Forget me, forget me.

Let me soar ,and shackle me not to this celestial pit

Let me be, let me be

Let me cast my long hidden shadow onto the moon, the stars and out further than andromeda

Let me ******, Let me ******

And for heavens sake not the four seasons

Because for every summer there is a winter

But freedom from this bind lies in astral interstellar hitchhiking

And let me sail but not to the community of hatred and hated

We will all be swingers when we lay down on El Dorados doormat


It 'reads "oh yes, free, freedom you've become"

So forget me, let me be free and ****** into the absences of cohesive atoms

If not held captive. The only sense is aroma and gone from nostalgic induced swooning

And there, oh there, I will vacuum la polvere di Stella that witnessed the most grandiose falterings

(from 2012)*


A chance reveals itself before me,
Happenstance too good to pass-
I take this to the street, I’m changing how I see.

My heart races, my heartbeat fast begins to flee
My world becomes vast
In a waterless sea

I see the movement in every tree
As I float on a greener grass
Compelled by my knees to take me where I see

I follow the calling, only a body
A nail guided by magnets moving as mass
I’m no longer confined by reality

A world crafted by an artisan in geometry,
To think every star that meets my eye greets me from the past
And we are living trapped and pointlessly.

The sun peers over the horizon at me,
Light warms my world fast
But warmer are my thoughts, the chance that found me
Moved my world and set it free.

Cars,
Like coffee pots,
Break down,
And more so,
When you least want them to.

So imprisoned,
The frigid,
And with no power-windows,
We didn’t care about the heat,
Only the smoke
That now stung our eyes –

Two-fold
Atop already open wounds,
And the cancerous,
Lying in wait, most often,
Indiscriminately.

So enters the second urge,
And it controls me,
I don’t control “it;”

“It” being a mood frosted
Amnesia, free,
Like beer’s hiss,
At the crack of a can.

And like beer,
“It” runs out
When the money does;

All too quickly to be
Replaced by the
Haunts of –

Bill collectors, war
And the knife in the drawer.

Something beckons when
We spot a diner from within
The snowbound derelict
We reside.

Scraped change and reckonings,
We can afford a few,
Drinks.

Forgotten were the coats when
We abandon ship, abandon you,
Abandon me,
And more importantly,
The haunts;

Our chariot, a remain,
A wreck on shores unknown
With bodies, perhaps,
Left for the living come spring.

When I was younger I wrote of cops and robbers
Killers, chases, drugs and thrillers
One specific story that was my favorite chiller-
Hitting big money houses in a quiet town,
What a young burglar grabbed was something he'd better off not found
A suitcase full of treasures not
What he thought was heavy with cash, commodities
Was weighted with remains of bodies.
Can't risk jail, no, he can't pay his bail
So when the killer came looking
The only thing to do was to cover up his trail.

I never finished the story, writing it was kind of boring.
I was busy drinking and exploring when
One night I met a man, and he was telling me this story
How he was almost caught robbing this old man's home
And of the couple things he gathered, a suitcase was one.
No- it wasn't full of literal bodies
Maybe this time, some actual commodities.
But he sold them soon after, to get money for his drugs and whatever else he revered.
That he introduced to his friends that he turned to cold bodies with his endeavors.
So my story plays out in metaphors and its true that rich old men can be killers too
Like the one in my town with the corpses in the walls
I wondered, if plundered, would the killer turn the burglar into another number
And finish my story for me.

Prologue: I'm wasted in my car, outside of his party, waiting until I'm sober enough to leave, and only a single streetlight illuminates my car enough to scribble down my thoughts as I watch him wonder out into the coming storm, perhaps looking for me, as I wallow in the dark,
feeding myself cigarettes.*


Shaker

Cliche but
These feelings are still in my palm, clenching seashells and breaking into bitter
brittle little bones to crack like the thunder outside my window.
White strikes against the dashboard
Sitting in my car,
Wondering how far I'll fall beneath you and
how long these clouds of rain will take to reach you.
But like I've said every time you never listened,
You'll walk right through them, right to them, never for a second ever needing to lead you to them.
Still you give me too much credit.
As much as you make me uneasy,
You make my job easy.
Flickering street lights, its dark, its early in the night.
I wish it was quiet.
But its never been silent here
The town shakes still, all night long, so tiring
The night shakes out still a car, cricket, or siren.


I stop here, its time to leave

Writing with a hexed pen
Bewilderment, ink-blot, psychotic again
And once again,
One more time for good measure.
"It seems you've discovered a shipwreck,
won't be long until you find the treasure."
Buried deep within the ruins even air cannot penetrate
So however soon you dredge it up,
You've come just a moment too late.
Crash upon the surface empty handed
quite irate,
After all you were relying on that fortune to fill a plate
So now your belly's aching, rumbling, quaking
As the Earth before demolishing Man's crude play-things
The sound of ten-thousand mortars
simultaneously striking the sand.
Quick, lend a hand, or head, or ears.
There's nothing to fear here.
The company is pleasant.
As long as we stay below ground
with the dust-bunny symphony
Field mice play the pianette
Dare I neglect the cat faced composer?
Whose whiskers entrance, enticing stupor.
In the game of life there are only losers.
God gives to take, he laughs when you complain,
For he is the deliverer of Love and of Pain.

Junkyards are cemeteries too
they're just the ones no one brings flowers to
or visits after they've said goodbye
and they are filled to the brim
with forgotten wheels and empty bodies
and I am sick of these wheelbarrow operations
and the way the mice eyes sparkle
as they wait by the mailboxes
that don't even belong to them
for love letters from the cats that will never come
because when she said "I love you"
it was a junkyard kind of goodbye that she meant