and the sun followed after

A song heard near Buffalo
And the green grass returning,
A piece of pecan pie untouched,
Sitting in a south Austin diner,
Mowing lawns at a meth house
And spooking kids in Oklahoma,
Copping drugs and whiskey shots,
In the city of my Brother,
My heart I left in San Francisco
And the sun followed after.

holy eyed

Love like empty
Solemn street corners,
Where the entire
World's heart pulses
And the dream
Is condensed
And the past
Buried deep enough
For the soil
Of these new days
To fertilize,
Love like the
Shutter speed
Of your
Holy eyed imagination,
A love like ours.

Like this

The rich are hanging over head
By expensive ties
As I listen to
Silver Apples
Riding the subway
Through rat America,
Rocked quietly
In the head-phoned
Inner-space
Of Springtime,
In the midst
Of odorsome
Up-skirt
New York.

Everyday a
History of
Slow burned
Eternity
Writing itself,
A forever-time
Of lived in
Expanses.

There is nothing like this.

you-ess-ay

Forests like theme parks
And yellow buses,
Full of children
Passing by.

Truckies eyes glazed on
Always road,
In the down-ramp
Off-ramp,
Concrete imagination
Of the country.

Flags like turned backs
On a negligible history,
Waving on,
As if believing
You're right,
Actually
Makes you right.

The world is on sale,
Under the star spangled hammer.

.

Time and life, are two different things. As humans, we invented time. The constraints therafter, are another idiom of our imperfection. I'm choosing life.

The violet hour...anonymity in the Bear Republic

You see a crack affected man framed by a fire escape with the whole grizzly Californian afternoon sun blasting down the street toward him. A bleached out eye splitting whiteness pouring forth like the pierced yoke of a poached egg. The city where bums come to die and all the same are born from concrete wombs at the base of multi million dollar foyers.

"The bay Bridge will be closed" they keep saying, on every medium of news known to woman. I imagine this island cut off from the rest of the Country (had the great American paranoia finally caught up with me?). I shared this post-apocolyptic idea with a stranger in jest, "oh no we have more than one bridge here sir, the authorities wouldn't just leave us stranded!". Did he really believe I thought this was a one road in, one road out town? I didn't want to bring up after that, the scientific predictions that the city may one day simply slide into the sea. What with all these shows spat down the wires of the networks about how to survive disasters, the disastrous disaster disasters, I figured that the modern American, backlit by the last decade in particular, would have a particularly large appetite for 'end of times' ideas.

Being somewhere else. This place, these past weeks, somewhere else. Residing in the isolation of the senses, your character kept captive by this very certain solitude. Its not that people don't give a fuck about you, they don't even know you are there. Does that beat walking the well worn path, through the meadows of living nostalgia, that is home? Admitting the fact that love left at home is something extremely difficult to deal with, and that an overnight removal of your family and everyone you've ever known is not for the feather of heart, change is worth the shrapnel its printed on. If money permits and you are dealt the luxury in your life to put foot elsewhere, if commitments only stretch so far, or you can commit to something slightly bigger than yourself and your friends, it should be done. Perhaps only for the feeling of immeasurable anxiety and joy when you realise you are going, the sickly intoxicatig mix of gut and heart kicking the fuck out of each other.

You no longer share the same land mass with love or foe, a slightly unfairly fair scenario. But people know for good where that leaves them. The void calls for calm, emerging out the other side, with the same certainty as the sun blindness down the afternoon coridoors of San Francisco, is the great bouyant raft of life, not with two of every species, but one of a copyless kind unto itself...You!

X

between your empty wallet

Nostalgia like a clean hanky,
By days end is bloodied
And green.

Long gone damp cloth
Left to clam up the space in your pocket
Between your empty wallet
And the key you still think is there.

What will you let me remember?

Maybe the smell of dank
Olive oil,
Or any such provision
Allocated by drunks at
4am for
Use in frantic
Acts of naked lunacy,
Bent double out window,
Across floor,
In front of TV,
Or not at all!
And in
My mind,
Uncovered,
Shallow,
Honest
And Implicated,
I find everyone
I ever met
And ever knew,
Eclipsing and betraying them all,
In this act
To recount,
So to
Forget once more,
All the things
We once
Lay living to.

Nostalgia swells,
Revealing
The cause of
My Love,
Reminding
Me of
The silent Longings
And private battles,
Of
Darling Hope
And the
Shroud of Melancholy,
The leaves long
Ground under foot,
The clouds since
Blown overhead.