The Span

vertigo is not such a foreign feeling
feeling at transition
the only voice, water, white-noise
all things flow into me
red rust crinkles under my knuckles, is caught in the sun, sparkles a
moment as it is lifted, and upward breaks with the horizon, the world, is
lost in the sun and lonely blue empty sky
The earth, like reality, wants to pull me to it's bosom
and force me to nurse on bitter elixir.
I cannot hear you my beautiful lie
wind provides a symphony of despair.

I was driving or I mean I am driving
why do I always do that
After too much I can't
eventhink
I can't stand or think straight
Maybe, then I shouldn't stop
Sonoma
Sonoma
Then I stop
Stop thinking, stop a pounding chest
I threaten to crack out of my ribs
or my face, to slowly crystallize and
Blow off, particle by particle
I'll make up for it
We'll spend most of our time
sleeping in Sonoma

San Francisco Peak

A white dog tooth jutting from a barren plane
It should be so beautiful and
menacing
plane, not broken, should so exquisitely describe existence,
and seperate
we cling trivialities
teflon resists social contact
The grand barriers prevent
even acts of love
if you let them
the plane has been different though
the plane will be
sterilized of sentient life intelligence
disrupts the natural chaos theory

Painted Desert

Strata
deliberate layering
of earthen tones sediment
deposited across time
and oceans
oceans and time
oceans of time
saline dictates cadences
preserving what should be forgotten.
The literature for treatments
says the medicine is derived from salt.
This landscaped hell,
sand trapped as rock.
Water has forsaken this place
wind claims
few refugees
Purgatory of all things.

long Fuck me

still driving
Myself: You're a pretty good looking guy. You've got good hair.
Me: Well thanks. You look younger than I remember.
Myself: I am. Don't flatter yourself though.
Me: Where are you going?
Myself: I think you could make a good story. But I have my doubts. Want to hear a joke?
Me: Yes.
Myself: You are a pragmatic problem.
Me: Thank you.

Panhandle

Days, weeks?
How long has it been without
sleep? I've been lured out
by a woman I can't make out
from a distance. Here
in the deserts of west Texas
where the stars are truly separated
among many, all roads lead
to grandious climax.
I see you spread on my dash,
An invitation to escape.
My trail is marked
by anti-psychotics, tranquilizers
and anti-depressants
I am revolving.

I’m stopping because I’m hungry
and I’m not sure I want to keep trying this
I’ve been talking to my mirrors and when I stop at train crossings they talk to me too
They all talk to me, though sometimes they say the same things
Trains say unrelenting journey, relief in hardship
fruit say dull things, despite their bright appearance
glass says things I could never imagine
I’m not sure what you say though, you’re hard to tell
I could make things up for you to say
but they would be my words
and that is unsatisfying

Outside Oklahoma City

I can hear your voice
for a thousand miles.
From a greasy diner
your words project.

The young couple in the next booth
secretly meeting to exchange
the briefest of contact. Contempt
for our destiny in their glances.
They are uncomfortable vinyl reports.
Cutlery sings a lovesong.
You talk as I eat your words
hushed, draw me from afar.

"When will you tell them?
You can't keep on hiding this,
if you love me you will tell them.
Won't you?"

"They wouldn't understand, (drink)
injections would follow. (vinyl creaks)
I don't want to be drugged
you complete me, they don't want that."

The waitress stares simply.

Despite all of this sudden bleakness

Despite the monotonous, slightly muted groan of asphalt under rubber and the eerie apparitions on the horizon that grow and grow until they become brilliant, split, and pass with a gust

Despite the absence of sounds

Despite the mind numbing sensibility of the dashboard

Despite the nowhere feeling that makes me forget where I am going

Despite the spinning feeling experienced while stopped at gas stations, exposed to eyes that may hold me pinned, for once still, motionless

I still feel above the trance-like routines, the sweaty grip on the wheel, the last-breath-huff of the air conditioner unwaveringly huffing on my face

tranced, myself, by the notion of finding you

above even myself, aside from the stationary hours spent speeding toward you

none of it is aimless

I am finding you

Bloomington

Students in disguise

as real people

who's crazy?

