though in writing i am embracing the impulsive, the unborn creative element of humanity, that is so sudden, so curiously manifested in multitudes of permutations within the firing of synapses in 6.6 billion brains around this world. how can i make something beautiful. when i let go i surprise myself. then it becomes trite as well. so when then is authentically human. i say, delve deep. though these days i have separated my soul from my body. i have done it. i dont know how. it was something taht was recanted, followed by destructive jestures, and holy prayers to God, a sudden sleep and upon waking you feel so utterly removed from everything. so i question what is it that makes me aware i am human, this is here and now. it is because normal sensory perceptions are no longer sufficient for me. i see it all as abstract in itself. ocular aural tactile information that is taken in is just that independent and together they are phases of sleep to me. and so when i look in to reality everything is just that, it seems so distant. i have lived up in my head for far too long. 5 years of self conversation, the stories i have created for myself. i am at a crux for living, push myself towards something prestigious or give into what i wish to do, nothing. i could live in the city, work by day, write at night--both music and literature. then waste away day in and out countless hours striving to become known for something and then as 10 years flys by as if it were a fortnight i will have completed nothing but affirming my own myopic fantasies are merely hinged on the quixotic though processes i harbor within myself to make myself acceptable to me. a good laugh indeed. or should i prod myself into the cattle car, in to the trailer with the other mindless fools who will sell themselves into the system to have a bite to eat of the spun and pressed green dyed cotton, the glorious fodder for worldly revolution. buy in. yes. undergo undue duress studying a topic of mild interest, a topic that took years of convincing myself i was to be destined to adore, yes a wise choice. that versus anonomity for eternity and happiness of a different color. so many things must fall in order first. just let me let go of my dreams if they are not to come real for they are merely clouds then and i care not for that kind of recreation. universe, God, you once conspired for me to become something and now i feel it has become a mutual disaffirmance, whisper once again, start forward motion, yes it is all for naught, spiders and lemmings, spiders and lemmings i say it over and over such a grim outlook for us all yet the fall is always fun. we all delight in self destruction, self preservation is too cumbersome a task and come now, all in all it only delays the inevitable. the aggregate amount of life lived is nearly the same i suppose, yet of a different color. one more cerebral the other practical. and the moderation between the two is the relative max i suppose we should aspire to. so it is a work in progress, but nonetheless allow some conspiring to occur universe, conspire for me. i badly am in need of adventure these days, or at least one open road to rush beneath my feet.

when finally i am beset in fest,
the laughter is lauded, but in distant catacombs
sequestered within the midnight and ember glow
so, specter we float as if through angelical whispers

when finally everything and nothing become the same
i am sanguine.
hills like white elephants, curtain the sky grown turbid and gray.
then i am everything and nothing at all.
remembering how past and present are twisted sisters.
then i am everything and nothing at all.

for the sake of monotony,
bore me a litany of words wasted to ash in my mouth, a supine palm coaxing medicinal sparrows, all lain aplomb on the tracks.
when i am beset in fest.

mild strokes of gilded breezes.
so you become sanguine.

inside the womb of a sun setting its head down.

august.

Dreaming on the silver strand
Waking up to plainclothes man
You little bastard, little boy in blue
Someone's gonna get to you
And fuck up everything you do

And I'm so unsurprised
I remember, I remember why I dream in black & white

the past few days my ties to reality have been nebulous. i doubt its a phase, more like a cycle these days though i thought i had outgrown my old self. its kind of like i've become the crazed kid eyes locked for concrete miles starring off at some distant hope trying to rebuild after some immanent hurricane. i dont know if i am dying faster now that i had been before. its a sad kind of thing. i tried to make myself into something else, change of clothes, change of pace, change of mind change of face, but i feel like a ghost trolling for some skin, tailing a body walking below. it may be withdrawal from the caffeine that makes the mornings long stretching to the late afternoon and my head and hands tremble with every burst of blood or short quick flicker of life. maybe its from the alcohol or amphetamines. but i havent drank in weeks since i became so sick of myself. i havent been high since i last played guitar, and that was a week ago, they were just over the counter. i have been sitting in the same place for 8 hours and have done nothing. thats what makes me sad. i wrote a few poems, wrote part to my novel, studied begrudgingly, ate food, drifted around. i just need a release. its because there is so much subconscious stress. i know what i want to do with my life but i am not good enough at it to do it for a living. i dont want to go on to do anything but at the same time i want to change everything. i have never had a gf, i am just a silent kid sitting in the barrel of a gun, i let everyone else make the noise i keep so quiet, and when i say something at all its just an echo of something already said. no one knows of my madness. everyone suspects it, yet no one would want to decipher how terribly abstract ive become. when i speak i speak in such abstraction these days that people dont want to even talk to me. when i listen to people talk, its such a waste of words, trite commonplace used and misused, used and over used, used and not used. everything is gutter prose. i mean not to commend myself, but to point out feelings of ostracization. oh well ill eat cake.

i've been spending all my valentine so wont you make the best of what is left cause
when i confine movement to immanence it wont be long before i am beneath your skin and pitted in my head, so when darkness surrounds me, when im a study in black, swallowed whole in the center of your pupil i never saw myself looking back, and disaffected pools disinterested gestures cant conjure any faith that this isnt just pretend, thats when i know im talking to myself again.

Newt lazily walked over to the fireplace and sat down in the teal and gold bergere to smoke his pipe. He looked at ayn standing at the window and said,

"dammit ayn, you know this quest to become human is a damn difficult thing. the closer i get the more repulsed i become. i cannot stand all the stupid, stupid, fools that inhabit this world--all so ugly and uncouth mired by their own impusivity, always indulging in their inane little practices of debauchery to palliate the pain of existence. i laud their efforts at deciphering the big black nothing. but i desire captivating minds--unhinged and wild, hungry for knowledge, hungry for a reconstruction of reality, the mad, the incandescent, the truly beautiful; they are truly alive."

Ayn glanced back over her shoulder, eyes rising off a choppy glare, her short curled hair was translucent, body a slender silhouette, her profile stark in contrast against the morning light streaming in through the double paned windows on the second floor of Toad Mandrake's Middlebury Chateau.

she was wild. an untamed persona in the uncharted forestry of human essences. she was something to hold in a fond but distant memory of what it meant to have a fire sleep, coursing through you veins then suddenly combust at your center--like some kind of drug--she was not meant to be held close, not meant to be fuel for anything in particular but life itself. she, the true intrepid soul. you could not make ayn vulnerable to your advances, she took pleasure in exciting that very vulnerability in you, she would choose. to be close to her meant becoming a simultaneous expression of disinterest and infatuation. Newt had grown accustomed to such temperance that was required for such acquaintance.

ayn turned slowly acknowledging Newts remark, then walking out of the room said, "fuck newt, when did you become so privileged to deem how humanity's glove should fit? you are close to something though, close enough"

i said why cannot i see things clear in the future and past even when i am awake. its because in stuck in a present chemical haze that wont dissipate. it hasnt for a long, long time. i wondered if it was something you have to learn to do; to see clearly that is. i have been to the gates of ends. i have swallowed whole the poison dropped on my tongue. i have been where the ghosts go. i suppose its because i dont keep close anything but myself and all the sad sorry things that are burried inside me too. when i try to know other people, they dont want anymore sadness so they dont like to keep me close too. no one wants what they dont want to be. there's no happiness found in falling down, except for me i guess. when you are down there you only hear what you want to hear, and you do what you think you dont want because that must be God's will. and you never find happiness. you realize you are all so disconnected from the cure, its all the reflection you chose to ignore that comes back and wracks you with guilt for some far off feeling some up close kind of faith i dont want that anyway. i realized it was becuase i cared too much for anything. so i stopped. now i dont care at all. it is quite difficult to become human again. looking back i have never had anyone close. thats why i became imbittered with how cheap humanity is. there are african kids who die every day, young women who are sold into sex slavery, children killing other children, adults practicing narcisism that fucks up the world. all of it. whats the root cause, its easy to point at. everyone knows it. its selfishness. because you or anyone else likes themselves more than other people. but we as humans must like ourselves. but how can we like ourselves in a moderate way that makes the world go around in a good manner. you must base whether you like yourself on whether other people like you. that is my problem. i cannot like myself simply because i am me. i am a plain clothes man to a large extent. i want to see everything so i can see nothing. and I'm so unsurprised
I remember, I remember why I dream in black & white

i have stopped posing existential questions. i fear it traces back to some terribly cliche coming to senses that i have come to grips with my own mortality. so swallow me in evil. because it is all connotative based in some religious or secular convictions of morals whether based on the natural law approach or a more individualized modernism. what we are headed toward. where we all go. take your teleological truths, relativist visions of what happens at the end of you and me. then when something slows progress deem it immoral and so, evil. is belief from fear? is it because you are a avid planner making plans for the best outcomes in an unpredictable game? it is because you fear knowing nothing at all?

