PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 

Before this I had taken a bus trip to San Francisco, your typical troubled teenager thirsting for something he can’t yet understand why. Contrary, I fully happened to underestimate the terror I would endure though only as a prickly pear of my own headspace. Don’t get me wrong, the city itself was all things beautiful and enchanting, utterly romantic in a strange sort of way for those bums the ones who fear nothing but love and make it a grand junction of their hearts’ desire to snipe for cigarette butts on bustling industrial sidewalks.

 

When I arrived via Greyhound after a 10-hour odd trip crammed on a cushion with my big army-edition backpack, stepping out onto the mounting platform, I spun my soul in streaming curiosity I am an owl around.

 

Called up my friend. “Okay Dave I’m here.”

 

“All right hang tight be there soon” he said.

 

Ya right, I was being drawn in every direction, stigmatic ambitions of exploration already run rampant. Thought I’d take a stroll during the interim and find the first café of the stretch. Maybe that’s all I was thirsting for this whole time. Only coffee. But as I made my way down the pleasant stretch with bubbly buildings yawning their necks, introspective, this thin little white Irish dude was chasing a scrap of paper on the crosswalk I was crossing. Guess he kind of swept me up instead. “Follow me,” he said.

 

I was basically a monkey freed from its family cage. So, being a dumb fucking monkey, I followed suit with eyes and mouth agape, timid youthful strong hobbles, into the concrete jungle. Oblivious to the point of not even stopping to consider what in God’s hell we’re moving toward?

 

Told me to follow him yet proceeded without any more words and continued on his path as though alone, like he had a leash loosely slung to me was his power. He leads me into the popular market of that particular block. They happened to have a Starbucks- Hallelujah coffee mission accomplished. I ordered two black coffees while he did some provisional stealing for foodstuffs, skinny Irish man with orange shoulder-length hair complimented own cultural connections with the marketing mermaid on the coffee cups but a single sip after splashed it on the sidewalk grunting “black crack” his bitter distaste. What a waste; at least I had mine still.

 

An energetic fruit muffin he was, vegan and seeming committed to sobriety but when we eventually take a visit into an immensely more hectic sector, of the city center actually, what with all its bright neon blinking lights, we shall soon be witness to some different, questionable mannerisms he handled well a strain on certain habits and tendencies obviously attempting to rectify and get in line with the Lord, okay? I wasn’t attracted to him for no reason. Stay tuned for future developments. Pick a star and constellate.

 

After a bit of exploration, my Guide was feelin’ giddy inside, once the social stimuli were provided to him by all those city-kin passerby. Hobos make a hobby out of harassment, but master the craft so well that people perchance might even cough up a dollar.

 

Eventually we settled in together, on what appeared to be the porch of an abandoned leasing office. A small structure with an open fence and vacant so he took up home on the front steps. There was a small shelf, with a few random pieces of literature, a desk and swivel chair. Apart from that only a sleeping bag and wouldn’t we glory in minimalism. Comfortable, humble.

*

 

His flock of kin I gather he might’ve sheparded just like how it happened with me, I met the following day when they came from deeper outside the perimeter of their familiarity. We were sitting on a little ledge where fancy plants and small trees could grow and show a bit of bloom to anyone who passes along on the sidewalks. I was cross-legged on the ground, aback against the building as it were whose cobble wall held my spine straight, watching Michael (we’ll call him Michael, and me Ishmael) and a few other local bums discussing nothing of any real weight or value, at least none that I can summon to recall, over a bit of smoke, mostly mumbling incoherent and yet me still sitting there incredibly intrigued, due to the scene of these dreary, star-hearted zombies, like a trance within a trance.

 

One of the bums gestured me respectably, seeing that my humility was perhaps a bit strict, even for a kid, or that I was not a part of some silly audience to their culture, being in the same place at the same time, that we must cherish equality within every dimension. So, he patted the bit of chiseled stone-surface beside him with those same sorrowed stars sparkling in his empathetic eyes, shadow overhead casting secrets pronounced that dissipate like a magician of ether.

