toward extracting parts of each other and each day. And that’s when death becomes so terrifying, because there’s no gravity to it’s meaning, no rainbows to its reasons, it’s just an endless sleep onward and on” 


“There is not much more intimate or salty than the topic of death – well, perhaps you could argue that sex and religion are on a relative par, politics for some people too I guess.  Death as an endless sleep… when it’s said like this I nearly find it inviting.  A nothingness empty of expectation.  A silence that is enveloping, dense, complete, lonesomeness that is uncomplicated. Sometimes I see it as terrifying but every now and then I wonder what it might feel like, say in that moment when you have just been hit by a car, and you know it’s about to happen.  What would that moment be like? I don’t know if it’s normal to have these thoughts, and I never confess them, but here they are”

“I don’t know. I’ve always been against loss. It never made sense to me, it seems hollowed in a way that is unique to humanity. If nothingness is the climate of our mentality, then we’re witness to doom. I know its maudlin, but its true. We spend fractions of our life in shedding our shadows, and stepping into sunlight, but sometimes it feels that we just survive in a world that nakedly tolerates us. And if you jump the existentialist secrets and transcend generational wisdom, then you’re in a place close to silence, but its not death. I guess, all we calculate is our backwash, and we remember the worst possibilities, and that beats us into these factories of dismal defeat”

“I think I was always against loss too. But you know, when you’re in a situation where you feel you have nothing left to lose, the fire escapes and the panic buttons start looking more like legitimate options.  Like fitting endings to your tragedy.  It starts feeling like it’s the extreme measures that might save you, so you put the closed sign up and you start gravitating to your darkest thoughts.  And you know, it’s self-indulgent and it’s weak, so you listen to others and you take the beautiful hands offered to you and hold them to your heart.  You also take the medicine because you know you have to and you have no choice”


This was my Anna Karenina!! I don’t think I can say the same for her (In Mind and Out) she probably has better pieces. This is a conversation of poetry that begins with her, and then we alternate until it ends with her too. This was probably one of the pieces I’ve been proudest of, and I love love love what Rachel did with it. I’m not being kind, I’m being honest. Seriously, just read how she manages to belt out one beautiful anthem after another.

Heavy-Metal Hour

He gawked at the world’s obvious history…. Something revolutionary, something vintage, something Incan too…. And he came to realize that there is time to come.

There are days away from the spoils of his own history, which involve too many things that he couldn’t fix or make better… And he thought that he was fine, that he was wasting living by rambling thru only what was true.

So he cultivated fields of dreams and fantasies whereat to unwind, to undo his belt, recline in his car, forget about his creations, and breathe…. It was in the open road. Still. Quiet. Tranquil…. Eternity sold for a dense pause in the woody clarity of a lonesome road.

In many ways, he begin to share his story in a language that is currently silent…. It is only a starlit whisper…. And so when people would call him, he would begin to pace the asphalt until the soles of his shoes were worn down…. He would promise a return to himself, a rest and release…. But then he would leave.

Then a day came, when he hiked thru his uncertainty of future and his disdain of past…. It wasn’t anything…. But he was someplace, and he didn’t hate to be there… It wasn’t the road or his home…. But it was a middle…. A mawkish wetness that overcame his body, and it freed his brain from a contemplation stretched forevermore….

But that was a dream, a death that was still in a passage that he was yet to undergo…. Consequently, he asked if this was it, in the end do we have to make peace with chaos… Accept meaning with a gun at the back of the head…. No God to answer, but he recognized that today or tomorrow can only be okay, until he changes… And he would have to be good one day at a time, and he would have to be good every day.

To wander thru alleys


Alright, you caught yourself burnt amid the dark—- And life didn’t promise anything…
The floods of shouts teethed at your chest—right when you were hiding behind your hair— and calling out the depictions of daylight in a barred dimness.
On a dark night, you rose tumbling at the figures of fame and the darkness crashed screaming—in mountainous treasures that way you tread— and wouldn’t be caught gleaming.
You dreamt of an escape—always the same—-cruising your body—wrapped in the coastal breeze—-running, running—-onward the balconies and laughing.
With white lightning and thunderous applause—receiving highly the summer daze–and you said you never wanted to be caught.
But that was just a persuasion from the fantasies that unwind today on the static of your electric buzz—the one that keeps hot your lushly lit love for the stage—in all the great phases that ravel onto new time, and habits—pride that couldn’t commit to your craze.
Then one day, you’ll bend backward in angelic clothes, ball your game to the top—-doe-eyeing heaven—while the hydrangeas glisten in gardens—closing your eyes and lulling you.
Rocking off the toppled floors, slowing down only for who could handle you—inflate you with hopes and answers—suntan, tie-dye short dress, hissing your remains—covering the sparkle in seams.
Nothing lasts forever——-nothing really matters—-nobody is infallible—-nobody indispensable—and that much you knew and more….

Parting Words, Shattered Worlds

The sunset is dead, oceans are crying, 
the sky is vicious in red, people are lying. 
Life is sickeningly beautiful
And beautifully slick 
With the blood of the dawn
That comes much too quick

You walk as you yell,
Left alleged of a purple dream
The stars and the wind widen a void
To pull in the morning and night, to divide the day for darkness
To rust and corrode, to age your bones in warm decay
Has it all been so lost, so long.
As pretty as a celluloid cry,
Gamble for what’s broken, iconic soul,
Darkened days, glittering city,
Grey skies loose over the edges and horizons,
Sparking colors to seas, covered at its seem
All the favorites, the places are ruined, your stroll ruined every past affection, without the air
Of a soft resurrection.

