White Noise
Burning man 2010 in backseat bowl ride
95 to baltimore,
where suffering silent souls weep inaudibly
in patterns of fallen snow in taco bell
parking lots, exhaling the collective
marijuana tongues and enhancing
the margins of december cheer,
their cocksure supple bodies crumbling
with a bottle of rum in one hand
and a used condom in the other
screaming obscenities so the world can grasp
the gravity of their vile convalescence.
Restraint is equally foolish in kaleidescope of life!
Cock in mouth!
Tongue in unspeakable orifices!
The guilt demonstration is rattling the universe!
There is always more tit
more cock more ass
more smiling and infinite vagina,
more myriad inhibitions cowering powerless to inhibit
more cum crusted mattress to lounge on and falsely exchange
more portions of shared esteem, more
appetite to conquer sarcastic dismissals
of proven and unyielding consequence,
to diminish the hyberbolical implications of
youth and freedom and the marijuana mile.
Snow angles made by prostrate women
flailing for freedom impressing the snowy
earth sanguinely under rusty red moons
to dying applause from the viewers
on the balcony. Always the voyeur
would have them condemned. Corpses rot
in alleys and putridly puss from holes
in arms and veins and perceptions, dumpsters
regurgitating the filth of broken alleys
and inalienable conscience;
handfuls of shrieking image rise slowly from
snowy choirs and perturb the inner sanctity
of self while delaware charges
4$ to get the fuck out
and resume to anthropologic demonstrations
of alcohol endurance,
vomiting on broad street while homeless
men wail for incorrigible freedom and the
specter of youth vanished somewhere in
shit stained alleys
bleeding dry the remnants of human capacity.
Shroom epiphanies and ecstasy tears
usher spring's implicit wake,
rattling and presiding over momentary
lapses of character fawning in peripheral hedges
hedging 'tween the action and the thought,
foxes flee on lonely kansas highways
darting & cleaving images from the skull,
celestial pigments and cerebral illusions
interchanging in swirling california destiny
intermittent in the pornography of night.
Neon transcriptions subtly hint taboo
conspiracy on omaha, truncated trips searching
for the wil'o'the'wisp a light in the corn
'neath the shadow of nebraska sky
where fingers are useless
and wits not up to the task.
Someone is shrieking in the dead of night.
An eleven point coldly defending his position
on the road the headlights breaching the
haze his dimly lit brain and his judgement.
The bridge his own until something in him
recovers from the shock and flees o'er the hedge
and into the lonesome night.
But something in the radio persists
and the moment is uncomfortable in its odd realism.
It's always better to be on a road that has no lines in the middle
is what he says as if he's just thought of it
on multiple occasions.
Vermont
Tried to hike to Maine, sober.
Made it to Vermont.
3:35 a.m. Black Friday
Can't keep up this pace of solitude,
only so much weight in lonely poems
never read, no challenge
or inspiration any more
in American highways,
empty motel beds
There's fire in my chest,
a softly wept cascade
achieved in excess
crying nimbly the facade,
redwood visage,
face of nothing
and nowhere
Burning man 2010 in backseat bowl ride
95 to baltimore,
where suffering silent souls weep inaudibly
in patterns of fallen snow in taco bell
parking lots, exhaling the collective
marijuana tongues and enhancing
the margins of december cheer,
their cocksure supple bodies crumbling
with a bottle of rum in one hand
and a used condom in the other
screaming obscenities so the world can grasp
the gravity of their vile convalescence.
Restraint is equally foolish in kaleidescope of life!
Cock in mouth!
Tongue in unspeakable orifices!
The guilt demonstration is rattling the universe!
There is always more tit
more cock more ass
more smiling and infinite vagina,
more myriad inhibitions cowering powerless to inhibit
more cum crusted mattress to lounge on and falsely exchange
more portions of shared esteem, more
appetite to conquer sarcastic dismissals
of proven and unyielding consequence,
to diminish the hyberbolical implications of
youth and freedom and the marijuana mile.
Snow angles made by prostrate women
flailing for freedom impressing the snowy
earth sanguinely under rusty red moons
to dying applause from the viewers
on the balcony. Always the voyeur
would have them condemned. Corpses rot
in alleys and putridly puss from holes
in arms and veins and perceptions, dumpsters
regurgitating the filth of broken alleys
and inalienable conscience;
handfuls of shrieking image rise slowly from
snowy choirs and perturb the inner sanctity
of self while delaware charges
4$ to get the fuck out
and resume to anthropologic demonstrations
of alcohol endurance,
vomiting on broad street while homeless
men wail for incorrigible freedom and the
specter of youth vanished somewhere in
shit stained alleys
bleeding dry the remnants of human capacity.
Shroom epiphanies and ecstasy tears
usher spring's implicit wake,
rattling and presiding over momentary
lapses of character fawning in peripheral hedges
hedging 'tween the action and the thought,
foxes flee on lonely kansas highways
darting & cleaving images from the skull,
celestial pigments and cerebral illusions
interchanging in swirling california destiny
intermittent in the pornography of night.
Neon transcriptions subtly hint taboo
conspiracy on omaha, truncated trips searching
for the wil'o'the'wisp a light in the corn
'neath the shadow of nebraska sky
where fingers are useless
and wits not up to the task.
Someone is shrieking in the dead of night.
An eleven point coldly defending his position
on the road the headlights breaching the
haze his dimly lit brain and his judgement.
The bridge his own until something in him
recovers from the shock and flees o'er the hedge
and into the lonesome night.
But something in the radio persists
and the moment is uncomfortable in its odd realism.
It's always better to be on a road that has no lines in the middle
is what he says as if he's just thought of it
on multiple occasions.
Vermont
Tried to hike to Maine, sober.
Made it to Vermont.
3:35 a.m. Black Friday
Can't keep up this pace of solitude,
only so much weight in lonely poems
never read, no challenge
or inspiration any more
in American highways,
empty motel beds
There's fire in my chest,
a softly wept cascade
achieved in excess
crying nimbly the facade,
redwood visage,
face of nothing
and nowhere
