Horse Dung
Can make sense from the senseless words I tend to squeeze from this so called soul, then the little books that dry my mind for times in seconds, choosing to scream among the elite droogs. From black Sabbath to lesbian keremms kereeemss.., towers in fog, to back swing, then it’s easy, if we let it go, even in the skips, they are the ones in the frogged out space elders, the ones who cause those withered strips in skips, as innocence falls, to become the petrol of beauty, beliefs, so they apologize for captured soldiers, with cultures in disagreement, yes, end times, beginning times, fighter spy planes, so fukin sorry, but not really sorry, now send are phony heroes home, make them like statures, how pathetic this mutant construction with in rain botic back yard big cat pets, lions, tigers, grinning, just doing what is instinct, fate, lies, people handing me books, credit cards, can this be Paris in 1920? Do we all have the clap, live with henry miller, his roommate Carl, what are these books, I never have time to read, yearnings, can do what we have to do, lesbian black sabboth angels, in between sips, second chances storm the horizon, always reasons, instead of just spontaneous vein moments, to find peaces of ones mind, among the fragments. Sweet madness had blue eyes, long blonde hair, a pussy tighter then the gates of eternity, scripts floating in the chaos of ways, to waves, to pilots with slanted eyes, plummeting to ocean graves, as each fingers the other, war has been with man/ women, for eternity, it’s just that all have gotten greedier, all think they can never drop the armor of ignorance, to busy polluting the clouds, instead of just having picnics of port, grass near lover, throats locked in brace, blowing smoke to the clouds, licking mustard lips, enjoying the small things, like alone, like lolly pop’s and cigarettes in the foreign man’s gas station. Only the wars with in need fighting, even if no winner emerges from such wreckage in twisted burnt silent lighting, loud chains, tickling like grandparents wrinkles, this un kept body, with black rolled skin follies swarming through the years, like seconds, stop time in temporary comfort zones, with the construction signs becoming like this, this shadowed cripple, continent of great wondrous crap. Whirl wind the music sheet.
Honesty and the white molding grape fruits sitting in some net stocking bag, to the corruption of letting fruit turn to mold. Honesty should be in all poets’ hearts. Everyone should be honest, even when lost, even when u thinks u are found. I pause for a minute to decide whether I even have a right to be mumbling, after all, I’m a drunk, a junkie for everything that has false prefixes to the ultimate goal, the so called meds, the so called kings and queens who so profoundly ware those crowns in the golden robes. They are the ones I don’t trust, besides myself, I don’t trust those people with to many answers, and yet, still, I don’t trust myself, don’t even want to know myself most of the time the fingers and mind babble seems to work through me. and the end, if such a word exists, end, beginnings.. who knows, who cares, arise what ever one can two finger type for a brief moment- lapsed leaps, spontaneous flying hogs, no pastures, no grace, no all knowing being, just drunken people from coast to coast coping with their ant like lives in different ways, no books can teach. No poet can really die within that never known name of that red eatables thing within the only green olive split juice of the carpet floored for a night. Honesty is only seen by the honest. The rest are like nervous flies, forgetting the time they didn’t suck the fly maggots circle. Become young, become old, become wise, while writing whatever spontaneous thought the feeling may need. Then hate yourself in the morning, and reconstruct all of it into one big tin foil ball, out in some cob webby spider shed back barnyard praise in the workday. The intellectuals have no place to stand, not in my cornfield of seeds. And neither do I. Cause I still refuse to admit that I know shit, and always fess up to my un doings, while the dirt of the swing set loosens to rain only my own understanding with in the never understanding of trying to be a writer in a world of everything. Sin skin soul prayer book bottle tipped over. gray black grape fruits ruby in horizon filled ‘ gonna go fishing at night ma, pa, beyond them paranoid corrections’ lighting the wrong end of smoke. What about the spell check they never use to have. Gwen’s long blonde hair flowed down her naked beautiful body, as she stood in front of her boyfriend’s bathroom mirror. Lawrence lifted a crusty eye open from sleep, his eyes coming into focus on her pale round ass. He reached for some water and a smoke to start his horrible day.
“I think I’m going to look into that 421 thing,” this proud lesbian says at work.
“Yurble, yettle, yes, umm, ya, it seems to be ok,. Me too, murble” this paranoid schizoid x caseworker mumbles.
My head is buried in a book, but I hear everything between the females. I’m an observer. I just like being around females, even if I have no prospects of having sex with either one of them, and wouldn’t really want too.