*

 

Mr. Michael here he had a beautifully bound leather flop of a bible. On the cover was written GO IRELAND! with green sharpie marker, and to this day, even contained to the limitations of my memory bank, that alone still finds itself as the most gorgeous bible I’ve ever stumbled upon, surprise, bitch! and strange too because I am pent up with great envy eeriegardless of the scriptures it contains demeaning such jealousies to the pits, especially of another soul’s own personal, sentimental connection of all value and merit, who in all fairness probably viewed it with less enthusiasm which is probably why he ripped a page out at random uncaring or like what is my worth in this world and told me to read it aloud sought if any resonation might find witness to just a single one of the core-confected seven pillars of death. He had the habit of picking up random pages whenever we would come upon one, crumpling them up and stuffing them away in pockets only holding but a few coins, albeit from heaven, after giving each a quick skim; in my eyes, likely to avoid fetters of hoarding their non-importance. It wasn’t until he gave me that bible page that I could even begin to comprehend just how committed he was to no particular material object. His heart was wide and ready to reside in the clouds as he doubtless pondered or contemplated through the void of senseless insomniac moon rituals. I can see him now.

 

Another lesson is when I was loony-binned on a bender pretty much a decade later, therefore rather recently as this is being written, a specific member of the community convicted and claimed to be crazy but we all is locked up with the supreme secrets watching them uncurl themselves; Jeremy was a cool cat, dark hearted, bringer of luck but not bad, nor good for that matter, more neutral, yeah. Better for the brains that way. Quite a stellar specimen, how he delivered me a message via telepathy, on the shelf of my cell, crumpled and obviously dealing with the past admirations of wondering what-in-the-heck is Michael up to, now since we are long torn apart from each-other like Velcro straps and that happenstance we had, which fortunately the freshness of memory serves me well word for word, the message: The ninã night is on my side. Good, he’s safe and alive, envisioning him walking along the coast on constant guard of our divine minds entwined.

*

 

We blaze the darkening highways. Cactus flowers are melancholy in blue moonbeams. The horizon ahead whispers “fresh meat” chanting. You’re stuck in a dream and whether it’s good or bad doesn’t matter because it’s just a dream… one long drawn-out penance living like a peasant in your crazy mother's elaborate little runaway escapade.

 

Latinos were landscaping and the birdsong was youthful and vibrant in the trimmed summer trees. My sister stepped out of the passenger seat which I then folded open and joined the ladies on the driveway with bent backs cracking. You could smell the freshness of awareness in the air and a keen strange feeling flooded my system… fairly exhilarating I dare say. I looked around for a moment and then carried my things inside the house.

 

The cats like vampires hissed from aback their plastic boxes and snuggled stiffly in the dim. Their whiskers twitched as they sniffed for hints. Boxes throughout seem to breathe fiercely with the presence of the Past. Be wise stay inside like the cats.

 

The next day I checkout a barbershop to buzz my dreads off. It was a humble downtown shop. The barber happened to be busy grooming a couple toddlers; thus I strut out onto the curb and smoke a cigarette whilst waiting for my turn and watch the cars rumble the road. Old classics with a twist of silver drills by slick street mechanics who know. I smush the smoke beneath my toes. The barber welcomed me kindly with a nice, clean cut.

Now it’s time to find a job.

*

 

I met a fella, whose names to become the bane of where I fantasized relinquishment would endow. Powerhouse of a sentence for the nonexistent crowd that is my audience. If it doesn’t make much sense to you, I'll have you know it’s not necessarily supposed to. Keep it vague play it safe. Anyways, he was perched on a discreet, backstreet curb, taking a break from the inner city alms bowl and chaos as he slobbered over a decoy Dasani plastic bottle of vodka. straight up!

 

The shadows were shivering silver beneath

The full moon’s gloom through foggy trees.

*

It was peculiar enough being pushed into such unique community, thanks to my mom’s trying triumph by moving away from that which never seemed to suit her soul… but what’s this got anything to do with me? was I birthed indeed?

 

Our home sits directly across the street from a cemetery

with a horrendous possum problem. Possums by the plenty

possibly only play dead as part of some pretentious jest

 

We met frequently at a certain intersection I dare not name for fear of courthouse consequence. I never asked for this. The leftover booze- backpack backpack- from yesterday was ready for me to savor hastily... Indeed, a dire need, to be buzzed enough so the many moody monsters on the streets got no motive to steal your soul or psyche.

