Return from outpost of The Man; meet with Agent

headphones = transcendance

nausea

The sun was so bright that even when he closed his eyes, he had to squint.  The sun was coming through them, a brilliant blood colored blindfold.  He knew though, that the light would be good for him, make him feel better.  It's not a one-dose sort of thing, but he felt it was appropriate as he was in Florida, and it was necessary to make the best of the trip.  No matter what small things he changed, no matter what ideals he tried to embrace, what activities he tried to engage, nothing would change the truth.  Like wishing and praying to have something un-done, the whole of it was absurd.  He wasn't happy and he wasn't going to be.

For all he loved, and appreciated, and wanted nothing more than the satisfaction of victories and successes for her, he couldn't find a way to dream with her.  She criticized his wholeheartedly sincere thinking as "magical" and though she crossed many lines, he forgave her because of all that he had done that necessitated understanding and forgiveness.  A great mystery for him though was how and why she didn't want something else as much as he did.  She seemed committed to making that which doesn't -- do.  If that wasn't magical it was just plain insane.

What did he want though?  Did he want to bounce along the floors of bus and train stations, copping a flight here or there with no money, no reservation, and no familiar faced friend or host?  That was his dominion in his 20s, but it felt that as time moved along, the serendipity, the perfect grace that bouyed him so long as he kept faith was evaporating.  If he reduced it logically, he could, if he felt, attribute the whole death of spirit, the whole sad vexation and vacuum of true happiness to women.  He needed to be alone.  Just him.  No one to be loved by and no one to love.  This is what he needed, above all.  When he found it, he would surely have to contend with creeping thoughts about the mistake it is, the loss he would someday have to acknowledge.  Like any game of chance, your next iteration is not guaranteed in any way.

Whenever he spoke the truth, the real truth, it caused dischord.  Even when he tried to break the formulaic sexuality with the counter-formulaic spontaneity so obvious, it invariably failed due to one or another reasons. The horse was dead, though he was compelled to pretend otherwise.  He was broken himself.  For three years he had been dead in the water as a man.

Barely working, in medical institutions, and now chained to a daily regimen of pharmaceutical narcotics.  To extricate from this one, he would have to return to the unknown and unfeared life he knew.  The plan?  To do away with these damned plans.  They were worse than foresight for a man's spirit.  You may have heard that, according to Greek creation myth, when man was made he was given the ability to see into the future.  He knew when he would fall in love, become a father, make a handsome life, a home, or, and this became a problem, when the fates had some tragedy in store for him.  It was clear to him as hindsight is to us when he would get sick, when those he loved would die, when his efforts would fail, and when he himself would find his end.  There was no room for hope, or faith, or joy.  The gods mercifully took this Promethean vision away, and left us with the Epimethian brother of hindsight so that we can learn from our mistakes.

So he made his offering to the gods and petitioned them to smite the endless wretched planning.  Anyway, there seems to be a thing for man eating his words.  He knew well that plans were at best amusing to the gods, and that it was a haughty and arrogant vanity to the cosmically minded fool.

Memories of Magic

A white boy moved to Harlem

Found a cold water flat

On the fourth floor length

Of a 6 story tenement

Harlem was black and scary

Everyone agreed so

Harlem was dirty and far

From the village of genteels

To cross into Brooklyn

Was to give up, to submit

To accept that New York

Wouldn't really have him.

After he proved to himself

That 212 was not impenetrable

He found his lot in Brooklyn

Crown Heights, Franklin Ave.

St. Francis Place house

Sublet of a room from which

I could hear the machinery

Of displaced darkness at night

There were other places

And the Shangri-La that

Briefly was 147^th Street

But Crown Heights bore me.

Balls

Balls to your television
Your front pages
Your talk radio

Balls to your stories
What she did
What he said

Balls to your causes
Saving humans
Saving puppies

Balls to your fears
Of brown skin
And subjugation

Balls to your justice
Your straightfaced
Hollow righteousness

Balls to your movies
Your tried heroes
Your tired villains

Balls to your pride
In your family
In your land

Balls to your hobbies
Your card games
Your lawncare

Balls to your cuisine
You eat like
Fucking insects

Balls to your fashion
Your houses and
Their rack brands

Balls to your sex
Your cartoon lust
Your porcine fuckness

Balls to your "music"
For want of
A better word

Balls to your cars
With your payments
And your insurance

Balls to your facebook
Your myspace
Your friendster

Balls to your bookclub
Your heartrending
Tell-all nothings

Balls to Oprah
to Stern
and to Murdoch

Balls to paid vacation
Benefits
and 401 Ks

Balls to every police
Every C.O.
and every sheriff

Balls to every creep
Every thug
and every predator

Balls to the lot of you
and Balls to each of you.
Just ... effing ... Balls!

I have tourette syndrome

It's totally fucking true
The psychiatrist said so
Well, a different doc --
An actual neurologist
Suggested "tic disorder"

Either fucking way
I want this noted
And noted bene
On my permanent
Cocksucking record

As much as I loathe
To watch Oppenheimer moan
Fuck the fucks who gave
The Man access to media
Beyond carbon copies

The mark of the beast,
Indeed.
You want a swab of ?
What? Suck my dick
If you want fucking DNA!

You gave me a number
Actually, it's a pretty one
But go fuck yourself
If you think it adds up
To a man's deeds and destiny

You can have this world
You can keep your credit
You can keep it all
If you want to play like that
I'll just fuck off then.

Barometry of the Ego

So much gas escapes
My sinuses open
Like the wet marsh air
Of Newarktown night

I'm returned to my body
The dreams of late
Haven't been anything
But consecutive nightmares

So then, where am I?
That feeling in the morning
If I were to ever get
Sleep at night

That feeling of certainty
I knew it in Crown Heights
I was me; who I am
I am real; this is immense

Kill me?  Like Geronimo
Bullets can not do it
Unless propelled by
Greater forces than gas

The old way; the first way
Hard as hell to keep
Faith mocked, even cursed
Left alone with a sick heart

The beauty comes when
The barometer drops
And the blood is rich
With laughter and gold.