I
look and
I
stare.
I
take life
like air

midnight
sky
repeat

And then I felt it.
Something as simple as the fire screaming into the purple sky.

Something like a the interlocking of lips into some tasteful thing called
love.

A cliche of sorts.
We sat together
under the pink branches
that melted into our hearts.

The little girl
locked herself
away in her corner,
bellowing with grief.

I had asked her
what was wrong

and she unwound
her sorrowful strings.

Not good enough
she was,

not good enough
to breathe.

The old man
was the last of
the lining in
the bottle of
whiskey.

Sticking to
the glass and
loving us

with red blotches
and leather belts.



Pain, he drank
it down.

I let the people push me
to where I want to go,
to where I want to be.

They have their words that
punch and their legs that kick.

To the point where
I,
**** the bluebird
with my eyes.

Falling into a bed afloat in the endless oceans of parallel lines
connecting into something called memories
stacked upon fireside poets and Jenga towers.

Her voice reverberates to the deepest parts
of my mind, returning back the forefronts of perfection.

She played my heartstrings like a silent guitar.

The darkness was always there
but never touched me.

Darkness as a ghost who loomed
ant my door, watching and thinking of
Sartre and Nietzsche.

I stare at the threshold of this entity
and ask it to do nothing but engulf me,

to wring the life out of me like a washcloth
So then and only then I'll write something of real beauty.

My room is a mess of experiences
that take hold of me in the night.

Shots, shots to the head
we're all still alive
but with our intellects dead

The rain left an a stamp on time
like a postcard to mother nature,

making the drops on the grass into new
modern language to make contact with

some sort of transcendent hazy dynamo
that presides in metaphysical invisibility.

The wind blew softer than any ******* I knew.
Drifting like the white remains of dandelions that flew with
melodious jazz and echoes of Langston Hughes.

My mind followed suit, tumbling through rolling field's of gold.

Melting ideas like candle wax on a cool summer's night.

The last remains of winter still grasped the edge
of spring like dangling off the edge of a cliff,

desperate for any love

I've seen death in the neon electricity that
warms the hearts of the generation following my own.

Watching them pocket it away with crushes
and heartbreaks, holding it closer than necessity.

These words I write glow in the neon lights
that are very much hypocrisy and the end of me.

Tossed into this world like a skipping stone
flung by faith and flung by hope
in thoughts of how I'll cope
sinking to the bottom of the riverbed
halfway home

So
let them
**** and ****

And forget
whatever love
was

And forget
whatever love
tasted like

The melodious sound of rain hitting the ground
reminded me of you and your dreams.

Thoughts of love flowed through the morning
as the rain conformed into the puddles of society.

How I glance out the window to see the
monolithic clouds, taking to the sky as if it
was the interstate that led to
the great American dream.

The dream that was revealed by Fitzgerald
and died of starvation from Steinbeck.
The dream that begged for reconciliation but got nothing.
The dream that was nothing.

Nothing but the plastic glow of ****-jobs along
with the lights that illuminated the local Walmart.

Nothing more than the glimmer of hope
shot down by the square conformity that is now.

The now that forgot humanity at the hazy bus stop,
leaving them to return home and ****** the intellect.

In head melting Sundays where I sit staring at electricity
that kills time slowly like a premeditated ******.

The shirt is so tight.
accenting the curves that are so nearly perfect,
it could be a painting.
I'm drawing her endlessly in my head.
****, undressed (I think I'm crying)
I'm trying to throw her out of my head.

And I can't with those shorts.
And I can't with that ***.
And I can't with those ****.
And I can't with that hair.

Nothing but animals we are.
We **** to live and live to ****.
But guess ******* what,
I love it.