Oh you gotta drop that poison on your tongue

to feel the love,

of 1 million little fires

crawl through your blood

to suddenly combust

and youll shine through the porous fool

that you’ve become

buried by the buzz

where did you find the blues?
did they catch you after you left me?

when slinging arrows i keep my misery real close,
open doctored windows to pigeon-hole the world
my supine palms are coaxing medicinal sparrows
i dust the clouds,

chemical crash landings.

this is where i find the blues.

when slinging arrows i keep my misery real close,
open doctored windows to pigeon-hole the world
my supine palms are coaxing medicinal sparrows
i dust the clouds,
chemical crash landings.

so we share our cup of mutually surrendered tears
we'll be beautiful giving ourselves up
ill place my hand over yours and yours will be under mine and mine will rest atop yours once again to complete some required symmetry of the meeting of hands so we're fully occupied in filling one with the other
and i will say i know nothing of love, which will be true.

when i spend 4 years dissolving into atmosphere it takes only 1 month to swallow myself back up.
but enough is well enough.

and when i see myself as nothing i will be beautiful too

so let me give myself up.

So I got feet and I got some hands, so I can point to anywhere and get there, so what if I can, i got a heart that beat beat beats me to confounded misery, oh I got a clock that ticks down to sickness, ticks wicked wicked wicked winged things until I am collapsing in cycles of rain, they pick your bones with whispers and a great hush sound whittled down distilled down down to what? The question of something of nothing, to some imaginings imagined imaginarily I imagine many many things, like when I wake up I will pick myself up and make myself up a plan to be everything and nothing, I will make it all up and it will become me. I've seen wicked wicked things become nothing to me. oh brevity you were the greatest gift to me, oh but sincerity look what you’ve done to me, oh give me your apologies, I want your apologies, oh look what I've done with my hands, my feet, my heart, my misery, oh look what I've done with my hands my feet, my heart my misery, make me wake up rise up through the dirt to be something pretty damn wonderful.
with my eyes glowing i can see where i am going when your eyes are glowing i can see when i am going to wish it all, to wish it all back from the dust.

Your heart beat is magnified in the world around you,

Inducing seizures in my ears,

the stop start,

stops,

flutters in and out in tidal revolutions,

in waves and waves,

erosion lines and oceanic brine calcified on your skin,

long shadows cast,

by the flame of your eyes,

I tried, I tried to extinguish them,

just to sleep at night, but you possess some faintest twilight burning blue and emerald sin,

something slight,

cool and collected, almost eloquent,

clothed in abstinence,

oh wicked deeds left undone if only you didn’t, harbor,

didn’t talk to them

. Oh I could try,

I could try,

to listen to the quiet symphony of your heart beat magnified by the world around you,

and settle somewhere in-between each burst of blood to harmonize your pretty chorus,

pretty fair pretty left undone, oh I’ve seen past, but its what I lack,

I’ll make up for in years of empty arms and a wounded head,

darling dear why don’t we just disappear?

we were meant to live and die here won't you turn over some new earth?

the stream

i am troubled by the danger in the distance. the looming clouds that are pregnant with rain to bring spring greens, it will bring me down low where i used to stay for years and years, i dont mind the fall i guess, but the assent is far too painful especially when you do not know which way you are crawling.

my drunken friends told me to play music, they said i was a writer.

i just say what pacifies my aching, haggard heart.

my industrious father told me to do what i want, whatever it is that is reasonable to pay my warden off for loans, to be true to myself.
its time i let go.

my pious mother told me to study the law or join the clergy because

she believes.

my illusioned sister told me to do what makes you the most money for the least amount of investment,

because she is chatechized by her miser husband.

my stomach starts to turn over and under itself like a python balling into its coiled cave, a land mine waiting to trigger, but i am ok today.

the world told me to imprison myself, to free myself, to slowly kill myself, to slowly save myself, to love, to hate, but most importantly to live.

all i do is get sick. whiskey words, scorched earth, countless swears of love, all pallid compaired to a breif blaise constitution from 9 to 8. then i am a holy man, wanting to run from righteousness.

God told me to do what He wants
because He wants my soul.

so selfishness too is love, i suppose.

lightening bolts?
none.

laughter.
now,
remorse.
a curious repose.
disassured at the ambivalence, the weight seems to be heavy on the right, yes it is.
a kind of pulsing buzz, tactile only.

its all quiet.









like the calm before the storm.
i am stuck there at that pinnacle of a breath, pleading for catharsis.

halcyon, laudanum, jameson and jack.

i smoke. SOMEtimes...more scorched earth, more.

so we beat proverbial horses yet deceased. oh well. it cant feel the pain. PETA is laughable now.
but it prunes the aveoli in my lungs and my time too. as if some column is being ground down minuets each day. oh well


shackles, shackles. steel cold misery
down in a belly of a whale, a deep blue jail.


so am i a refugee in the camp of debauchery, victim to subscribed belief?




i told myself i would do everything because i cannot decide. so i shall just sit and watch it all pass by.

exegesis is the pawn of those brains suited for the wide world. so under utilized as something meaningful. morality is a crutch of the fearful, or rather the well planned--nonetheless they are synonymous. and yet immorality is the vice of the unbridled and forlorn. so everything is nothing all at once. performative contradictions are of course most obvious in history. dare i substantiate my claim with the behaviors exhibited by a slew of state and non-state actors in the domestic and international realms? they are coterminous these dark days at any rate. so say let us perserve what is worth preserving. they mean let us obtain the necessary security requisite for longevity. see how it is. that egoism spins the world.

stop believing and start doing what seems to fit most comfortably around your neck.


imperfect people are so beautiful to me, i just cant see past their beautiful hearts and beautiful teeth, their beautiful faces marked by disease, their beautiful skin martyred to some modern monet, imperfect people are beautiful to me.

that was from the book of Johnas. some silky serenade the sundry masses sing to eachother three times a day to affirm their humanity. it was only after Brithus the IVX instituted the social contract of the "general will" in the year 3002 that there was ever any talk of human rights. for despite the statist nature of the world, the only individuals or true people, and by people i mean granted world citizenship, were those who had served in the military and killed at least one alien on the crusade of freedom, first launched by the united world of america's 80th president Newton Alasdair Briggs. Briggs gathered the other blue blooded bastards of New Earth and declared, "My friends,

conceal your ailment so they can hold you as human in their eyes.

that is what i so loath, what i so desire.
oh tie me up, untie me!
all this wishing i was dead is getting old,

its getting old.

and so we go on and on.

i say.

you there! stop wearing my clothes.

years upon years. disposed. dispossessed. or so disaffected by the heart that tries. countless rush and surge, gush and pound pound pound pound.

yes monotony.

and i the eternal ungrateful host.

depression glass is traded still, for thats what you are a cheap thrill, a stick man a living will.

bottles and bodies the cannibals consume countless measures slowly exhumed by crows and sparrows picking your bones in whispering chorus

so laugh. i laud your banality.

what is it that grants normalcy?

for when you are strong i am strong, and when you are weak i do not belong.

let the poison be strained through the tree.

but chop it down with your machete.

the blood drains the sweetness from the fruit.

when did genetics become such a marketing tool for subpar product?

it is because we are so imperfect and so

born to be insufferable.

oh but love the beautiful ones.

the pretty little children drunk and high,
and

who F U C K.


let them fuck.


for they do what they so please,
drinking whiskey and sin and sin

and
sin
and
sin

who dares say a vice these days is pent with in the old black book? laudable laughter. God is dead, so I am told. but then what is anything at all.

filling emptiness with nothing.


convinced there is a future in the fucking when there's no fucking future.
so
what will i need? i say, what is it that makes me please you?

autistic child. said a man in a white coat.

the woman too. her glasses were large and round. i thought back then it provided her a keener sense of the world. but when you are blind you see inside, and no one likes to do that, so give me larger eyes. she thought, i think.

they said the tests confirm it so.

so i let go of perspective.


how does the human feel? i wonder. how is it that i am at an arms length always to no avail. less the disparity inside, the great rain. i suppose i should say: "stop". then recollect what has been washed away, then i noticed that even the litter looks elegant in the rain. so it goes, and goes


and
g
o
e
s away.

"he is wearing your clothes", ill say.

to conceal your ailment so they can hold you as human in their eyes.

that is what i so loath, what i so desire.

seasonal sparrows

i think i am ready
to lay down in the dirt all of everything erased

when i awake ill be the son of something terrible
seeing how nothing and something are the same

how your nightmares breathe on you in your sleep
the same is said for your best dreams, oh believers settle down the streets

its the same the same damn thing

i am ready to return to the unliving
a colony of ghosts dwelling in and off of a solemn denial that anything good exists alive in this world if you cant hold it in your hand, if it doesnt give itself to the ashen earth, ive seen that too burn

but how do you see yourself darling? self assured and standing thin?
how do you see yourself brother? self-possessed swallowed in sin?
how do you see yourself mother? self-contained demanding fortune?
how do you see yourself father? self-guided followed by kids?

did it ever just seem too heavy to keep keeping on, i kept in the rivers followed by the silence of a live barely living. i walked down to the shore to see your reflection painted and erased in timeless throes, an arbitrator for your conscious i have come to see im just that shadow stretched by your bright bright future, optical illusions painted and erased, when i lay down in the dirt i will awake to be the son of something terrible. when i awake i will be the son of something terrible. when i awake in the darkness i will be something terrible, running from who i was not once but before that, so ill see myself dispossessed, a laughing sin. we are born here and meant to die where delicate hearts realize the world is wide, wider than yourself. they are all the same:seasonal sparrows flocking to where the wind blows a new home amongst some seeds of injury. so scatter your infamy. so scatter you unruly, so scatter your prudence, be swallowed by the sun.

