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.