what am I going to eat 

like some turkey?  Some chicken?  Some beef?  

 

hahaha roast beer.  

not a solid choice

a thin ice sandwich

and no bacon burger

 

but really hungry nonetheless

down for some chicken, some macaroni

or like thai style stuff in curry

I’d eat that with an Oreo mcsnorio freeze 

 

and be all fat by the next sunrise

but whatever

 

and then thinking of breakfast….

 

mimosas say the least and

screwdrivers tell too much

this isn’t anything really here 

if your looking to eat. 

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I get no kick from cocainewould be a

I get no kick from cocaine

would be a lie 

no matter who said it

no matter how much in love

no matter where they were

cocaine is a hell of a drug

would be telling the truth

The moon outside my window is such soft silent light
It is as calm as the day before the worlds ending
And the clouds above obscure that light
That pale light
So without curtains I sit on my bed
And watch it wallow cross the sky
And sometimes the clouds drift on by
The moon is bright and high
I sit and sigh
For I cannot fly
Though I want to
Though I wish to
Though I try

The facility opens 

Blood pours down the walls.
You wonder-
To see such trauma
 
I thought the subtitles
Would match the spoken
Words.  But in life
The opposite is often 
 
Truer.  
 
Art imitates life and
Life imitates art 
Until… 
Until you don’t know
What’s going on anymore
And you just smash it all down and
Start again 
From the ashes
From whatever seems most basic
To you.

To those Who thought there was Hope

Imagine yourself in a cold waiting room with nothing but day old cheesecake and a box of stale tricuts.  On the other end of the room a wall with revolving doors and long rectangular windows leers at you.  The building is cheap so they’re made of plexiglass.  Everything is cold and ugly and no one sits there with you.  You are all alone waiting for something but you cannot remember what.  There are no exits just the revolving doors and they spin too fast every time you use them.  You have to face it, you are stuck in this room and nothing anyone says is going to make that feel any better. 

            Things circle in the heavens above, the ceiling stretches on far grim, pointless eternity.  You see the buzzards fly but never taste their shadow.  Nothing can touch you here.  You can’t even move yourself.  All actions are null and void in this cold waiting room.  All you are is a pair of eyes to see, hands to hold, tongue to taste, skin to hold in the meat that makes up your body, ears to hear the creaking floorboards and the raindrops somewhere outside.  The persistent beep of an intercom left on in a surgery center where someone’s heart is still beating even as their mind has left them and their soul has died. 

            Depressing?  The room is only a place and there are many like it.  A place will always inevitably be a grim horror to be trapped in.  Any one place, sooner or later will become the waiting room.  Your small town, a rich man’s mansion, the bathroom stall where you hide and get loaded in the hopes that no one will see and no one will know.  The bed where you sleep with your girlfriend.  The woman you love, your mother, your father, your family— vultures in the heavens and dust in the wind.  Nothingness broken up by brief specs of light that seem almost vulgar and obtrusive in an otherwise consecutive void. 

            You say the words over and over as the road unfolds and you leave the waiting room behind.  From one small box to a larger and from a larger into an even smaller box and that box moves under the ceiling that is sky.  You drive on seeking other boxes, other places to put yourself.  Your entity is not happy anywhere.  Yoga does not do enough.  Drugs are not up to snuff, no woman can ever love you enough  You are alone in the endless flow.  This stream is cold and quiet and flows fast through the rocks whereupon you injure yourself and carve holes and scares into your face.  Once that mask was young and fresh but now it withers with age getting older and quieter, more tragic and less calm with each passing sun. 

            And this is a long drive for someone with nothing to think about.  Such grim abominable determination grips them all.  The other fleas in the circus think they fool each other and so do you.  But life remains a circus and endless stage of boxes and boxes and boxes and never freedom.  No freedom.  There never was.  Slaves to themselves, countless fleas in countless waiting rooms all trying to smile.  Waiting for that day when they have something free.  When they have sucked enough blood to roll absentmindedly but that day will never come and so the bloodsuckers keep sucking blood.  And when its all over, and every last good thing is sucked dry there will still not have been enough.  And the fleas will all die cold and alone, one by one, in waiting rooms with revolving doors, leering windows, and ceilings stretching to eternity where they see the vultures flutter but never taste their shadow’s touch. 

 But tonight e…

 

But tonight even the wind could be heard.  
 
With town gone there was nothing left for them.  
 
Man the town felt dead- one of them said when they spoke of it.  
 
And the town was dead.  
 
Around them the hills grew and glistened.  New life was flowing over the empty silos and the dead tractors.  Moonlight shown in Lakes that had been dry for years.

 The men sat r…

 

The men sat round doing nothing.  They were convinced of it.  The down was dead- cold and gone.  It was when they heard the wind come over the hills from across the sea that they stirred.  
 
“do you hear anything?”.  
 
 “not tonight.  There is something blocking.”
 
Normally the dogs at this time would be barking.