Freewrites #1

a.

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Killin' like I'm
oil drillin'
Forced decision
like a circumcision.
Harsh emissions
transition
from car transmissions
becoming one in the sky
like nuclear fusion.
Next rain down
parts from the whole
I breathe in and smile
'cuz we're all one soul.


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When I spit in sync
no time for wastin' ink
on makin' sure my grammar is up to par
with what you think.
See,
when I plant my syntax, it's a lastin' breed,
each word a passin' seed in this wind cast by me,
Mother Nature,
breakin' free is the way to be
since I'm spending eternity with the trees
and with the bees
and with the closeted fathers
on their knees,
because,
life's existence is experience,
collective, subjective,
no longer fearin' this mysterious
guaranteed conclusion,

an end to this illusion

eliciting a profuse confusion among
those included under the list
"yet-to-be-deceased."
An end (and beginning) on this lease
to live,
where what you get is what you give,
a space to create or erase this ad lib,
a tad touched by fib--
nonetheless accurate as to what we said and did.

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(What is my business in poetry?
What is my intent?)

The silence is thick,
waves roll back and forth in front of me,
however, where I'm sitting is not where I'm sitting,
and the silence is thick.

(As is the boundary between my father and I emotionally)

The cockpit is empty,
for the wood brings no howl,
I'm not a rock,
I'm not an island,
I'm beside myself,
joint at the hip but that's it,
I do not choose how to think
or what to spit,
A passive, tolerant host of habits
which I need to quit,
thanks Mom and Dad.

(Pinning short comings of self on parents is a habit needin' quitin')

Well, what do you expect?
How should I feel?
There's no should,
I feel how I feel.

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Tighter, tighter
grows the space,
confining.

In the distance,

wider and wider the horizon is

defining our hope,
designing our fears,
once Spring thaws the ground,

development begins,
the merry-go-round spins,
the horizon is lost, never to be found,

never to grow near.

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Waiting to kill time.
Get impatient,
cut in line.

Behind, a line.

In front, a line,
also, a sign,

"Hurry up--
Kill some time!"

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And yes,
these lazy days come and go
left wasted away, letting the youth in the know
of what and who are really running the show.

When reality begins to peel,
you've licked the seal,
it's a done deal.

You taste a glimpse and catch a feel
and without a body you perceive what's
really real.
DMT.
Dimethyltripping indeed.

Yes, Cassidy, he could see
me and me and me umpteenth in eternity
like William Blake seeing angels in a tree.

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Subjects change,
people re-arrange,
yet the present remains the same,
remaining the same doesn't range,

Simply melds together to form a stage
(presuming we do not recognize it as a cage)

Alas, alas,

yes, yes,
The magic mage has put us in a cage,
nothing now to do but light some sage
and swallow our rage.

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I smear a paste
on my brain,
so I can feel
the acid rain

Hate and disdain
shall also rain,

upon those

labeled insane

And on a train passing
through urban Connecticut,
I saw heaps of trash by the track
as we pass.

I saw pavement,

a Rite-Aid
Towering buildings--impersonal
in stature--

How much better it would all look
if the pavement were marked with cracks!
The Rite-Aid, crumbling,
its neon signs blown out
like the last candle in a home before bed,
the home of God, the
towering buildings reduced to rubble,
becoming indistinguishable
from the trash heap by the rail

in urban Connecticut.

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I'm quite unsure
how to articulate a joy

such without measure

For when the Dead turn on,
I escape to a place
in my head, long gone.

Dance is a bridge
from here to there
watch me smile, swing and jig
across the bridge,
in my underwear.