The train sirens fell ill on my skin as the gates of waves descended upon the lowly burrows of 12th street and blew it straight into tomorrow's windy, lamenting unification of loneliness.  The plague it drew on the youth only rivaled the great hallow abyss in it's forthcoming nature. To the young it was the rotting, the sinister desecration of our world to come. I am only stunned by the great rivalry that seems to coincide in my generation's thoughts, capricious-now or wiseful-tomorrow. We strain to be in the eyes of our fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, proving to our grandfather that we alone will carry the family name and legacy towards great and unimaginable heights, without the help of others and without the need for pity. Conger a frightful doe perking it's ears to every other sound it hears, that quiet din, it's last acquaintance before the grand, all-knowing silence takes over and surrounds it's being forever. Love thy harkening sorrow and writhe in heavy screams. All will pass but I see none with the sanctity to carry a soul farther than you have already; the seas spring longer and will soon swallow the world. Too many years will pass by before I can understand this with a sober mind. One day will come before I realize that drunken ravings of my night will see it's critical truth in the day by scholars and priests of common sense.

Love came along in my life. Hell...Christ...Cigarettes! I couldn't forgive my passion, the way it made me feel as I looked to jesus drying up in the sun. The metaphors deserve all the glory don't they? Thinking of big nights and warm lips, and all while just wanting to ****. Golden eyes resting on the gold of god, who was really just burning to see me a cowboy pacing west like a turtle. Still standing on tight-line-friends yearning from a choir of grace and speachless as nothing happens save the rise of an old moon, rest it's soul. Yet I simply cared to think of days without the open smoke which was lighter than my fingers as I touched you hard within stammers of each breathe. Years gone by and still sure he'd lost; swearing on everlasting angels.

It is now four in morning as I wind down.
On this salty night in vagas you can see for miles.
The trees smell imported, the stripes of feet walking everywhere are visible in the floor carpets, the whole joint was colored tequila, and every face was that of an american.
Hotel hallways had grown small with the years.
There was this crane down the street, building the next casino over, again.
It stood amongst fifty-thousand billboards and american faces, all the same created, all the same.    
The tension now builds and I can only feel time.
The image of an illuminated nobody swiming in a mist pool, next to a hotel on the outskirts of town, the knowing of his distain for others, the sheer embrace of his mystic-all-knowing insignificance watching the crooked sunrise kept me going.
You once told me to pick and choose.
You once told me I should taste the air more, like a dog would, if he could sink his teeth in just right.
I took that as you wanted a mutt in your brain, maybe even a mutt in me, but I couldn't.
Not on this holiday and not at four in the morning.

11-7-12

These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.

I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full *** of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a *** and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.

I feel the old-age fire sweeping over and expanding my vision of the lush red-brick empire, of the city street I meet my grandfather's omnipotence, as his eyes saw in layers, with decade toppling into decade. The overtones wained from the moaning of steel on steel, the speeding gloss of rain promised birth. I guess mother nature knows best.

Who needs love
Frantic boils of delirious pink lusting
wanting power
You ask me shadows
and the picture-less language winds
She stops me fast,
the gorgeous void
Lather eternity over me
Stop thinking what will manipulate them
and moan out the recall
Life is a bare and fast beat
please worship it with delicate moments
from sad skin some can soar
i am drunk