It feels that Bullets have lined my chest,
created canyons on my body,
river of bloody regrets circling the world
Then disappearing, fading into velveteen clouds
On which I can scatter my thoughts to distract and help myself.
The edgy valley is my home now, the one I follow
Always verging. Always verging.

I realise
it is the world’s persona
to shear the horizon in half with scissors
at dawn, to mock with romance of blazing colours
The chandelier shatters it’s patterns on my shoulders,
And I brush the glass that litters the bed
where shaded red spreads like sunset
On my empty fingertips

I wish for a figure-eight in the sand
A sleight of hand, so soft
For a fate not tainted
with parting words and shattered worlds
or sickeningly beautiful things


The better half of this poem A.K.A the second part was written in collaboration with In Mind and Out. I celebrated every conversation we had to get to what this poem became. I hope all of you have read her vivid array of masterpieces, and if you haven’t then I strongly, very strongly urge you to do so as fast as you can. I promise you’re missing out.

The picture credit goes to Tom Plevnik as usual.

Somebody Tonight

The avenue sleeps as the neon flames thru the marquee hung above the bars.
The chanteuse sings a tune in her acoord.
And you lay your head on the marbled counter, musing at midnight an angry poem, vanishing in the cobwebs of your thoughts, while your mood withers in the pattern of ironic changes.
Your mind occluded by themes of burning Saturday in company so intently, amidst the chant of such dim strangers,
You’re desiring that you could have the sun as your eyes- scorching whomever you want; the clouds as your beard so you can hide your tears like the rain; a radio for ears, so you don’t have to listen to the confessions and interviews of actual people, only celebrity types and all you want to hear otherwise is music.
Your freedom has been confiscated by a pretense that was symptomatic in lifestyle,
Draped in jewels of quasar-diamonds in your ring,
The constellations of episodes disappear in your histrionic cranium,
Your veins like tunnels on which tequila overflows.
The hunger blackening the tips of your mind, twitching your fingers, bruising your chest, and touching your spine with a cold clutch.
Endless nights, awaiting your tenement apartment where you can lie blankly, just la-la-la lie down.

Grief

I stepped out of the hospital towards the cold breeze and the grey sky. The fluorescent lights of the stores smashed against their utility, which was decimated to none because I had nothing to ask for. The blankness amazed me, I was swept off to the alleys, behind crypts, walking the boardwalks, lines, toward the unknown spurts of locations. Maybe there were places in the world sadder than this, or maybe more beautiful, but for that moment now, the city seemed hateful, engrossed in a busy talent, distant, and unwelcoming like all places in the melancholy paint that lazed here, to graze a field there, where I was not, somewhere drilling a tunnel to connect further. There might be places brooding darker in their search for uniqueness but what scalded over me was a school of bitterness that entangled growth with such devious notions that couldn’t be overcome by the train of imagination, or the notoriety of remembrance. Did I have to be so lost, did I have to be so far away from a place that I never had, home? I wasn’t robbed of a home, I never accepted the one I had for its flaws. The bars, galleries, apartment complexes complicated the skyline that I wanted desperately to be consumed by, I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss. I wanted to plummet without it actually happening, since I wanted to be there to see myself survive, I wanted to be another person, a spectator of myself and others, a bridge, another; just not what I was, never in this time…

Ruminating the soul could be helpful, maybe that’s what they were all doing. I kept everything contained in my jarred souls, where memory was churning into a sweet jam and becoming a cause of inspiration towards the vague corners of vicious passage. And as I embarked on the voyage to move onward the oceans of faded time, just as fast as I could, to inhale the truth, to realise that when you’re imitating nothing, life is the ultimate truth. The setting parts with light thru the sighing shadows that began to dance in accord with the rippling instability of the lampshades. A netted veil covered my sorrow, and I took apart the pieces of recall, and got free, got idle, looking for a mission, a reason to completely abandon the emotive weight. A psychedelic lie could shamelessly carry me to my bed, illuminate the way to the top, and educate me about the things that I have to do.

Endless Catches in a Hundred Arrows

“My feelings are a stage, and the actors loan me an ashen daze, to which I must comfortably submit, I must conveniently pay. There is no sole liberation, there is only a constancy to which I comply, for it might be wrong to be the believer that may rue the morgue of actual rightness. I live my life by swimming between schools that could possibly identify my novelty, if I leave I might get lost. The planetary rules apply and revolve around my locked head, because they embody elements that inevitably blaze around me, quiver in between my thighs, make crooked circle that twist my eyes and kindle fires that surround truth, everything that could happen will be an abstraction under my possession, my unstable guardianship. How elusive is radical change? But if I walk away, try to attain difference, I know I will confront untamed comparisons to another life, consequently, instead I should try to translate the complexities of unhappiness to an evermore stand, and I will follow the nostalgia of tonic time”


Life is iconic, and its icons coast thru endless eras, forever as remembrances. They carry forth the bread of unhindered routines, to a factory that casts spells in widening ravines and feeds voyagers- that’s us on this planet.