So very strange it felt like rusty sheets of metal disintegrating atop the ruins of Titanic

I'm walking out the door of the house of my fears and growing the **** up for once

Infinity that touched me in a land of moonlit dreams that flew out of wheat fields with overalls and plaid patterns which pulled me in close in interlocking lips of candlelight's burning of romance and that Queen album

It was humanity that was the mixed bag of jelly beans at summer camp that spilled out into the scorching sun restless for *** and sun-tans.
All before they melted away into Kandinsky paintings pretending that happiness was something of a virtue.
And while the paintings ignited into a righteous firestorm of white men in white robes with hope and faith, flying out the church doors and taking to the sky, morphing into airplanes to destroy the great peace in the form of two obelisks pointing to Allah.
To the american hypocrisy that we drink like cough syrup to cure nothing.
While pretending everything was alright.
While  dead men are worshiped more than a word of the past that is the future.
Let us forget about innovation.
Let us look back onto the great circles of cycles that we overturn on the great history
of the 4th of July flagpoles that I grasp, feeling the pulse of the blood-filled stripes.
Let us look to the cold-blooded blue square that we plant ourselves on as stars, making our marks in this smooth and creamy void.
Let us walk into the white absences were color is uninhabitable to the Negroes or the Latinos who used all of their angry fixes in activism and cigarettes that burn holes through eternity.
To the Chinese who were thrown out of our stars like mutts in order for our stars to shine the plastic glow that stays illuminated in the lights of Chick-fil-A that sells homosexuals with a side of Leviticus.
Taking, taking, taking to the past and somehow justifying death to natives, then scalping the land as some sort of victory of great imperialism that still hangs to our hearts like a collective tumor.
But I have been kind, I have been free.
To the breath of foreigners breaking the normality that is conformity.
Let me scare you with your greatest fear which is locked away in gravestones and darkness.
Locked away in Kerouac, Whitman and Ginsberg
For that which is change.
I speak directly to the inner gashes that are your soul.
Change before the fireworks turn into mutually assured destruction.
And you won’t.
Change before the feminists shoot me with their trigger warnings.
And you won’t.
Change before the immigrants last breath murmurs “**** dreams”.
And you won’t.

I am America and my flag is paper, white paper.

For Pat Stone*

            I remember you from a time once before dinosaurs roamed
the city streets, reeking of peach scented candles and boxed wine,
yearning for some sort of darkness.
            Reading from the novels of Stephen King as if they
were revisions of the bible.
            Who found darkness in a mammogram and shoved it into
her pocket along with the rusty brooches and earrings.
            Who lost love with an aneurysm.
            Who lost love with withering age.
            Who lost love with pneumonia.
            Where the remainder of her loved only existed in her short,
black hair growing from the roots of the past.
            Where her eyes look back onto the golden infinity known as
the old cornfield next to the big red barn of Mid-Western-Minnesotan  
conformity.
            Of the calls made to mother regarding how she'll die each time 
she notices something new.
            Who cried with me when mother had left me for sailing the sky.

            Oh, she was the mother.
            The mother of a generation much like mine.
            The mother who was the domestic wife in her natural habitat of
pots, pans and aprons.  
            The mother who was softer than the belt.
            The mother who kept family gatherings illuminated with award
winning short stories of brother, brother or sister.
            The mother who dealt with apocalypse that was Karen Grenier
as a child.
            The mother who did it.
            The mother who created lives and the mother who took death
as one of her daily pills.

            Brother, brother and sister now out the door, gone to make
their marks.
            The mother who was left only to mother the darkness in tastes of
boxed wine and Stephen King.

and it's fine
you're fine
always fine

For Sam Callahan*

The love that was the feeling of scurrying across
the sun sponge called the pavement

Scurrying from life's eternal rays of reality
and taking our shot in the darkness

Scurrying from the disbelievers

Scurrying from the hard lines of the past
and living in our dwelling of the spectacular now

sun   sky
clouds clouuuuds clods clds
forestforestforest
r
  i
  d
    g
      e
graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavel

naked lady

naked lady

she sat on my lap I took the stabbing

tt tc tt tc tt tc tt tc

aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAA

oldf masnm  eooo  yoley yoley
scarclett of feastuereererer

immediate windowpanes came to me when I looked at her

_~tier? |tearing the life all over| humanity|?

loook heaaaaar asonna di vortikai la nuncta

white
GREEN
y
  e  llow

the cold water singed my bones

over by the campfire the old man gets burnt when awoken

looking at the shadows of the smaller trees

under the pear tree, I sit
watching the women with the cars
dancing on the streetlights