precarious winds how they push and pull you in place. i dont know if i am not down enough or too far over to really think anything worth while, i forgot to take care of that part of myself so i just sit and complain about everything i dont understand or want to be wished i was or could have been. i know people are always the same, and it makes me sick. cant i just flow ok, i dont want to be that way. i dont want to be human i suppose. but i dont know what to be. so accept the subpar relationship with the world. you cant sit and think to yourself every day every evening every night about the world and how humans are sick things. i did for 2 years and it took me 2 years to remember how to be alive again. i am 17 years old again. but the long long storm started dropping rain when i was 1 and could remember the north east snow. i just wanted to make it all stop. so when i do and just stare back at myself or inside a pitch black cell, cob web corridors of my own prototype i realize i dont want to do anything at all. so you occupy your brain with every little thing you can to forget about what you see and feel. its not that i chose to be this way. i was born sad i suppose. people talk about stress like its commonplace, they talk about all this psychological diseases and disorders that they create so they can create drugs to sell to these people suffering from faux illness. its perception. we can change everything. beyond our wildest imaginings we can create whatever it is we like. so we do and let ourselves be swallowed whole by potentialities. its a blessing and a curse. why do i write why have i worked toward anything at all? people do not like my music, people dont care about what i have to say, people dont care i am alive most of the time. they say they do but you dont enrich them any, nor do they you. they are just proof you are something, a commodity that can offer them a self-maximizing opportunity. so people spend their lives wallowing in this fucked up cycle of using and being used to have more for other people to use so they can have more poeple to use from. its simple simple logic. if you sell yourself short to it all and subscribe to this model this complex framework of users you become used and a user of everyone. once you have amassed significant product or worth people will want to associate with you because you are valuable and can offer a great deal of opportunities or amenities to use. the greater the value the more users flock to you. simple math. get it? right you do because you do it. how can you escape form this? i have asked. so if you are intelligent enough you will ask too. i suspect it is to do what is most logical, change your perspective. foolishly simple, i am aware, but it is most efficient and logical. you cannot change people physically, yet you can in your mind as the world around you.

nowhere

fingers curled, a paralysis
yet still animate
contriving a contorted pleasure
as if, masochism perfects a pretty sound,
so too, the poison runs into the capillaries.

a dull, blunt, drown

still,
they take their places over
and under

then over
and
under again,

saying what my lips cant form:
im a sorry kid with a

heavy
heavy
heart
.


spurious freedom
between the routine of a sad new kind of game,
i just want to tell you who you are,
make the stop-start,

stop


and then
start.

goes the smooth, gilded rust
running slow over your:

hungry eyes and earnest ears to a hopeful heart
again straining the poison into a well,

saying words that dont mean anything but its ok to work it out themselves.

i got a bright blue ribbon but now its emptying out
to a hollow tin man with a perfect plan to collapse into a great big nothing now

yeah i am you, you are me, we are stuck in this freedom together.


5 years now. just let me figure it out.

i am infested with love
yeah it pours from my bones
sunshine from the pores of my skin
i want to share it with you

i am infested with love
yeah i want to give everything away
sleep drains from the corners of my eyes
i want to fill you up

i am infested with love
its the stitch to your ripped seams, the life in your step.
i can hold it all in for you

we were born to live here, we are born to die where
so i want to give it all up
cause nothing really matters
addicted to the curiosity of a bright, beautiful person
finesse in her facets
addicted to giving up everything for everyone
yeah she is the same

when nothing and something are exactly the same we can finally say i am in love with you, we killed platitudes of brilliance spilt from the morose pin top of a pen.


i am infested with love
i want to give it all away
to the starshine i have met
let it pour from our hearts, cause i am alive

im running on a midwest breeze, ahead of the storm, foot over foot supplies the rhythm to circulate to survive.

where once laid a golden arm lies an bottle of wine. lips stained carnelian under a dancing sun supine palms harboring an open flame, irenic lady, irenic lady dressed in white.

still they spurn with tangled talk over a chantry sea, eager mouths and needy hearts, indifferently combined into a perfect storm in a tea cup. the midnight makes me predisposed to sedentary motion. i walked through the mist perceived as a hungry ghost lain to unrest in my mind as if an interlocutor.

how am i to reinterpret the signs.

they say glasses, or spectacles rather.

"ahh, let us praise the double entendre!" they shall say. so i will too.

was it not fulfilled through a dogwood, though?


lennon wore illustrious industry on the bridge of a curiously crooked beak. karma so it goes. but always ashen, and millions of miles away. look what amphetamines, barbiturates, and the like have given us:

tangled talk
iron eyes
hungry ghosts
quixotic impossibilities, upon impossibilities
facilitated apathy
convoluted contrete
sick, beautiful people
charlatans
the human commodity
inconsequential benevolence (causing more quixotic impossibilities)
gadfly sycophants



"they are all lost"read the headline. but the holes were removed for safety. or rather security. but that is what they call it these days.


i ask myself, "how could i have ever been so brilliant?" then i am reminded of the terrible battle i have been more than privileged to engage in with Newton Briggs. somehow competition brings the best out in man. hobbes at once would agree. i have the liberty to survive.

dare i look back at words already written.


and so nonplus prose consumes the rationality of it all.






the world wont embrace you the same with each new day, but thats the peace you keep with the deathbed pace as our coils slowly unwind what were left with to expire.

how life can be kind in its own way.

the other day, and by other day i mean years for in my state of disconnect time is often suspended or slowed to mull into one tortuous reality, i saw a girl with lovely features; except, her nose was a revolting extravagant event to behold. i say event with conviction, because the mass was so unsightly it was a person in itself. so i said, "fellas and gals, people of all ages and genders, i propose a plebiscite. let us vote who should be king for the evening". knowing of course i would win. but you see, this nose was such an obstacle to normalcy that people also were confused whether it was a facet of this girls being or whether it was a tiny man clinging to her face. fascinated what rule would be like under a miniature man they voted for the man on the girls face--although they had not talked amongst themselves about it. so i unfolded the votes and wrote the tallys down, announcing that the pygmy man has won! at that very moment the girl began to cry. apparently it was not the first time her proboscis had be confused with an elf or dwarf like creature. we all began to laugh, loud and boisterous! we threw objects meant to harm--a good riot indeed. then as the tears trickled down that unfortunatly placed mountain, it began to move. with a flash of light appeared a miniature man.

Eli, let me read you a reading from the book of Jonas, my first novel:


"they say divorcing the soul from its home makes us fully something else

i say damn you. masochism is the cornerstone of peace.

so trickle across, over, and all the listless prepositions from A life to B.

or consecrate.


they say that very vile thing is, as if yellow, brushes upon your window, the corner of fine clay and hardened concrete, such a selfish thing.

oh,
the great virtue it is not. Ayn could, for all its fondness, only realize the irenic bounty that presents itself through spite

laughter. that is quite laudable at such a sly, machinating creature. spread your yellow hither and tither in the breeze.

so it carries the sound too.

and so the last belongs to me.
"victory! victory!" they'll scream, albeit vicariously, i am Caesar. indeed."

"now, eli what say you? is it not well crafted prose?" i said

"No, it is not. i am terribly sorry. who in their right mind would follow this?" replied eli.

then i said," eli it is because you can think. let me tell you how i got the idea,
it was once because of C10H12N2O that the dreams were nearly always lucid. some cocktail of a most undesirable combination of nonplus consonants and primes, and the cursed vowel that brings me constant affliction. then i thought, why not make use of this. and i did, i decided i shall rule the world. after i gain immense popularity by way of mediocrity ill supplant the ruler from power but be very humble and very amiable. yes, as i think of it now they'll say "granted, but you are Caesar! Now you are death destroyer of worlds!"

ill say,
"lowly imbeciles, lowly, inane, servile, amenable, insufferable subjects, do me not the pleasure of self-aggrandizement, for i will always be the great, but do indulge me, call me jonas"

they will say
"oh, the illumined one speaks! we must now do away with our foolish routines of idiocy and submit to the all knowing guidance!"

i will then, lean back in a sinister pose, smug in my newly endowed power, and display a sheepish, coy, smile. one that masks the villainy beneath.

i shall say,

"morons of misfortune! hear me, i implore you, give me not your riches but your animals, for i wish to A. create a zoo so that we may observe and mock them and B. have a feast!"

the polity will of course submit to my wishes for they are far to incompetent to realize the implications of these to very appealing actions. who does not like to mock animals both human and not. let them lay hands on the miscreants of society and observe them in cages, let them observe the animals too. really, there are never any humans at a real zoo. under my rule there will be.

but then my cabinet, my court of hand-picked jesters will come to me and say.

