Tracing your own crime scene...p.s you did it.

It’s pretty clear to turn tail and run.
When you’re on top of the world like Al Jolson.
And then crash like Syd Barrett.
Yelling at the clone on the wall.
“******* SWINE...HOW COULD YOU!?”.
IDiot.
The tub water has drowned the floor.
You’re long gone with golden hair.
Taking all the acid tabs, mescaline, ether, bloodleaf letters, and the small bottle of goldbond lotion.
“How dare you” I ask.
Coursing with enraged grief.
I feel it; the intense measure if deterioration.
Taking its time skipping along side the sounds of Octopus by the man himself.
All while you melt into the typewriter’s ink.
Unable to walk as you would fall into the infinite muck.
“How do you leave” you ask.
“HANG IN THERE!” I yell.
Why I am I yelling.
I didn’t think this was a side effect.
I can hear just fine.
“****! Who turned off the lights!?”.
“Buddy! You gotta leave now” someone behind me gracefully said.
“What do mean, I just got here!”.
“Feller, you’ve been here for about five hours now, and I think it’s best if you went home”.
MY GOD!.
How long was I in that terribly fascinating state.
What had gone on was to be decided by for the entire variety of the heavy drugs that were seducing the situation.
Why didn’t they kick me out in the first ten minutes I was there.
There must of been a slow start...Then sped up near the end.
But how the hell would I know.
I was told I had been there for five hours and counting.
When I thought I had just sat down from taking a ****.
“Jerry, How are you?”. I asked.
.
.
.
“That’s for you to decide, man”



Garrett Johnson.

Layamon.

Monday morning- A SMoke. Walk. An d music.
Tuesday morning- Love. acid. Walk. music.
Wednesday morning- Watch Taxi driver. Watch Inherent vice. SMoke.
Thursday morning- Grateful Dead. flowers. Flowing. Melting mountains.
Friday morning- Ether. Die. Die. Die. Dead.
Saturday morning- Reanimate. Smoke. Write.
Sunday morning- write. Write. Write about writing. Write.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.




Garrett JOhnson.

Bowl of cereal recipes.

Frankly disturbing.
Teal corner ****** for peace.
Lady has the almond lock.
Swinging with Seattle blobs.

Blue breeze water vitamins.
Sings the scarecrow respite.
The proctor's and doctors went sailing.
Peeling off in ghost tar.
Kissed her acid lips.

Rain down in Creek of flower sauce.
Effecting moon riffs.
Nicely cooked accustic stocks.
Lay out on pool table.
Hug.

Shinny light bulb eye.
Caressing stretching zero water line.
Rubber backwoods chair.
Staging a string serpent drug haze.
And all staggered over paper crime.

Garrett Johnson.

No directions.

Travel down this here icy river.
Sleep in the car.
Catch a cold.
Burn parallel sticks of cancer.
Back against cold bark.
Lack of confidence.
Black sweater.
She forgot to progress.
Her story was nice.
Dark pine.
It’s getting dark outside.
It’s too good inside.
Buried fire letters.
They were never sent.
I’ll get out of here soon.
Washington county.
Pyro slugs.
All caught up in tear sleeves.
I’ll help your helping hand.
No help here.
The world made cones are my saviors.
Your neon wounds have been saved.
Helping paper cup.
Your friendly neighborhood razor cuts.
Hands grasping forest side.
I’ll forever.
Be by your side.


Garrett Johnson.

Point of no return.

He had caught my eye with absurdity.
Carrying a coagulation of Red Apple, Marlboro, Capri, and Dunhill cigarettes.
All in one pack tucked up under his arm sleeve.
Like some ancient greaser lost from his own time.
Stuck fumbling with the fast paced problems of modern day reality.
Confused with utmost certainty that he had lost his way.
And found himself in this new era.
Error to his own brain cells.
Firing on all cylinders.
Trying to keep him awake.
Just to reach help by the time the sun went down.
But he had caught something else in his view.
A girl.
With a yellow and white striped shirt.
Tucked in to her pants that were up to her waist.
A medium sized pocket above her left breast where she kept her cigarettes.
All white converse with white socks.
Slightly curled mid neck length hair.
She carries herself with uncertainty.
But also with grace and passion.
She sees into him as if he is ghostly.
For he is ghostly.
Only a shimmer of a past presents.
That onced lived in a state of mind that had purpose.