Aviary

The bells toll proudly, thru the way in which a street is hazed, flagged with fables, salted from grace. I travel, celebrating the minutes of light, and as I widen my revelations to dress the horizons, as I drive, I spark a bevy of memories, of faults, of cheers, of yesterday, and towards the secrets and whispers that float a star trail apart in the times that lazed here, now grazing there with no matter in between. The sea whistles a poem to be unraveled by someone of a caliber well known to me, as I had reached the waterfront, and the stares mawkishly mock the wind rippling auroele in the spots of the sea below a golden djjay shade, the electricity of stillness disturbed by the play of weather. I had stopped to witness, but now I carry on again, I continue my attempts to attain an attestment that states years out of my aviary, after the climate that dangles unfazed and perfumed by a spectral mist, that I drearily found as I was missing a path to escape, as I was searching for a spine to wear and travel further. The ecstasy of adventures drips thru my hands, amid my trials to reject or admit my admiration to the confessions of my greater half, my better mind, my sweeter heart that awaits all the way to the top, or discovering it all the way back home, which I have left to run. I drive even now, a little slower, slower.

Visions Off The Wall

The mighty minute of the leisured blue world, as I walk to explore, there ascends a broader highway, the planks build nearby, with three men lining its balcony and singing “What do you do wrong?” Shadows seal the key passage, it is the end of the line, it is a judgement to which I can’t say no, I cannot deny it here. But an escalator emerges and carries me off to shore.

A sandstorm filled the wind, strongest in its first fifteen minutes. The hit started swaying alongside the magnitude of the wind, the house in which I went became more susceptible to drifting. Time needed to be drugged with Prozac or some seizure medicine, the ground emerged from beneath the ground, the manic hour began drizzling, sizzling gawking all over the places, sporting roars of gust, the planks began to tear in the anterior and started imploding, the wood blocks started to tear and fly toward the ramparts. People walked and ran, fast, fast, hatefully fast, speeding, exploding thru a reality of corrupt glory, a dark glitter beating in the doorway, zigzagging through each corner, coarsely runny time, grenades exploded, guns were fired from outside the house, I began to trundle like a stone, wheeling myself to find a way out, I could hear shrieks outside- a man’s. I tried to trap a squall before rushing to save others, people bawled, people sniffed or was that a hallucination within the hallucination. Punches lapped, a body flew in thru the downward, the sand entered my eyes, and I was irritated, quite literally. I could feel the pain that arises when the person most close to you is done in the dark, wherein that person palely shines, with a halo, and phantoms escaping to subway walls, the bells toll in supermarkets. The roof hatted the ground soon, everything tumbled, guns had been shot, bombs exploded consecutively and simultaneously, I had to escape. “I’ll miss knowing you forever, you were my life, my most recent adventure” I closed my eyes so I could be awake and see the relics of it, the survival. 

I like the way that the world is a little older.

Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.

Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.

Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.

Polaroid Gravity

With the rumors of ideas and delusions being exchanged in my specimen mind, I lulled myself to a sleep of pastel pastures intercut with red holes and bright lights. I was in another place, a worse world. I was on a map, but long I stood not in familiarity but amid assortments of stranger settings, on a swing set with blurry vision. It all seemed blue, a minor difference from my visions but a plunge back into the shades of the place where I had started. I wasn’t waking up yet. It grew more vivid, the swing was rusting at a rapid pace, breaking at joints, the steadfast sight of blue proved to be the sky, and I forgot to escape, and I forgot to shout. I took the choices less erred by, I took a path of apathy. I lifted my eyes and fell to the power of a dream. I crashed on the floors, but the reverie persisted. The sky flickered and cried before me, I closed my eyes, but consequently, the sky collaborated with the fluffed clouds and grabbed a terrorizing reign over the immobile me. I collapsed to the actuality – I couldn’t be out of my dreams. In the subsequent sequences, I lost my hearing, my ability to speak, well I lost myself. I was only my eyes. Then the rain came rolling down and took that away too and so I was finally in a black sleep, a true sleep.

In the sole liberation of a time that did not undergo my squandering, I ringed a wire thru the war calls. People collected at the printed edges of my books, two-toned solid checks of airplane silhouettes grabbed me off the walls, native styles, tentative desires, and dragged me past the evil motorways. The skies were overcome with rainbows of the history, something revolutionary, something equated, something a little Incan too. There was always the sun in my eyes, the morning after, in it’s final hours, closing my visualization. Ah, the sun.

Ululating Passage

I suppose everything on earth has an extraterrestrial meaning. 
To leave, first you have to stay. 
And to say it’s never too late, you have to be right here. 

Life, a free fire, freewheeling I, gambling doors of a home in the dark night,
barefoot roaring through the glisten of bright lights, 
with the premier of escaping circling my eyes,
and my eye sockets giving bed to sunglasses,
and my shoulders blanketed by leather jackets,
and there is a beautiful feeling, there is that, to sing off the din of doubt
and to raise a thousand whereabouts, in the newspapers. 
Beneath the grounds on which I venture though the quiet darkness,
the prospects start whirring, begin rattling to welcome me.
And I ride through their palpitations, I ride through their excitement, I ride through the danger, I ride towards a stranger. 
I promise. I promise.

The magazine tearing of grief, happiness, coffee cups, and lushly layered advertisements, follow me through this closing verve. They can keep up.

