Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Sunday, February 7, 2010

midwasteland "(sketch)"/part exercise

the midwasteland is unreal cities hunchbacked on the stoop of countryside.
the midwasteland is restless.
the midwasteland is frozen tonight.
the midwasteland is a dying cellphone on the up ladder of billboard bright bulbed culture.
the midwasteland is ulceric sulfur, (quite quaint, right).
the midwasteland is unreasonable doubt ballooning towards a sky of lush gray imaginings.
the midwasteland is disaster anger's unrelenting vocation.
the midwasteland is bum, sitting squat.
the midwasteland is yeast scented must breeze.
the midwasteland is urinal cake tingling with the squeezing veins of cigarette butts.
the midwasteland is bunk.
the midwasteland is an unrecognized pun.
the midwasteland is a slim bout of vocabulary.
the midwasteland is my best goddamn friend.

the midwasteland is not sunny california sheen.
the midwasteland is not the failing of my attention span,
the midwasteland is not thudding enlivened fate.
the midwasteland is not particularly breathing.
the midwasteland is not skimming unreality.
the midwasteland is not kind in winter's hat.
the midwasteland is not claustrophobic.
the midwasteland is not well publicized.
the midwasteland is not coming to the party.
the midwasteland is not relenting.
the midwasteland is not yr charming friend.
the midwasteland is not opening butterfly flaps of becoming.
the midwasteland might or might not be well studied in the ways of the sun.

it's got in its guts burroughs, jake cohen, all my friends forever, etc...slug aka atmosphere, rhymesayers cru, carl sandburgh's bigass chicago shoulders, LD cru, albert pujols fans, baseball jerseyed fat kids, etc...cross country toothpick shaped kids, indian burial type karma, emma goldman's bones, jim swills squealing rasping voice, micheal mcclure and jim ryun who went to my high school in wichita, KS., and ghosts.

it is rusty belt of st. louis and chicago and cincy and colombus and indy and dayton and wright city and o'fallon and st. chuck and chesterfield and overland and bridgeton and so on and burroughs tiny unmarked tombstone, powell square building den of homes of the homeless off of 70, speaking of which I-70 is the only good thing to come out of kansas, loops of gentrifying highways in st. louis, a lot of fucking hwys and truckstops, gasstations, gods tonails, st. joseph's hospital room 112, parents too-nice houses, rundown castlesque steel mills.

TO: the midwasteland. yr dear rusted heartstrings, that i pull on and pull on thee, i don't believe in prayer but rather solemn meditation, and other such vaguries. regardless, down from yr steel hills, iron eyes to yr rusted gills and busted ass thighs to yr bigshouldered body, you are like the sound a thought makes before it hits yr mouth.
this is for ya'll.

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