So close to a utopia

except for the confused poor

Why are those most capable

of generosity

the least of all

The young blocking out

the aging

in their town

but also out of their minds

who's crazy???

I'd almost forgotten about Sonoma
where I hear you're waiting
I'd have to be crazy
to make you wait another day

You're in the valley
where else would you choose to be?

Fort Wayne

Late in the night
masked in the cadence
of the road you told me
why this picture spoke of us
you'd sent it for a reason I knew
you said it was metaphor
for what we have.

Two souls rooted
on a precipice against
the cold blanket of suspicion
cast by those who don't understand.
Struggling to resist falling
into the abyss.

You called out to me from afar
resisting you is like resisting being.
I know you are waiting
each song on
the radio tells me your secrets.

Out

I've got to blow this town, got to blow this Detroit
blow it right out of the water
with all it's gray smoke getting under my fingernails
blow it right out of the water
I've found sunshine, Detroit's not having it
so I'm out
out, out to find her
with all the pictures I could hope for
and with no wrong way to go about it
There are things, roads, words laid out ahead of me
with no wrong way to go about it

Resonance

Magnetic images
show an alien brain.
Structure dictating function
the source of voices
origin of false people.
Psychiatrist says this
abnormality is not necessarily disease.
Neurons configured differently
fire erratically.
Treatment is responding.

Standoff

Ponder light.

Mirrors digest, fade completely.

Images reflected, which side illusion?

Terror lurks on polished surfaces.

Figments on shattered fragments

multiply the fear.

Hallucinations a part of me

mixed with dripping blood.

The fact that I believe in truth makes its creators true Without agreeing with them
90% of the world would disagree with 50% of mankind
and that'd be just fine The sky, poor sky is shedding tears the window bears the proof
It shakes the light and blurs the world everything is
grey Why? Calls some fragile nymph She dances through the waterfall reveling in tragedy
I want us to be kings of kings as kings should have been before even the best medieval ones and by this I mean the best things doing the best things in the best place
My heart hurts and yearns for love because I've given it a load it shouldn't rightly handle A large dope nose down the draintricular esophagux When we decide whether we'll occupy the moon or the oceans first, the nongravity will feel like this and the new environment will inform my new mind attached not to an earthly resident but a new king with a clean head and and a perfected soul or something better I can't predict

And and and and and and
the problems of language get in my way
I'm describing your office building to your mother
tall, glistening, rigid
she's seen it before
Things get better at the supermarket
I'm wanting something normal
something with goodness in numbers
numbers can be reduced, reduced to the greatest
goodness

Morton in the Morning

Richard Nixon stood at the foot of my bed
when I woke this morning. His address.
“All patriotic Americans will sacrifice their children
during this trying time. KILL YOUR FAMILY!”
A ploy? Only a liberal would spin such
coy hatemongering in the home as a sheep. Whispers.
“We are watching you... We are watching…
We are watching you… We are…”
The old woman from childhood sits up from the floor
and turns to me, blank eyes and rotting flesh.
“You should have done as you were told
they are trying to poison you. Stop them.”
Lies. I know you are not real. Or I told myself
in therapy with you screaming “Liar!” at the psychiatrist.
“We are your friends… Trust us…
We are… Trust…”
Meds work some days, if the bottle is real.

April 4, 2007

I can't ignore
the evolution of my enemies
...smiling at me
...taking time for me

I can't ignore
my only friends
who tell me what I want to hear

Would you with your thick-pad
prescription slips
pills manufacturers
and infinite Clozaril bottles

Would you, doctor?

Would you write poems in a journal
while your loins are malfunctioning
and you're wondering...

What the fuck DO I want to hear???