"hail sir caesar jonas the first, ruler of all that is know to us men of the fourth kingdom in the new new middle age, year 2220 of the common time, esquire, what say you about the economy! we simply cannot allow these boobs to up and leave the fields, what will sustain us?!"

to which i will most artfully respond
"well my little child, what did you think the zoo was for? just looking at animals? it creates employment! we must deliver ourselves from this economic recession!! we must! this, my little foolish waterlily is the way, the divine, the enlightened way to do it! entrust your worry little head to me, think no more--for i know you are barely capable at your finest."

they will talk amongst themselves in awe muttering things such as
"this is no man! he is from the heavens!" and "how can one man fit such an enlightened brain in one human head! oh, thank the gods!! a multitude of thanks!"

then they will say,
"you are most wise! we should perform a sacrifice!"

for those lacking mental faculties it is a common trend in history that they slaughter an innocent for the purpose of jubilation. euphoria triggers a primordial impulse to kill in their felicitous frenzy. but i have yet to disclose my true intentions.

you see, i figured the fools who are quite infatuated with the whore that is immediate gratification, would most undoubtedly pick me their king for i give them what they want, i permit and provide debauchery, i win their undisciplined, weak, terribly childish and foolish little hearts so easily.

then they will say, "oh hail sir caesar jonas the first , ruler of all that is know to us men of the fourth kingdom in the new new middle age, year 2220 of the common time, esquire, my liege!!! we have no more flesh to feast upon, no more animals in the zoo! the women are tired of fornication, as are the men. we are wallowing in our own misery for our appetites are overly satiated. look what you have done!"

i will say,
"No you bumbling fools! look not what i have done, look what you have done!!! look what these bastardy court members, the yellows, have done, look what the yellows have done! they have infiltrated our security, our sanctity, violated our solidarity as a people, raped you of your dignity, literally and figuratively, we must wage war!yes! war! to make them admit their criminal villainy, make the pay for their wretched, vile, ways! they have imprisoned me making me do what not is best as one man sees it but what the collective of this hierarchically loftier class wills. give them liberty my friends, GIVE THEM DEATH!"

cheering will ensure. i assure you. massive demonstrations, riotous in nature will take place. oh how i will be content, bubbling with enthusiasm and joy! do you feel it too? the roar of millions invigorating your blood! each voice a contract of consent, willing do to anything for you. that is glory.

which brings me to my next point: people also in grave disparity want to sacrifice things. it is the way of history. so the primordial trigger is loosed once again, and blood is let. you say to me, "this is madness, you have a uncontrollable mass on your hands!" but i do not. they love me. ill tell you what happens next.

the court will say,
"but oh hail sir caesar jonas the first , ruler of all that is know to us men of the fourth kingdom in the new new middle age, year 2220 of the common time, esquire, my liege!!! why have you told the people it is us, your very most loyal servants, slaves to your glory, why have you blamed this misfortune on us!! it was you who told us all to do it!"

i will look at them and smile fondly.
"my children, for all your desirable characteristics as stooges, you lack any semblance of intelligence. for this i am grateful, most grateful in fact. but some sacrifices must be made for the greater good and the greatest good, that being my agenda. so i am sorry to see you off this way. it must be done, really. so off you go". and i will push them out the great gates to the threshold of my fortress. which i think shall look like a elegant chateau--barricaded with all the medieval and modern amenities of course.

they will look at each other and hold close, embracing the last moments together. they will not resist. i fear they are so damned stupid that they will go willingly.

the populous will dismember them. we will all laugh and make merriment. it shall be a festival! more of what they so love. and then they will look to me and say:
"oh hail sir caesar jonas the first , ruler of all that is know to us men of the fourth kingdom in the new new middle age, year 2220 of the common time, esquire, my liege! what now?" with the blood still moist dripping from their chops and staining their clothes, still blood thirsty, servile, and stupid as can be. i will dress in ragged attire and smear pigs blood on me, then i will walk out to the balcony from my strong hold and i will say

"people, people! my little infantile mass of daffodils. you pretty little cretins! we have killed the enemy within, but what of the enemies outside our quaint country?! the yellows are growing very, very fast in number, wanting to take more from you! we must push on! we must be warriors strong and true!"

they will all cheer once again. oh glory is so fine.

then we will wage war on the unsuspecting virgins of the world, those clam peaceful fools who suspect we are tacitly holding hands. oh i will be, just that it shall be dislocated from its limb!

after attaining all the spoils of war and conquering all the world i will gather them at my feet and say to them from my balcony,
"you dimwitted simpletons, i your ruler have led you to glory, no?"
they shout a collective "yea!"

ill say "i have had my scientists work on an elixir of happiness!"
they will should a collective, "hoorah!!"

ill continue on saying, "in one weeks time ill designate a number of toadstools, the best, and brightest, most loyal, most acceptable specimens of what it is to be a dolt to take it! that is all" ill dismiss them.

they will cheer at first then start to fight amongst themselves for who is most worthy.

the sedentary journey abates. vivid contortions of the page. a thoroughfare. bracing, harsh and vile white stitches, elongated binaries folding under and over, over and under again. alas the subtle variable, the staccato of an ocular crescendo. and so it goes. down. to.

say.

as if it were
the black tongue.


the contemptuous black mouth.
the
egregious,
selfish plunder.

pierced with silver and steel.

for i have longed for a love like a movie.
like a film.
a complex creature.

beautiful confusion.
so that we may exist in such a suspended common ground that perfection may blossom. two. complements. complementary. but i cannot remember.

remember the words from the leaflet.

i cannot remember who it was that said
i am you.

for how long was it that i have forgotten the contours of my face but the hermit below had long been gone. so what remains but the deep black mouth and hot air.

do what makes you love the world a little more each day when you stop. let the leaves settle where they will and cover the overturned ground because some doors need to be closed by themselves. i must convince myself of this. also, i must convince myself that i can close doors i know i dont want. being simply afraid is simply foolish. be afraid of being foolish and you will be simple.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Fondness makes the absence longer
Length loses my interest
I'm a realist, I'm insatiable

death's riding your shoes, looks a lot like you breaking down, just trading space to follow you around. im waiting for you to meet me in the middle, got a lot of living to do before i can see the world with my head hanging around,

Ayn Hathaway was by fascination a demigoddess. eli had not the slightest inclination as to whether she was even aware to his presence most days. though the ephemeral locking of eyes was enough to bring about blue skies, even on a day like today when it seemed as if all the happiness was somehow stuck behind the inverted turbulent, chantey seas, because he was human then.
" i am sorry i just need the ocean in a shell, the white noises, to be the ambient sound wherever i go or i will forget everything" he would say.

there's gonna come a time when the scene'll seem less sunny
it'll probably get druggy and the kids'll seem to skinny
there's gonna come a time when shes gonna have to go
with whoevers gonna get her the highest

-the hold steady

im selling out though ive never picked up the pen, i still feel cheap but i still like it when i pretend, oh damn the drinks seem weaker im shakier too, i guess im your old crutch a charlatan. yeah i just wanna stay high one way or another i can deal with whatever seems normal. when i was little i used to listen to music and think that would be me someday under that gilded sun id be filling their veins with another kind of medicine, yeah i cut off my hands because theyre making me sin, yeah i gauged my eyes too because i kept seeing it too that lucid vision call it a joke call it a dream i guess, im coming to grips with how time makes things move you had better too or youll get pretty sick pretty sick of thinking about it and youll pacify with even more poison truth, yeah ive got a lot of learning. well the streets seem younger and the nights seem shorter i feel sick and im pretty scared. i havent found any girl that id hold close and whisper in her ear, "hey i think youre pretty fine, i think were pretty fine i guess, i was wondering if youd want to keep living together at least until we die, cause i could be a little more than a charlatan" i think ive said that before. then she'd say "were so beautiful, were doomed. i love you too". yeah i guess were all called to be holy. i saw her walk across a concrete walkway eying me quite coy, i was eying her too, yeah i saw her walk from the communion line on sunday, i was eying her, quite coy, she was eying me too. and when fate seems to damn heavy to be sharing hints and allegations i think im pretty sad, pretty sad until i get to meet her and ask for her name. then things would work out like wed want them to but im still waiting for that day.

covered in candied midnight swollen with inquisition, with discovery. the only open window lets the cross currents bellow in. the drapes awake, animate in the stale, pallid nocturnal nightlights--a dress without her body. rotted wood, waterlogged, split by indifference, by time bedecks the floor. a quiet discomfort. rumble low. the ocean moans and curses itself outside it fights her light to swallow the sand.

obscurity.

it is the tapping the horse's heart. hypodermic needle presses deep, con-caving tissue and slowly disappears to extract:

.august mornings
.gilded sun rise
.petrichor
.the natural symphony


blue skies are calling. but i know that they wont last.

blue skies are calling.

but i know they wont.

last.

alas, i will do:

anything

to become happy

we sit, a black bird line.
hollow eyes, skin aglow.
inapt otherwise--
but
communion comes with the ground.

the great divide lies in the red sky,
oh

and the deep blue-- still violet combined.

under a street light,
burning our cowed rejection
in the

sallow, supple ground.

oh i felt the wind this night,
it carries on,
carried the fresh arrest--the kill; a potpourri of iron and wine.
living is fine, its fine i guess,

i might as well.

oh and the church bells,
august angst,
boiled over crystal wells of blue eyes,
my heart beat mirrors the cascading fountain swells, and
i know that this might, this might be pretend.

we settled the same fate, oh honesty can beware.
we trudged through the same place, the same place sunshine carries in the air.
we settled the same fate, the same face, the expressions that they wear.

