The deadlines are endless & range ravens watch

birch waves

sun drunk alaska pioneer depth set and stumbling

want

tourist want of gold rush great cowboy new

want set of cowboy drunk rush

and cigarette dawn

rush drunk of dawn want

and cowboy new days

want of far native soup days

away cheena that plane sees the white

the white that far away sees the want

the want that was

that is

the east man dying

tattoo radiation

here the great beyond

the far away

the want is more

it's more than i can handle

the drunk rush and want

the want

All the End is Eden & The Rent is Due

Salt visions and blind fire drinks - ice water half wants and the great weird tea tunnels of spruce street. Button up hair pikes in winter dungeons - laundry bend overs and high hair new jersey. Typeface sunburn - cheap boardwalk cigars lite punk wildwood in monster back alley joint strips and end morning garbage trucks. Old back end mind cum - Bald whiskey the suffocating cigarette dawn.

Green Mad & The Infinity Exchange

Dead whiskey burned

waiting for hums

the dead don't dream

they lie rotten

the rest of us just waiting

all of this

the crowded bars

the trying

the want

killing time before the rot

land of reeds middle

I open the door and almost loose my balance on slippery wet metal stretch of storm drain until he catches me and pushes me inside the cab. He tells the driver the exact address but I can’t hear anything. The gestures of the two men are slowly pantomimed and as he leans back even with my head on the bench seat his image flows in multiple vision as though the mind, slowly shutting down has reverted to placing memories of old music videos on top of reality. I say nothing. His lips and hands move in slow motion but I can comprehend nothing. I push my head up to stare and the ceiling of the cab trying to free whatever drips are left. This is a bad idea. Some nerve burning Faustian deal has been reached but I can’t remember the terms. The drink and the rain have exhausted the last symphonic notes of reason leaving some old crumpled washed out jazz hand at the helm.

Burroughs spoke in side slice language and all the orphans screamed. We heed our baskets and roll the drums for Coleridge and Eggers. These are thoughts- the ice of hard words that drives a man towards awful things. One may ask is not music the saving sin of those too lost to care? But I would say that the spike of word on page is the greatest of all the templar hidden risks. We – not only me but you – you, you fucking thing changing reading wanting – thing making fun in back rooms of drug addled suit starved bums by city hall. This is it. A hard – deep starved bagged like a hiccup hard – thing.

Hour day rains - bent soggy umbrellas and wet running mice. Flies in winter - snow melts and bourbon cask beer and trash on the floor. Old movie nights - blur eyed dog eared and black shirt bored. Lone mile dreaming - drift begging and scene starved. Electric light - 802.11 waves and ancient tubes "and they played the wall right down" and "someday someone will tell me who 'they' are". Gladiator domes - french fries for the roman mass and ice skates on the feast of St. Stephen. "Good women; bad diets" desert cat movie & another bourbon cask sweet vanilla swig. Lone Ranger is coming down east river drive and he's holding up traffic and he's tryin' to head west.

It's thought a little stumbling as a walk home is taken that the air has ushered in the summer and sweet humid sent is all around. It's thought as you show her up the stairs and warn her of the steep incline that all the crumpling plaster adds an ambiance and makes mystique deepen in some weird way. It's thought that during the awkward door unlocking time that the overwhelming smell of curry in the hallway is somehow an advantage. It's thought that as she stares at the bookcase she stares in some admiration of all the titles wanted and some wanted in some wet way solidifies the reason for the steep incline and the curry. It's thought that as I cross my legs and light my pipe with what little I can scrounge from the spent plastic bag that I am somehow something in her blue eyes as she stares out the window at the trashcans and giant noise machines. It's thought that she would say something in some narrow language but it's all stares and hair flips and shifting skirts with lips pointed towards the high ceilings. It's thought that all the hungry grasping for splinters wicked in design is worth the collars and confinement.

Cigarette in the tray and a half empty can. In a time of constant rain sitting here waiting for the coming storm in an orange shirt. Flow of days - work rivers roaring with storm water - weed swamp creeks of the drink and smoke acting as poison reservoirs that often bleed from log jams making jagged twisted currents in the flow. Walking the paved banks of the tidal river with earphones in the morning, before the sunrise, the homeless and the hobo crowds - track jumped from the CSX line - waking up; and in the humid afternoon women jogging in painful shorts sometimes look over from the run - making the mind wander from the bearded ugly self - to the cool swift river slipping through.