Garrett Johnson.

Overbite.

Done with.
Waiting to pass.
Lay with me.
Scared.
Afraid to ask.
The infinite length.
Cut.
Stop.
Roll credits.
The endless want, to ask.
Her.
Statement after statement.
After Statement.
Afterthought.
An afterthought situation.
Circling vibrations.
Down on acid trips through the air.
Walking through the north country fair.
The tooth finder.
Truthfinder.
Shriveled.
We’re almost there.
Only perspective.
She has my attention.
She always had my attention.
Let these words rest.
They’re running on fumes.
And old oil lamps.
Walking down alley in.
Seattle.
A lake appears.
The open of a realm has neared.
On the corner of dazed and confused.
Bohemia.
Girls with wavy shirts and sweaters.
Cloth tribs.
Peace with each other and themselves.
****.
I’m alone once more.
All day.
The in and outs.
The come and goers.
Nothing new.
Puzzle pieces.
Beaded necklaces.
Pine tea.
Chopped wood.
All alone with my cigarette for company.


Garrett Johnson.

When you’ve taken too much mescaline, but stop and think maybe just a little bit more.

Too much info he says.
Too little time.
Too many lines to look over.
Why so much tobacco he says.
Why can’t you stay with us forever they think, feel, and express through all the other emotions.
How bout ya ******* and leave me to my coffee I say.
It’s 3:25 in the morning. I’ve been up to finish a piece about the new development of the “NEXT” atom bomb. The process is heavy but, with the strict drug regimen to give me the somewhat energy to keep my brain kicking I think I can finish it.
Why can’t I just live for once.
Questions.
Questions that cannot be saved for the genocide they take place in.
Overused and over ridden for lost hopes and chances to become anew.
But when you take 5 times too much of peyote, and you start tasting the color yellow.
You then start to think if you'll ever get out.
If you'll ever find the cure for the satanic mess that's occurring on the inside.
Inside the abomination that has crept up the back streets of synapses.
Utterly grooving to the sound of “Like A Rolling Stone” By Bob Dylan.
Sidewalk.
Overpass.
Flag.
Café.
Drink.
This drink sits badly.
Acid.
Flying over melting mountains.
Shimmer.
Swimming through suburbs of death.

Garrett Johnson.

Raising hell on the inside.

Languid surfing waves in village company.
Sifting.
Locks on intimate encounters.
Terrified.
Stupefied.
As if she said everything just to make me happy.
I couldn’t be.
Not really.
I didn’t speak.
Only stare at the curves of her lips.
Leaving myself to come up with all the details.
In my mind to conjure the cure to my own loneliness.
Or wander aimlessly.
All along the streets.
Gutters of city outskirts.
Town air clears the lungs.
Despair around every corner.
Lurking like the creature from the black lagoon.
I’m Travis Bickle in my world of all things.
Lonely.
I’ve given up all my possessions.
I’ve moved into run down van that has one headlight.
Half a bumper.
And great steering.
I’ve thrown out all my furniture and have ****** in the street along with all the other materialistic things in my life.
I can’t stand waking up in the morning and seeing myself loath in my troubles.
I can ******* own stress come pouring out of the pores of my ******* skin.
But it all reminds me of the true reminder of my future.
THAT I’M GOING TO die.

