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.”

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”

Waste Alchemy

Come, raise yourself up.

It’s a darkened life, dead end time.

Caught in the shadow of time past, my lenses darkly.

Holding my head up high, to hunt for a glimpse of a light.

It’s black and blue, its neon red, nothing that couldn’t beat the kiss of doubt

In these hits, it feels like this.

And I will fall with no one beneath me.

Take the fall.

Feel the force of the sphere tonight.

Take the fall.            

And take a call.