The Summer I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Atomic Bomb

May 15^th 2012

Location: The Salt City

A Poemme For All the Travelers

When they think you’re crazy.

And the lights from the moldavites ring the shakles round your bodice like crackling embers in a fiery temple.

When they solidfy you of your design.

Crazed from little sleep and little friends.

Well is dry and bubbling up again, foamed at the mouth like a dreadful and vengeful sea, of haughtiness.

I sea. Radical fractals. Classical music in synthetic synchronicity on a purple stallion in an old dream that is really too young.

Impotence, impatience. On a fucking computer screen, I shine the sheen I’ve made in fake and authentic highs, teeth chattering or clenching or falling into place upon anothers skin.

I am motion only. And yet its far more simple and too complex. Seven planes of existence and much more. My heart hurts from ensnared smoke and withheld watery explosions.

And yet there lies love. All caked in a muddy sweat across valleys of a slothful desert. Horrendous energy.

And in other’s eyes I find my peace. Oases of swathed experientials, all cacti of prickly soothedness, I sleep.

I sleep in your eyes. In mine, I cry. In mine I see multiples, so many other eyes, I collect like a rusted orphan after marbles in a flea market. Hands bruised between the search by feet and ground.

Inhale, exhale spurned.

Intuition haunts me and guides me, my inner compulsion like a broken shooting star. Black like coal and still burning gold.

Why do I fear the addiction of the reflection?

Good question.

Don’t capitalize for me. Do not capitalize me. Correct me. Institutionalize my talons that sing the rapture of the evil raptor of the saintly sky dwelling siren.

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I create so that I do not disappear. So that my passage is eternal and infinite always and yet                         I wish to rebel against my passage against all that has ever been of me, of everything.

A young boy hooded and pointed ear. Massage my passage of time. All I ever said was ‘clock’. All I’ve ever regurgitated was vagaries from the whispy windows of my ghostly architecture. haunted trappings of a long lost burp. Blood-in-a-syringe burp, of wisdom far into the future’s past.

I am not insane, I am nothing of words. I am a keeper of time and of vagary. I am a sage who is like a virile mare, white and lost in the woods.