shadows of anti-literature
alternate mirror children
cross cobblestone brick stollers,
things i know nothing of
being a crassest imitator at best.
212 yrs from now
we are dust.
and b/c the street is a reoccuring character in this story existing in sub-anarchist mindstate,
b/c we is the bones of summer,
drydust spilling spring's pinkflesh delights;
and in that the street sparkles shining-thing orgasms
finding themselves as shadows
right smack in the middle of carpeted plush burgundy thighs
reading ceilings as books.
out my window of the american surreal
dumptrucks dig up
the last oak tree
in kirkwood, MO.
while tan-fleshed cigarette eating muses stroll down the reoccuring character of my street which of course contains shining things beatboxing innocence, shining-things in their crotch.
and all i could think to say exactly was
i forgot what exactly love tasted like,
forgot how allusive it feels to always be destitute
forgot how stoned it feels to be sober
how fitting it feels to be the last child up in America at 12:48 am
as the muses are in the next room making each other cum, head 'tween opposing legs
squirming like living things,
my tongue is loosed right for speech,
contemplation is in order,
these things i've spoken inside myself
while time, a jeolous hag unable to let me stop writing lest i forget any of this is hovering over me like a boss.
we ALL turn to destitution as such commiting minimum wage larceny of soul's molecules
to a home depot cross
cut and paste pixels
of brain wave imaging hooked to twenty two hospital wires.
sucked on skin,
get yr hairy ballsack outta my mouth, WAIT! NO! LEAVE IT THERE!, I'M SLIGHTLY CURIOUS.
here's the deal,
everyone's concerned about my existence except for me.
6 ft. tall
pinned to the ceiling of my wal-mart owned lowe's cross.
in the closet homosexual of kansas city,
whipping desire to a pulp on the patio of YJ's diner,
one egg with a slice of cheese,
one more cigarette to eat,
just too much,
tastes bitter after the tax-hike.
way back from KC
on the eight day
god told me from the passanger seat of an old church bus to write this and never stop,
get drunk at the end
and throw up whole pages of prayers in church bathrooms,
16 yrs old,
never give up drinking sunlight straight
no matter how much you melt
god will pick up yr scrambled egg remains from that sidewalk puddle and reform you.
disappearing out of temporal-lobe reality
coming back in 35 years
when things have calmed down a bit.
Sean's outta his skull again
he'll be back in it in 12,775 days
once the daisies cover his eyelids
and the sun
which looks like a yellow nothing
finally puts a yellow t-shirt over his bones.
the streets, a reoccuring character in this story, banshee whine again,
we travel tom sawyer's splintered bootprints
Dave smoking streetpoles in Jake's desolate bathroom in st. lucipher cus if hell was a place, it'd be st. louis,
in a post-post-modern coffeeslavehouse inside a mute tv-set w/out the closed captioning on.
the pit-bulls of war gnaw each other's tails in the dirty re-occuring character of the street,
the main characters make finely sculpted masks from incedental pavement chunks in the parkinglot of west illinois 25cent beer bars next to titty bars
where brawls ball off the rafters.
miss-america's petroleum face went out to the reoccuring character of the street at night to get fucked,
and that street as a reoccuring character constitutes the gorilla costumes we wear to hold up quick-trips, liquor-stores and cigarette trucks,
any excuse for anarchy will do, but where then to put all the burning cash and all those burning anarchy flags?
From here-on out
hip-hop and patriotism are eternally brawling
we are losing
we've got in some decent shots
some hot-burners on the sides of boxcars
putting x's over the eyelids of religious symbols.
Where'd christ go?
he's outta his skin again
went down to georgia w/out it
hot on the trail of charlie daniel's main character and his fiddle playing rival,
he's there now
suckin on robert johnson's bones;
he out in LA
countin cracks in the sidewalk,
lookin' for tupac's rose,
writing epics on the pages of slimey white waves in certain underworld rivers,
he planting bombs in the parking garages of certain pivitol buildings to blow up the real world,
he reading keats on the steering wheel and bumpin biggie smalls on the way down to hell.
he lighting kerouac's scroll to create fires of the underworld.
he fuckin every semi-art-school rat he can get his hands on.
he in NY layin' on fred hampton's bloody pillow,
swiftly deconcentrating the image,
thinks he winning the race of life which is of course a marathon with no winner.
in that the street is a reoccuring character in this story she has left us with flattened stag salvations
in that we try so goddamn hard to be the opposite of that but los always.
why men write shitty songs about being lonely.
where do i get some of those beauty spores growing out of rickshaw's basement?
ask tommy hoosier, soon to be played by george clooney in the upcoming movie of his life and who didn't even know that trailors had basements, who works the night shift at the greaser at steak n shake off HWY 9 in feostus, MO (which is exactly how it sounds) and keeps the angels his basset hound dragged out of the woods behind his house saran-wrapped in his basement freezer beside the clipped talons of wild turkeys and 96 twenty-four packs of keystone light.
kill yr braincells w/ him the way whitemen killed indians.
there ain't no other way to live but full.
accordingly, my daydreams have grown horns
but jesus at least sympathizes.
still, time tried to put a time limit on this piece so i shot that fascistic bastard in the eye.
in that the streets is a reoccuring character in this story, the only thing tying us together,
we have crushed her beneath our hands.
I am trying for a breakthru
is it working?
wanting a psychiatrists' note of reprieve from the parts of reality jesus failed to blow up/
we are among a city of ashes.
we are cooling
in that the river floods the street
in that the grass floods the sidewalk
in that dick floods jane
in that the lyrics flood the rambling
in that oblivion floods the headaches
in that the is floods the now
in that love floods all blue and gray screens
in that language refloods itself
in that history is under-water
in that raw bones flood khakis
in that the streets,
a reoccurring character in this story,
are now underwater,
everything is cool.
in that those of us who know how to float
can get along in the flood.
in that death,
a non-sequitor in this story,
is now our friend.