AUTHOR OF BUILDINGS
He is sitting among
the bulbs of a flickering
marquee.
"It's my woman," he says,
like lawyer would pursecute.
"She's took my coat and
now I'm cold with my windy
cancer eating me up like
nibbles. What'll I do?
Wander?
Wander listless?
On these these
happy happy city streets-
dodging bullets?
The Smiles of Children and Bright
Flashes of Bright
Cameras- I think I'll write memoirs of my times.
or our times,
and of those children we cannot, she cannot bear- a barren woman scorned ad infinitum. Ha! She'll
be so pissed, that bitch. Furious, I'm sure! Then when I hide out
in bus stops drinking Listerine and thinking of her, her ridicule, laughing,
whereas I'm not a man who hee-haws at the prices another man
charged on a whim, with no cause to challenge, that is to say I don't slick my hair, I don't
trim my beard and why oh why should that fucking woman care
and so what I'll do is sell or give what I have to
her mother and then she'll know at heart
how much I hurt. Her mother, ha!
Advance version of Woman,
essence of reason. Balance in un-balance.
Mother raises daughter with half-assed
father who rapes and absconds with
love-
no, not love: a second thought.
And I see no reason why there is a reason I
should feel so half empty by her own
shitty times,
and why those speckled eyes
reflect my worried
demise, my
stagnancy, my obedience to
the essence I myself cannot be without.
Essence of un-reality, more like.
What is really true is the self,
O God! O Universe! O Drunken Puddle of Me!
What is really true are those
uncertain thoughts we achieve
in a constancy of boredom and forgetfulness,
how everything can escape the misty rabid brain,
all knowledge fleeting, retreated
to I know not where, if a where is the
somewhere above and over
my eyelids, and oh fuck oh fuck
whose eyelids are these to own? Will
my thoughts return?
Am I a pirate of a
mad man? Mad men? Men who paint their faces
with no reason and declare nonsense as truth, of government's
and evil,
screaming
at the wall hangings
and light fixtures and clawing unnoticed
at the basest thoughts for the real?"
He takes a moment to write.
"When it drizzles and rains sopped in depression I discover
exuberance like a cedar log burning;
at night these slick roads reflect
oranges and ambers or Christmas
tones. For me it seems the real
gift is disparaging themes
of family- deck the halls
with a working man's balls
and gritty expression."
He takes another unsatisfied moment,
at this point unable to think clearly,
then remembers, resigned
and lonely,
"This one
kid asked me what I'm doing,
how I am so distant,
with his little teeth like a beluga whale,
and after I hide my pen and
my paper and the wrinkles my forehead makes
all I do is smile and
then walk away."
the bulbs of a flickering
marquee.
"It's my woman," he says,
like lawyer would pursecute.
"She's took my coat and
now I'm cold with my windy
cancer eating me up like
nibbles. What'll I do?
Wander?
Wander listless?
On these these
happy happy city streets-
dodging bullets?
The Smiles of Children and Bright
Flashes of Bright
Cameras- I think I'll write memoirs of my times.
or our times,
and of those children we cannot, she cannot bear- a barren woman scorned ad infinitum. Ha! She'll
be so pissed, that bitch. Furious, I'm sure! Then when I hide out
in bus stops drinking Listerine and thinking of her, her ridicule, laughing,
whereas I'm not a man who hee-haws at the prices another man
charged on a whim, with no cause to challenge, that is to say I don't slick my hair, I don't
trim my beard and why oh why should that fucking woman care
and so what I'll do is sell or give what I have to
her mother and then she'll know at heart
how much I hurt. Her mother, ha!
Advance version of Woman,
essence of reason. Balance in un-balance.
Mother raises daughter with half-assed
father who rapes and absconds with
love-
no, not love: a second thought.
And I see no reason why there is a reason I
should feel so half empty by her own
shitty times,
and why those speckled eyes
reflect my worried
demise, my
stagnancy, my obedience to
the essence I myself cannot be without.
Essence of un-reality, more like.
What is really true is the self,
O God! O Universe! O Drunken Puddle of Me!
What is really true are those
uncertain thoughts we achieve
in a constancy of boredom and forgetfulness,
how everything can escape the misty rabid brain,
all knowledge fleeting, retreated
to I know not where, if a where is the
somewhere above and over
my eyelids, and oh fuck oh fuck
whose eyelids are these to own? Will
my thoughts return?
Am I a pirate of a
mad man? Mad men? Men who paint their faces
with no reason and declare nonsense as truth, of government's
and evil,
screaming
at the wall hangings
and light fixtures and clawing unnoticed
at the basest thoughts for the real?"
He takes a moment to write.
"When it drizzles and rains sopped in depression I discover
exuberance like a cedar log burning;
at night these slick roads reflect
oranges and ambers or Christmas
tones. For me it seems the real
gift is disparaging themes
of family- deck the halls
with a working man's balls
and gritty expression."
He takes another unsatisfied moment,
at this point unable to think clearly,
then remembers, resigned
and lonely,
"This one
kid asked me what I'm doing,
how I am so distant,
with his little teeth like a beluga whale,
and after I hide my pen and
my paper and the wrinkles my forehead makes
all I do is smile and
then walk away."