about a boy.

he sits and watches clouds go by. the intellectuals have their words, and the businessmen their cars, but he has something no one else does: he has learned to fly. high above citys and streets he moves; watching, listening, learning. silently judging only because no one could hear him anyway. his life is that of a hedonist. when he is hungry, he eats. when he is tired, he sleeps. when he is horny he fucks and so forth. living a life that is worth living.

occasionally he stops by the life he left for this. the life full of feeling and growing. he saw the girl he left behind grow to be a woman and love a man and a life he could never relate to. she welcomes him with open arms when he does see her, but more with the pitying curiousity of someone who knew him then and now. at what point did she melt into the distance of growing up?

at night it almost feels like he is there. back in that room looking and feeling the light that has since left him.
he is afraid of nothing except his nightmares, and that is the riddle to his existence.

when i see too i see clearly...

the most prolific realizations come years after
they present themselves.
the best mixtape ive ever had covered massive attack,
and hot coals are only hot in the mind.
come firewalk with me.

revolutions mingle with gear ratios and grace
and the beauty of grease and proper chain tension.
the tension both realized and imagined...created in
the mind and collective longings of hallmark greeting
cards and corporate holidays.

holidays. days. weeks. months years.
where will we be in ten days weeks months years?
together? any rational thought i have left says no.
stream of consciousness hiding in stanzas as
poetry...is that what this is?

is that what we have become?

the lines i walked and the humble brush strokes
of unemployment passed with manana jams.

thankyou for work when i was broke and
love when i was heartbroken.
i could never hate you for that.

how do you know things before they happen?

cloudy day confession. (thank you.)

thankyou for being, doing,
thinking.
for listening to self rightous
rightside rants under roof under rain under
clouds above us.

for coffee brewing while i smoke handrolled cigarettes
not by my own.

for believing in me being more
than i am now because we are.

past ever present
in words worth more in twos and threes
than their actual meanings.

no phone rings.
self exile or self preservation?

thankyou for helping me survive outside
this digital world we have imprisoned
ourselves in.

the man behind the boy behind the mask.

seven letters at a time you strip me of the armour i so
carefully put on each morning when i wake up.

to jean michel basquiat

a perfectly planned escape
finds its soulmate
in the execution.

an effortless downward spiral;
a beautiful disaster of self induced
self abuse. of self.
chaos as art as life.
cut short at its peak only
in the minds of those not living.

march twenty-first
two thousand seven:
the beginning of
august twelfth
nineteen-eightyeight

secretly pining for the
drugs money was spent
rehabilitating.

money as art as life.
not the money itself
but the existences we
all create with an ideal.

hours spent dying for
something just as easily
spent living for.

living as art as dying.
because living is dying
even in the philosophy
of the optimist.

time is a name we give
a concept which is working
towards an end we all are
forced to agree on.

we labeled the radiant child
an addict and a tragedy.
a perpetuation of money and
greed caught up in what others
wanted and self needed,
failing to see light following
a perfect illuminated path.

we hung him so carelessly, washing our hands
of consequence borne of lofty goals;
a martyr for pop culture.
a mere side effect for those
wearing green tinted glasses.
he died that we may all be made whole.
dont cry for his journey was your salvation

notes on walking.

he sits. he listens.
his is and isnt.
his being long ago lost in a storm
heading west on I-80, a young boy
with seven days stubble only seen
up close in the sunlight.


half breath; tight chest; telephone poles
disappear and forshorten into the blues of atmospheric
perspective.
one foot in front of the other.
this foot that foot, his feet hurt.

beneath hunched shoulders
and tired eyes and feet
there are puddles
reflecting an emaciated
frame, a judging reminder
of the morning rainfall.

he walks and sometimes jogs
through alleys and doors,
locked safely behind transparent
walls.

at what point will he give up
too close to stop; undernourished
and scarred by the son.

if i put these tired feet back into the worn souls
of these three dollar shoes
can we stop talking and meet halfway?

brown bagged confessions.

everyone is waiting
for he to become we:
our dreams and projections.
a universal hope that
fails because of odds
and authority issues.

what about he and his?
dreams
hopes
morals
codes
woes
quarells
of self
and those
that help.

walking, crossing
lines and time
of silent cabbage patch
ramblings...scribblings.

crosses borne
of self preservation
and halos drawn of
oil sticks and redtoothed
bliss.

let you and me be we.
for now is what i wish yesterday
could have been.

explanations and and expectaions and proclamations of sticking it out.

within me lies a nameless number
whos ten digits hold secrets
that bring me to me and you.
rock god. rock on.

i cause you pain by only choice.
a sinner and savior and pepertuator of
hexagonal cells for validation of self.
(read:experience)

all emotion lost in digitizing the human
conditon.
mistakes made. not made.
conversation steralization.

if you could see your death would seeing
mean believing or questioning and changing?

halves of ceramic cigarettes
and half drunk half hearted
half living giving.

lets take our clothes off
and masks off and brains off
and same socks that sun blocks
from one thing we
both need light shed on.

waiting for eli.

late night long wait
circles and oneupsmanship.

peekaboo nothing good comes

i
me
you
we
us
we
you
me
i

bigspace bigsky montana
twin packed assault on
addict with heart of gold.

left hands and counter-clockwise
education.
sheep in wolves clothing
cloning life with
sight smell taste touch
sound.

stinky feet beneath window covered by mexican blanket.

learn in books and bags.
pay latefees and tuition:
total control of institution.

intellectual
prostitution
pays the bills
thursday thru sunday.