chaos echoes

 

so it does,

so it does.

 

gently by

the stream

 

and so forth.

 

to wake

up then 

 

is to die,

 

whatever

that means.

 

there is

no good

fight,

 

tragic feels

more

appropriate.

 

lemonade

exists, 

 

so there

that is.

 

been down

so long

looks like

up to me,

 

is not

something

i can say

for myself,

 

thirty years

and

counting

and it

still looks

straight

 

down.

 

helluva

book

though.

 

god

bless

you

mr. fariña.

 

my rock

bottom

life, a

fallow

garden

of

eden in

a shitty

studio

apartment.

 

my prose

in the

throat

of

seventeen

year old

genius,

 

an

aggressive

lover in a

fit of passion.

 

the limp

promise

of

friendship.

 

the low

road is

a

failed

path

walked

by

cripples,

 

i lurch

along

 

like i

believe.

 

trust is

a

white

knight

in the

back of

a

police

car on

fire.

 

so

much

human

traffic,

lost on

the side

of the

low road.

 

i trace

the

shape

of god

in

sugar i

spilt

on the

brow

of an

alien. 

 

a lion

and a

shark

show

up at

my

place,

i let

them

in, we

watch

a

movie

about

plants.

 

car

doors

slam

shut

in the

street.

 

i sift

through

my mind

for a

thought

worth

thinking,

come up

for air

with this:

 

strangers

seem to

get along,

 

what is

it that 

makes

me

unreal?

 

i trip the

light

fantastic

across

the ice

capped

waters

of the

northern

atlantic.

while

dolphins

asleep

with

one

eye

open

hope

when

death

comes,

to

catch

him

red-

handed.

 

and did

candid

hearts

make

music?

you bet

they did.

 

fetch

me

my

insides,

i’ve

some

thing

to say.

 

and 

kindness

is the

only

currency

worth a

damn,

 

make

yourself

rich.

 

i

repeat

myself

on

purpose.

relax, it’s

a literary

device.

 

twenty-

seven

some-

odd

words

to go,

or it’s

more

than

that.

 

or,

it’s

less

than

that… 

 

green

men

exist,

 

go

figure.

or

don’t.

 

color

me

fucked.

 

what

does

it

mean

?

 

i don’t

know,

 

poetry

sucks.