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. 

Funereal Puzzlement

“We are a species divining pillars of black smoke. Every night in its midmost loneliness had a wading narrative, was it good for you? Saved my desire, that ground, a man, their laughs. There you laughed. Now here you grow trees replacing water with sweat, and the tree’s fragile branches hide in shadows, they colored the stars but you got blind. It’s gone now, strange they didn’t tell you, it faded into the nests of hope, disappeared into wild green. Today, a million sneers wrap your heart, tomorrow a million more, beyond the wire you walk, and afterward another wire leads you onward to skies of silvered illusions, stages of honeyed music. Remember, the foreign light build on you slowly, and a void of magic made a swing to swerve on a chatty path. Isn’t it funny how you didn’t realize just where you were, and where you were going? Around the fragrance of scented quilts, backward the elegance of medieval fantasies, towards the barbed twists of arms, jumping over the picket fences, hanging in the innately fallen idols. You’re downy here, before the dusky dawn, be here, after the sunny set and rise. Tell me how it felt to be laden around the cathedral, did it glisten and enlighten you about your purpose, about your era, about your end, and about your hours. Did they tell you that you were never in charge, you never could blandly speak. Pray that the sandstorms blow the rain away then look up the hovering sky, scorched by the losses, extended by the difficulties. Remember that was the shade of the rainbow above you, you know, for when you and I get to know one another and I wish I had your choices”

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.

Train Hued Paradise

Throw me new thoughts, the greatest spurt of entertainment is in the fear of the abrupt unknown, and the talking cemeteries, and also religious frowns.

Everything is silhouetted on green curtains, telephone wires are swinging hand in hand, farms deepen the green darting thru the holes, and the heroes wash the coral photographs zeroing, zooming inward inward the innermost notoriety behind blunt, scattered oceans in between storms of intensity, haunted by a grand sleep of spared hues, jailed by May in October, yesterday.

In the gloomy bricks of this passage, the train rocks from grave till the unending Argentine odds. Unto the entirety of a Zen dawn in these misty aeons, and caught between a billion mad desires, I play music. The radio heats Sinatra outward the open air, be kind don’t comfort yourself in your coffin, I loved the days, even when they were set in daze, perfumed by colorful mountains, shivering thru seventeen inched stabs on the land of Docs and laughter, the earth is an angel dishwashing cures in cities, and bums on bay. Troubles corroborate with nothing anyway.

Melting onto the cheaply clothed chair, still wobbly from years to pass and smoked in time, the sun sins and shines, near posts outside of cursed signs, the hardwired sage translate Bosnian to Asian Buddhists. What else do I see? Flowers? Vaguely. But I do see the vagrants exchanging guns and railway food and solving algebraic equations, with pens and papers.

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.

Lou Reed

“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…”

TODAY

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.

Leather black, sighs of weed, songs reflecting in his palms like his only world.

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.

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.

Severin Marina

“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”

Copenhagen

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

An Exhibition of Trials

“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”

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.

How Now

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.

 

How Now?