No, I’m not a male pig, I just never get laid. Don’t have the social skills anymore.
Sex is always on my mind. Where is Lo-raina Bobbit when u need her?
“what the hell is that?” I say.
“It’s for retirement, they take money out of your check every week, so u have retirement money,” the lesbian tells me.
The schizoid lady is bleeding all over, her arm is some how cut, and she mumbles more gibberish under her breath, as she heads for the bathroom, and I stare down at some copy of a thick charles dickens book that never fits onto my shelves, blood speckles on it.
I yell, “What did u say?”
I may be going deaf, but I’m pretty sure that lady just mumbles things to herself.
She wont share her pain killers either, I know she has some, cause I took a few out of her purse/ bag one day in the break room, just kidding, I mean ok the story goes like that.
She turns around and gives me this super paranoid look.
“Any way, about 421-thing retirement.”
I respond.
“That’s a bunch of bullshit, I would never do that, just a way for the government to get more of your money, shit, u could be hit by a truck tomorrow crossing the street, or u could have some faulty blood vessel in your numb skull that explodes with no warning, fuk that 421 one shit. They don’t pay us shit to begin with.” I say. Staring at her hard nipples, or maybe they aren’t hard.
And bury my head back in my book.
She sorts of gives a nervous chuckle, then after about a minute she speaks.
“that’s a real bleak outlook on life Nicholas,” she says, still sort of laughing.
I’m just amazed for a minute that she knows my name.
I respond frustrated from interruptions,
“it’s true though, u don’t know what will happen from day to day, could choke on a chicken bone, could eat some bad fish, and get a flesh eating disease.” I say, looking into her eyes, as her expression of bewilderment changes to pure fear.
She looks down at her book cause she hates honesty, maybe even hates the male species.
The bleeding mumbling lady comes back after about 5 minutes with a band-aid on her arm, mumbles some alien language under her breath.
Then this guy comes in with 4 garbage bags filled with romance novels, mildew, spiders, basement rain, trying to sell them.
I can smell the crack on his breath right away, not even looking up from my book, and notice his demeanor, and pupils. Although I still don’t need to look up, or see his face, his presence is like the rest, not a sight, more a feeling, an aura I already knew.
I laugh a little, not to be mean, but just cause life is a nutshell cracked, as the Schizoid tries to go through the speal. She looks at me for help. She needs to deal with it, after all, I’m not on buys for another hour, and don’t like doing them myself.
I have been that desperate man, or women, who sell their personal possessions, in order to eat, or buy cat food, or to fix up one last time.
I disappear out back to have a smoke. The lesbian hates me even more. She puts her book down to help the caseworker.
Then I feel like the cock roaches coming out of the sewers around my feet, when I move away, the bats come swooping down, and I see this guy building a barbecue in the scummy apartments across the way.
I go over there, smoking my cigarette, pretending im not at work, he looks over at me, and I pretend I’m not paying attention to his freedom.
Then I go back in.
Taking one last glance at the flames.
Hearing the crack head yell about the corporate offer of 10-cent range. The dam bleeding lady really looks like she is losing it now. I aint never seen her twitch this much, but the lesbian takes charge.
“sir, u don’t have to take the offer!”
We're a family everyday for 8 hours. A very disfunctional family.
My head makes that weird crackling noise, ever since the surgery, it comes, there is nowhere to escape, except the bathroom.
I hide for another hour inside this book.
Got several dysfunctional families in the characters I must deal with.
Good thing I was stoned.
I walked to the bar in the snow. My feet got real cold, frozen socks, chilly Michigan air blowing in my face. I didn’t want to leave my troll hole and try and socialize, it was more like, the liquor store was a further walk, and it was 1 a.m. I didn’t have a car, or I mean, at the time it had been broken for a few months.
I had to get away from my roommates, the birds, the lizards, dogs, cats, and the annoying laughter of beer drinking guests who stay till the wee hours of the morning doing bong hits and talking about nothing that would interest me. I hated having to talk to anyone. Sometimes a man needs quiet. Needs to be alone, but that is impossible with roommates, girlfriends too. Eventually you will become your own best friend who can yell and abuse yourself more then any friend or girlfriend could anyway. But it’s just nice not to have that extra yell in the ear.
I wasn’t a snob. I just didn’t understand anything that went on around me. In return; most of it disgusted me, because I was disgusted with my own life most of the time. I wasn’t really a grim person all the time. I don’t know what I was. I didn’t have any answers, no spiritual quest, no trophies, no money, and no real plans, just sort of woke up from day to day and tried to deal with my surroundings.