Garrett Johnson

For leaving me waiting in this chair that only has a lifetime of experience.
And only a thousand secrets to keep.
To keep those waiting.
Waiting to be existing.
Thanks for that.
I’ll let my friend know that he made a friend.
And that he made a mistake on mistakes that made him mistake me for fool.
Well I am a fool.
I’m a fool for waitin’ for you.
I’m a fool for waitin’ On me waitin’ for you.
I’m a little bit tired.
I’m a little woozy from all the waiting for these drugs to kick in.
Ask me a question.
I’ll give you the names of all my excuses for not wanting to wait for you.
Not wanting to wait for me to wait for you.
Not wanting to take this here paper corner and stab my eye ball for waiting for you.
Don’t know if I mentioned this.
But I’m a little bit tired.
Tired of arguing with myself.
Yelling.
Fighting.
Screaming at myself for Not wanting to talk.
But who wants to listen.
The only people that want to listen are the folks that are tired of listening to themselves.
Well.
I guess that some of the folks  that want listen.
Actually do want to listen.
Want to hear something new for a change.
Want to take a break from all the breaks that they already have taken.
Something like that I guess.
I’m gonna get me a new me.
And I’m gonna use him.


Garrett Johnson.

Wired into a trip.
That was the fatal trip.
Around consciousness
Giving a thought to the hook realities that were lying
For all the people who took acid.
Who buy Peace and Understanding for loss and failure
What took down illusion of a whole life-style.
Create a generation of seekers who understood the Culture.
Desperate assumption tending the end of the tunnel.
The continuous evolution of human emptiness.
The relapse of a civilization under rubble from the world that crashed down around them.
Falling in a well of colored rain.
Charcoal drawings on the well walls.
Floating to the top of the bridge.
The bridge of ash that sunk to the depths of less than want.
The hate of people that kick the **** out of the caves of the structure inside.
Decisions of the inner phantom.
The inner exhibit.
Execution of the alienessness.
Paint the peace with ash leaves.
Then end up in Woody Creek.


Garrett Johnson.

Sold paintings.
Sold for nonsense.
***** armchair leg.
Reclusive.
Brought down.
Like they do to most of them.
Blood drop *******.
Raining cigarettes.
On empty dance floor.
We sway.
Too many circles.
Back facing gutter.
Las vegas strip.
Back of cotton field.
Frenzy doing ******.
Oh! My heroine has come to save me from this flash of darkness.
Take away.
Hand it back.
Back of neck.
Saying kiss here.
No promises.
No beginnings.
No real feelings.
Only travel.
Hand-me down emptiness.
SIlver shoe.
Print off.
High two.
To infinity and stop right there.
Splinter.
Plastic watch.
Scotland.
Mireland.
Sinking.
Sprite pop.
Soda tone.
Out of paint.
Quiet please.
I can hear my thoughts.
Don’t be a square.
Welcome to the fair.
Do you have some tape.
Laughter leads to crying.
Crying leads to smiling.
The perfect circle.


Garrett Johnson.

Age.
Free roaming.
Free foaming at the nose.
Mouth with a miss of courage.
Study hard to keep my position of being the coolest hobo.
I’ll collect your junk/my canvases on Fridays.
Saturdays.
Sundays.
Mondays.
Tuesdays.
And Wednesdays.
Too busy to care.
Too busy to be busy.
Busy feet lead me to some road outside a busy city.
Leading to purity.
Petrified.
Floating over a prairie somewhere in Idaho.
It’s my own private one.
Once in awhile I.
Remember.
Something someone said sometime ago.
I remember it but I don’t.
Not really.
I’ll be back.
Out getting ribs.
I’m back.
My ears hurt.
My ears hurt.
Please stop.
Discrete.
Please keep it this way.


Garrett Johnson.

Spots.
Magazines.
All I understood was that you’re portuguese.
Blasting sand bags on scuba tunnels.
On the rocks purified.
Mermafied.
Terrified.
Outrageous.
Daily dose of turpentine.
Divided by the news.
Reel.
Real.
And unwind.
Time to take your pills.
I don’t want those pills.
Take you codger pills you old retched.
What.
I’m Dead.
I’ll just have a glass of water.
Oh I’m dead too.
Rows.
Of Rosemary.
Above what stood once before.
Below.
We’re getting lower.
Even.
Lower now.
Try to.
Hold on.
Almost at the.
Bottom.
Of.
The.
P.                            Garrett Johnson.

