ideas in the air

- marine snow
- this girl i know
- men of the guns
- mirrors: good image/bad image

Props to Mark Sescon.

Almost Always, Always Almost

She said: What is more real?
What you live or what you feel?
Angel busters that
wake you in your crib,
waking you from shadow worlds and
fairytales you used to be so
compliant to the haste
compliant to the moment, sifting away
nothingness from The White Wine.

I hesitate. I deviate.
I push myself to find My Place
in the church, in the
confines of a home,
or confines of a blanched home,
so thoughts won't confuse me,
so Opinion won't abuse me,
and so that peace will drink
my insides instead.

Do you transcend? And venture
thriftily? Crafty spirit, selective host.
But you're still happy.

You stun me, your love for Him it
Strays from the Secular--
Strays from the trash we
dare not confess that we defecate
from our own mistakes.

What happened to this place?
When were choices made so aimlessly?
A nation, mangled in-between
truth and hopeful superstition?

The road belches of sorrow;
a fork in-between.
Reality, transcendental mentality.
Who am I? And who should I be?
Damn conscience,
trekking for answers
that are not inside of me.

Almost, finding relief.
Always, finding grief.

Almost, always guessing.
Always, almost hoping.
Almost, always searching.
Always, almost knowing.

feel good drag

Just let me ink out a RELEASE--
and enjoy the cathartic proportions that
satisfy me more decadently than feasts of
raw veggies and fruits of the stickiest
consistencies.

Not relying on organized happiness;
the scheme of things. Creativity wreaks
havoc and craps on the floor; it busts
through metal caves and solid foundations--
it plasters insecurities and eases the
super ego.

Yes, this is my feel good drag:
I'm higher on this than any other prescribed chemical.

An exercise in creative thought processing and sound affiliations

Spewing emotions strike keyboards
Blatantly, so much for a pause or
Tactful meanings implicitly conjured
By hearty aberrations; a sigh from the
blouse, a shrill from the tired denims;
they leak the truth: they leak about you
and what you’ve done during your
explicitly banal day—they are what
Thomas drank when he spilled his doubts
Upon the Son: One, two, three
Are numbers forged unwillingly by the
stubborn unbelievers; No, this shall not
pass; we cannot relegate, I cannot
delegate and spurn diction so
incandescent (I copied from Lincoln);
so taut and pomp and infallibly cool.