Wednesday, November 17, 2010

This Isn't About You

Trapped and transferred, a paper prisoner.  A pen, the gallows, ten days without light.  Cuts deepen from remorse, lines straighten for the masses.  Giving lectures to idiots, making waves within the system.  Here is another endless story of love and lust and loss, or something... Where is this going?  Nobody seems to know.  What is for certain, at least at the moment is that my failures bleed on to these arches.  Forge ahead son, grab the heartstrings, take the reigns, can you feel them tighten?  That is quite normal, I assure you.  Don't you remember?  Those days of youth, so long ago???  I showed you how...  No, I taught us both the importance... No, no, that's not right either.  You see, your father was a coward, just as you are now.  Unable to take life's lemons.  Turning easily for others, for us, only going sour.  Now, I know what you are saying, "just add a little sugar".  Well, that shit is expensive.  It will be a commodity soon.          Another man child, pressed hard against the glass, with fear and doubt in his eyes.  What about that deep burning red, like the depths of hell.  As he watches the passers by, he strikes up a blind conversation with a deaf bag lady.  Oblivious to all the wonderment encased in that misshapen skull perched atop his skinny neck.  Today the heat is unbearable.  Sending skin to fever.  Add another realistic overview to the already overflowing stockpile of mundane misconceptions presented to you, the viewer by our own beloved sameness.  Are you watching?  Is the prism flashing?  Tear apart the faulted legends.  This naked city will fall at dawn.  No street light signals to warn the peopleUpon this concrete goddess we worship.  Yours is an oral fixation.  Constantly sucking marrow from fragmented bone.  Is it worth moving under the radar?  When the all knowing viewfinder of a great lighted stereoscope peers upon us through x-ray hatred.  It is no different in the morning.  When old men, having lived though rodeo and liver cancer confessions have made their own beds.  Unnatural regression.  Disputes between they and them, I am barely involved, unusually tired, what more can I offer.  This time, you are amusing, but, not a laughing matter.  Walk towards the window, fly without the effort.  Don't talk out of turn, my darling.  This here is a bugged distraction.  Your skin glows in the sunlight as you while away the hours.  The creek nearby has been running it's mouth all day.  And we, of open ears, are more than happy to secure those stories.  With no one in sight, you are free to explode upon the air.  Scream with the birds.  Where is that city now?  To the east, perhaps... It could be five or five thousand miles...  She screamed and I buckled.  Another bitter ulcer in my stomach.  How does one prepare for madness?  I no longer feel liberated, I no longer feel.  How did I become this monstrosity?  No longer vindicated, only devalued as the roles are now reversed.  I am a rock, you are an island of sad and sallow sand.  There is a darkness in these corners, foul as they may be at times.  I can always find comfort here.  This filth, as some might label it, has always equated a certain sense of relief or rebirth for me.  I will sing a million songs of hope to the great highways.  Opening the streets to sun drenched soliloquies.  I marvel at that passing train.  That great electric wonder.  I wonder, can the passengers see me as I see them?  Lost and lonely souls in need of release, retreat, redemption.  It comes as no surprise, the state we have found ourselves in.  There is a darkness in all corners.  A filth paramount to seasoned lovers.  This is my bitter pill.  Oakland was mentioned, with a reserved fervor.  I never claimed to be an expert, only a worthy onlooker.  You made me out to be the liar, at four in the morning.  Making a valiant effort has never been my strong suit.  I decide to wander, to no avail.  So, I bide my time with women, wine and song.  She spoke of ghosts in hallways.  Nightmarish visions of dead friends walking.  I'll never know her pained red fingers.  Self sacrifice on bloody bathroom mirrors.  Let us escape to our darkened theater.  Hide the lights behind black tissue paper.  I make the messes, you make me able.  I can stomach fate if you can promise me forever.  Remember the Grand Canyon?  Twenty dollars wasted on a forgotten wedding ring.  Young William the bold.  Sitting silently at the end of the bar.  Good thing it's dark in here, because, you have really let yourself go.  To the wolves?  To the moon?  An early grave some would say.  I on the other hand, admire your pitiful visage.  Millions of disconnected thoughts.  Yeah, I've got them too.  You see, this is what separates us from the savages.  By which I mean the uninitiated.  By which I mean...  Settle those debts.  When I was a child, my mother wrote a novella about our life in Iowa.  She made a man of me in fewer words than I ever could.  Stories of phobic trips traveling beyond the river come alive as she spearheads poignant situations pertaining to times lost to the bottle.  Her gears are mine as well.  Recalling grandfather's violent quirks, we sometimes overlook his later years.  A man misplaced, a rotting cacophony, all the while sinking deeper into his own false hopes.  Are all names meaningless?  His hands were that long lost cup from which I drank my vision.  8MM keep rolling well into the night.  Don't forget those livid scenes of incestuousness as the children looked on.  Lay out your tragedies.  In order from respect to retribution.  Can you see a connection?  This is metal, we have failed miserably.  Oh temperment, you have raised the heat index.  Cloth like shackles, tearing makes little difference.  Forks, knives and the first black circle.  Turn up the volume, you must round out the last count.  We have found a better way.  Bridge the gap and buffer all communication until words taste of piss and popcorn.  Hot air pressure, hot off the grill.  More of the same this time around.  On one blue rug, my wrists still hurt.  We shall escape, but not on the backs of professionals.  Burn all linen, tear down the factories.  Replace them all with a new set of eyesores.  As tall as the sun, look, it is frowning.  We, are all drowning in this man made chemical haze.  Don't despair.  You are forever a child of light.

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