The crib betrays the cradle we laid in.

This is as it was writtten.

Reaching to the light switch, minus it’s plate I suppose/I grope, my brain is unprepared for the incandescent shock of the room, windows black sheeted in Visquene, cigarette ash dusting the entire horizontal dimension, as if a crater were smoking nearby. Hasty coke implements scattered consciousness to the rug, burned in places by uncaring, and stained by lack of awareness. This wasn’t the world of a surrounding you’d choose to inhabit, if you were conscious of end results. Rancid beer bottles floated dead stagnancy, brewing evil-smelling filter bile the unwary might quaff, in a drug-fueled thirst of passion. One pale green, and one black light glowed feebly in the shoe-box DJ room, secured by a thick felt curtain stapled nonchalantly into a perfect wall, recently painted and spackled by an artisan hoping their extra attention would elicit same. The corners of the out-of-date ID card wreaked and delaminated in powders, suggested actions the law hadn’t foreseen; pillows like spent charcoal filters exhumed depravities of self-abuse, some who know better would boast to imagine; hopeless dreams of mega-stardom missed lessons of simple belief and decreased ego, as a method to mask the existentialism which gondolas us around. His was a basement cave hung with spray painted dimensions of things, a honed edge of a person down needy and deep. The air was a muck you slogged though, to liberate each window latch, sticking with the necessity of base abuse.


Ten shopping bags of crap explained why cigarettes, alcohol, candy, stimulants and five meals a day sandwiched in brain-grinding sound was taking its toll. The magnitude of what had to be suppressed was destroying a giant’s vitality, and burning bridges in life, despite everyone’s heartfelt intentions to help him. Clinging to his own destruction, the angels crowded around, shaking their heads. The sacred within if anything, is balanced by the demons without; the corners are sadly, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I brought in halogen work lights, broke open the beer-stuck windows, and atomized an entire box of incense, and four hours later, in a sleep-deprived coma, I fell headlong into the bed his night-bound fears inhabit, chemicals slowly leeching from bloodstream to urine, unleashing the demons of self to maraud him ... he awakes to displace them on somebody else, before reaching to the bong. A dark magician denying his powers infects the world around my sleeping form; I awake thirty times, locked in the embrace of serial battles with the outcomes inclined to infinity. Event the carpet under the bed radiates the conflict of unsatiated desires which know no positive bounds.


The drunken reality of the drama sleep unfolds, issued drums’ distance, pulsing the roof lines of consciousness, where the subaltern sky appears and vanishes just as quickly. This is the realm of knowing, while knowing nothing at all ... the ennui equals the passion in flowers and thunderstorms swirling in reaction to foregrounds we dimly conjure, to in turn endure the denial of claiming, we can’t understand. Luck, fate, God’s platitudes and scoldings ... the manhandled feminine mysteries, hiding in secret chambers of the heart, all concurrent in our angst. His sheets were steeped in cornered ambiguities, and fortresses against the minions he’s engineered to founder the boar inside, seeking escape. The con fornicates with the pro in Bacchanalian feasts of senses we’re senseless to; the entire pantheon of symbolic structures co-habituate, tearing the greater’s lessers limb from limb. Needless to say I quote. Awaking head filled in sorcerers’ curses, I staggered to the door, and stepped out lame, and naked in the challenge of apropos.




Your Relationship is the fact piranhas are cowardly and freakish alone, stressed to the point their skin changes color: it highlights the fat of the businessperson, showing their narcissistic insecurity through power derived from others. Ceilings are floors; parades are funerary processions; pillars of community are thieves and criminals illuminating tokens, and owners of SUVs are flocking to illegal horns which deafen pedestrians. Who cares, with a noise-canceling interior? Ego drives the road we struggle to navigate, aware we’re technically nothing. I wish I believed the universe existed for us to conquer, mine, and destroy. It would be much easier to murder those who blundered into the rifle sight of that particular aim. I’d like to duct tape the offending owners’ heads against their high priced sirens luring the best part of themselves, from their higher purpose on earth. Gangs protect those who are lost, add nationalism in the face of world terror to the scene of Catholics burning witches alive, afeard of the power a single person could muster, if they strayed from the herd banding together for sanity. Excuse me for taking a saint’s name in vain, but Jesus Christ! When will the hollow men in power fall to the people’s shine for reason, and truth? We magnify deceit, by converting to it, in-between a few sad rallies for virtue.