*

 

I walked to the Cross in Birkenstocks. They paired nicely my new, super stylish socks. But still sadly my dreadlocks are gone. Writer don’t need the World, rather a stack of paper and a proper pen, better yet a friendly mescaline chalice to Muse what beautiful grooves on the Poetry of your desk holds the power to soothe such ghetto situations. I beckon your attention. What better way is there to spend your time? dispensable to Divine Reversd

 

Earth sprouts its trunks on Veiny Island groves in rows of skeletal strife. If at all, did we respect our last skilled spokesman? only to grieve his own history forever in a cosmic swing of events, drunken hypnotized aloof. Do we share the same space Purpose Harbor? I confess it is hard to think harder as a martyr of incredible madness happening…

*

 

The California sunshine pierces deeply each cell. I adore the warmth without reservation, a kind of surprise visit not necessarily cherished, today, you might say, never fails to amaze my Quay. Don’t hesitate, respect its devotion to remain aflame. You’re perfect attention. to pinewood yogis. brighter than we, neither to concern ourselves with urns, or question its lessons… Eden gurgles hell we current dwell our human, all too human future World must burn.

 

Experimental without any tacky add-ons, we forge friendships on these pages’ vague analysis of oh, oh, oh, another one who longs. for songs. Do you fancy much the input and inclusion of  making it harder to hamper the laundry mother bends over backwards to purify thereby deeming you personal, God-given permission of experiencing the sunshine finer than scanning electrical vanity she herself must compromise to continue to compromise by?

*

 

People dance around town, dressed in raggedy PJs. by night they prowl about still, hidden hooded with elaborate ragged (exaggerated) trench jackets, like their nails long slice the thread and slice but bite but petty puzzles only a miniscule thought. I need some dialogue. Quit forcing thoughts into my brain.

*

 

It wasn't a terrible failure, two bucks for a suck from that neon pink, plastic bitch beneath the bridge tonight, her big lips painted crimson wet with the blood of previous victims. This is my mission, to sound the Sitar downtown funding me enough so I can rock with dollars not nectar. And that was that. I dropped the gems into her hat and said thank you very much, wicked and oysterlike to be tossed thru moon-shimmering storm aglow.

 

"Oh, gimme a break... Diamonds work gist fine without all that added flattery, honeybuns... Glad you had fun though!"

 

When the rain finally stops, I am faced with another problem. I thought it was nigh time to find some true food. To me that means humanfruit. Now, acquiring these morsels is a rather difficult matter. It ain't easy, to say the least. And the fatter the gladder, believe that. So I pick up my Brittle Bone staff all a-shiver and wobbly like a sick chicken dripping limping toward my favorite market. But when I whisper the world falters dissolving. But because my diet since I'm coming to town pretty soon there will be a riot.

*

 

Suburb like slang for slum when you’re nonstop worried about grievous thieves and thugs on bleak, yet steady pedals me thru traffic, my sporty sleek Dimweel weaving thru traffic; freedom tricks, trackstands and wheelies escape the sorry throat slit juggernaut hobos in thick woolen coats, bloodstained sheepskin forever bleating weeping. They know how they know I tell you when their affect is to churn fear in the guts of every pedestrian (many a-plenty) even those scholastic teenagers of town, their college plateau peak, and toddlers on playgrounds, babies in strollers whose mother must be so mindful in her stroll unaroused, too, for that matter. Oh my God.

 

I don’t believe in spirituality, per se, nor necessarily nihilism, because though there is something so innately fake, so simulated about our existence, the deeper you dive the dark of annihilation, or either fly among the most beautifully bedazzling constellations—functional dualistic entanglement, a paradox baffling—the less important you subscribe the podium of evolution and whether its banner unfolds a trophy of rarest gold, like she who holds as a result of sorrow that her only babes are sucked away, off the Wisdom Grid and finally shrugged at, lost, forgotten… Dusty laughter of maternal apathy!

*

 

I took the squeegee to the sink and made the station sparkle, then started to go over the bus-route in my head. I spent enough time planning it on paper the day before, like a military map, so I was quite confident and calm about getting to my apartment safely. I hopped on my cruiser and pedaled to the college where the midnight bus would be. When I got to the bus-stop I kicked out the kickstand and set the bike somewhere on the sidewalk. I flicked out a cigarette and smoked, blowing smoke up into the moon. The lady next to me on the bench was speaking in spanish on her phone. I don’t know spanish- only a few restaurant words- but it sounded like complaining. There were actually bats above, too, and they were busy doing whatever it is bats do.