  • To Sarah Abraham

Opening Sequence: Eternity…

I hope someday that I will possess the world and I hope when the time is right, I will forget it. Secrets dawn upon the day and turn around the screws and spiral of the night, they keep me tied to a rock, and I can’t find the way to lead me out of the caves of jealousy, beyond all the hatred that is dusted atop the things in my room. It’s a cold, broken fiber that binds the fabric of life together, weak and sacred in an unknown pride. Spiritual darkness claws from above, maps the drawings of body, creates dangerously the constant obligation to fulfill in the islands of discoveries, shakes the places to attach to and detach from, then soon all the troubles toss high in the sided night and its weight crushes the speech beneath. All that washes away in the backwash is the skin of worry, the blood recedes into nothingness, and the soul floats away above the yellow hallucinations that wear the horizon. Then everything shatters windows and tears the drums to kill without shame the prospects that beckons on, “Starters need to come home”. The tables implode into a cut up of wood, the motorbikes arrow across the country and crash into Colca Canyon, they crumble and the riders sink into the aerial defeat, all the things that are coldly bound in the falling out of dealings, in the ripped vocals of vain contacts, start downing the knees breaking the teeth brooding darker looking for meaning but in all the wrong places – around the corners they get tighter, get tighter and bleed the veins dry. Meanwhile in the meantime, I anticipate happiness as if it were homeward-bound. True, that I couldn’t belt the country that death does apart, puts in its pockets and let’s seep through the graveled shoes, but I withstood the pain that cuts the throats, let the wanderers roam alone through the dusky dawn, I illustrated my path and I strolled thru it. When life imitated harm, when I sensed glitters as gold, I walked through the marbled rows, I marched through the impoverished lines, I crusaded through the emptied wastelands, and I paraded in the nakedness of honest settings. Every lipped breath that is drawn to shield me against the uncertainty of time comes from my two eyes and my heartbeat, never mind. I’m punctuated with visions of my hair clothing me as I walk through the terrorized hospitals and schools and I sing a figure absorbing, strips and strings of judgment wrangle in the cluster of thoughts that flock and hover, look up towards the sky, and look away from the trialed road and I will follow the flight of the scattered par avian, reading long lost love letters, and letdowns, life’s greatest hits. I don’t quite know everything so I read and read; for life is my atoll, wherein I’m aided by the letters of the people in lands so distant in feelings still in throes. I’m moved, move with me. Did you this time?

Keep Making Me Guffaw

“It has happened before, I have done it again. All the bars come crashing down, the sky ascends up the straits thru which ropes of vine spiral and screw. And I watched, I looked, and eyed and smiled all over the faces. I’m resting in my mistakes, running wayward in the waterways and blades and shards await and behold the other side.
Circling fears, irresolute disappointments, swinging trust refuse to leave my thoughts. All the times I close my gates, I wake up to the relief of nothingness. Every time I close my exits, I find a place of comparison, of contemplation, of communicative stops, of collaborative stunts, of collective death. No one narrates my dreams and reads them to me aloud to set me adrift an avowed ocean to sit and set me awake, in consequence I can’t adapt, I’m chasing a time to be afloat. I’m driving and drowning. If I lay closer to the ocean, lie nearer the truth, get old and free, drunk and idle to waste fallen years.
Everything begins to move. There’s a velvet darkness through the looking glass in green eyes lost in daylight, while everything rushes to the signs of Amsterdam wherein I forget the world”

sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing. 
sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing. 
sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing. 

It’s like I told the body, listen to the mind. Oh, the steps that I take to open all my doors.

Happy Little Day

Through and through a thousand splendid stars up an up, up in flames. And a million nights align across the hollowed sky, the ceilings crush slowly inward the decor of the room. The room of the house of the color blue, in the streets of Basque tongues in the hollering mouths, the city of mythical complications stretched slowly after the effervescence of the morning street scene.

Because I’m wandering lost towards the tomb of inner freedom, because I tried a judgement before the law that was flawed wherever I would fail. All that is true is truth, all that is unknown is a star trail apart. And I’ll be right here.

If there is no godly creature, the rocks are scattered in the glow of great sunshine, in the escape of black seasons, in the madness of young dreams, of beating hearts, of barbed veins of twisty, dusky afternoons draped by the dress of clouds. The crystal panes of windows bound in Spanish wood show a hundred years of cold smiles. Over here, the dim paradise of the gifted present, a human being on the balcony can be seen humming because the whole happy mess of being is jazzed by a funk beauty dream.

The pebble white angel cloud’s sonnet is long-drawn-out athwart the mystic sky. The holes-in-the-wall have a lilac frost, outside there is a lilac breeze amidst a hyacinth mist that forms an alliance with the innocent menthol tree-of-life.  The pale blush of celestial mysticism is the essence of my dreams, in the quite refuge of still aqua. The burnished sun is dressed in ivied robes of flares. And I’m sailing on a boat, to my dream maker’s castle-in-the-sky.

Baskets of Prospects

Doors open and doors closes. Everyone is in a room, I’m out in the hallway. Watching and wriggling with shades of green on postcards, nestled in a cradle, inappropriately placed in the corridors. Time drives by and I age a year each day.


O, all the time we scurried to places, on the inside we worried, and to see all the faces made us happy. Onward, the ocean we look blurry, to get free and we hurried. Sit in the midst of time, where the wind swings chimes and we’re never weary.