So I kept stumbling through the slushy snowy streets, smoking a cigarette, hoping the bar wasn’t crowded with more of the same people I was trying to escape. One thing I hate, and will tell you now, is sports, anyone who talks about sports, or anything to do with sports, well, just get me the barf bag now. This entire culture revolves around college towns in every pathetic state, with college bred idiots in dorm rooms, in bars, in so called party houses, talking about sports. Even rednecks, white trash, Negroes, rich, poor, they all have to talk about sports. Maybe I’m the sick one, maybe I just don’t fit in anywhere, but fuk sports. That’s just me sporto. If I ever do finally snap, I promise to blow up Tiger stadium. And don’t mention the weather either.
I got to the bar in a few minutes, and looked around at the crowd, it was to crowded for me, but I needed a drink, and my options were limited. Some grizzly looking greasy motherfucker with tattoos all of his needle-pricked arm asked me for some I.D.
He remembered me, and I remembered him, we don’t know each other’s names, but had some of the same acquaintances through the circle of drug connections. I started to pull out my wallet when he cut me off.
“I know u man, u heard from Gusto lately?” he asked.
“What? No, hey man, I just came here for a drink.”
“Don’t they all., go on in bro, u cool. ” He said, giving me some creepy grin.
“No, I ain’t cool, never have been,” I responded. I began to step closer to the bartender when grease ball doorman grabbed my arm.
“Look man, I know all about u, and u owe Gusto a lot of money, you fuck, you are lucky he left a while ago, “ he told me.
“You tell Gusto to go fuck himself! His shit was bunk half the time anyway,” I said, giving him a psychotic look, pulling my arm away, and heading for the drink.
I sat down at the bar, and the bartender ran around doing things while ignoring my existence for about 10 minutes, till I finally pushed the glass ashtray off the bar to get his attention.
“Hey buddy, u just broke that ashtray,” he whimpered.
“I bin sitting here for 10 minutes, I want a double house whiskey, and a shot of yager.” I yelled back at him. There was this band up on stage that were actually pretty good. A surf band from Detroit. I didn’t know Detroit had a lot of beaches, or surf bands, but these guys were waling away!
“You can just wait a minute, I’m very busy!” the bartender yelled back at me, cleaning up the broken glass ashtray.
Now I was starting to get real pissed off and twitchy like.
I was either going to get in a fight, or try and meet a girl, which sometimes one leads to the other. But first I needed a drink. And the bartender and me hadn’t hit it off so well yet. Maybe if I had a nice tan, or a college shirt on, or a big white smile and friendly demeanor I would have been served. But I was a walking slob.
Anyway, I was thinking about getting up and leaving, but then I realized I was in a bar, and that my drink should be in my fuking hand. I was getting angry, everyone’s face looked like some molded plastic melon with glazy-eyed tarter sauce from fast food happy bellies. They all talked over the music, they all seemed so happy, and I could never figure out why.
I looked over at the doorman; he was on his cell phone, staring at me, as he babbled away, most likely calling that fucker Gustos.
I didn’t care. I hope he was. When a man is suicidal, or just plain nuts, or has given up on caring, then nothing much scares him anymore. I always hated that Gustos dude anyway, with his pager, his flashy women, bullshit jive talk. I hoped he did show up. I was ready, had been for a while.
Suddenly everything turned around for a brief second. This female face was suddenly in my face, yelling at me. She had red hair, and huge breasts. She was talking to me. Or trying to.
“What!” I yelled back at her, smiling for a change.
Then I couldn’t believe I heard her correctly, as she handed me a swig of drink, that I so desperately needed.
“I’ll buy u a drink! If u tell me your life story!” she yelled between surf music freaks on stage, going off.
I just stared back at her. Thinking I was hearing things. I mean why me. What was this female creature of beauty doing talking to the likes of a grump like me?
Then she yelled.
“Did you hear me!”
Oh, I heard her alright, I was still trying to figure out what was going on. That’s when Gusto walked in with his entourage, and the bartender finally handed me a drink. I thought about my next move. That fuking doorman really pissed me off. Blood was everywhere, and they were still watching fucking sports when I got home. Shit.
