stripping backwards
into now...
forming the lint of my memory.
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“hubcap diamond star halo”
the sap of speeding by days pushing into today
reminding me of cowgirls dancing in cemeteries ...
to the blues,
-grinding blue blood.
pure exalted truism.
how to combine the actuation of the daily is the confusion.
if only i could write a love letter or
take a polaroid and hold it in my sawed off hand.
perhaps then it would be reality
and exist breathing within this time,
and move again in the reflection in the mirror -
the little cowgirl queen,
smiling quietly, unnervingly.
pleased to drift on the soles of her boots,
the tips a shinin’ in the full moonlight.
the train tracks beneath me,
a pantheon within me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
angel of the morning.
pushing out in volumes,
i won’t beg you to stay.
back again... to the parts adding up to the sum.
one whole creature appears. grabs.
ascending inward.
and then there you are... heaving in silence.
the cornfields unraveling within the tumultuous layers of citified structures.
the patterns become magnificent histories of our stamp upon ourselves.
the index cards of our understanding.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
“too many tuesdays”
It always comes down to this.
-or back to this,
whichever...
sometimes i’m plain glad that it still exists
somewhere
somewhere out there
out in the air
if only in being...it floats and wanders
but essentially it is traveling within the wanderlust of my soul.
pulsing and moving within
falling out and
forgotten
then suddenly, like a habit,
coming back to kick my ass with it’s atonement
and remind me
of a moment in Concrete Texas,
of dry sunlight
and of sand in my smile,
of braids.
and Uma and the lawn chair,
of the bathtub in the open air.
it used to be all the time,
pulsing in my blood. thick. driving me towards itself, with the free bird on my back.
later, for some fucked up reason,
only fleeting in moments of pure tempting hope. the relinquishing of the daily move,
till finally it’s coming again
full throttle on the 4-barrel into my head
the clarity of it’s blueness pours over my soul,
seeping in and penetrating.
-filling an already enclosing void.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
entropy exploding unto itself
------------------------------------------------------------------
sauerkraut on the porch.
circumcised prairies.
divergent patterns,
trip-hopping’ through the cornfields
raw sienna holocaust breaking through the birch.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
“blood fluke”
i knew they were gonna do it.
it had already unfolded in a dream.
i felt the fear.
i branded the bodies of the blitzkrieg.
i sat within the silence of death,
their bhang dank upon my desires.
i am the atonement for the anguish of the left behind.
with jackson still buoyant in my blood,
i’m busted.
my impenetrable cloaking device disarmed.
(malfunction/manipulation)
please cross the damn wires and bring me back...
for i am the tired silent tutelary
too tired to have to keep bearing witness to their attacks.
i keep their seven deadly sins in the 4 chambers of my back pocket,
but its busting at the seams,
‘cuz this is a locket of destiny...for only a few of us to wear.
They may all forget,
but i hold the film.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
eating the grass outta’ buffalo guts.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
this grey tinge appears,
i know it must have once appeared subtle...
but i cannot remember that.
it became dark so fast.
what caused this?
does the grey grow with intensity, with each chapter read?
how long before it takes over? will it?
can it be halted?
what is necessary?
back to the old sifting.
the sifting of the extraneous
bullshit.
but the layers are thickening,
like resin baking in the sun.
it’s all setting up on me.
it’s all going off
before me and within me.
what is the catalyst?
where is the manual?
& why do i have this sinking feeling that even if i do find the manual it will all be in
french anyways...
do i just allow?
allow this.
allow the reaction to come all the way through?
to finish setting up...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
pregnant underlayment holding up my entrails
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
flying around the merry-go-round
and letting your legs fly out from under you...
eating juicy ripe strawberries
and allowing the moisture to travel past your chin
and neck
till it gets lost inside the front tips of your collarbones...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“revolution/solution”
the underground
the sicilians
mad max bunkers below
train lines twisting debatable time.
containment lockdown areas.
dinosaur genocide haulers.
burnt sienna sunsets.
burnt bodies disintegrated.
low slung black caps.
the shattered worm box.
wedding party death squad.
shimming down an elevator shaft.
steel crane industrial dungeons masquerading as sunshine lemon drops.
the horse is waiting without his bridle.
muriatic acid waterfalls behind the school desks.
& the 3 “S” men up front a hawkin’.
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Topless maid circus show takes revenge upon the pimps
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
they’re all messin’ with my consciousness.
let ‘em pull the strings.
someone forgot to tell them the puppet masters are long dead.
the marionette was set a drift and was
last seen fleeing down highway 61.
catch me if you can...i triple dog dare you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in a coma and on a trampoline with a kangaroo.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
red heifers having cookies.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
fracturing of the senses.
stability falling from
beneath us.
it’s like treading water
you never know how long you may have to go...
will a boat come by or will the coaches’ whistle blow.
or will you run out of energy?
depleted.
be careful what you wish for...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
the hours begin to move
as clean red satin beneath my back.
it’s all spinning at a higher and higher velocity into the
vortex of the funnel.
when i come through the other side in a dazed whirlwind
rubbing the slurry from thine eyes...
i pray for the beauty to stand before i
i pray that i may fall to my knees and slump
into the viscous lightness of blissfulness.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
swelling out.
pulling back in.
retracting and thrusting...
the radius which ones eyes traverse
while the awakening occurs within the core...
forces/allows
the spinal column up and back
as if an accosting has just begun.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the moments come
& rise up in me
while
the restraints have as yet to be removed.
their movements dancing upon my conscience.
all my orifices being violated by foreign tubes.
thick clear plastic tubes
coming deeper to collect...
to collect and disperse into the vials below.
when the vials are filled...
what becomes of them?
are they downed like a sweet nectar...
or placed between sheets of glass? & examined in the lab of someone’s
consciousness...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
shattering.
splintering.
fracturing.
the line of energy is pulled taut.
the seconds swing through time.
time thick like molasses.
remember...to do certain things
to engage in certain activities:
-holding the chin up.
-breathing in and out,
pulsing every tissue.
-drop the shoulders.
-lift the head ever so slightly.
-allow the innards of the skull to shift and swell and slosh in slow motion.
the weight is tremendous.
it is pure honest weight.
it is over ripe and knows that no one shall be coming along to relieve the pressure with
an over zealous bite.
containment.
i can feel it from the inside of the container...
as a mime who got caught in his own glass box.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it is as if the innards are as “chilled overnight” tapioca,
sliding down your throat
yet...
leaving the film of its memory upon the velcro of your tongue.
left there to react with the moments that follow.
interfering
like a commercial in my days
trying to squeeze into where it don’t belong no how.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
so, here we go...
bring home the prairie
pour your thoughts over me.
send me the oxygen of home
breath into my system
connect the points of time
Harley on an all new midwestern front
sweet time skips down the slaughter house five slide...
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its important
the color of sauerkraut.
its important
the color of old tin buckets.