Screwery Brewery

To trap his breath, then give, gave up before birth at the kingdom and the clan, impossible truth, he was inside a day, he was inside but now he’s collecting outward at the edges, the hundredth night of the year is always distant, its the last good night, last day that is okay, he’s hunched on the baton criticizing his own eyes, it was he who wades through the rocky pathway and fails full of apathy, one hand weighs on top of the other while both sleep on the metallic edge of the baton, he shouts to flicker the light, and his breath is trapped. He can give newness now, the lights waving horizontally hollering a chance, a probability, his legs draw a sprawl however, dropping at the knees, same old leather jacket, the stiffened tails stick up behind, day dawns, he has only to open his eyes, lift it, to vow afar a promise, a moment past he tackles to hunt, someone divines him, divines us, that’s what he’s come to, come to in the end, a sight to the mind, there divining us, hands and head a little heap, the hours pass, he is still, he seeks a voice to catch a goodbye.

Ruined land, hot, unforgiving ruined land, that he has beaten black with footsteps through the northern lights of Norway, hiking up the Pulpit rock, the best selling show of Scandinavia, trodden black with grunge. He gave up, hugging the lines between the water and the mountain, praying quietly for a little panic to run him up, a little night music. His elbows digging in the rocks as he nestles his head on the grey scatter, confusion of memory and covet of loved ones and impossible youth, grasping the baton from his backpack, in the middle he stumbles bowed over the edge, a life of his own he tried to put in his pockets and drive away in the multitude of meantime, in vain, never any but his, worth nothing, because of being lost, he said it wasn’t one, it was, still is, the same, moments still inside, the same, he’ll put faces in his head, names, places, churn them all up together, all he needs to end, phantoms to flee, last phantoms to flee and to pursue a new zenith for a happy ending.

Reading

I have a recurring reverie that is most prominently being expanded in my imagination, its like the set of a movie that occupies all the studio lots from California till eternity.

I meet passion, its a lip that is painted a greenish blue, it’s breath smells like lavenders and Robitussin, and it speaks in a European dialect but with a pronounced Australian accent. At first, its voice comes through a black dim dark, then its vices shine a little line on its parched edges, then all of its wounds redden the outlined countenance, it isn’t truly there and I can’t imagine further so its a fluctuation of sordid truth, and it disappears and the lips pluck a few words from the musical mind to interpolate to my humdrum. It orates a danger to die for, a fashionable drama to change within. It’s warnings are warming, the struggle seems worth the recessions since the dispersal have a strong release. It seems that every man gets his wish when he sees those lips, and he hears its voice come through a icy ease, a given comfort, and just a long fatuous dwindle between the cool and the cooler. In vivid interludes, it interviews me with tough questions, I ask it where to be. It says an island and explains the spirits is an island to unleash and that powers is a pathway that is not easy or trigonometry yet another sordid truth that gives the islands palm tress, Mercedes, white sandy beaches and an evermore reason to distract from the mundane stories of commonplace isles at the supermarkets.

Terraces Love You

Out on a lone, near the shoreline, circling trash cans, behind the ancient galleries, the racing mind cradled in the photographs of yesterday, the aspirations of today, and the heavy hope sailing for tomorrow. Hung in the deep current, prickled in the flesh, with furious eyes coloring the room, opining that the woods are upon the places you enter to spectate the outside. Strangeness fades into the odes and opuses you compose, and you’re of perfect gravity in the real world, the real world. The light knows I love, lie, live, borrow, and I cry in the beat of the night, among whispers and caressing hands, in divisions and in lonesome crowds.

Sequences of carousels, consequences of carnivals and open air – CONTEMPLATION.

Marooned in the methods of courtesy, those will be, who in the flicker of crying cigarettes contend with erosion of monetized life, turn to vagrancy. They’re always fundamental in times of adversity, always alluding to their rusting age and the cruel, unforgiving world. Its a cruel world, a cruel unforgiving world in which he unfortunately walks. And he might insist that the rain gives the best baths, and that the cold wind is the best way to catch your falling self and there’s nothing softer to the nestled head then muddy grass. All the windows that are subjected to his peek have shutters, he doesn’t know better, that’s what I say, what I think, where this thought was made- somewhere in between urgency to present and to venerate the whiteness of his dins.

Panegyric panacea for the gentleman whose lurking shadow is Joyce, and his dream is impoverished by the stricken maternity.

Jump

And to be where, a place, somewhere or someplace
Pressed against the sugarcoat of greatness, on its slim chest 
Wanting to be fresh, wanting to be there in regular frequencies 
And to clench the study, light up the reason and smile at treason
And breathe the swollen air. 

Five stories high on schools and vows, 
And the daytime is now for the witnesses to ascend,
Down the flights of fine friends to an eternal lie.
But breathe the swollen breeze, squall easy the Heath.
Recall the sights of shining bends to the fitness of avowed wreaths.

Can the hourglass silhouette, quicksand the land of bets
Days that stood still to kill the man of crass nets,
And be the becoming that becomes the being for startling
A wrecked starting that the quicksand pulls in majors and minors, minus and plispl,
Taming the gaming blame, gambling the flaming shadow of belief, to release a relief, to catch a thief.




