You see, the problem is that we all want to dream and are unable. Not that we lack some innate ability, but the dream becomes clouded, lost in a haze of unconsciousness under dry stars. Perhaps we try to reach sleep with the conscious desire to ruminate upon some cherished memory, fragment or half-thought, only to slip into the mind's routine mechanisms before our heads hit the pillow.
The moment is lost.
We are all dreamers. I, for one, have found only one way to truly dream-- to live, and relive again-- immortal in some perfect moment reborn. Injecting the spirit with some soul-slowing agent is the only means by whichI've been able to fully engage myself in the dream and be conscious enough to actually live in its moment. Eyes open, the patina of valium sweat radiating from my open pores, I am truly able to escape and dream. In such instances, the horrors of rehab, for example, are reduced to a three hour orgy of purest recollection-- the way a stray wisp of hair is draped over some trusted angels eye, or the way her lashes catch the late afternoon sunlight. To die for: dandelions and endless fields of green. These things, of course, exist fully in the poets soul the moment theyre apprehended, though I only seem capable of retrieving these revelations when completely removed from any memory of its accompanying pain, past or present. That seems to be why those who are most attuned to beauty (poets, painters-- all the creators) and the pleasures of the senses, fall prey to some drugs mirrored blade of betrayal. Beauty, death and all the rest.
This is what I miss most from my days in heaven's abyss. I still catch all the glorious notes in life's sweet symphony, but am sadly unable to rewind the tape, examine its melody, meaning (every majestic note in supreme detail) in order to find a place for myself in its necessary beauty.
Alas, to smell the autumn leaves once more...
I now pronounce you not alive.
Life is simply the protracted process of dying-- like a slow flame burning certain to the wick. I find the need to be self-destructive a prerequisite in order to make it seem like Im really alive. This is perhaps a myth thatI've bought into, or have been conditioned to accept. Nevertheless, the dying process never truly seems real unless I have an active hand in it.
I shut the window. My head is swimming in Robitussin, its inflections cloaked in the notion of shadow, smoked death and schizophrenia.
The trees are raining and the leaves are like flavored memories. I shrink into the wind along with them.
=
Years of living w/ an alcoholic is almost sure to make any wife or child neurotic.
Our entire family is ill. Dispersion was not a cure.
Blue remains.
=
The sun floats shrouded in fumes,
glassed in an artificial rib
like a jigger of brandy...
That which is beyond our ability to reach, grasp or comprehend constitutes God.
The process of discovery ultimately results in some loss of divinity.
To use one's imagination is the only Holy Communion.
=
Alone on a cool beach, empty and fresh as the waning sun rusts to a fine gold upon the seas eternal struggle. Beyond the blue existence, faint stars return from embedded memory mitigating all concerns of the moment, each slow appearing iridescent zero a new dead soul in heaven; the wind claps the static vastness in contingencies of will apparent only upon a distant crimson flag glittering skyward, licking the winsome clouds in circinate rhythms.
I am prepared to settle upon some ultimate conclusion which has been conjured to ease the mourning of my dying self-obsession-- a necessary armament that is brought to bear when one has lived life as an object: the object of scorn, anger, hatred, disappointment, violence and disease-- though not yet dead, as evidenced by my compulsive need to record such hazy impressions in a naive effort to understand this impending concession to night. And now, at the end of it all, I find myself in no position to battle those whove not been systematically attenuated with unhealthy affections and insufficient parenting. Im finished with no fight left in me.
I work to be afforded the right to exist-- as is, the process of becoming having long ago been arrested upon the convulsive thrusts of my fathers bruised and futile fists hurling into my crippled gestures, humming dumbly before sinking into a simple liquid innocence.
Whatever I do have left is reserved for the few I love. I wish I had more.
To truly know love, is to see its pure reflection in the eyes of your child.
=
The aureate sensation of mildly allergenic atmosphere darkens to a sleep above aortic waters that encapsulate the dull undertow of emotion; slivers of light shift, exist and grow in the marbled onyx halo of irradiating consciousness.
