When I am Gone

The moon was here when I was born.
It will be there when I am gone.
The clouds that change
The Sun that sets
Chinese Takeout, sex, Corvettes.
They'll all be here when I am gone.

Lovers walking on the sand
Will still be barefoot, hand in hand,
They won't even miss a step.
Shallow waves,
Bonfires, cheap liquor raves.
They'll be all the rage when I'm gone.

Masturbation, Common Law
Serenades and Mardi Gras
Talk show hosts
Wonder Bras
The world won't even pause
It just  keeps going on and on..

For all the wrong things I have done
I count my scars and deny none.
Remorse, regrets,
Coward's Lies,
For that I most apologize,
But those will go when I am gone.

To hell with the glass.

To hell with the glass.

Its hard to remember who you are when your world keeps changing.

When you live in different houses. Different countries. Different rooms. When your room changes your face.

Its hard to know who you are when you only see yourself in people's smiles.

To hell with the glass.

You'll find yourself there. In the bottom. Past the neck and through the lips. In the belly of that bell bottomed cave. As its weight evaporates, the bottle will show you who you are.

Thought

I stood on the edge of that abyss. And I stared. But nothing stared back at me. Nothing threatened to devour me. Nothing pried at my insides and brought darkness to my heart. Nothing stripped me naked of my shell. Nothing burned away the barley. Nothing wrenched out the truth.

It was silent.

And I was scared.

Age is the Cruelest Cage

Age is the cruelest cage. That Iron Maiden of the soul with its rancid breath and crooked face, and that catacomb's embrace which leaves nothing for desire, as ambitions expire with a twist of fate and tepid luck both conspiring to construct a fabric of a universe born of idle sighs.

Age is the cruelest cage, that draws its waters from a well of memories, as its daughters spin the yarn and tell stories of Kubla Khan and the Holocaust on Christmas Eve.

The night the World stood still of its own will on the edge of Its Awakening but slumped back into that abyss of Elysian slumber. When, from atop the shoulders of giants I saw the dawn rise above the brim of my teacup while Brahms and Bach stood face to face behind my back calculating the origin of the universe with their finger tips.

Under the bridge in Nan'an, sleeping in a box and waking to see the endless line of humanity carrying its womb on its back like a mutated tortoise in exodus from the city of salt leaving in its trail the bloody spots of human dreams strewn elegantly yet random on either side.

The old woman that smiled at me and then grimaced as sunlight poured down her face like molten glass. She was my granddaughter carrying my granddaughter on her back.

Down here under the bridge the sand is cool, and dark, and moist. It smells of Tinseltown blood mixed with molasses. Down here under the bridge the thralls of human industry never tread. Down here under the bridge, smoke and books still live on their taboos. Down here under the bridge it's always 1999.

Inhale,
Exhale,
and Discharge.

Stand on Buddha's palm and leap all the way towards the pillars at the edge of the world. You'll find your answers there, written in monkey piss.

Carry me back a thousand days and ask me when the world will end. I'll say "Around the bend."

"In a day or two when my words have run their course." Through and through I would say "The end is nigh" and sit in the corner waiting to die. But not today.

No, not today.

A thousand days ago was yesterday. 

Today I'll say "You wait and see.The end will come for you and me, and , what is more

"Age is the cruelest cage, an Iron Maiden for the soul. It will be harsh and cruel and long and infinitely more beautiful than you can imagine."

Out with the old, in with the new. Burn your papers or stack them in a sturdy box. Place the box in some nook in the cellar and cement it up like that Poe story. Never look back. Never give in to the crazy rants and pleading of your victim writings. Let their voices fade slowly behind the brick wall and as their cries grow faint only the vague memories will remain. Like a ghosty sunspot on your retina behind your closed eyelids on a bright summer day. That too will fade away.

Forget about proper english and the meter. Let them be damned. Its not your first language anyway so why bother mastering it? Why bother mastering any language if its mastery will lead you away from expressing your thoughts.

Sit back and write.

Enjoy the new thoughts that will flow.

Let the old ones die. Let the new ones grow.

They too will come to a point in time and die.

That's the way of transient thoughts. The ones that are short lived and exactly the opposite of those great thoughts you find in old leather bound books that have stood the test of time.

Those thoughts are the ancient ones. Tall red oak trees compared to these thoughts. Your thoughts are the thick underbrush and thorny rose bushes that will be brushed away eventually, by fire or by scythe.

Your thoughts are transient.

They will live and die many times before you do, and none will be carried away in books by people.

They too will burn someday.