Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.
Insomniac in the Morning
Another night is gone,
The goddamn birds are chirping,
And while I think I was productive,
I’m sure it wasn’t worth it.
My eyeballs ache from skullbound flashes,
Each tendon in my body is moaning,
The sun and sky are so bright with light,
That “back inside” seems to be an order instead of what’s right,
I hang back at the door, or sheet, or flap,
Screwing up my mind and face to think about,
Why despite the price,
I race the setting rays into the West,
A challenge that bears no chance to win and promises self inflicted malice.
It feels so nice to taste the liquor of the stars,
While moonlight drips down as whimsy scented honey,
Transforming us all into the Cosmos serving bar.
Thick blue hued amber smoked into an untouchable glow,
Spirit boosting tinsel to top our nightly gifted box.
Conjures whims and true lunacy,
Sets the true Faithful afloat,
In a boat atop the inbound light.
So, so, slow.
He was a cat, and lived in a pink room.
Living like a cat last summer,
Couldn’t afford sheets or real food,
But the room was a soft pink,
And the lumpy mattress felt softer than the bricks.
Living like a cat I was,
Crawling under piles of clothes to nap,
Eating cans of tuna (pocket sized),
Basking in the sun so the shade felt cooler.
Cat life is great for those critters,
But at 6’+ and a bundle of seething “more,”
It’s feline for some but didn’t sit right on me,
So I’ll gladly hand it back this time around.
Feeling a bit more canine today.
Though cans of tuna still roll free,
I have a forever human to lick,
Hopefully I’ll get older than a pup –
— goddamn pet control still wants to lock me up.
Elegantly Disturbed Haikus – #1
wearing an embryo,
would prefer a large flopping sombrero,
small skin means tight fit.
bedazzled rodents fly,
as shockingly agile bullets,
spreading feet like wings.
plastic horror show,
melts to a puddle of goop,
Barbie versus torch.
Amp up until your pupils drool…
Long night, long day.
Screeching whistles from the bat winged harpies playing in the sun.
I swear I put a dog collar over the tree stump last week,
Wonder what happened to the dog?
I should probably go out and check,
But now it’s impossible to tell through all their beaks.
Should have embellished the points of each ear,
Small silver trellises of moonlight into nursery rhymed eyes.
C’est la vie,
I’ve got a lockjawed dedication that demands fevered lacerations,
And if they leave a few eggs on the ground for breakfast this evening –
-so much the better.
Recovery Flow – 1st Spoken Word
Depths – Spoken Word, Addict Recovery Flow
(1st attempt at spoken word….written version below. Please stick past the 1:00 mark as it hits a much better rhythm and pulls together everything)
Because you and I have depth.
No shallow pieces of paper whipping in the wind here.
We’re fucking mountains with roots buried in lava.
Through chunks of earth.
Through underground lakes.
You and I are living statues giving statements.
Cut through miles of meat.
Let out rivers of blood.
No 2D, weak minded, single sided bullshit here.
Find the spinning core of pressurized EVERYTHING that powers our furnace.
I’m not powered by the drive for one thing.
I’m an addict.
I’m a fucking hero.
I’m a lunatic.
I’m a fanatic.
I’m an extremist.
I’m a fatalist.
I’m a romantic.
I’m passion given wings and no name.
I run on need.
I’ve been asked what makes me tick.
Why do I do it again?
Why am I so fucking sick?
Because I live on fear,
On love, on hope, on greed, on determination, on demands, on need, on want, on confusion, on chaos, on misery, on joy, on pleasure, on excess, on more.
I live on intensity.
I breathe it.
The world spits straight fire down my throat so hot that all I can beg for is a drink to put it out,
And a shot to start the burn again.
I’m not bored.
I’m scared that the moment it stops, I’ll be less interesting to myself.
That the world won’t have a reason for me to be around.
I’ll be normal.
And I don’t understand that word.
This is the only norm I know.
If I didn’t have this excuse, what would I be?
What would I call myself?
What excuse could I hide behind?
How could I explain the things I’ve done?
How would I explain my failures?
What if I didn’t fail?
What if it didn’t have to be so intense it hurt?
Even if it feels so good.
Love wouldn’t have to be so intense that it overwhelmed.
Passion so hot that nothing would ever live up to it again.
Confusion so baffling I couldn’t see a road out.
Joy so large that no laughter would fill it.
Chaos so overwhelming that the world would fall to pieces.
Pleasure so satisfying that nothing would ever be enough to replace it.
Past the screaming need for everything in spades.
For each emotion to be etched into me until I’m raw.
Way, way the fuck down there.
Beneath the lowest layers of urgency.
There is peace.
There is a quiet place that I can call part of me.
Part of the landscape of my soul.
Proof that I wasn’t always an adventurer.
Once, I was calm waters welcome moonlight to bathe across me.
I was a home where the word gentle wasn’t a foreign concept.