An awareness with a mission:
to make any and all excuses
for the perceived inadequacies
of self.
=
Enter here, like a cloud, the thin cool membrane that breaks upon the glass, in sun's skin w/ the opacities of a lens, like some rare jeweled humility cloaked by a dopey something within. Breathing, a carbureted haling that dissolves the moment my bated breath reaches its unheard syllable-- precious gem, blood-spunk bursting forth with rain joys and bloods excessive twine
articulating the air that peals from my golden eye
into solemn heartbeats.
The mirror is before me.
=
Intellectuals are the shoe-shine boys of the ruling elite.
--KILLDOZER
The substance of shadow, not flame nor light, but an illusory smoke that crawls
along the walls looking for a way out.
Where does the man begin and the addict end?
M: The man becomes a man when he ceases his addiction.
L: The man is always an addict, the rest is simply smoke.
M: What... smoke?
She hides the truth out of love for him.
=
A perfect day; the laggard drag of a nagging addiction having heaved its final convulsion more than one thousand days ago. The clarity of the sky is composed less of light than of a watered shine, the blurred curve of the horizon scooping the sea.
I proceed upon ivory knees,
beneath the divine vengeance
of the sun...
Theres nowhere to go, and nothing worth wishing for.
I remember getting lost out here when I was seven.
I thought of thorns, the gorgeous torsion of roots hunched in elaborate prisms of childhood time, momentarily holding the world in some grand way before curling back into the mystery of existence; the leaves falling like amulets in the clearing, a vortex of absolute light perched at the mouth of the river.
The whole sky is consumed by a subtle absorption that inhales this recollection from my forehead and spits out its images before the entire sky-- October red at low tide, here amid the sweetgrass.
I extinguish the remainder of a Padron maduro, and follow the smoke out of the wood.
=
Lick the mad ellipse
artificial and infinite,
cold crowns
& old assassins
muddled studies
miraculous and unforeseen
intoxicated landscapes
of divine origin,
a purer mirror
a darkness
over my eyes,
agile ballerinas
thirsting for light;
transparent divinities
v-x.
Oct. 13
I just let time pour through me like blood through a hollow artery. None of it means anything, the heartbeat just a stale rhythm that clicks with insane precision as these mile markers bruise my eye upon a frost bitten stretch of concrete byway, the bland grey nothing of its substance interrupted only for spiny lime shanks of ragweed or perhaps the errant roadkill. The blood of the poet. Ha! If words were to flow as easy as my bleeding, I'd be able to get some relief...
The engine of my ART is a dead machine.
=
Its been said that years of excessive drinking destroys brain cells, but I can also lay claim to extreme nerve damage. It seems fetal sleep has left desolate some true gods dreaming violent visions and annihilated love-- a void of razor blades in the attic vastness of my awareness. Things pass through me like smoke and I feel nothing except for a faint sort of residue, the bodied detox of my imaginary arsenal, starved to death, my flowered skin ascending on silver wings, my bleached skeleton staggering in silent isolation.
The streetlamps fade as I pass by.
=
Keats swaps his Harley for a mini-van
and the family saga rolls on....
I am entirely incapable of being inspired by anything in life anymore.
I have no need for people. Unless Im shutting off your fucking heat, dont look at me.
I have nothing for you.
I want to die alone in bed, adorned only in a quilt of virgin hair, sucked off, with an arm full of drugs, perhaps an undressed (except for the silver angels wings) nurse or two on hand to fix my drip. I aspire to nothing beyond this. Apart from the vast amounts of pleasure continually coursing through my body, thered be little else to convince me I was alive.
Im a slave of my body and its base cravings.
Im a pig and should be exterminated.
Consumed by an unceasing dis.ease, the only reprieve from this persistent virago has led to my unhealthy tryst with addiction-- one temperamental bitch with a death-threat that delivers day by day on its promise.
