I feel better now that this place is almost empty and the last two people left is someone playing the piano with fingers and mike herr who just walked by
this all happened
someday it will be legend.
cross the street as a pedestrian lay down on the middle of the crosswalk and get fucked by exhaust pipes.
ride the SCAT bus to st. louis loose yr brain and become mentally ill for the better
psychiatry will lobotomize you slowly with paxil, adderal, xanax, abilify, effexor, and other slow brain maggots so besides make yr dysfunction utterly glorious.
eat windowdust with nostrils while being a peeping tom.
BURN beat poetry but keep the ashes in yr pocket forever.
collect pain like toy cars,
everything is a culmination.
kill yr government, fast, with quick blows to the head.
explode hip-hop back to 1979 wit actual rhyhmes
FUCK YOU T.I. you are not the greatest and represent no tradition.
be a sidewalk christ and shit blood in strange dark gardens.
thoughts are repititive de-chericho trains to a perpetual stop off in E. St. Louis, walk down THOSE streets with utter abandon, they will love you there, they will feed you all they have, which is well, on crumbs of discarded railroad ties.
thanks a million for the notebook and the shrooms. colors feel more like colors and notes not more like books and the bread you feed to yr four-year-olds has been pumped with acid spores, whatever the fuck those are,
yr fuck memories will ascend closer to glory
yr ecstatic hacked up birds are rotting angel winged sparrows festering in a freezer in that hoosier tommy shotgun's basement.
and the earth non-metaphorically resembles a scorched trash-heap.
thanks a bunch past generations! no hoover vaccuum can clean this shit up now.
and if the arch is everest, then i am a shivering conquerer of projectile imagination.
and yr moments of unadulterated bliss have now been given timecards. thanks a fuckton military industrial complex. my imagination really needed one of those.
and for the aliens in the exploding head of america, things will only get stranger.
when named, I fill in pieces of impossible syllables. when un-named I eat fragments of exploded moons, swallow them and shit them back out as deep image poems. I spit out burger king whoppers acknowledging the mortal coil trapped in a petroleum wrapper. I put salt in the eyes of lady liberty and think its funny. I update my facebook status carefully to correspond with which one of your mothers i have fucked most recently.
I implode ultimate mental planets.
I am allen ginsberg's last purple toenail
held onto like a relic.
I am rickshaw's shrooms
nesteled like a bomb inside a tea cannister.
I am brock walker
smoking a j on the side of a major road tentatively approaching isness in cool night, blending like a chameleon with city.
i am micheal franklin's large lips, swallowing this entire bitter continent and stomaching it.
I am jake cohen, reading sean arnold's poem, being/getting born, loving every last mucusy pang of live birth.