Where there was no race for adrenaline.
And that was okay.
All I have to do is take a breath and let myself submerge far enough to find it.
Go into the dark.
Into the deep.
Into the depths.
Katrina – Lost Daughter
Katrina is the daughter of a young lady who was essentially my counterpart – plus breasts. Owing to some poorly relayed information and a protective need following the 6-year old girl’s admittance to counseling because she thought “that good guy (me) was going to die…” – left the mom backed into a corner. I was told never to call or contact her again, though I didn’t find this out until after writing and sending this as a letter.
Kat is the girl who moves with feline grace,
A Cheshire flashing grins all over the place.
Rina is the girl who thinks like a firecracker,
Sharp as a tack, brain to match, thought cracking master.
So when Kat disappears, lithe as a rope.
Her partner has time for mischief while both elope.
They’ll lay out their traps for mommy to find,
Materializing from thin air defying space and time.
And, occasionally mommy may crack a tooth,
To which she bellows, “Watch out, they’re on the loose!”
When their forces combine, surely a hurricane whistles,
Smashing and crashing like a runaway missile.
Theirs isn’t a rhythm, though they have a reason.
For they are a weather event with no established season.
Rain gummy bear gifts will the storm throughout Spring,
Summer has July 4th, so we know what that means.
Leaves Fall heavily into sacks until carefully deconstructed,
Then snow tries to trap them inside with all the strength it can muster.
Though their actions are sometimes bizarre,
Kat and Rina will surely go far.
For they are glowing beauties with insides to match,
The troubles they get in are because sometimes we all crash.
Mistakes can be made, and will eventually fade.
Everyone works to be better,
Life in reverse is all based on what you gave.
Still thinking of you kiddo…
*nearly a year later and still no contact.
There’s an intensity that leaves nothing but a vacuum behind it,
A bullet hole wasted emptiness drags into a crater shocked from hit after hit.
Temporal fracture points and blanketed waste lines,
Maddening shallowness where no sparks can be refined.
They’re just words put to words put to words,
Shredding thoughts until there’s no meaning left and the musicians are missing the chords.
Scream, whistle, shriek, whisper, mutter, babble,
Consume, read, absorb, listen, digest, dibble and dabble.
The air crackles with the clutter of a thousand ideas,
My brain is burning from a million needs demanding release.
Every nerve is a blasted land of agonizing pleasure I grovel and ask to relive,
I’m in love with the rage, the energy, the uncontrollable beauty of power it gives.
All the information is useless in the end.
What point when there isn’t a person to converse with I’d call friend.
You fucking people drive me crazy.
I make myself manic to the point I can’t move, comatose and lazy.
When thought is so painfully fiery that no more can be endured,
I lay back and pray that the end will crack the chains to which I’m moored.
Let my mind wander to the lights above and send my soul spinning,
Beyond the grasp of this inane insanity,
To something meaningful that will make my heart beat for something more.
In The Yard
Blistering heat from a liquid sun,
That has burned up thoughts,
My eyes, their soul and my fun.
What brought on this sanguine approach?
Lost crouching and encroaching on sad joys and lost hope,
I’ve spun out my wheels into newly made glass,
Sand heated to molten,
Razing a shimmering patch.
Skidded to halt over stones constructed as ruts,
My misery shines through soaked in blood, tears, and guts.
Systematic breakdown of holy while high,
Head snapping, throat shaking, body trembling, while I –
Stagger to golden notes,
Choke quietly on the last strand of hope,
Chase goals through my screams,
Praying each daymare fades to a dream,
Balance desperately on life’s beam.
Stable for now,
Scared to say how.
Each breath shoves me closer to the edge,
Welling up my sweet desperate pledge,
To my kids and myself –
“I’ll change this life to a road followed out of hell.”
My mind and spirit can shatter,
Leave me mad as Alice’s hatter –
And though clouds block her burn,
To touch that blistering heat of our liquid hot sun,
Is to what I aspire and yearn.
To Procyon and…..
Hypothetical antithesis lulls the horrid monsters of time to pieces,
For lo, though we design the bitter steps of steel with grave intent to last,
The winds of history beget naught but mystery, shall spread their remains across the past.
So run your numbers now sweet child, and create the fabric clocks,
The ticking and the tocking mark a ship slowly rocking as it lands at destiny while docking,
For an apex it has achieved, a rising top it hits before the next embarking.
Across the wicked ocean of reality, into storms of worms that bend the mind,
The crafty little wave runner has hit warped road that leaves their direction blind.
But now crew member drops their head in sorrow – this was their destination,
For all roads, and waves, and currents, and flows, lead to where they may have experienced fabrication.
That central depot – the manufacturing shop located just north of Betelgeuse and a few parsecs from Procyon – the final destination.
Note: Semi-stream of consciousness edited for grammar so it’s a bit more coherent. Meaning? I’m skeptical…but read out loud it has an interesting rhythm.