I want to go somewhere no one can find me.
Go somewhere where nothing is defining.
Read and write poetry out loud to or with some one who will actually listen.
Someone who understands.
Do nothing but watch and listen.
Paint our own Jean Michel Basquiat or Jackson ******* paintings while listening to records of all sounds around the world.
Leave the doors open to the surrounding woods.
To the small town down the road a few miles.
Lay on a blanket under some trees.
Plant a tree.
For I feel as if I'm losing my mind cooped up in a room where barely any moonlight could reach me.
I want leave.
Go far away.
Start all over.
But bring her with me.
I'd rather live in Greenwich than live in this suburban masked waste land where parents go to live out the rest of their land lives.
******* any where but here.
*******.
Any where.

Garrett Johnson.

He stood watching.
From his cool wooden porch.
Groovy as it seemed.
He pays not attention to the half naked girl besides him.
He's quiet.
He lights a smoke.
Blinks his eyes.
He's petrified.
Blinks again.
Looks to the girl.
Gives a light kiss upon her cheek.
He leaves.
Still groovy it seems.
Groovy it is.
Out here.
The beings are calm with ease.
Nothing perfect.
Never perfect.
Nothing, and all to hide.
The fabulous ecstasy glides.
He reaches the beach.
He's stopped.
At the edge he looks down.
reflection inside retrospection.
Inside reflection inside reflection.
Inside reflected reflection.
I would consider that an echo chamber with no sound.
He digs.
He lights a smoke.
Then walks.
I need a new friend.
A shindig around the corner.
Everyone there.
So is the girl.
Break on through she says.
Jeweled lights.
Cloth, and beads.
Waving.
Crying.
Hair hovering.
Feathers.
hands locking.
Rivering through the brain.
Everybody knows yer name.
He's the one to send flowers to all around.
He's you.
Me.
I.
Him.
He lights another smoke, and walks.

Garrett Johnson

Washing the destruction in drum fire.
Insolent edges on this here blade.
Enough to cut down all veins.
Roots.
From mercury covered arm.
Fluids on the carpet.
Blankets.
On grass.
Ground.
Liveliness.
The forgotten transaction.
From autumn night.
66.
On apartment rug.
New York.
Flashback.
Piano keys on ballad of a thin man.
Really ties the room together.
At least that’s what I thought.
I open the door.
To speak to the clone on the wall.
Pure water on glass.
Half thinks to the movie tickets.
You’re tearing me apart.
What a rebel he is.
What a man, a man could be, with little time to be him.
Sis.
What a little girl, a little girl could be with little time to be her.
What is this.
Who is this.
Why is this dying.
Every distortion for the throat.
No safe insurance.
All for the lonely.
One too many mornings.
With the bathtub blues.
Only place to sleep.
No time for a bed.
Cigarettes and Strawberries.
Hyacinth.
All around in Hyacinth.
Hyacinth garden for the discarded.
A trip on sadness.
Or a void for eternity


Garrett Johnson.

Hard Rain.

Spheric drops on the glum face of midnight.
Nightly drinks by self.
Self Destructing acidicly.
Dinning.
Dying soldierly.
Strict concentration.
By the tears.
Confused in mirrored shadows.
With a tint of peppermint.
Ease back thy silk collection from face.
Intimate gathered embrace.
Under liquid flow of haze.
Blue in thee.
Eyes in slumber casings.
Alieness mornings in caves.
Tavern moonlight from lamp.
Sideways blankets backwards.
On satin grass of upward walls.
Languid.
Sensitive.
Dreams on clear land.
A lone shelter sits.
Corner dimm’d ***.
Blue salted sands wandered coast.
Turquoise sadness.
Stand on crystal blackness beneath.
Lowest of low.
Valley.
Subatomic chaos.
Within chaos itself.
Ones self to end on a metaphorical sea of clarity.