 

The bus rolled down the hill in the moonlight, chugging along like a train and slowing with a sway as it relied upon all those mechanisms that held it together, like shocks and such. The thick plastic doors slid and folded open and the driver greeted you when you swiped your pass in the machine and then you found a seat. I racked my bike while any other passengers who waited at the stop with me could get on first. This seemed the most efficient way. This time though, since it was quite late, there were no bikes on the racks and the rack was hinged up tight, so I had to inquire about how to pull the thing down. Luckily this was a very friendly driver; he had noticed me attempting to figure it out, but when I couldn’t and looked up, he was already miming how. When I stepped on the bus I smiled and said thanks.

*

 

It was quiet and hollow and I was bonkers drunk. The vodka was dusty-cheap and I splashed it with equal parts water in a coffee mug, stabbing an olive through with toothpick and plopping it in there and whispering dusty martini, dusty martini instead of dirty. I’d enjoy several of these chased by chugging a beer that my street partner from the year before had got me hooked on. It was a very strong beer popular among the homeless and he had sworn that “they put something in there,” that there were conspirator chemicals fizzing inside the cans. It was bottoms up and blackout most nights so I don't really recall what went on, after a point, except I get the sense I didn't sleep much because I barely remember waking up in my bed. I get the image of it vaguely in my head but it bears insufficient consistency to call concrete. Anyways, either I woke up or was always awake but I wasn’t scheduled to work that day and decided it would be groceries.

 

There was a Mexican market across the street but it was bad. I located a better one on my phone about twenty blocks past the downtown stretch. I strapped on my pack and waltzed through the community towards the main roads. I made sure to stop and admire for a moment the beautiful fruit trees along my street, pomegranate, avocado, peach, and there was even a devil’s trumpet. It was the first time I ever saw devil’s trumpet flowers in the flesh and I quickly became obsessed.

 

The strangers along the way will creep from their corners and appear as they please.

 

There were sleeping bags hid behind pillars on a great marble patio. Down the steps the surrounding sidewalk was scattered with bent needles and a golfclub. I couldn’t help but wonder what the kill-count is on the golfclub, and whether the victims’ souls are engraved with a glyph into the metal hammerhead purposed to feed the dark overlords till they can inhabit human forms. With a feverish bloodlust. Yes, we believe in entities veiled from the common. Which Which?

 

I’d say the world is out to get me.

If you tell me your deepest secrets,

You won’t be my enemy, baby…

 

I stayed faithful, not got frighted, and focused on walking. Step by step I neared the grocery store. I was in the habit of cooking the same dinner every night, a rice dish with a bed of fried eggs laid flat at the bottom becoming a burrito you could wrap the rice up with at the end, avocado, and steamed tomato. That was my only meal, so my list was pretty simple… But how could I forget the booze? There was an enticing wine named “Juggernaut” which had this intricate portrait of a roaring lion on the label. Twenty bucks for a bottle of wine is ten times what I’d spend at the other market; but I had a small savings which ultimately became my liquor fund strictly.

*

 

My dad had set me up with a box of tea when he furnished the place with some very nice items he scored on craigslist. I was sipping a fresh cup at the wooden, lion-footed table. The dude who came by to clean the couch and carpet, with a motorized vacuum that attached to his van via cable cord, was informing me about how very much he and his girlfriend loved to get high, and if I needed a good weed hook, he could be my guy. I wasn't plenty a fan of weed to join the market, so I didn't respond but watched him whip around the suction snake like he was venue janitor for a rave or something. He wiped his runny nose on one of my couch cushions, I think because he thought I ignored his friendship. It wasn't intended, I was just oblivious. I sipped my tea. My dad was sorting out the rest of the stuff downstairs in the little parking yard for our little building. My new neighbors were peeking out their blinds curious yet cautious. Sometimes I walked past the woman in the first window, peeking out as she stirred fragrant cuisines in a copper pot, on my way along the rail and down the balcony. I would smile and say, "Hola, buenos Dias," happy to practice my pronunciation of a language I had come to adore. "Andale, Andale," she often responded, waving her towel at me like I was worse than a nuisant fly in her ear.

*

 

It's hot in here, a sauna I would say.

It stinks like sorrow and burnt edges,

Can't tell if that's the spiritual smoke

Wisping from the incense at the open window-

Alleyway echoes, gardenbootstamps,

Marijuana punches thru the sidewalk.

