The Subtle Revolution

I am tired and hope to see myself lively again for now rest and shower contemplate the bike again try to get the wheels in motion write books and record my podcasts before all things come to an end

Another day of dying to causes I can’t even begin to explain

I hope we all meet again sometime

I can no longer be anything

I can’t even rest my head

Sometimes all I have left

the open road

the howling wind

Irish Latkah’s

In these Armageddon times

I make due with odd supplies

my cheese, potato’s, onion,

these will congeal and fry in my pan

sunflower oil and avocado oil

my vegan moments rule out butter

Olive oil later to give it taste and

to grant it texture

and then I will eat them hot

and wish for applesauce

The day that seems to rise so gentle

like an old woman who knows how to administer

a leg brace

without hurting the broken leg

like some wind off the ocean on a warm day that is colder than the air around you

something that brings respite

for me with epilepsy

the evening is often more terrifying

I never know if I will wake up

where I will wake up

What I will wake up

Some days I blink my eyes and…

In the morning the air feels fine

Like rings from my pipe

What kurt vile calls

“smoke rings for my halo”

A fine dusty light

Seeping through the yellow smoke

My cat moves in and out of dawn

One paw on the sunrise

Another toys with dusk

And the calm symmetry of night and day

Makes a gentle blend of shadows and sunlight

Reminds me of the golden eyes I used to know

There’s a thousand beautiful people

Long Over Winded Wind Reflection

  there’s no worries with the wind at the door

I too have been the wind and at the door

beholding and knocking and waiting to be beholden

Perhaps I no longer look but wander anyway

  as the wind that howls

so too have I howled

but tonight I will not howl

because I am not in the mood

  I have been in the wandering

and seen in the travels

that many people are also alive

and their cities are all the…

Memories of a Sunflower Field and a Car and Something Dubious

there is so much to say

by moving on

I contain archives

memories of sunflower fields

and sitting atop my scion

and next to me

something between

a cosmic sister

and an impossible paramour

who’s beauty and grace are tragedy

as they amplify according

to her own self loathing

  I could Love her a thousand times

and greet each day with a new wedding ring

I could ruin her fingers with diamonds

and…

The words they fly from as fragrance that sweet summer sorrow evoked by Tuesdays

Although it is nor Thursday and not at all a day of Riverside Jazz

I am pleased at last to be writing

When I will it stronger

I will weave a standing desk

or is a filthy place

  But I see babies walk around the streets on my block

Hollering for candy and trying to work the grill

They fail and are swept up

They are…

missed the raid,

pokemon is a wicked game

  like capitalism

if you are not always making moves

you are so far behind

the game becomes an existential excercise

there is no winning it for you

alas you choose the red team

and rather than being socialists,

they’re actually truck driving conservatives

fiscal, social… you name it

anyways I have to raid alongside the boys across the proverbial trenches…

“I am a willow”

Some soundcloud this is

to ride on

I apologise

for the history

of hanging sentances

of hanging on

  I hope you are happy as palm trees

or snow

either way with breeze

but not in snow

I don’t dig the windy snow

Drafting Process Depicted in Steps

I find some humor in these writing mishaps I.  Guns of the Trees pounds the skull of the viewer with violin and instensity – mechanical depictions of absurdity through camera shots of coney island junkyards and dead machines in piles all seen by the camera – the camera becoming hyperfractured self in the realization of maddness.   Ginsberg’s poetry takes us there in the cognitive – that where…

you thought that you that and then this and changing the mantle you burned the cellar door and left it open and I thought that you knew everything but you’re a scared little whirl and totally batshit

I want to be your friend But I am too crazy for you and you’re too crazy for me between us there’ll be no understanding   -Not even a casual glance.

There was a bell cartridge now what is that? A sterile thing left for singing a broken promise an arrow’s dream a rain of ashes a silent thing

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