Descriptions of breathing mutant like loving human beings, who hate, seem to walk, some of them, seem to inhabit some store I work in. can they smile? Can they realize? Don’t they have jobs? Why are they there all day? Some stand, some crawl. Others slobber. Can I smile? They seem to function for a purpose. All I want to do is read, finish all the novels I have never read, all I want to do is not be at work. Take in the words, maybe relate or laugh to myself for a second or two. I went out back tonight, (after being screwed into a 3-hour register shift,) in the chilly air of Texas; I went out back and punched the dumpster a few times as hard as I could. I needed it. I talked out loud to myself. Thought about walking away from another town. I calmed down.
It felt ok to have bloody knuckles for some cause. Because sometimes I just don’t know, don’t care, care too much, hate, love, panic, calm, emotions change from flash to flash, the zoo in life’s reel goes on. The cause. Maybe curl up in some little fetus ball and suck my booze bottle for a century or so. Speaking of babies, you wouldn’t believe how ugly some of theses deformed irregular rats are in the strollers, screaming and crying, kicking, wanting to much already, maybe they know what’s in store for them, maybe they know more then me. I think people in Texas breed some of the ugliest kids I ever seen, next to Michigan of course. Could be like this everywhere.
Descriptions: a lady who is sweating like a hard laborer in 100 degree heat makes her way up to the counter, like an injured half pig whale like creature. Her money is wet; her long bulky dress is smelly, soaked like 4-day-old socks. She has a goatee thicker then mine, and hers is white. It’s a certain smell I can’t quite make out. One I’ve smelled before. Maybe in the Emergency room. She mumbles things about her medication and how hot it is in the bookstore. Her face is one big itchy rash of different blotches. I take a few steps back from her heavy breath, and Danielle steel books, sort of twitch about the wet money, I hate germs, have a thing about germs, but I am a germ myself. She leaves finally; I wipe my hand off on my jeans.
Descriptions: a little chubby troll like thing dwarf is pumping away on the complimentary coffee, there is none left, it ran out about 5 hours ago. I suppose that’s why its called complimentary coffee. What do expect in some half-ass bookstore? What? do u want couches and french fries to go along with your coffee? Well fuck off. Buy the dam books u want, and get the hell out. I mean, “have a nice day mam, and happy new years, and merry Christmas, and happy Easter, and jolly George Washington day, happy martin Luther kings day, or something like that.all day, every week seems to be some dumb holiday I never much cared for. Some reason for the mutants to celebrate their creepy looking off spring.
Back to the chubby troll: I’m not sure if it’s female or male, but it’s coming up to me, its glasses half crooked, its mouth like a muddy piece of bologna slapped together, ready to jump out of the frying pan… “Gits toooz deez coooofeees, nada to go left.”
Wo, it can speak, it tried to say something, I think to myself, staring at it. It’s eyes are flickering around in circles, with in big coke bottle lenses, holding some last dribble of dark coffee left overs in a paper cup. I take a few more seconds to examine the creature in front of me. It sort of has tits, but it could just be a fat boy, I’m amazed by it, what is it? What sort of person spawned this? I just keep staring, thinking about things. It suddenly speaks again..
“meeter, me aksa da question, did coffee makes mores?”
“Smores?” I say back.
Nightmare phone calls: “I want u to go find 10 books for mee, I’m to fat dumb and lazy to come in myself to the bookshop,
and look for them, even though u told me u don’t have a computerized in- ventory”
lazy texas house wives from trailers calling in asking u to go look for crap no one should ever read, i usually put them on hold for 5 minutes, go out back and have a smoke, then come back and say "sorry mam, we don’t seem to have any of those books" I’m sure i will be promoted soon..
Me waking up: ugh, shit, fucking alarm.
Me getting up: shit, fuck, this sucks.
Head to bathroom and begin the vomiting. If I could only sleep all day, every thing would be fine.
Stumble to shower; puke more in the shower. For a brief moment, wonder why I do this to myself.
Me driving to work with dirty socks on, wrinkled shirt, head full of cobwebbed putty, trying to smoke my first cigarette of the day after bong hits- after- shower thing, don’t like working sober: Run red light by accident. My muffler spurting out final warnings of break down.
Me walking up to my workplace: shit, its bright out, crap, I have to go in here and talk to people and try and smile and be polite all day long, fuck, I want to go back to bed.
Me putting books away in the fiction section before my three-hour nightmare register shift: what’s this? A nostalgic book of pornographic pulp pre portions, Hitler’s love child, Bangkok opium dens, violence and love, wow, I put it in my hold stash, 1970’s shit like that I don’t see to often for 98 cents.
