Song For A Friend I Rarely See, Yet Always Find Time For When The Sky Goes Blank And All Is Silent

Silly smoke slithering through the air; how many today? I don't know, I guess it is something like hisssssslickpop and I'm done. We talked for awhile, it was like old times. Driving through the jingle-infested-where-are-we-now-and-where-is-the-flame morning/afternoon/tomorrow, we opened up and said, “ahhhh, glorious today, where is your new overcoat?” We would poke fun at Plath, Proust, and perilous rules and laugh out loud at the women who wouldn't have what the baker's called “love in the sense of photographic angels with come in their hair.” Nothing matters now I suppose, and it is all for the better besides the distance. But that is merely small talk, the way they all say “Hello, what is your name? Will you buy me a drink and slip off my locks of hair down the body of my father's Catholicism and woe?” That is what we deal with now instead of the poetic and lustful words of Conrad and whatever kind of jabber ghastly old spice we could come up with at the time.

Snowy nights of smokey bumbling happened once. My father was sick with society and had to have the operation which would apparently save his soul if only he would repent and give on with the good lord and savior, George Washington Reagan. You came then as a fully lit disciple of Miller and contributed to my romanticism in the sense of Kerouacian alcoholism; it was all bangers and disasters on cold nights. But we got sick, and that sickness was something that we could all hold dear and close like that of a mother and stillborn; sadsadsadsadsadjackalwaysaloneanddrinking. But he wasn't alone, and somehow that made it all the better. Jesus Christ where are you tonight with your beard and your cane walking down an alleyway singing along to the words of Walt and dynasty going “I left her down in Reno, the woman had it coming, she died alone last Saturday, she never stopped that running.”

I remember that Port, and that meal that never happened. Oh, how the imaginary pancakes were something of a lustful approach to dealing with the cockroach infested waters of my brand new twin-sized bed and how with every creak and crack I felt more alone. You were near the windy city at this point, yet that cold wind blew you in colder directions. You took her down that night, as I could only hope of; I am good at propositions, just nothing else. Until later months that is, and she said that only the good die young when inside of the serpent. But you did it, and you beat the men with their stiletto-induced-masks made of papier-mâché, semen and celery and you told her lies and it worked! Oh how it worked! But that morning after coffee induced madness stemmed from a deepfearofsucidalfighting set afire my best intentions. Aha tralala laladdy nownot where is the sugar?

Now you are gone again, and I am alone. Oh alone alone alone down a hole I a-go, drift away away away down again another day. The spiders came out and implanted in my head millions of tiny slimy seeds that never again would do the same things to me that you once did. Where had the intellect gone? Probably away with my brain when it ran way afar with the tea and tar and everyone exclaimed, “Hey come here and part from your soul and experience the outerlimits of what everyone claims is love!” LIESLIESLIES! But we will talk, and you will save me from all of the things that plague me, and then, oh how then, the door will be opened to my darling creativity and my spontaneous mumblings of sex and how nobody will have it but I deduce it to my lack of dapper imagination.

Sit down shut up, you will never understand what it is that I speak of. You who claims that love comes in the pronunciation of proofs and declarations. That commitment means something sexual and meaningful and magical and whybother and whereisshe and whoishe and whathappenedthatnightwhenyousaideverythingwouldworkoutsomeotherway? When the screen blocks out the flies and their maggots and everything falls into a deep silence the same way the wind goes when we all die. Want a glass of tea? I want the tea that makes me asleepanddreaming. I want the love I always thought was all alone and personal and you-know-the-way-she-makes-you-feel/drink/distrust. But mostly, all I really want back is driving and poems and triviality and that one day when everything goes black and we have to leave and we do nothing but the same: sit alone and talk.

Firecracker Mornings In Mid-July With Windows Boarded Up And Death Glistening Through

Blues start on monday. Holy rider, ghost on the horizon, why is there so much bubbled brew? Couldn't sleep without twelve, the road gets blurry. Rode the road straight down the line. The grease settles atop the stomachs of fifteen fourteen thirteen year-olds, and I'll have no part of this. Feedback is welcome, the louder the better. You leave around that time, sorry to have you go, but these women think they rule it all. A touch is too much commitment, why bother? No answer? Fair enough. Click, bang, pop, klackity-klack-klack: bull's eye. The blood wouldn't stop. You were looking pretty good then, but I don't mind (Burrrrzurp the cattle died). They dance along the floor like heated little babies in tight gowns, strung together like the tops of soda cans on a hot summer day. My belly was on fire. What is the male figure supposed to look like? Toned muscle and tight skin for whatever the beasts have underneath.

I can't take this anymore, my throat decays at the rate of a million burning suns, and the wind that blows through can't even penetrate my lungs through the gallons of flesh that are supposed to be coursing through my veins. “Lies!” I claim, “lies!” Why are we are separating at the rate which we came together? Experimentalist trash in an Anarchist fashion sets lines in the sand which she won't cross. I am done with it all. I feel better when I have that book. Holy text for a man living in sin. Nine circles, and Virgil is done with; the Beast encapsulates Brutus. Skronk the keys and forget the ceremony where one is drawn-and-quartered like a balloon in the Haight district park. Doo-Da-Doo-Da, free at the very least. Doo-Da-Doo-Da, my fair woman could I perchance borrow said yeast? The answer doesn't matter, we talked of gowns and foot-coverings. Don't let that time slip away though, I can still afford a decent meal. Oh how that body glistens, why can't that be me? Oh how I try and try, but that outcome I can never reach.

I explained this all to my mother, I refer to her differently in person (icannotbesoformal). She sang to me, “My dear, darling boy: do not worry, you have the opportunities to change your ways and make us all proud.” I wanted to cry then and there, “What have I been doing? What happened to the bliss and wonder? Why is it that everything must be in such excess? Why do they come in six? Why do I need thirteen to survive? Why don't they care for my ways? What is happening?” Four hours later my mind shut off of the conceptual and turned to mush. I babbled my brain through understated understanding and burnt up in the sun: two to go. Two too much to take a tally of my tick-tock turntables. I want to make sense, and I want to be clear: I do not love you.

I hate the ocean towns. Everyone is tan and thin and pretty, and I had a beard then. I don't belong anywhere I don't think. I want to be everywhere and everything at once. I have one friend like this. I have one other friend who thinks like this. I have another who can talk about all the sorrowful poetic beauty that nobody can see. We don't casually take drugs and I can not stress this enough. I haven't vomited in months, I am not proud of this; I am becoming too good. I wear a shirt that was given to me as a gift and I feel like I should be upset about this, but I am not. It is now Wednesday, and that is a good day for a wedding I am told. I do not love you.

Just finished my last, (boyhowitwentsofast) I want to be happy about this. Why do wondrous things make me glum? Why is fruit so hard to come by? Why do people try to fill up so desperately? What is wrong with sparse empty spaces? Why can't you accept this? What is wrong with your flesh? Why is it blue all over? Why am I always so tired? Why is the day too short? Why can't we all call it quits? Why can't I go to green-rolling-hills? Why can't I hear the songs of my time? Why is my bank account a miserable whore? Why is everyone so content with taking advantage? Why can't people ask questions and be answered? I want to pull my hair out of its seams and dance upon a bed made of feathers teetering away at some old song, “Alor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro,” I need that guide, I need that guidance, I need some guiding. AHA! I'll catch you there, and I will catch up when you least expect it, and I will show you my true face and you will swoon and I will repeat: I do not love you.