a dried out flower rests on my brown dashboard

My old friend and I have a long history of fuck-ups, fucks, and mental breakdowns together. Our most recent was over winter, when we had a brief afternoon swing that later on would end up screwing us both over. It happened one afternoon in January when I showed up at her door. I walked in, got myself a drink, and sat in her kitchen for a little while. We started talking, and talking, and talking, and the conversation picked up a bit, and I moved closer to her as she leaned against a door fram...

32 miles later, my legs are sore, the sea smells fresh on my back ... covered in garbage, John smiles my name ... my car breaks at my friends home, the smoke could be seen for miles ... maggie called to tell me her grandma was dead. i hung up the line ... cigarette between my lips, books and crayons and instrument slung over my back, walking at midnight to my home

"wait for me!" cry my children in the fog, playing under the white moon

What we write down is never as important as what we hit, because a lasting handprint on a noize, ass cheek, wrist or what have you leaves a swollen red reminder of the years to come, another yet another shallow matriarchial note on your sketchbook, foot note to explanation, our pages will only be around so long as there is to keep them, but you'll never know this, our memory is already faded in infinity, and if it is truly expanding, we shrink and shrink as the days go by, my tiny face still ...

turning before me, the numbers dropped and roll ing on the cutting room floor, white phosphorus parisian throughfare, glimly lit side walk streets, gobbling words at dawn, the steaming earth bubbling in the pot, and still we starve Sudan craven orange clockwork, leaden pipes leaking overhead, labor in the mourning womb split and falling out, like leaking hot visionaries, Mohammadean Prophets wrapping anthrax in the mails, politicans screaming the Skeleton Ballad, burning christ in the garbage...

swallowing shells on the throat-taught pallet painter's brush lying dormant on the woodside, the seventh day rest leaves me uncompleted nine times and a thrice step leads me to your door, those dragging feet knocking at your wood-step patriarchal nut shell- he said he said she said he- world turned black at avenue B- street moon cork in the orange tone flap- cut that cord and through your cap- up! through the voice box, left originator- shett gone crazy in your existential escalator- climing ...

the flowing dirt beneth rolling treads and the vast white earth, like snow on the generator, collecting dust and vision sweeping waving raising diving wheeling like plastic eyes atop cabinet walls, dropping into rusty coffee jars, forgotten in time and discovered to be worshiped as a sign of god the runthin sleep of the self-destructive lover, drives me deep into endless visions of night and fluxuating seed, living as the breathing chalk of city sidewalks and the bang-bang got you! games that...

the closing haze of percipitant blanket, rolling snow fields and hot sweat scattered freely to passers by, the wandering ghosts of this dream? this reality? losing definition before my white backdrop, a million flashing images and only one gray figure, standing silent in this canvas

the walking noise of serene black-drop eyelids, shutting doors and clicking gears, the tack-tack-tacking of winding crank veering eyes, notices the closet door and proceeds down the hall, to the left, past empty bathroom walls and glides close to his silent ears- sweet tingling hiss of white death in 40 walls of Tomb, with my fallow memory, raized of its splendor and stuck in the heart with tin forks and iron plates, the swallowing seraphin of wailing sea, overture of rot and sun, holy winter...