oh salvable twilight!
your pitch in the dusk is smothering, smothering sound.
that you just might lean into the currents and start to follow me,
follow me down

as we sit on a black bird line
with hollow eyes, skin aglow,
perhaps inapt otherwise
but beneath a red sky
we're a
pallid light, a pallid light
for now,
we're beautiful
tonight,
we're
doomed,
yet fair lady you found out,

we're nothing
but


confused.

words are the medicine. they are the drug that inflates the black balloon. i have walked a mile in the shoes of normative success and have realized i am only poorer. the length it takes a man to see what he truly desires is a hell not worth facing. what are the braces that must fall to the wayside before i can flow freely, before i can let creativity flow from my wounded head. i put myself in stressful situations. who will stop the rain. black sands and an evil plan. i am just waiting for some southern bell to save me from myself. or help me save myself. i dont know who anyone is these days

not me.
not
me.

i am a stranger to everthing.

the sedentary journey abates. vivid contortions of the page. a thoroughfare. bracing, harsh and vile white stitches, elongated binaries folding under and over, over and under again. alas the subtle variable, the staccato of an ocular crescendo. and so it goes. down. to.

say.

as if it were
the black tongue.


the contemptuous black mouth.
the
egregious,
selfish plunder.

pierced with silver and steel.

for i have longed for a love like a movie.
like a film.
a complex creature.

beautiful confusion.
so that we may exist in such a suspended common ground that perfection may blossom. two. complements. complementary. but i cannot remember.

remember the words from the leaflet.

i cannot remember who it was that said
i am you.

for how long was it that i have forgotten the contours of my face but the hermit below had long been gone. so what remains but the deep black mouth and hot air.

"truthfully distasteful!" the words rolled off Mrs. Reichenbaum's tongue with lissome bliss. "the bastards are out toting some new found debauchery as if it were Jesus on a tree again. Oh Lord, deliver them they know not what they do!" she said in a trebling and disquieted voice.

dont take it so seriously isabelle. honestly, if i must ill indulge to condemn your ever so fervent condemnation to just living. its cause you fear the ground. you fear your bottom sores will swallow you whole." Peter recanted. Peter was a rogue visionary off at war with his alter ego and the chemicals young men run into at 17. the ever increasing concentration of testosterone and the regimen of recreational drugs. spurious was all conversation. he feared only arthur.

"Damnit Peter, cant you see she's having an episode. learn to bite your tongue or bite it off all together. can you spare us a sliver of etiquette just this once. just this once!" Arthur reproached.

the Reichenbaums were a terribly curious family, dwelling often on the fringes of lunacy, walking the precarious line of the outersouth. but it was that foreign texture that made them the indelible collective darling to detest. for they were a crapulous cabal of sheer ingenuity, Arthur a pioneering neurosurgeon, and Isabelle a eminent avant-garde artist. Who should think their children would not be abhorred for their battery of finely balanced genes--a thing to die for.

got no where to go kill my care. got no one to say they know someone just like me got the same problems. becoming insane. please do not debase yourself this time i say. keep the sanity. keep one thing close. enough to remind you that you are here, its now. say it so. you dont want to be that talking head. that fool who has a personality he learned from tv.

"i havent thought of killing myself in 4 months" newt confessed with a disinterested tone. Margot turned from looking out the bay windows in Mr. Weatherborne's study.

"Newt, frankly i dont give a damn. You've become a self-invented complex shit storm of tangled sentiments and blood thirsty veins always jumping off cliffs with passing feelings." margot said.

"the only reason you say that is because you dont want to take the time to delve into things any deeper than the face value. am i right?" replied newt

"ignorance is bliss. we're all dead anyway newt, why not tempt it?" margot recanted.

"bliss is ignorance. its that hell that swells inside that wont stay down. dont patronize me. you think im just as well?"

"no, you havent killed whats inside you cant kill it, it swallows all the light. get drunk, get fucked, shoot up, living inbetween shaking hands thats why the heroin and pot pacify.


"at least i have come to grips with my own mortality"

Margot spoke with a vexed inflection. The air remained static. Two words. Quiet. An august angst. Eli stared back into the vacancy of space. The portrait had been filled once with a dire want, an impressing culture of immediacy. It was the legion hungry ghosts--all friends once, all united by death, all shaking cold corpses inside—they were the most alive. The grotesques flaunt an uncivil sharing of misery in shameful waltzes in shameful discourse. It’s the shame that runs wintry, upsetting the skies, upsetting the face. They swallow the dark then throw it back up on the floor. A kind of influenza. It’s a flu but they mean the spreading of shallow living--the façade you subscribe to margot says. I suppose conjoining was the mistake. Yes now that I think of it, that was it—it must have been. We killed our selves. We kid ourselves too. Convinced there was a future in the fucking. There is but only for those who go through hell to get here—because they could debase themselves, because they could gag themselves and bite the bullet. Candid confessions of an immortal beloved: there is no fucking future. They say. Because self-loathing is the paradox. Selfish holes. Hungry ghosts. Whisper conceit. Indeed the jealous lungs endure through larceny and all things base. Divorced from the normalcy heaven provides. Indeed. Indeed. They speak with tongues of French in English, of Russian proverbs, of self-deprecation of an altruistic death. I get it now. Okay, I get it now. Its because of the spiders and lemmings I became king. I get it now, okay.

Okay, oh well.

Margot wore a look disappointment, of regret, of denigration.

But I get it now. I would say. She said it too. We shared only our time then. Now I see we shared more. I do not exist, she does not either. It’s the same but the façade is different now. Maybe it is inflection now. The air isn't static like it used to be. Two words. Quiet comfort. I wrote that. Because I finally gave up everything. she did too. Because with nothing you want the world. Because with nothing you have everything. she did too. Because they are exactly the same. I learned that once from life. from sanctity. From heaven.

“Margot, I got you something today” said Newt revealing a supine palm cradling a pink rounded package the size of a soft ball. Margot looked up from reading the newspaper.
“Its not for me is it?”she said.
“I don’t know, maybe it was. You seem to be an extended being these days.” Newt retorted.
“yeah, cause I am a demigoddess or something right? She said.

She said that.

She said,

Laudable laughter conformed to the silence. It folded in between the air. Quiet. There was no exchange then, just the movement of a hand. Mouths formed speechless words there was no oxygen. Larceny. Lungs. Life.

Its almost criminal

I am sick with influenza. I was too.

i do not want forget that i hate myself. everyday i am reminded of my self loathing. it is better for me to disassemble myself and rebuild the correct way. i forgot what it meant to be human for 2 years. looking back it was hell i almost did not survive myself numerous times. but my heart is stubborn and beats me to near death and to death one day, my lungs are hungry and selfish, bottomless wells consuming oxygen with no regard for me they say i should endure. for what. i asked for death. and it would not come. so i wait. something must be done. i see people's lives pinnacle around me then after acquaintance they fall slowly away. for i took what it was to be learned. so i wait. half convinced of the felicity that worries are far from my head. partly convinced by the torment that they will swallow me in my sleep. partly convinced by the people who care that i am worth something. partly convinced that if there is love i will let it stay hidden because my heat beats me so, my lungs are too hungry. still i do not live for my own sake any longer. yet i must subscribe that i do so i can endure. i cannot exist. i must not. yet i do. then can it be seen. the heart of love that is selfish too. it requires a disregard. one that is willfully given and given in a receiving manner. for then can you understand what it is that makes humanity so wondrous. only from with the ascension from the gates of ends could i see it so. the action is the same but your soul decides how it is to be precieved. i will wait for______.

the limbs splayed. graceful. subtle pulchritude. amour-propre coiled in rouge flesh. sanguine and lewd and alive with depravity. must we acknowledge the ghost beneath. the hungry ghosts. it is so. so it is. a


conquest of reason.


to stave off the self-effacing panoply of august--the facade. assured self assurance.

is self medication to any other unhinged. the sheets you wear too realize what is below.


they ask 'are the excursions pleasent, enjoyable'

are the recursions mundane?

is life so.

vest in me the self vested. do they say so.


imaginings.


current.
foreboding.
a history of hell.

shall i be honest. shall i spill on the canvas my absolute insipidity. infinite i. 6.2 billion and 1 potentialities. shall all remain so?

as far as certainty is concerned. affections are better loosed and not returned. so humanity seems to be so. should i find ever a love as beautiful as her. it is the damned occupancy. so learn me patience. it is so. recursions. excursions. the facade. building walls with brittle bones. through the sun

i do not exist.

i remember the breaths were painfully cyclical, pale white tundra tuned to the solemn ebb and flow of the tides in officer's bay. something was arbitrary still. some fickle inclination seemed to surge then recede . i didnt know it then, i didnt know what it was that was different with each expired second, minuet, hour. it was will. the will to live, or die or exist in an incapacitated state for eternity. it was a joke. Emily said it was a gift. i couldnt see it so.