*

 

I thought I'd take a beach day. Funny because when you're young and growing up in always familiar lands, you nurture this vain subconscious that you know everything there is to know, that this is the is all and all there is. So, while I prepared for the beach, at last freed from the recent seasons of sex-trafficking, I didn't know what to expect, with my ever-maddening mindset. Not like I contained the capacity to perform logical thought in the first place. I just went. What treats might the gulls be fishing up this witch-o-clock spiral of a sea? I suppose we'll see.

 

I’ve come face to face with death... smashed thrice with a steel pipe wielded by a heroin-addict in a public playground at night. It would hurt just to think about the nightmarish nature of this fanged illusion. And saying illusion is more for coping than anything else. I’m only a paranoid smoker if it’s cheap, okay? Get the pure crystals and its game on. Hard to satisfy. As Ahab tosses his pipe into pearly waves of white.

 

The coffee-machine will drip, beep, and I will drop, fainting onto the floor. I’ve never felt quite this starved before, simultaneously supercharged by epiphanies, left and right, day and night. But my spirit can’t take it any longer… the portal quakes with blinding bombs of light. Your audience will become an angry mob. Oh yeah, we’re going to the ocean alright!

*

 

They locked me up for freaking out at a McDonald’s. All I wanted was a refill but the bitch behind the counter craved conflict. She said that since I brought the cup outside that it was a contaminant and I couldn’t.

 

“Can’t we just use another cup?”

 

“Nope sorry,” she smirked.

 

She was instigating an outburst and refused service even when I offered to pay full price. It was a somewhat sketchy sector and thus there was a security guard stationed at the entrance. He stood there probably zoning out most the time, till a battle cat like myself struts on through. The squabble sparked into frenzied flames and nobody wants a tantrum. The guard came in and grabbed my backpack and tried tugging me out like a dog on a leash. He didn’t speak the redwhiteblue too good, nor bother investigating what the problem might actually be. It seemed we competed for the gold medal in a tug-a-war streetfighting olympics. Now he must’ve been about twice my age, though small and undaunting. He wasn’t emaciated like me but still very manageable indeed. I had a blast making him wrestle my wretched self. There happened to be a leak in the ceiling right in front of the counter with a bucket on the floor below where the murky droplets gathered into a cesspool. I kicked the bucket over and the swamp spilled out. He slipped and flipped and hit his hip, triggering his pistol to fire. The bullet whizzed.

*

 

Accursed crayons in gibberish journals,

Doctor notes and deceptive seduction

Of nurses in tight black spandex skirts,

And no tomorrow please no tomorrow

You pull the pregnant from my belly!!!

 

The patients of the psyche ward are

The modern shamans of the westworld,

Prisoners poisoned throughout the day,

Months if you can’t escape, life at stake

Maddened by mind mazes enslaved-

Sacrificial genocide, future of mankind.

*

 

It wasn’t my first time being forced into the psych ward. Maybe the third or fourth. Hard to think when math ain’t my thing especially. I could go into detail about all the craziness and chaos that went down prior to this particular timeline, but that would stray too far away for my mind to manage, and yours too methinks. Don’t wish to put my readers thru the same shit I got stabbed in the ass with needles of grim laughter. It was absolute confusion. The system seems to feed on poor people subject to familial distress etc. Someone trying their darndest, caught in a mess, deciphering corrupted code-language that only satiates the 1% vampires at best. No?

 

Well, they had got me again, and locked me up and oh god what the goddamn are they trying to accomplish in those places? I had long hair and am in the habit of utilizing rhymes to keep the party alive and express the melody that’s on my mind. It was my second or third set of baby dreads and they were the healthiest so far by far. I was a skinny bitch hid himself in his rundown apartment practicing yoga and becoming quite the little shaman but it was really just addiction. To be specific, though I am certain this is already entirely evident, I was your typical alcoholic trivial channeler. In the end it’s merely a matter of whether you’re willing to accept “whatever come what may” to quote an old poet. We can howl to the moon still, even when the night is shrill as a baby’s scream realizing it has been brought yet again to hell.