Get Idle

“What do I want to promise to the world? A paragraph, the wordy wonder of blocks, fonts, artful normalcy, reliability, expectations, and sheer heroism to begin the new years. Maybe the world can promise to me a little quiet, a little assurance, a few role models, some days that I feel like crying out of advanced laughter – and on other days a pensive melancholy. On this ship, on a road northeast and high, I have flew over the sands of all the things I am, all the things I have. But I don’t imagine foreseeing it over religiously anymore, I hope to kick my commitment, my moral addiction, its better for all of us to never have the probability to destroy the literature of paradise, and the innocence of poetry. Is it wrong? Probably. I should learn to keep things to my self, my own self. This is how I feel, with a heart full of desire, like stopping, arresting the motions and abstract notions in young decay. At least until June, I’ll save myself from the trouble in the far away tale of triumph – that I had for such a short time but it glows to me as enough. I can see that I’m blind, and I can write that I see a Curacao ocean, all moderately manifesting the setting of all the world. I’m not running away, I’m still here, waiting for the sun and the moon atop the apartment heights looking down at the sea of travelers taking their avenue to existence, to survival, toleration, to life and space and time. Soon sometime in the time to come, I’ll have a gruff fatherland that makes me realize the reality I’m living in. I’ll always be alive, feel young in pictures. However, I’ll say goodbye, I’ll say it without resent but I may regret it later on.

A better time. Could you tell me that? A lover’s place. Do I know that? A perfect narrative. I’ll find it in power rotting by the hands of psychedelic pathways shooting up and down; cardiac activity doe eyeing me from the corner of the blue thickets collapsing on the brave truck soldier, the mystical shepherds grazing the palm trees of hot lands, sad fame lands, a plan so far away, and I understand and I have it all, I have my life, the dirt and the text of a tomorrow. I may think I’m past the fear, the guilt and suspicion but I know that if I ever find out the opposite, it will nakedly hurt me always, every time.”

Beckett in the Flicker of a Crying Cigarette

I quit…Up in flames…I’m gone, I’m done, I’m enough…

I know things here and now that I never suspected yesterday. Another mystery stacks oddly on my head and I grieve the sunrise as I wake up to the flame dragging and winding vividly across the sky. I can’t envision a design for days, not a single one that can recognize my weariness of words and my tiredness towards time. All my dreams are fleeting across this bay, and I’ve done wrong, din wrong, and no thoughts can guide me to episodes where I was seasoned to handle the difficulty of each eventful series.

I will have hospital accounts and motorcycle diaries to walk me past the pink hemispheric dusk, and a chalky channel of proper strangers to swerve me to a place soaring higher. I will keep snapshots of my sweat and all my ravings in the dim dark. What can I do? Behold and await an amber horizon? No, I don’t have the keys for the passage through the present. There’s no tonic for nostalgia, there’s no sole liberation for memory. I will have to cope; Deal with abhorrent unoriginality and an abhorrent eternity scientifically.

Nighttime is unraveling and I am cradling in my crib, fondling my hopes. I can’t always be savoring my moments, believe me. Nighttime is unraveling and I am trapped in my truth. You catch your life and you pay the price. All the rescuing is turning me to pieces that tingle, resonances told through talking mouths, not of my own – I’ve lost myself and I lost. I keep I keep I keep. I keep losing people. Nighttime is unraveling. The red foxes are sleeping, and the air is squalling in the midmost selections of places, I’m on the balcony humming the songs underneath the bitterness to lull me to burgundy pastures. I’m going astray, gone.

There’s not enough time to live forever. And on my best days, I do want to live forever and taste the sparkling drops of purity. Sometimes I make a good man and its a beautiful day. I’ll look for those days, I’ll find a way to look for those days.

I’m stopping before the finish line. Thank all the fountains, lucky stars, cohorts.

Water Catches your Eyes

Quiet is an impossibility. Staying calm remains a perception, and not a perpetual possibility in the middle of a final land.

………………………………………………………. ………………………………………………….

Turning slowly, rusting in a white mist. Drowning in the bluesy trail of the panorama. In the arms of barbaric death, the shores speaking to me in spineless decay. Past canyons and canals through the towering pulses. By the hands of impulses and epiphanies, I’m hiding the sound of voyage into a dreamless sleep. You need to come with me.

… ……………… ………. ………. ……. …….. ….. …………….. ………. … .

Peyote

Stretched across the seascape, a faint smell of mystery.

I was home during an afternoon of blinding rain, the rooms cluttered with sprinkles of croutons, anthologies of despondence wed novels, and the synthetic mist of French perfume. I had saturated my Pepsi with apricot juice. Everything seemed to be under the spell of a forgiving age. The voices of multiple women singing falsettos beyond the television’s screen were almost intoxicating to hear on that dreamy trip to a content Saturday afternoon. The consequence of a late morning had led me to wake up to a burst of sunshine that was disconnected in totality, it was cut by the grid films, yet it softened the noise of a grungy past. I sat looking away from the window, to keep my sight away from the confusingly quick rain.

O arrive On the edge of tomorrow and fly Onward the dawning tears.