the ebb and flow of felicity is marginalized. is cyclical. is inextricably bound to the extremes. give me potentiality. i am a faux human. i am living below. damn the statue in the fountain. knowing what is well for yourself is a cross. but you only know it because the damn white collars and the history of laughable martyrs printed on cotton. we kill. we breathe. we kill. we believe in future. but only one of killing and breathing. insatiable. the daunting heartless. mockery. become the blasphemous bastard you swore you would disembowel at first chance but a decade and a half ago, even more recent. you are living squalor. and wondering why you have not the courage to indulge yourself to. yes. call it so. make it so. it is death that puts your perspective on. it is the death that makes you do. they say "we kid ourselves that there's future in the fucking, but there's no fucking future" because of what the white collar and prude priggish overly principled talking heads propose it so. the grotesques. but so the dead dance with the dead. let me indulge myself. it is only until artificial walls condemn you to the flightless spring do you commence self infliction, self freedom, self discovery, self for self sake. what was it jaundiced flesh? open wounds talk back again, some ritual contrition. i want it. but yet because of those principles you decide to abstain. bastard. fool. hypocrite. the alcohol served well. the tobacco lit right. the psychedelics you want. the future you desire. yes wait. for what? for your own hell to suddenly explode? to suddenly say you have endured death, let this one live? damn. the gates of ends. for it ends there. i have not thought since the great depression of 2005-2009. really until 2008. i am to waste all the time spent with the devil. all the time spent with heaven. am i? get drunk, get high, become alive. i have a problem. nothing is ok. nothing stays the same. on any given holiday i may escape. so shine on me. porcupine quills will make an inkwell of your arms, supine palms poised and needy coaxing the risen Son, He dont seem to come. no one cares for debauchery here. no one wants to get their feet wet with life. no one wants to kill themselves little by little willingly. they are cowards, fools. they let time do it. because the suppose they are killing time. laudable laughter newton briggs knows it so. and so it is. i recline to my similar state. yes. what is it? said netwon in response to the curiously unbalanced staccto of knocks and fist pounds on the door of number 113 E. State Avenue Billington Haus Apts. "Newt!? wake up?, Dammnit you fucking prick, its me Eli" "eli what the devil? its 4 in the morning". "yeah, i know, hey i need my camel hair blazer back--the one Margot let you borrow. i am leaving" "where are you going? its a sunday, no one travels on sunday...youre drunk, you bastard you are drunk?" "no, i am just goingt o go now, i can catch the 5 o'clock ferry if i leave now so please, newt, jsut give me the blazer". "damnit all, one moment." newt replied walking back into the receding hallway then turning in to a bedroom".

the dualist, resurfaces. vomit. a sea of it. churning inside a bag of organs. vesicles. the disconnect is the fall. its time for a suicide. frankly who gives a damn, where damn is needed to be given. damn you too. damn. addictive personalities personified in the slight labored assumption, the notice has been escaping through those pinholes. the silver is collecting. shedding winged things. wicked things, shedding aseasonal garments. sentient again. come back to being. the shadows grow too. yellow walks the sidewalks warming windows. graced by the epitome of indulgence. the hollow souls. holes, holes holes holes, holes. we dig them too, all the deeper. for but sport and derivative happiness. which is only ammunition. so. holes, holes holes holes, holes. dadism too. circles.

esoteric imaginings. beyond. deep and blue. curtained as if to portray the proposition. the proposition of what. lissome flames: the inquisition. say "give me your eyes". you are but offered the heart of a blackbird. so whisper still. communal mutterings of a gloved cabal. the alpine white coverings like an epaulet built on the backs of those who cannot think worn by those who do but cannot work. laudable laughter the same. remembering the hungry ghosts.

the color yellow. rusted lands. neutral earth. the wheat browns. ripe and it smells like the death of a day. an altruistic death so that you can survive and multiply. multiply what. your gray. your yellow. your rain. your daylight. hands. plenty of them. pose that same paradox. the hungry ghosts want company. the midwest winds sweeping low. thunder too. sweet smell of the earth inhaling. swallows you whole. swallows me. settle for a midnight elixir. lemon eyes, cold and kind. still brings about that antiquated smell and sound. your blood runs to that harmony then. remembering the hard, hard times in the bad, bad lands. in the midwestern gale. ill stay a good man. stay, just stay. the color yellow. swelling dark. remembering.

chemicals that swap eyes keep me alive, i'll find you between the brass and wood again. sing me a new song, trading hands in the big black nothing, oh once again its to the street gonna heal everything nursing age old calamities and some indiana breeze gone right through me taking everything but the gray skies and greif of the undone, so do it son. chemicals that swap eyes burn your insides, ill find you between the amber sea and quarter kiss, finding a new song, living along with the big black nothing, oh once again the streets gonna heal everything, nursing age old calamities in the indiana sun, so just run, run run. oh run. beautiful confusion. they'll say "damn you son." so what.

rueful disaster, foreshadowed statues, apportioned applause, their sallow palms on some mentioning of cockeyed calemy, of top hat etiquette brandished by, still brandishing covered hands fit for the rain, smile son here comes the rain. hands birthed by the land, deep furrows, crested with human and earth--sweat and grime and so the chimera is born the laudable laughter pent within a collective gut--a union of holes. the holes unite. spite esoteric to the covered hands. the damn feeble structure. it is not envy it is a union of holes, sons and dauthers of hungry ghosts. i am the hunter's son.

spent a short life chasing chemicals living like sifting sand, always collecting that part of you that keeps falling out the back. wish i saw all the rust as gold, ive seen it grow on whatever the rain can get ahold of--what ever you choose to show. pacified by a hollowed bombshell, drifting doctored ice melt found my way to the promised land, saying we all share a soul, union of hapless criminals. its a terrible waste, its a aweful shame, two weeks portioned into days, aint it wonderful.

dumb words


I got a head churning poison and heart that won't wake, my knees should be brusied cause today my heads on straight, but I can't feel it at all, you don’t feel nothing till the fall, it gets you scared really fucking scared makes you believe in anything screaming there aint no dreams between you and me, just this fist pumping blood and ink, surging streams, tightrope scenes and shallow breathing but I am alive I am human for a while when I cry. And when I smile I'm not real just plastered clay and paper made into to what they want to see, a statue who is everything I'm supposed to be, but I can't feel it all, you don’t feel nothing till the fall it gets you scared really fucking scared makes you believe in anything screaming there aint no dreams between you and me, just the fist pumping blood and ink, surging streams, tightrope scenes and shallow breathing but I am alive I am human for a while when I cry. When I'm not alright.

the cold comfort of the in between. a little less than a human being. a little more than a happy high, a little like a suicide. the only thing that i ever tried. this is not mylife;.

im not alive. but i am close.
linen drawn to the earth's skin, pouring from the cracks who is blind, hungry like a ghost, who is blind. shade the shadows to open up. to see your eyes. inside, the world is no wider than your hatred of eachother so give me your eyes, i need sunshine. give me your eyes, your bones, your blood, your voice, and your ghost. i am not alive but i am close.

hung from twine anchored at the tips of fingers, filling patches in the lawnmultip,e falls multiple flaws such filth will gauge my eyes. such treason to salt my eyes. forgive what is forgiven.gravity wins my loyalty if anything will. such faith says good bye.

Faces born for war, hearts made for love. armed with the confidence conjured from a conscious conceit, a careful cross-examination consuming the clock. but I held that mirror! so Winning her a lost cause, With your eyes, your bones. I got water, I got holes. so human. human now.Walking the tiffany walls, yellow. The synonymous concept. Infirmed. Yet Caustic, The applause was; from calloused palms. Sweet talk, that drags you along, along for 3 silver suns and darkened rooms. Doesn’t seem that meaningful. Redlights and midnight, amber amber sea, empire sea, empires away, everything gets cross out and burried sparing sweet talk to drag you along; along alone. With your eyes your bones, I see holes, I see ghosts with parts of gold. I got water, I got holes. Human now.

i got water

i got holes.


its the easiest way.

son of a hungry ghost.

its a cure.

i aint quite the beauty.


but i've got a palm. open.

closed its a fist.

build another world.

give me your eyes, i need sunshine.

build another world.

new plans.

i've got a palm. occupied with hungry ghosts.

hey kid so you got a kind of problem, one that just cant be relieved
but she's an ember slowly burning down this suicide machine
saying
dont go down, dont go down baby

but this light bulb's been a long time breaking, time to darken everything

she's a paperhanger cashing bad on you once again

ill go down, ill go down baby


but if i stay calm, stay confused, oh will i still be beautiful then to you?
if i stay calm and stay confused will i stay beautiful to you?


so you think you can take whatever it is you want, well dont mind me, i didnt mean that much. she's a paperhanger cashing bad love guess he's just another carnival attraction to that suicide machine

dont go down, dont go down baby

but if i stay calm and look confused, will i be beautiful to you?
if i stay calm, stay confused, will i stay beautiful to you?

no one deserves this

d.a.t.h.l bad news.