 

They try to convince you you’re crazy and play all sorts of games so they can gain a deceptive power advantage and suck your daddy’s money up whilst altering your brainblood to a viscosity chemicalized so thin like isopropyl which is calling you another sacrificial guinea pig. But it’s for science, dear patient, don’t you wish your name could go down into the books as a sweet, special breed of schizophrenic? We’ll fix you, fix you good, with this here glinting fairy dust, trust us…

 

During this vocation of unwarranted psychiatric rehabilitation, there were a few characters struck mine eye. One was this skinny fucking guy didn’t have a sense of how to dress properly, tossed on sweatshirts o’er the gown of the guise of goodly care, bundled up with who the fuck cares; but who could blame him? It was cold as ice in those corridors and whoever claims the right to judge a man’s contemplations of coziness, step forth and suffer the consequences of superhuman violent swings! And he had a reach too, being nearly seven feet, I’d guess. Which brings me to my next point regarding this shipwrecked boy (hopefully he’ll find shore soon); the main thing about this angsty anorexic was he wanted so badly to punch someone. Fortunately for all us patients present he was able to will enough self-control so that only the air conditioner’s blaze of icy chilled chemical coddling corruption got hurt. Probably worked as a way to protect we community of patients from freezing to death or drug-induced delirium by “fighting off the cold,” so to speak. Oh, the way we must speak to please the people and feed by merely breathing along to silly songs.

*

 

When I had finally been discharged after my 5250 was fulfilled, and upon rejoining my little crypt, what with its beige, stained carpets, I waltzed eagerly back into my bleak bedroom and collapsed like Romeo when he suspected his soulmate, Juliet, was dead. Well, you know how the story goes. My avocados had all but gone to rot. They sagged in their custom chalices, which I had crafted and adorned for them like your own tender mother once chose your cherished childhood clothes for you. But evening cast its last sad shadows and gloomily their fruits will never bloom but instead gist stooped there with (albeit once beautiful and pristine) heartbroken tentacles hushed and haunted. I fell to the floor and went weeping into grave despair.

 

And that was the final milestone which pretty much marked the climax of my time spent in that conflicted city of both trees and treason, where my temporal hermitage brought me to the brink of literally peeling off my skin and hanging myself from the crumbling ceilings of a rotten apartment above. But hey, I can only blame myself, cliché marster. That’s what the mountains of crushed cans abundantly stuffed in the closet continue to say even unto this very day. And I believe them too, I really do... So yeah, that about wraps it up, folks!

*

 

When I met her, how she sated the circumstantially caged confines to spot-on mesmerize my forgotten flame. We never dreamed ourselves worthy, but rather to die. Then burst open a proper brothel (I don’t regiment my audience), a craven desire like a sack of bricks kind of gist slaps you across the face, or with a silken whip lashes ever so tender attacks on your serpentine spine. I don’t care for the sappy stuff. Neither give two sorry shits for what type of words you might find flirtatious. A schizo sink in whiskey quicksand. Poet’s pretentious plight. I chime cheddar. 15 days no food no water. She sure is a pretty kitty. Small. Smaller. Smallest breed for a certainty unreal…

 

restless nights gone to waste by the intensity of my brainwaves

awake for several weeks without an end in sight. We fail to feel 

frequent the fun stuff surmising aged opinions like sour wine…

 

It contorted on the stairs, crawling on all fours. My senses tapped in, I didn’t want them. Easier to disappear. With each step the creature stretches, the rickety floorboards creak and it feels like needles unleashed in piercing spiral flurries eat me. It’s days like this I wish I didn’t exist.

 

When I wake up the new morning is usual as always. The single spoon of sugar stirred quickly in the coffee and then outside to view my sage bush who is fresh pruned. Crazy Daisies too. So far, much better than yesterday. I still miss her though. Heart shocks and throbs up the yin yang vertebrae spinal column kundalini for God. Ain’t nothin’ but a fling, let’s leave it at that, without a ring to call the sweet creature on display my own dainty little darling queen.

 

How many people are suicidal in this world?

