i. I could tell she was an old soul, I counted the rings in her words, she said everything and everyone was made of matchsticks, that the sulfur tips were in odd places — you have to strike differently.
ii. rebirth feels like dying, artists know, hold dear what you think about at 2 am; I stand an invisible elephant man in a shirt, pink like panthers — like the cartoons used to discredit the black panther’s answers for the oppression technique, so transparent I’m oblique.
iii. singin; slinging slang, metaphor terrorists tearin shit, party animal Hannibal cannabis cannibals, green, greener than vegan teeth, preach, preach, from your liquor temples with a gun to your temple — eat the night.
iv. rocket propelled hero narratives, whiter than 1904, bust through the door of every black american and down the steps to the core, it highlights the social more, the sore on uncle sam’s lip, the blip, the las vegas strip so casino night bright; it invites the flash, the innervating bulb that blasts, that blinds history, patching the rage hysterectomy of the brother and sister next to me — what’s next for me?
v. gold diggers, break-up artists, soul’d diggers with shovels bigger than double d’s, they squeeze, they squeeze the sun down their dress and hold it hostage, funneling tunnels, they make it shine out they ass; streetwalkers, they the brightest at night, no wonder they stole the day — they are the square master minds, they step and fetch then catch and release the real from dreams, they add the s, they make their cream from screams.
vi. stranded by the old dimension, in my lungs is the only way I can carry you as I wander, spreading you name and stories with my shaking voice and cracking lips, I do miss you peace, but I know and fear that you are in a better place, I am still here, in war, in a jungle dark; where the trees are so dense I can no longer see the sun, but I see my path more clearly — a new hope springs from each step, I am no longer dazzled by the smoke screen of blood, glory, and deathsex.
vii. you are unfinished, a bed of seeds in soil, not yet bloomed; untrammeled by beauty or the purpose of beauty; like a boxer rolling into the punch, you start your day by openly fencing the words (worlds) in your head dictating the paranoia, almost harmonious with the other voices of your upstairs roommates (you’re schizophrenic) you always seem surprised or saddened that you are writing this to yourself as you speak, but let me assure you, the words are happy on this page and in this poem, there is nowhere else they’d rather be, where else could they go? — note to self.
viii. in the pantheon of knowledge, it’s the sharpest spear and unclean poets that clamor pearls, story telling stars orbit the moon that orbits earth like a bodice, peace exotic; hungry caterpillars eat dead butterflies while they smile, the apex of sweet, hulking hunters with their prey’s bones in their teeth — peace flags turned bar rags, clean up the vomit of old rebels, thirsty not thinking, not alone, but sharing a drink with an odd god, propped up by 4 rods and a pedestal (bar stool) sad, sad they only have one death to give.
ix. life is a evil-dangerous fucking wonderful playground, it should feel bad not to swing on the monkey bars; you should feel cheap if you don’t ride the slide all the way down with both your hands up in the air and your eyes wide open — singing every curse word your mom taught you not say with the most bestial wrath you can muster.
x. I’ve always thought that jack and the bean stalk was an allegory for art, or the existence of purpose therein; reading this story you look at this young man forced to sell a cow, his last giver of sustenance or maybe his last herald of innocence, in order to obtain money, but instead of money he gets a number of magic beans (drugs? inspiration? delusions of clarity? self awareness?) which pisses his wife off to no end — so the next day there is a giant stalk where he left his beans and he climbs it (gets high? achieves personal enlightenment?) and finds that goose who lays golden eggs (influx of genuine ideas? creative existence? freedom from earthly bounds?) and battles a giant (himself? society’s expectations?) after he tumbles down a better, happier man — I need some god damn magic beans.”