Turn to the Water.
Leaping through the veins of our humanity.
As we fly with fear to the city.
Wallowing in the mud, singing.
******* in the allies.
No privacy here.
Alone in shin high body of infested Fluids.
Above, the others party in the **** night.
Robust and jubilant.
The concrete solidification of our lives.
Living in eternal colors.
Youth crying, laughing.
Crawling over their other half.
Love in mutiny.
Forgotten.
In the summer rain.
Dancing like infants.
Tribal.
The shaman seeks the grass.
He is the portal.
The forgotten mortal.
Of the jade crystals.
Inside he lives in a current.
With his missing part.
Her.
Himself.
The perfect primeval distortion.

Cafes.
And instrumentals.
Corpses filled with ash and syrup.
Syrup made from a hippie that lives in the flat above me.
Never arrives to confuse me.
Amazing relationship.
Contrasts the mask that covers the realness.
The class that helped **** your demons.
And your soul.
Blues.
Reds.
And yellows.
CLouds most things.
Poets dying in eternal Affliction.
Poets who died for nothing.
Beat the poet.
Real mean poet.
Mean everything to the person inside the poet.
You can find it.
You can grow it.
You don’t know it.
Boil it for safety.
Or not.
Blues bleed into the skull.
Carve with the side that’s dull.
We turn sullen.
Create Poetry that never makes us lonely.
And always makes us lonely.
Conniptions replace the complements.
Turn hate into monuments.
And Love into self hate.
It’s gonna be great.
And always be ****.
Learn from the mistakes.
Take your life.
And miss the blade.
Rope.
Bullet.
Psychedelics.
Hallucinogens.
Genetics that makes us break.
Discover the ******* that are fake.
Concentrate.
Contemplate actions.
Rott through the smoke.
Anxious ridden state.
LIke the **** that makes up the rain.
Conceptualize Sound waves.
And destroy your fate.
Make a smiley face.
Then cry.
I like what you’ve done with the place.
Crawl into your own time and space.
Tired.
Overly tired.
It’s the nights like this that are dreadful.
Terribly stagnant..
A magnet to war.
Maggots.
Loath in fractions.
In places.
With no faces.
No patience.
Static.
Just Static.

The end.
A Picture.
In the river of madness.
Silent.
Quiet.
A scene of universe.
Under eyelid.
Of her.
Of them.
Silhouette.
Dancing.
Campfire.
Blood.
Love.
Flatlands.
Prai­ries.
But in the town.
In the city.
We groove.
Subtract from the eye.
We dance close.
And yet so far.
Loose.
Like Greenwich.
We beat.
We float.
She hears the show.
Immaculate.
Showing a her soft side.
Riding through the wind.
Meet with eyes.
Screaming.
That dies.
We can never get enough.

No sign to stay.
In her brain.
I’ll stand on the chance with nothing to say.
Stand in the blue.
Slow with care.
Shallow.
Intimate.
Light tremallo.
Waves to ease in.
Never monotonous.
Always Grimm.
And sullen.
With embers and trauma.
Cast out into a French corner store.
Where she had stood.
Selling paintings.
Coffee.
Basket house.
Cafe.
Such a muse she was.
At night.
Abandonments.
Outcasts.
Displacements.
Said their words.
Crying inside.
Healing wounds.
Her turn.
And that smile gave me everything to know.

Streets.
Light poles.
Potholes.
Distortion.
Something to be proud of.
Truth to be lies.
Someone.
Please someone.
Standing in back alley.
Collecting runoff water from gutter above.
At 4 it gets dark.
Ride bicycle around.
No one around.
Lay in the street as rain floats to my face from above.
The clouds are strangers.
But the mist has won.
And i’m here all alone.
In the street.
Going past the pop-art store.
The windows turn.
The atoms twist.
My eyes hug the sky.
Wandering the confines of my brain.
Searching.
For her I cannot promise to hide.
And like the calmness over the air.
I fall one again.

Love holding soul spirit.
No way out alive.
Terrified.
Only until dawn we can run away.
Hold you in my arms.
Corner of brain to wallow in.
Willows weeping.
Time is what we live in.
As everyday was the last.
The End.
Pictures to haunt for.
7 miles.
To town.
These fields we divide.
Never.
Inside we must Live.
Live.
Beautiful Friend.
Only Friend.
Hold my realm of love.
Kiss it with solace.
Tangled in sheets.
Shy and delicate.
For the order of disorder.
I tell to *******.
Is eroding.
And we’re in the lagoon.
Just Floating.
We become the dwellers of our pleasure.

