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.