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.

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