*

 

So I stay in a dilapidated vacant barn these days. God, come nightfall, that undaunted mask to memory incapacitated nauseous motion chaos when the stars appear suddenly from their sideway slumber, you know, the other side of our globe, boy do I wonder where they found such bright form. Heaps of hay is where I lay. It’s a good thing I got my Apple laptop though, so I can post what we wrote today. Abby the chicken let me pick her up whooo

 

Unleash the geese there was a lightning storm last night with the thunder cracking through heaven’s nerve and opening the sky from a tremendous problem of what should we do next? There’s a problem with our servant’s heart she became a robot a while ago when she decided it wouldn’t serve her purpose of the storm, and the storm shouted at me down from the wrinkled source of something I couldn’t see properly it wasn’t my fault although many times when she appeared in the moonlight before that happened in the moonlight

 

She came trotting down the slope her hair cut loose untethered and without a saddle from the slope like a sanctioned space where the crickets lay frail and vibrating upon a fake puddle reflected from the sun ever without anyone there to stop her spectrum of all false feelings abated in her mouth was a dead cricket and I said to her Mr Cricket said why did you lay down in the grass unyielding to the premise that is not what one cares to name I am the same

 

Molecules throttled forth in the vortex of upended uncertainties when the land will suck your family blood money out roaring summertime whimsy, Whopper Street signs pass through slight unceasing notions was never nuanced to feed a brain whose woman is insane, rage on in lush rolling meadows with a tractor do I care to stop with a sopping mop flicking rotten droplets there

*

 

Left work early that day, due to vertigo I'd say. Still didn't stop me to take advantage of the rare time out on town with the sun still out to dally over to the nearest pizza pub. They weren't serving me what I needed, only 2 beers in and them telling me it's time to leave. Memory's a bit blurry but I do remember the owner coming over and give me 3 options: either pay the check and get out, even offered to pay for me to prevent the scene that occurred choosing the third: or we could take this and settle it outside. I had been desiring a real fight for the past couple months in earnest, actually, asking random passerby half sarcastically 'Wanna fight?' for a time by now. So, he showed me the door like the host of any good house, which was ironic, I thought. He swung it open and held it for me first with his crew slick behind, all big bearded guys about thrice my size, no lies. But before any of those egging behind me could exit I threw 3 heavyweight punches, rather accurately and full throttle and quickquickquick. They felt splendid. I hadn't known I was capable of such power and prowess. They were such strong punches that I got proud though I didn't land a single blow. My reach must've been short, depth perception or something of the sort. Besides, like I said, he was a rather LARGE man and so therefore it still missed merely by inches, what with him barely nudging a neck muscle to dodge just in case one would land and he'd be fuckin' dead on the floor, I can assure you that. And I would give a great roar because I'm a monster.

 

After they had strapped me to the stretcher bed ‘for poor behavior’ they said I screamed, roared rather as loud as I could for hours on end like a wild caged carnivorous bird tiger or zoo lion to make their satanic brains explode and splatter that nasty matter all a-scatter over those fuzzy-drug white walls and fanless ceilings of those blank-faced oyster halls, lobotomized erased, raping and molesting my body restrained. God how they aim to humiliate.

Wanna fight?

 

What’s ordained as proper opposites, 2 fuses crisscross thru the universe merciless. Think Yin Yang wisdom, mustaches flexed out, symmetry aflame like science devised though you could call it however you fancy bound without stress, big brain.

 

So then who’s to blame in this perilous pursuit of the Peculiar? Well, it sure seems we are invariably flavored and spiced up- much too much- toward the paradoxical pendulum sway of the derogatory, wrong way. It’s a riddle, a game. She may appear mystique, but a sinister mistress indeed, unlike momsong which is with us all along, familiar, family.

 

I can help myself, thank you very much, to these earned treats turned to mere cumulus clouds of proofs and patterns of juicy indulgences. I come in peace, darling, don’t you see? 

 

It is a great strain to put these ideas in order, shimmering visibility, let alone the simplest and most standard setting of any given scene, answering simultaneously as testimony and defeat perchance shared vicarious thru epic tunnel vision like a poor little kid, twiddling his nervous little thumbs, too soon become 100% dead, desperate and numb.

 

Dominion is His!

 

And why shouldn't I strive on towards less treacherous tutelary seas reflecting a trillion more absorbent stars of reverence and a better tomorrow, long cast oceanic reveries ending in weary waterfalls why? Only there, that mad Ahab outcast storms in riddles borne to soar- no kite ever soared- yet condemned to these strange not-homes of profusely populated tenement towers scattered cross the whole dam planet. His own endless, tidal confusion, this thirsty illusion, thru time and its flaunted trickery, flipping me like a washing machine on steroids. What bigoted entity perpetually pales with sails unfurled towards discovery then quick death of untamed worlds

where I found my girl.

 

by Pungus

(PS It is I)