Me building shrines in the paperback section for the never ending Danielle Steele books. The DS books fat housewives in trailers come in and buy with husband’s credit cards, along with the programmed rich crowd of suburban nights. God, shoot me. Kill me.
Me in the poetry section putting books away next to mythology and fables, and folklore, and drama: what’s this crap? Jewel? I thought she was a singer artsy fartsy mtv star. Why must I shelve her book of poetry? Shit, fuck, awful., crap.
I go outside, out back, and have a cigarette, look up at the Texas sky, and the dumpster next to me, I think there is some thing out here, but I always have to go back in.
I won’t even get into the register shift for now.
I’m not always upset, not always happy, not always with it.
I’m always happy, always upset, always with me.
Me thinking out of work: hmmm, I’m eating beef jerky, smoking things, drinking, music, writing, thoughts, a happy Hollywood ending, but where’s the girl the guy always gets? Shit, fuck, masturbation of the mind.
The world is filled with midgets in paradoxical fashion out fits with tinges of remote advances in the big American lie.
Like fuking bats in cement bookstores, that squeaking noise they make, that can echo into my ears, and flash me back to living in another hovel on the third story of some summer cheap rent place years before. I had a barbecue out on the balcony.
But when I got hungry, or went out there, the bats came out from under the roof, swooping down grabbing pieces of uncooked hamburger grilled red meat things.
One time after too much speed
I could have swore the bats were somehow in the ceiling of my apartment. Headed for bathroom,
and were working there way to the shower vent,
so they could attack me,
and fly around my crap hole apartment,
as I swatted at them with some never before used broom,
and my cat was finally moving,
jumping in the air,
as we both swatted at the flying bug eating rodents.
My cat heard them to, i'm sure of it,
crawling along inside the roof,
making there way to my apartment.
My cat and me just stared up at the ceiling with the bathroom door shut.
The lights off.
I hadn’t slept for t squeaky chalk like on fingerboards,
cringing my head to shoulder sniff.
At work today, they caught one,
They all said how cute bats were.
I said, “no they aren’t, they are flying rats.”
Then they said how great some dumb movie was.
And I disagreed with them all.
And said
“that movie sucked,
I could have made a better movie in my backyard by myself.”
Then they all laughed at me, or with me, either way.
I thought today was Wednesday.
But this girl at work told me it was Thursday.
That made me smile, grabbing paycheck.
Hearing bats bite, nibble, squeak, scrunch, fly, rabies, and teeth clinches.
The dogs nose is covered in dusty cat litter. The furry thing is pretending nothing is wrong. There are gray morsels of tidy cat spread all over the wooden floor, with half eaten chunks of cat shit. Vern has worked all day at his roofing job. Slinging Spanish tile, up on a hot roof, with illegal aliens sweating all around him.
Vern takes a long look at the situation, and twitches. He grabs his whiskey from the freezer and takes some hee-man sized guzzles.
His anger is building, the dog knows it.
“Why? Why! all I want to know is fucking why! I feed u, I take u on walks, I massage your balls sometimes! Why? U rotten mutt!” Vern screams, holding a hand over the dog’s head, ready to hit him. Vern can’t bring himself to hit the idiotic creature.
The only person Vern ever hit, was his ex wife, and he hasn’t seen her in 12 years. Vern lies on his couch, his muscles aching, feeling more alone then a death row inmate eating his final meal. He drinks more, turning on his TV.
Larry comes home from his job at the salsa factory. Larry cuts tomatoes all day long. The only thing left in his life that makes him happy, are his painkillers, and his only daughter, who just turned 16. Larry throws a turkey potpie into his grime filled microwave, and lights a cigarette. Larry hears moaning coming from his daughter’s room. He thinks the worst, so the worst happens. He opens his beloved daughter’s bedroom door in shock. His daughter is on top of some scrawny ugly zit faced greasy stoner’s body. She is riding this kids dick like a Texas cowboy riding a rodeo bull.
“I’m going to fucking kill u! Why u son of a bitch little fucker!”
“No! Daddy, No, Daddy no! We are in love! Please don’t!”
Larry grabs the red eyed kid’s neck with both hands, slinging his daughter off his arm.
“Mister, no! pleaze, don’t…” the kid manages to whimper, as Larry squeezes his neck, until there is no breath left in the twerp.
His daughter runs naked from the house. Screaming down the street, with tears pouring down her face.