Lost.
It’s pleasing.
Take it.
E.
E.
Ez.
Breeze is nice up here.
The dust must conjure.
The emotions ride.
Arrive from biscuit town.
Say hello to the scarecrow.
His ma works for a blues musician.
She is the blues musician.
His brother knows everything about Trump.
Even when he *****.
His sister loves Bruce Lee.
Or at least the aesthetic of him.
Bigfoot shot himself back in time.
To meet Jack Kerouac.
When he got there he learned that Jack was captured by the Yakuza.
He did nothing and went home.
Mr. Scarecrow was bigfoot.
A little girl told him that he was going to die alone.
That he wouldn’t mind the pain.
That everything he changed wouldn’t work.
It would all just be the same.
Don’t fall in love the little girl said to him.
What the hell does she know.
She’s 10 years young.
But i’m stuck here with Arthur Russell material.
Echoing a voice to the world.
Hoping to mean something.
Listen for a call back.
Peace within.
Call back.
Please call back.
I’ll stand of frozen bridges while they melt.
Then dive head first into the water.
Sink.
Sink.

Sink to the lowest point of my existence.

Blood from the private places.
No time to talk.
Only lay on the floor in tears.
No strength to get water.
Dive off into a city of lights.
Fade away from the strums of life that moved forward.
Away from the normal things.
We wash down.
Erode.
Or evolve into something more.
And less.
The kids have their friendships and relationships.
Pre-adulthood ***.
While I turn the keys of the world.
Trying to create my own.
No desire for wants.
No real one anyways.
I forgot what another person felt like.
I only sit here to say things because I feel like I have to.
Or maybe because I need to.
Why do we do anything.
Because we can.
I try hard to stop the burning when I close my eyes.
The seas of my priorities make lakes and ponds.
Streams and rivers.
Made the mountains.
The deserts.
The grass and trees.
The worlds beyond my mind.
The touch of skin.
Of a hand, arm or neck.
I don’t think I’ll be here too long.
Not long enough I guess.
For the silence in my ear has faded
Being alone is nothing new
But it’s good to have company.
Good for the soul.
I make my own gravity to pull myself down.
And my own rockets to send me away.
There are no second thoughts.
I wonder if i’ll be missed.
Because the silence in my ear sure won't.

Throw jewelry away.
Live in the woods.
Maybe a cabin.
Smoke a cigar every seven days.
Befriend the animals.
Drink moonshine three days a month.
Play the harmonica.
Meet a human in town.
Sing with squirrels.
Make sweaters.
Build a basement.
Hug the trees.
Kiss someone.
Talk to yourself.
Cry on a canoe in the middle of the lake at night.
Listen to Bob Dylan.
Read Poetry By Jim Morrison.
Make arts and craft projects.
Sketch a chair.
Then sit in it.
Play the guitar.
Make a bonfire.
But don’t burn down the trees.
Taste different spices.
Taste other peoples spices.
Sleep on the ground.
Get *****.
Stand out in the rain.
**** your own fears.
Nit blankets.
Save minerals
Smile.
Frown.
Do acid.
Warm up the air.
Shout.
Punch the ground.
Make cereal.
Eat pine cones.
Watch the trees sway.

Sing softly in bed.
Stay in bed.
For you might not see her again.

