Words

Poem One:
 Whole thing ripples prisms, to pathetic pleas in a oil swirl pooled vacant poltergeist parking-lot. I can swear the bastard came at me with a jab to a child wound that softly weeps behind amalgamated rot clusters. Spitting into the oil swirl as it morphed into my mother. Battery cartridge and lung poison quaintly atop The Book of Joy. His Holiness the Dali Llama. Fumbling about the lung poison, because that goddamn “causes birth defects” inscribed on its plastic. So fucked in a lunacy I hug my best friend I named her Luna we just met a few months ago but she stood behind my wall for ten years. Hand over heart chakra pleading “I love you” thinking when to hop front a train. Thinking to print slews of fliers who warn sloggy Southern nappers about the Saturn Cult in their mailbox. I was a child once too, as you know. Fuck that though you know. Don’t you know. I know you do. Pacing about as the Pigs do. Pacing and so on and such, ‘cause demons mask as numbers. Telling mother satan inked our bible. Only writing ‘cause of Bukowski. Lost as Sin. Only interested in catharsis. Sick fuck who screwed my brain in. Life goes on. Fuck the Buddha. We were driving around town and near the place was this shack next our highway advertising okra naturally I’m inclined. Walking in shits overpriced but I found the okra pickled in those jars. No one is in. Looking about shits still fat. Little mechanized ocean woosh woosh ha. The highway.. Concerned about organic, pack of beer in the back. Looking in the front because it realized I still existed or at least I do now but I don’t recall what I was looking at, until I stepped to the other threshold and I had an image vague within psyche of an elder drab or less such, but who peered back at me was an incarnation of purity so drenched within longing so ripped from reach this writer nearly considers the existential waterboarding as further authentic of the grasp of potent than prior its soul fuck. It is three zero eight am.