On some mentioning of thoughts and of mid-twenties tangent plots
Those sad feathery talks that float on all that
Tattered teenage applause clapped out further with no pause
On collegiate palms of course their hands so soft

Ancient postures of awe for low level modern shocks
Now happening a lot like like any synaptic
Cavalry's typical barrage on your tired soul
You cannot shrug it off, just start your inconsequential white withdrawal it's

Bad news for you, haven't felt this way in a long time
Haven't felt this way in a long time
Bad news for you, haven't felt this way in a long time
Haven't felt this way in a long time

Cautious sticks stuck in fictitious craws capsized on your chatty shores
Half dead, half seem worse yet you still keep talking
[ Dear And The Headlights Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
In between coughing fits and soon to be Heimliched bits
Of ideas which you could not yet digest

Put that rag to your face, lay down that's a better pace
go back to cliches like "I should kill myself" or "I should lose some weight"
I'm sure either way you'd feel just the very same
Quiet now someone's coming

Bad news for you, haven't felt this way in a long time
Haven't felt this way in a long time
Bad news for you, haven't felt this way in a long time
Haven't felt this way in a long time
Bad news for you
Haven't felt this way in a long time
Haven't felt this way in a long time

hey so you got the kind of problem that just cant be relieved
theres an ember slowly burning down this suicide machine

dont go down, dont go down

and then youre done losing count of reasons
to go bury everything

i know this heart's soon to expire,
heard you're tired of waiting

dont go down, dont go down

just stay calm look confused
just stay small stay in use
in the lost and found
now am i beautiful to you?

hey so you got the kind of problem, i just cant relieve
there's an ember slowly burning down this suicide machine

ill go down, dont go down

just stay calm stay confused
am i beautiful to you?

dont go down you stop simper then start
cause you'll slowly drown if you keep chasing those stars

dont go down, just stay where you are
cause youll slowly drown if you keep chasing those stars

Guess ill become tomorrow today, I’ll drift easy down any alleyway, sedated to kill my sober self, she joined the cavalcade stained glass eyes, the hollow hearts of sycophants feigning as someone that you could care about.



And you let her go, make her move, well she is still beautiful to you, but she’s all through cause she’s gone and made a fool out of you.





This here is a one ghost town I don’t need you around to abuse this boy in blue’s first time at holding hands with some pretty girl. Guess She saw my virgin eyes thought it was a second chance heal, then turned away right back to the starting line to settle for the fawning asshole’s thrill. Did you know, i was in love with what was below that was beautiful to me. well you can't buy what is free, are you the fool you made of me? Are you the fool you made of me.



so I guess I’ll see you later, see you later if I see you at all. I once buried in you my love beneath the stars. C.c.r.



Guess I’ll become tomorrow today, seen you happy between the bars with your other-selves, floating away, getting carried away, carried away, again. See you later, I still tell myself.

there is a quiet comfort found in knowing how weak and vulnerable we are. so i conceded caring for what i want. following.

in this cup i found a fountain. overflowing grace and beauty. our closeness substance; our essence near and far. i walk always steady on uneven ground. how can i ever show You anything as beautiful as You?

e.s fond farewell:
The litebrite's now black and white
Cause you took apart a picture that wasn't right
Pitch burning on a shining sheet
The only maker that you'd want to meet
The dying man in a living room
Who's shadow paces the floor
Who'll take you out in the open door
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
He said really I just wanna dance
Good and evil matched perfect it's a great romance
I can deal with some physic pain
If it'll slow down my higher brain
Veins full of disappearing ink
Vomiting in the kitchen sink
Disconnecting from the missing link
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
I see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend

twilight.

redtape croquet. laudable laughter. the quintessence of all that remains jaded through the vines of irony endowed by good faith, good faith in humanity, humanity shining through brilliance, brilliance the morning light, the morning light, her eyes. myopic miniatures, the backwashed light from a distant conflagration, her pulchritude the faithful bandage wrapped around a wounded head. for what is loyalty if it remains loyal only to itself, surely rocking chairs are common criminals of convenience, the sin of omission i remain. ever waiting. window watchers. ancient proverbs. the scarlet flush worn is the same, but the words, and movements are what make it unsanctified. was it the gesture what betrayed the starlings celebratory song to that of despair? the notes remain the same, yet its genesis mired by the unreciprocated resolution of the sunrise. still i remain daunted by a prospective tie, wane heartless ghost. without time she would remain the same rising and setting shining now only a dim reflection of what would become. the ambiguous potential for effulgence or darkness. i suppose it is all laudable laughter. objectified. mechanical laughter. mechanical existence. scorch. burn. scorch. burn. swallowing the ashen remains. Still a fool. Still loyal. the brevity it takes to fall. repeat. repeating. repetition. repetitious revolutions of redtape croquet. well wishing thereafter. c.r.

twilight.

redtape croquet. laudable laughter. the quintessence of all that remains jaded through the vines of irony endowed by good faith, good faith in humanity, humanity shining through brilliance, brilliance the morning light, the morning light, her eyes. myopic miniatures, the backwashed light from a distant conflagration, her pulchritude the faithful bandage wrapped around a wounded head. for what is loyalty if it remains loyal only to itself, surely rocking chairs are common criminals of convenience, the sin of omission i remain. ever waiting. window watchers. ancient proverbs. the scarlet flush worn is the same, but the words, and movements are what make it unsanctified. was it the gesture what betrayed the starlings celebratory song to that of despair? the notes remain the same, yet its genesis mired by the unreciprocated resolution of the sunrise. still i remain daunted by a prospective tie, wane heatless ghost. without time she would remain the same rising and setting shining now only a dim reflection of what would become. the ambiguous potential for effulgence or darkness. i suppose it is all laudable laughter. objectified. mechanical laughter. mechanical existence. scorch. burn. scorch. burn. swallowing the ashen remains. Still a fool. Still loyal. the brevity it takes to fall. repeat. repeating. repetition. repetitious revolutions of redtape croquet. well wishing thereafter. c.r.

time heals everything that it makes more beatiful

brilliance brought me from the fallout of a small life spent in the basement on the circle--forgetting what was human. she waited in line. and still there is so much dark in the light today. the paradox of the flame. casting long shadows. watch mine grow in the dusk light. hearing the ghost say, too selfish to really live, thats about right kid, let me down easy, cause i'm bad news. so keep me close. stay away a while, amnesia treat me well. i just want to stay that way. floating in a black balloon. or in between bars. cause it took a long time to stand, it took an hour to fall. and now i havent wanted to laugh hard in a long time. "better stop now before i start crying". made a fool for staying loyal to some girl who liked playing games, sticking pins in this miniature man who couldn't feel it all. still i cant say see you later, if i see you at all.



dont go down.

its not just the sun that makes the flowers bloom, its the dark and the rain that helps them grow.


i am rediscovering methods of confusion. its the paradoxical discord of believing something because you are told to versus believing in something because you have emotional/life experience to substantiate your beliefs. its the red queen again. you can never get anywhere being complacent. self-medicating with music, with words, with writing, with running physically and metaphorically, with chemicals only gets you thinking that those are the only little parts of you life you can hold together. i used to think about death a lot. i think you cannot embrace what is presented--the potential within every moment, every breath, and how it is a gift, if you dont look long and hard at death. it changes you though. perhaps it is an inherited sadness or rather a nurtured depression that has made me who i am. the only quiet is temporary found in between the despondent works of elliott smith and my own. i discovered aquinas's treatise on happiness on my own before i read it. i discovered the philosphpical underpinnings to more of his works before i read them. what does that make me? someone who contemplated death as much as he did. i suppose you can think that we are born to die, and living is just that, dying. every breath is like filling your lungs with one last satisfying chest full of air. or you can view it as an attempt to perfect one human soul and the world as best you can to hope heaven stays close so when you reach out at death they are close enough to pull you through. "you dont deserve to be lonely". i suppose its cause i am selfish, something must always bother me and keep me from myself. but we should strive to not exist. if anything has prodded me along in my faith it has been aaron weiss. i suppose it is the ambiguity of his screaming and poetic genius that has tapped something inside my chest to want to live as a radical Christian as well. and i wonder why i do not. i gyrate. and end up back in another circle of confusion. hoping things work out. i suppose its because i think do not know how God wants me to live in every situation that presents itself to me. am i too selfish to want anything for myself. like a career or anything. i abandoned everything. and nothing but the still quiet suffering emerged and stayed with me. and the reoccurring theme that finds me is music even when i do not seek it out. i suppose that was a cry for help and maybe a hope to change something other than myself. words are meaningless. i suppose it is the action that matters. maybe i am meant to be alone. i suppose i will just wait now. wait and float on what i can. "shine on me, baby cause its raining, in my heart" i do not exist. i faithfully insist. sailing in our separate ships and in each tiny caravel there is a tiring of trying, a necessary dieing, like a horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell, such distance from our friends, like a scratch across the lens, made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood, and our paper blew away before we left the bay, so half blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty woodCaught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,
And heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.
I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,
It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters.
The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves,
As there's mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun.
The cloth low on the mast, I say I got no past,
I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

The tarnish on my brass, the mildew on my glass-
I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me.
But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure,
And I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be!
I still tastes its kiss, that dull hook in my lip
Is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel.
To an anchor ever dropped, sea-sick yet still docked,
Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel.

Floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong,
We keep our confessions long, but when we pray we keep it short.
I drank a thimble full of fire,
I'm not ever coming back...
Oh, my God.