Under the elements.
Scarcely relevant to everything in the bag.
It’s a drag he died.
Not really.
It’s not too bad.
Don’t be sad.
Grab the nonsense.
Make it into a movie.
Cry.
And Cry.
Until you're under the moon.
It makes your room.
Builds you a house.
The house you live in for ten years.
And share moments of isolation.
Let your fears run with you.
Then ****** them.
Clean and swift.
Kills that fit the description of the subscription pill bottle.
Pain.
Hands that throttle the life away.
Don’t mean to go this way.
You only live once.
You lived for eternity.
And never existed.
That very much hurts.
Numb.
Brain dead.
Waste away.
Stay in bed.
Dance in the woods.
Sing in your head.
It’s never too late.
There’s joys to be fed.
Lock your truths and lies away.
Pretend that they’re worth something.
Pretend that you’re worth something.
Pull the covers over your face.
Your Tears don’t belong here.
Wintertime love.
So warm and cozy.
Mosey on down to the general store.
Question those that don’t know the half of it.
Half of what your saying.
Or where you’re going.
Who are you talking to.
There’s nobody there.
Hallucinations.
Discover Nations.
Dictations.
And riddles.
Flashbacks of Nam.
Korea.
Germany.
France.
Japan.
Gettysburg.
Realisations that you don’t fit the Piece.
You keep the peace.
But have wonders.
Wander throughout doubt.
Create something meaningful.
And give it to a friend.
Like Morrison said.
This Is The End.

Sorry For the blood.
It’s wine.
No tears.
Waffles and higher frequencies.
Higher meanings.
Spoiled drinks.
Sink into the rug.
Her presence.
Like a drug.
Walk around.
Insides hurt.
Nervous hands gripping hair.
Schnapps in the air around.
Watch.
Stare into a dark wall.
A dark hall.
Sit.
Quiet.
Silent.
No noise.
Don’t let them hear you.
Why.
You’ll drown.
In.
Stay inside.
It’s dark out there.
Smoke.
Lights.
Take what you can carry.
& Find who you wanna marry.
Too much has been chosen.
Dylan records on queue.
Few becomes less.
A mess becomes more.
A Mold of life.
A cold reporter.
War reporter.
On water works.
Water towers.
Wooden flowers.
Cancel the shindig.
I’m gone.
Tell her i’m wrong.
She was right.
I might just starve.
Out here.
In the wastes.
To the past pace.
Of when time was a place.
With nowhere to go.
No one to be.
No one but myself to impress.
Always.
I’m sleepless.

We forgot to laugh.
The lonesome cars.
The lonesome people.
The poor souls.
The gutter trash.
The lonesome past.
Lonesome we.
Lonesome us.
Lonesome you.
Lonesome me.
Too lonesome.
So we ask.
Where are my manners.
Meet with hands in the mud.
Soil for the soul.
Eyes in a fade.
SIdewalk.
Old chevy with a silver bumper.
A *** in the alley.
Little soul.
All soul.
No soul.
All before it’s forgotten.
Allways of the way we were brought in.
Change.
Let the snow melt.
Drink it.
Eat the grass.
Still lonesome.
Lonesome but wholesome hospitality.
You’re dead if in a hospital.
The people gather around.
Just to watch..
Watch it all burn down.
They killed Jim by the creek.
They don’t care.
Sad Boys.
Sad girls.
Sad beds
Sad world.
Needles.
Scars.
Bits.
& parts.
Separate.
One with all.
All in one.
Patterns.
Killed.
No grave.
Only Michael T. Berland

Eyes are pretty.
Green.
Acoustics.
Why.
Under.
Why am i ******* writing this.
Blankets.
****.
It’s not right.
Wait.
Until I write this.
No need.
Sky lights.
Double back.
For the first time.
In Forever.
Please.
Too much.
Not too much.
Not enough.
Never enough.
No more dreams.
No more drugs.
No more.
Ignore.
Ignorance.
Persistent.
Friend I'm sorry.
Highway.
Drive way.
Lightly.
Highlights.
Highway road lights.
& fog.
Headrest.
Sifting.
Conquest.
Conscious.
No more affection.
No longer intimate.
No longer important.
The writing is no more important than the ground I stand on.
Bleach & paint thinner.
Sadness gets grimmer.
I’m uninvited to my own funeral.
Let the takers flood in.
Let the knowers get drunk.
Let the mental serial killers float about.
& let the plan work with doubt.
Let the Charlie find their way home.
Let the poets go to Rome & drink tea, and whiskey.
Let the skellies run up mountains.
let your nerves wash away in a lake.
& let her kindness melt within what you need to take.
Let go.
Let go.
Let go.