“How many seasons do I have to get through these days” asked the old man who embodied my imagination, maybe it was a recurrence from something in a time far forgotten. My memory had encouraged movement in all optimistic and pessimistic ways, all objective and subjective manners. The shores and coasts all bound in the garland of my cartoon recalls made me even gladder. The lush light, the flushed faces, all that was a celebration of symptomatic heartbeats felt closer than the bed on which I lay laughing. I was laughing at a trick joke, an easy one to laugh at, made at the expense of acquaintances. There’s only so many fixes, only so much better and shades of blue to make me rest and head a colored psyche.

I can’t breakthrough this world, bound in a daisy-chain and I’ll stay happily.

But it’s in the evening that something’s to happen, to me. All the sheer shrillness has subsided, minimized by the tarnished glasses unto its havocked images. Notwithstanding the magnified revulsion that uncertainty holds, I can just dream all that needs to be cycled through in times to come. I don’t have a doubt in my mind, this first thought is mine from words and for all their truth. I’m moved, for that is what I breathe to gaze upon, in many ways, and with little prospect of benefits that might follow. So I will maneuver my thoughts to speech, open my mouth and expect to hear them out loud. The past asks for a long farewell, and I shall always try to be eager in fulfilling its wishes. As to say what might have been, I have no idea, except that it must have been during another hour on another day when I instead bought myself to not accomplish that particular teaching. But I do recognize that all that remains to me is a vision of a burning eye glaring out of its socket under a testing purpose to see whether I push it, or it pulls me-whether I have the courage to debate or am just a blow without brains.

Saccharine

“Help, I have found myself lost again. I am lurking and I am needy of goodness, help and presence. I’m alone above a folded cave, in the redly lit backdrop that I call the sunset. I feel breathless. And I wrap myself in the easy comfort of the trodden dirt of the desert, its coarse fingers. How many times have I gone wrong? Where did I go wrong? Find me and help me breathe, won’t you please be my friend, won’t you help me look for myself. Loosen me from this knot, I’m standing at an angry height, looking down and thinking whether there are enough mountains to save me. I need to be another age, an age where I wasn’t so far ago. Help me be myself. Drain my blood, fill me with the worsened chemicals to keep me-I’m already gone. But don’t repeat me. Make me realize what we had in the chambers of a small, incomplete life- how I knew not enough but felt like it. Rescue me before the piano is plucked, until it runs and catches up with me-marking my close- and I wish it was fire. Watch all my hope trembling over the flaming sky like a viscid droplet about to splatter and adorn the old ground. I hope in the midst of people that loved me, somebody liked me. All I can do is watch from the window. I’m in seclusion, receding to the columns of shadows that will leave me in pain someday other than today. Don’t erase me, feel emphatic for the character you never knew.

I’m on my own now, I’m on my own again, I’m on my own, I’m on my own”.

Agony Fiend

“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 and on a deadly roundabout to the roadhouse diner, where food is filled with poison and drinks blessed with the earthy spit of a failed romance. 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. And I’ll run away. Come on, come on, come on, come on. And I’ll run away”

Psychedelia

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.

I wanna die. I do.
I wanna fly. I do.
Love life. I do.
Live life, I won’t.

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.

Prison dreams.

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.

Black and white holiday. This is paradise, dim heaven.
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. 


Fresh out of mistrust and sad, sad, hot, hot weather. Unforgiving winter, royal springs.

Listen

Loudly

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.  
 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Thought Row

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.

Prozac Prose

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.

Kerouac’s Cognac

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,
Of man,
Of laughs,
Of paradise.
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
the shore.
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

Ecotone

 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
Of abandon.
The aerated abilities of passion trapped in an aviary
Far away.
The noon of good expressions quilting a menagerie
of scandium.  

  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 .

Revelry Montage

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.

Surf Shop Singer

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.

Ballroom.

Bathroom.

Furnished room of surprises.

Shoulders and arms, sunrises.

Onto the road, the hourly road trip.

Road stops.

Roadhouse.

A minute volume happily.

Mistress Heroin

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.

One Wedding Wrong

Don’t they break you when you’re done for in the closet that drowns you in your own heavy sighs?  Drag you to the table tops, cloak you with regret, and drink you till darkness, and it may too be gone tomorrow. May everyone walk away, aching your body and bottle your hair and cradled head in suntan hands, heightening the reach that adorns the blood showered back, chest crossed with warnings and neck bound by the asphyxiating rope of rocks.

“I settle under the bridge between day and dismay,

And I don’t move.

Or I forget to be better.

What happens when it ends?

Do I remain?

Is someplace close to the ache, is it quiet there?

Everything will fall apart.

And underneath the brazen apex, what you see,

I fault and I break.”

The floor you had to walk is gone, and the loss has broken the bands of thoughts in your head, woe in lies and secrets, you won’t survive this. The final look electrifies your soul, clutching your hips with a corrugated cloth that draped the safe touch of self, and you’re quiet as the homeless eye isn’t yours anymore. Tomorrow’s another lie, no man of short hair, or the party of open land.

Summertime Captivity

There you go, closing eyes on the road, anymore and any longer would break you apart but the wind in the palms, holding cigarettes at arm’s length away from the steering body in leather jacket you’re simply howling thru the night and driving away, looking in the mirror with some suspicion, with a vortex of contemplative freedom plunging into your thighs, face level with the edge of the streets, honesty lining the boulevard you left and then you zeroed into the skyline.

