LAX sizzling in the palm winds
tar pits brewing blinking bright
polished from the bare footed
grifters the granite shone stars

I hung out with a lady..a woman
of power the cult statuslands
as fucked up as the low key renter
sliders..Higher up U go the thinner
the air...the higher the odds
the greater the velocity of wind
and hits...
sadness lulls of being born into it..

Soggy insides

a hit of words my friend
Inhale and Hold watching
the spin
watching the tail wagging
the dog

lava laughed musicians
in ten gallon hats
like slag covers on a
bandaged Gibson
bottle neck slide like
lagoon static dripping
from the ease of shadows
in the slick humidity

I wear my boots to bed
she said
(didnt know she sleptwalked)
my Ladymacbeth

fiction...tumult of dreams
drams and drama farms
I pharmed the days
finding heaven and hell
in each step
and slouched respite
a Lizard King in a Halcyon
world

Oh La La is a fragrance by
Suzy Shier warmed by an
angels shoulders
she'd love this line
potent and intoxicating
it mixed well with the English
Leather knock-off brand
armour all jacket wiped
with a pad found in the
turn around
the linning tattered like an
old black sail
We all have our charms
alms and protective selves

Hard-Bop
but you learn to hop
land running
bad ankle and all

Thank U!

since a kid....my brain worked in its labyrinth
and then after some tough times 90's
brought on by self ...chronic addiction
the head knocks...I feel that the result of
all that use has indeed affected the way
even further that I see things and thought
process things...(At least the latest theory
bout what lies inside the grey material)

so of all the Unread or Uncomment
poems...there are those people have
worked very hard to make a connection
but the rest...are either too far out or
too ..close too something...So they
remain where they are....
but my thinking is that far out there...
Many of them do not make any sense
whatsoever...
a garbled wordscape like alien static
from a radio too hassled with interference
to get a clear signal

maybe if I got time over winter
seeing how it goes
I will try to shed light on what
the works mean too me
a lot of times they are like
dreams in the day that do not
really fall into any recognizable
cadence
and at night time writing
I have been seriously thinking
about just deleting them
this is not about immortality
I think that when we die our
works should die also
Like Ojibway or Viking rituals
of cleansing
one soul in the river
and realm of billions
aside of ego I am a realist
and practical

I shall either comment
or delete before Xmas
help clean up the site

Thank U!

their personal choice everyone judged
but in the end its the craft that shines
and People do come to the attic the forgotten
room to peruse
sifting through the lost..
why deny those the treasures
and many are secret readers here
finding joy in the gemes and Gewels
the kings and fools...

palatial haunts
the woods I scoured
with dog..Urban
a bridge overpass
a creek...tall grasses
railbed of cresote that
the four fifty four morning
freight in Blackness
rolls through
I used to walk her down
there..we were a spectral
fixture at that time for
awhile...like a character in
a book or play that makes
a showing

half a moon behind the veil
of ghastly mysterious clouds
how I love the lighting at night
an edgy sense to it all

excitement and the primal
fear!

xmas will arrive in its due
time after Halloween
and Remember them day...
Thank U!