=
Oneiromancy:
Innocent nursemaid
Swims niveous sins
Bitten by Dipsades
In cyanic limbs,
A toxic slipper
That seldom fits
My Cinderella
Fix.
It seemsI've tried to take my fathers every vice, whether it was drinking, smoking or fucking, and turn it into high art. As a child, I surely worshipped at the alter of this fiend; his hated of people was like an aphrodisiac-- intoxicating. Somehow, I managed to live it through, having now seen all of my heroes fall to the soil, one by one, like so many dead roses. Its a strange sickness when one gathers strength when the strong falter, but I've never found a measure from within. Cowering and gutless, Im always on the ground looking up.
=
I need the pearls of indifference
perhaps six pits
a waiting room with no light
and then you bless me.
I dont have time to bleed
as I eat the yellow pill
an antidote that summons
Gods face from the swill
my time to let it all die,
eyes polished to a cross
in the temple
of forgotten men
when, with explicit will,
Im unstrung &
h
u
n
g
Lying on my back receiving a blow-job as she hummed Beethoven's ninth symphony was as close to religion as I'd gotten this autumn. The room itself swirled in particulate light, the walls folding over into the shadow, my rose-petaled darkness.
=
The punctuated knowledge of my hearts own thin collapse wounds to a stained finish the silent embrace of your champagne veins, stitched to nothing; my eyes are closed for good. The dust seldom fades, but conceals a seemingly invisible shame from w/in the toxic junkyard of my spirit.
This baptism is done in blood; youre a part of the soul of my living church now. Here we will hover bodiless in suffering disuse, white corpses held helplessly numb by a world hungover in black god monopolies and infant masks to hide the tears.
Attired in scars,
I've been emptied of all song....
=
My mimetic routine keeps me from falling into walls.
Im unable to abandon myself to all sins
as I have abandoned these vain imaginings....
=
w/ open breast
my disconsolate spirit has fled
to aeolian shades below.
Father, forgive me
this touch-fucked
blood sunk
black hearted harvest:
I strum in sunlight
eyes toward hidden
acorns of light,
flung to dust
& emptied white
vested dead essences
Closing leaves
bound to stone
and thin skin
mouthing the air
in round function
some helpless monument
that falls into
a partial exterior
of human circulation
grounded to grace
dissolving on a tongue
to numb for cutting...
But heather my tomb
with a sunset.
=
Spent the morning inhaling Zoloft til the stars came out at noon.
What is ART?
A painting of the Virgin Mary caked in cow shit.
I can think of no more accurate self-portrait
of the human soul.
=
Perhaps I have reconciled my hearts insistent momentum,
in the violet sunrise its embryo rose thrown
pulse is alive, gathering sight from the shadows
crowded in the dull residue of a vast grey interior
space seldom revealed, never touched
like a feeling just out of reach
or a mortal stone flung from a childs hand
into the immense possibilities of an unfolding dawn.
=
Risen like reality, an amber column of solemn permanence,
my snifter of Hennessey VSOP rises against the blackwash
of a dimly lit existence, my persistent ignition.
The soul both lives and perishes like a sacred moment,
intransigent, reborn only in the mirror of a memory or some one soul so touched,
the feeling or heart once remembered:
once in an eternity.
10.31
A boring night. The wind slaps cold into the side of the house, and I stare at a few huge leaves that hover like apparitions before sticking into the pane glass of the bedroom window. I turn to my wife and offer to insert the remainder of the Smarties
Ive been eating into her vagina so that I might rescue the rainbow on my tongue.
Nine months pregnant, she thinks its a bad idea and might cause embarrassment should my mission fail and they start coming out a week later in the delivery room. Theyd probably dissolve, I tell her before asking her to recall a time when my tongue had ever left any stone unturned. Silence.
Lights out.
=
To share something of one's past life or former self with their soul-mate should surely count in most cases as an exchange of the highest and best. However, we went back t