lovely

he thought they were stars

hewed around his stooped shoulders and mane

they erupted in shunted flares   like abrupt butterfly wings or slender almonds

                                       our eyes play tricks on us if we let them  if we dont call them out

and he always afforded his a dramatic berth

as long as theyre seeing unaided   unalloyed

                                                                                                                       unentertained

he saw curious things that never happened or would exist

and for them a gentle perverse smile twisted onto his face

                                                             their reckoning was held privately inside his head   

         a solemn campfire counsel   a peacepipe smoked between them

his eyes always felt they existed in toto before his brain and by that surly lance stabbed

in the surfwetted beachhead of sentient existence  it always ran separate of the rest of

him

it placed its ample bets with the freshly made neocortex   mesmerized by the fantasy of

its vastly corrugated face 

they becoming faceted like insect compoundeyes  

and through the paleocortex as mediator they argued against the archicortex 

                                                                                                                        but it smelled

his eyes claimed  even before they were presented

the archicortex bore the mock of memory and recalled this reoccurring ride time and time

again

                  and braced

his eyes shrugged

conceded

and departed counsel

they went back to what they did best

fabricating

they werent stars

they were an array of tinshaded soft lamps backlighting a guitarist

                                                                 through his eyes  a romantic bloodhued mist

lovely

if lovely isnt true

does it really matter

2018,  Thursday,  14  8. 13         

Old Habits

. . . old habits die hard

they crawled across his bare shoulders  and throat     and into his beard like a hairy spider

hes bound tightly

he has to endure it

he hears more

than ever he thought he would

as the words begin

he tries to humour himself:

                                           nuns are tough to kill off  so gawddamn selfless   hard to find 

anything of self to inflict lethally

                                        it fails

Old Habits are conspiratorial   and liars

                                                                                                                 they dont ever die

we die first and take them over the edge into our graves kickin and screamin

those handfuls of dirt mourners toss in after us graveside choke their miserable voices in 

their agape throats

Faulkner  -  as usual  -  said it best:  “The past is not dead, it is not even past.”

and by his thoughtful reckoning

relaxed  stroking his beard

running the backs of his knuckles on its stiff whiskers

the line was either the Reason

                                                  or the Excuse

                                                                          or each a smokescreen to hide behind   

obscuring the true answer

why do you drink somuch

why are you sucha bitch

why are you sobent on killing yourself

why are you a prick

they eat the lines like a canapés or hors d'oeuvres  a martini olive off a toothpick or mojito

strands of muddled mint

enough to fill their mouths  and chew

impolite to speak around

but not enough for sustenance

eyes blink or eyes are averted and the Moment is lost in ones ears

                                                                                                            old habits die hard

and dont hold an echo  sound like a flat coin dully fallen in soft earth

                                                                                                                    reprieved            

the fictions will continue until the next brief intersection

why do you have to be like that . . .

1124,  Wednesday,  14  8. 13

Security

locks

and keys

and tumbler combinations

passwords entered

or as whispered through Judas ports in bolted speakeasy doors to get past thuggish gatekeepers

real beauts sporting scarred eyebrows busted noses cauliflower ears and missing teeth
pusses
         only their mothers could love
mebbe

such are the securities against breaches
                                           when in reality a breach is a very natural thing

everything erodes and the tighter the thing is wound or bound Stressed
                                                                              eventually plays its evenhand  surly

or a shortcut price is asked
or suggested to the thug watching at the door
                                                 and Paid    

adios amigo and mebbe someday Ill see ya in a dark alley
                                                              if you can find me
and if you do well have a day of reckoning
                                              but in the meantime

your fuckin lifes a shambles and your scratchin to hold your straw stuffing together to keep from slipping deeper or coming apart at your mickey mouse seams
                                              while the Whole Thing begs to come apart and drop useless in the dirt

Nothing likes to be kept alive artificially
                                          nudged and nudged
                                                                 sputtering Aware
exquisitely Conscious of being eaten alive

It looks desperately for the kindness of someone a fuckin Saint  an Intimate to stop their pain
End

their horribly deliberate

pathetic

painful death

every spastic dribble of It began with the artifice of Security

                                                                  ever a bloated dead thing itself

1756,  Tuesday,  13  8. 13