Spirit wither and turn weather in the seat that’s right beside…. Small and covered in smoke, the shades of sounds scattered over the shattered pieces, collected in album of heroic peace. You water the mirrors with your raining iris, and from there your vision blooms into the falling and calling of time, another person in semblance fastens the bravura of your design, to the air of your different sky. Now you can see for miles your arrival, and from the woods, it seems you’re really trying to be good. It seems you’re not dying, bowing over the pillows and craving the lurking story of your future, in the shoulders of your past, you’re keeping good.

You should return, go back, get free and swim across the faintest places, and the races that run freer. Then the glimmer and the glitters of oceanic blue can startle your head and gargle the sounds of screams in the great places of mystic watch, with your dreams underwater, and your ears rustling curtains dressed in flounders and curtails, tucking uncertainty beneath your belt as you tucker your shirt for a promised tomorrow.

Come morning, diamond air, combed hair, waking up to the revelry of life, barred to the holds and beginning another day until… until another breakaway.

Unlike 2 AM, afternoons are not meant for Navel Gazing…

“There was no certainty to time, not wrapped in thickets near trash cans, or in the soul. I love the way the earth waits so intently to spring joy in only minutes of life, while the rest of the times, we’re being ourselves. This goes to show that we’re sad, and the show always goes on.” He shrunk to the foot of the bed and fell in interruption of his musings.

Something always disturbed his bad routine, and even if he knew it was bad, and he wasn’t in the ultimate illusion of life, he would go on with it.

It became sadder eventually, as if it were stomached to perish in the freshness of cancerous sunshine. Sometimes he would find a calm amid the pillars of smoke that occluded the bluesy grayness of his eyes, and the hands that wire truth to unreality, which would sustain him another day. From there on, it was dreams and epiphanies arranged to the opening sequence of his construed eternity. He sunk into the lungful sofa on a Friday afternoon, and he mused another sympathetic thought, “I can’t let everything seem so dark blue” but then he thought about nothing. Not about the concept of nothingness and not about its apartment complexes for imagination. Blankly staring the ceiling and the bookshelf holding his definitions, that ecotone was the finale to all his feelings.

The positioning of protective surface over important persona, inspired the closing spark as he ascended toward colour deprived sleep endlessly.

Wild Blue

The arms pain and they can’t stitch together minutes and hours, as seconds swing by. The sky has apocalyptic lips, and words echo against its burnished vigour. The emptiness of my room, is an oceanic inspiration to raise a spark that shivers and wails then comes down slowly, plunging apart and into the unfurling chasm, and withstanding only a stranger eye.

And I gaze the whirring in my head, it’s a psychedelic representation that flickers on a blank screen, and travels on drinking sprees. It’s there to make clear that I have no sheer clarity to cut high hopes that I thought I didn’t have, which I rebuffed as immature saying I was not.

I start innocently the day, with evil intentions, and suspend all suspicions that I have had about my life. Now, I succeed in cracking purple but not the golden fiend. And so all tomorrow’s festivals kneel down to the mistakes of today, which is where and when I am. Everything adds up to immorality, so with or without a dire mind I’ll have to corrupt the whorish glory of tears. Nighttime reverberates in the valleys of my brain, my head aches with thundering wrongness. I have no room for questions, and the truth is lost on me. I’ll paint my touch and move far away, hearing the lulls of vintage themed singers, dying Hollywood leaders who read my mind far more often than I create what I envision.

Now, I surface my legs on the floor, untangling my hair tied to my head, loosening the noose of leather, and breathing till underneath there is no time to debate sides, but just cradle your head in your hands and drift to sleep, floating in gruff harms.

Homeless Nights

The streetlamps flickered inward the pavements, and the sandstorm blows away the rainwater. Nighttime is still in its throes. My body starts aching, my head starts longing for a run, and so I run back home.

The pale fire of moonlight shines circles thru the holes-in-the walls, and the wasted sky is pebble white in a time of tremendous trembling.

“I’ve vanished, I’ve wandered, but what have I become ? Everything seems to be floating away since I stared at it, seems to slipping out to the sea. I guess the truth is that I have to forget and forgive the world, since it seems to forgive and forget me so often. Things are temporary anyway… Nothing lasts forever…. ”

And so, I lulled myself, I thought “Never mind” and I chanted it in twitchy tones of movement, tossing and turning each word I was feeling to make contemplative logic. A heavy sigh drowned me to dreamless sleep and all I imagined was the waves catching me in their depths, trapping my senses in kindness, in sweetness, and resting spirits venturing into sand.

Open the Gaze

“It is always the worst possibility. Pieces of me know my truth, but my entirety is lost. I keep moving forward, and wish that another morning will bridge the gap between worlds, something that starkly stalks thru the handles of my latest mistakes. My bed devours me, I have no place to idealize, and at first the meaning seems lazy, while the infancy of my devilry consumes my mind, inward and fleshly, I’m darkly paralyzed in an insatiable story of fumes, my eyes are gazing badly my shoulders and my lips escape to sea, whispering, shushing and hushing, quieting. Back in the perceptions that I had of today, I was pacing the arboreal floor, completely fulfilled, and not asking where the time had been, where did it go? My hope would hat my head, my dreams would sound like a speaking friend, and my shirts would cradle my chest to funny sleep. So, what happened? What did I do? Wasted time, wasting heart, skipping the acts and illusions, stealthy catches of attraction that strips the rules of honor, but quips about the convenience of home.”