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,
While watching sink the heavy ship with everything we knew.
And if ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror.
Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!


i do not know what comes next i suppose i am just not yet to watching sink the heavy ship with everything i knew, not there yet again. maybe it swells with the next tide. the dull hook in my lip.

dead meat

there was an old gaunt man sitting at the corner of wellbrooks and jackson avenue at the coffee shop there. his dark brown and seamy skin hung like a over-sized canvas trench coat as he sat back in the wrot iron lawn chair eying the newspaper muttering the important headlines out loud. "Good sir" i said. No response. "Good sir, excuse me, tell me how do you do it? how do you continue to lumber on after there is nothing left". He looked up from his reading lowered the 99 cent polarized aviator sunglasses and said "by the cups of coffee". He was an idealist. I figured that most people have to reconcile their inadequacies one way or another--they have to legitimize their shameless attempt at life one way or another. i suppose i could do the same. it has been twenty one years and little hole cluttered with problems that i have to mourn over seems to be widening everyday. its when i look into myself that the self-destruction begins. the convoluted logics become that much more complex and confusing leading only to a reunion with the happy hollow of friendly ghosts and the basement on the circle i had called a home only but last year--i was hardly alive then. that was the year i stopped believing in God, i stopped believing in man, i stopped believing in anything. everyday was just a continuation of the somber saga that sapped motivation to even breathe from me. heaven seemed so close then. almost like it grows closer now. i suppose all the time i borrowed finds its way back to God anyhow. still it remains another summer with a blank slate of opportunity. i believe as i have written in the philosophy of spiders and lemmings that life spirals forward always coming back across the essential missed pieces to reintegrate them into our attempt at life. all the more we think we know in actuality we know quite little as the future spirals are ambiguous comprehensive permutations of the current one albeit with the potential to improve. music haunts me so. i fell for a girl this past spring. though the feelings are separated by an ocean and my incompetent brain. i suppose she doesnt know of my past--the one i am trying to forget. the 4 years of the basement on the circle. but tomorrow is a new day and a better opportunity to walk forward and command your fate. the past does not make you who you are, neither does the future both are only half certainties i suppose its who you are and what you do today that matters. the old man at the coffee shop knew that much, take each day every breath as a gift i suppose he would say, attempt life each day and just for that day with the future in mind but not controlling it. i suppose i am rediscovering what it is to be human again. though growing up i never understood it in the same way the old man did.

my world has just begun to shine within the light there is so much darkness and in that darkness so much light so gather sight seers, lets go down down to the river to pray.the awkward familiarity of the prodigal son. everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. isa ruhu-lah' alaihis-salat was-salam, nastagh-firuka ya Hakam, ya Dhal-Jalali wal-Ikram, Isa ruhu-lah' alaihis-salat was-salam, ya Halim, ya Quhhar, ya Muntaquim, ya Ghaffar! la Ilaha ilallahu, Allahu Akkbar! i am the fool. i suppose ill just stop running now.

I suppose I learned too slow, lifes about just letting go, sutured holes and keeping closed, the simper settled beneath two empty eyes doling out lessons in suffering in every red herring’s dive, the odd numbered train southbound to toward wayne left me staring wide eyed should have done like casey jones; smiled long breathed deep and just stayed inside cause the world I’ve seen through the mezzanine, don’t compare to the diamonds in her eyes, but she floats fickle and fierce with the windy city’s breeze, should have kept content staring at the rocks beneath my feet, but hell someday I’ll be free, moon's rising tomorrow, be good to me.

some words to soften the pillow i suppose.

it is the 20th at 11:23PM. the night is distilled into a single pitch black cell. the hush sound of a may evening is accompanied by the syncopation of nature's quiet symphony. i wait anxious in the apartment across the hall from the Haberdasher family--the vagrant cabal lead by matriarchal alcoholic and a qualmish husband. its been 5 years since i remembered how to be alive and now im just running from myself all the while trying to save what is left of me. Ayn once told me the both of us are always a note away from the great unknown, then i wasnt so sure as she is now. she says she cannot sleep away from home. i cant sleep at all these days. but thats ok i suppose. when i finally crash i sleep for days. damn the weather man on such a day.

destruction cures the empty soul. the rubble fills the gaping holes. so swallowed at the end of a sentence by the night. say you are not alive. i followed. the white gloves cover the anchored doubt. chains. iron. rust. steel. braided ropes. blue collar work. blue blood. poison. so mr. smith. i go the same. dynamics. vicissitudes. run. offer shoulders cold. self-effacing pity. laughable laughter. laudable exudation. lissome. all graced with fast paced suicides. the words roll fine. and i am in the vicious oppression of self circular once again. damn me for ever having taken a breath at birth. forgive me still. the common thief.

becoming alphred j. prufrock once again; oh the damning curiosity of fates dichotomous nature. the air is full this morning. the sky is still gray. i never would become the old corpse newton so fervently suggested. it was because of the midwestern lights. they all want the spirited frivolity of the sickened fools mind. damn me. have it. then they feel human. as i do. as i do not. no one can comprehend the absent pulse and sentient misnomer of being alive as i do. for to even contemplate the silencing of ones own life takes a mad man much trouble to dote on. so i dote. and in the end i decided if living is as inconsequential as death then the two are one in the same. and so i walked. they say chemicals precipitated from depression can kill a man. much like the willing atrophy of a spose that survives follows their loved one into the dark by simply rushing natural death. so i tried. and it beats stubbornly. then i concluded it must mean i am alive for some greater purpose. so i let live. i the fool. let me scare you away. let my looks charm you then my soul freightnen you to many sleepless nights. for that is what it seems i am. a nowhere man. damn the norms of formality. live as a bastard. live as a saint. live as you construct. the way you invent your own reality. so i do. and cured something of a hell. it seems laughable. so laugh. who i am matters but only as a supplement to your molehill of selfesteem and confidance. it is 3 in the morning and i have come nearly full circle. am i to pray now? goodnight vast void. treat me well.

maneuvering the vile and contemptuous brow, the condescending bigotry, fleeting verticals sapphire spindles marrying the midnight pirouette, interwoven potentialities all sublime all subordinate to the awkward trepidation handcuffed and bound like magnetic iron:indeed, averting the eyes is impossible.

Mr. Ritter is on the transistor speaking of her again:
"i got a girl in the war, her eyes are like champagne, sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain..."

damn the fickle fingers that pump and pound, contort and gracefully flaunt an endearing vicissitudes, permutations of a most reproachful ambiguity. slight implication of attraction, slight implication of repulsion, i want to see the words written out, spelled in a tongue on paper so that the words meld from dissolution to concrete solution. do not ever whisper when one can yell, you are denying the human inside. speak to me, for ears are mans way of distorting their hearts intention, it is the carcass to dissect deepwithin the heart and head, capping tautological logic and ends ends ends ends. does it matter i love? for it is merely innocence in the flesh. does it matter i think of the midwest queen when my eyes awake, surely she is aware i am between the bars. talk to me, queen.

the overt pulchritude of her finesse the domineering despondency that lies beneath is vanquished by the morning light, a love a sussurus of secretive honesty, i confess my hearts deepest vows to life to death, to a surplice of the modern man, make me music! make me love! make me human! have you found the gilded key newton briggs? for i fear a great sorrow is upon is, the death of man the demise of a modern paradox for, praytell the very hour at which you fell victim to the beauty of her intoxicating vigor. it was the very day that i realized when i did not talk to her i was so utterly composed to destruction. a symphont, i wear colonge for the queen in the mnidwest

i wasted 4.5 years of my life fighting for face. now its all a waste. nothing came of anything. please, give me a break

i was dead then alive, she was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine, our lives are not our own...

echoes in my head

a chest quenched by the sussurus of a steady drone, full of fluid gilded the lion's pride sloshes off the starboard bow, the perfect storm in a emerald vile, remind me i am among the living when plays the quartet the prelude no. 1 i am set to sea.


how to shed the skin of a jaundiced love.

the convoluted matrix of over structured, read and re-read facts, swell, swol, swollen beneath the cathedral walls, arched and poised as if to defy the anchor that weighs them down, a gravity of sepulchral occurrences--the love song of alphred j prufrock. for we measure coffee the same. and any up-goings must come down, so what do the words woven into the midnight shawl mean if the widow has lost her strength to carry on? smoothing surface, fill the crevasses with a poisonous science of religiosity, of facts and figures, candid figures of a reality that exists only as an ambiguous void where we share only time, nothing to speak of what lies beneath your skin. so sit quiet and unmasked, unfettered with the daily doings of a more joyous song, for four and a half years of silence changes a man. bring me many more cruel, ubiquitous specter, for i live eyes closed, bring on the tides, what is living other then finding the sorrow beneath every shining soul? what a nightmare, what a travesty, what a gift.

do i worry, distant and cold, silver and silence. remembering the foxes, fleeting and frivolous. the disaster tourist i am. come down to where the water meets the banks of the st. mary's and whisper "welcome petty pulchritude of an abased attraction!", atoms and molecules repel and combine building substance from inconsequential abyss. it is the maiden's hand that i held so fondly in my distant memory, her smile stuck to my eyes like mirroring glass can fake a multitude of identities. so pour me out i dont mind, this life is not my own, tie me up! untie me! all this wishing i was dead is getting old, its getting old! though i the spectator watched in a distant grace, combining my history of an inherited sorrow with the fickle fingers on a gilded ladder with nails i climb to find the holes. a simple saint says, "these lives are not our own! even the wind lay still,our essence is fire and cold, and movement, movement! if they ask for a sign of the Father, tell them its movement! movement! and repose." midwest queen.
walks the line if ambivalence.
holds me as a jester holds his scepter of jest.
jaunt. jeer.
i will stay inside today though i have already composed a poem of love on a day i should have remained outdoors away from thinking of her.