Larry gobbles some painkillers, turns on his TV, and stares blankly at it, lying next to this naked stoner’s dead body.
Jerald gets home every day at about 5:30 p.m. from work. He has a hard earned 2 year college degree, which earned him the title of Assistant manager of a Kentucky fried Chicken. Jerald isn’t the happiest fella on earth, but he loves his wife, and his 2 kids, one boy, and one girl. His wife has left him a note that says she went out to get a pizza for him and the kids. Jerald doesn’t do drugs anymore. Shit, he doesn’t even drink. He smoked crack, shot heroin, and drank himself almost to death for half his life. Jerald went to rehab for years, and is now quite content being a sober working man, with a family he loves more then anything on earth.
Jerald hears laughter coming from his son’s room. He sneaks up to the door, to see what his beloved kids are up to. He is appalled. The heated dust swirled through the sticky humid air, leaving a dry dirty taste in the parched mouths of Victorville’s small population. Why don’t u-turn the music down asshole? She said, dropping her nightgown past her waste, and exposing her naked skin.
It stared like this was the first time seeing a female naked.
It looked through blurry drunken shiner bock eyes. Through less seedless Texas dirt weed. It almost kept its eyes opens long enough to catch a glimpse, of something he had seen while sober one time.
Then his cable went out. She lit a candle. Cause the electricity was only flickering. She started with the whys? again. He wondered if it was a dream. If she had warmth, maybe food he had only gobbled, never enough time too taste. Maybe the lights were on after all. They stopped yelling, they held each other’s eyes, one had blue, the other brown.
It woke up and went to work, stared at all the faces she had become almost use to. But still, they never really knew. After all, it was just coffee and drilled skull’s that gave the false echo, of almost a laughter that meant something more then a moment in wept bathroom realization chain.
Why don’t u-turn it up, or turn it off, u professor of world whore? He said, picking the rice from his ear, and exposing another seclusion.
What are we going to do in the morning? She spoke.
What else could we do my love? What else is there to do my cunt? My darling voice! My one and only true glimpse!
She began to cry, more for herself, then for him, after all, they never even knew each other. Just flesh pancakes with no syrup. Clinging to the side of the plate with a dishwasher named Earle, who was at least grateful for the people with no problems.
His ride named Francine; I gave him doubles, when his wife, Francine, thought they were singles. Thought it was an occasional thing at the hotel.
Morning cooks, morning bartenders, morning my beauty sleep.
Earle had no teeth. The manager had fake blonde hair, pearly white teeth, and an expression that tried to hide any nervous break down through the bitch she was. I had only our secret. I had to many bosses. Earle had a farm, and prison tattoos. A black leather hat, and a card with his name on it.
“Take him out back and shoot him in the fuking head,” Joe said, blowing smoke out of his chapped over fed monkey lips.
“I can’t just shoot him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to slice him apart first and taste the blood from his heart.”
“Do what you must do psycho boy, just make sure when the sun comes up, he ain’t breathing, or we will both have Neena to deal with.”
salty nipples
this nipping
sensation
caressing
up my spine
like a warm
lovers fingernails
exploring crevices
like golden fishermen
a stretching
smile
widens the rounded
lips like
wet pillows
in silk
covered nicotine honey
wiggling lines
in broken hooks
skinny leg blue girl
seaweed turn
to salad days
such is
jiggling clown heads
worms
blowing the chimes
right
down my spine
hour till work
Grow outwards maybe a cucumber Green and soft filled with seeds Now act
everyday
play pretty
While slamming books
to the ground
Play pretty now boy
Its not that i have
nothing to say
Just when
one hears
same songs
for 7 months even if blues one must beat least thinking of moving on wonder
how I can play at all on broadways eroding stage doing section work like
jail with slight pay and
david bowie
sings about
changes
on the spinner
going round
to round
connecting carol king
sweet seasons
coming once, one toke
wont
hurt
growth lumps perhaps a bottle of roses
today
under her brown skin
sprouts
cardiac snuggle
mind expansion curdles inward
such as warmth in pores past
tension tamed like caged lion
to just stop caring;
to stop worrying
cubs sucking on nipples in
wooded sunlit shelters
crunchy spring leaves
nuzzling against the fur
to breath like dragons
winged across astral projection
swoop like grand canyon
down and up again flights
bungee intestines
snapping like locks off cages
were always invisible
if looked at closely
her retina
window washing eyelashes
gave my teeth
to my heart
so it could smile
with out liquored lips
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