.

There’s a cold wind blowing

As I save face
From the other side of the canyon
Nestled deep in March

Across
Oceans
And rifts,
And on the other side of the planet,
As dogs bark
And man
Opens
A cold gray sky
For your vision quest.

It’s funny, ‘cause as I get older, it’s not like Bukowski said, that “The same problems will continue to plague you,” it’s more like the teens said in the movie Manic, that “You solve one problem, and then another one pops up. This is how people end up in wards. It’s a great movie.

I’m in a better mood now ‘cause I live with my mom. There’s a bounce in my step, a light in my eyes. I see in my mind 11:27 am, though, bounding downstairs, and there it is, 11:39, I’m 12 minutes late for this world and last night at work I screwed up a math problem.

Sick of this new Eminem sh**. Music is dead. I’m tellin’ you, I got pretty definitive evidence. Two years ago, I hated that Taylor Swift song more than life itself. Now, I find myself abiding it. At ends of long workadays, in times of moral compromise, I’m forced to use my left brain to survive in this world, and it tells me that her vocal timbres swathe in my ear like something attractive, like something for which I would want to buy a $25 steak dinner.

But I don’t enjoy Rhea Tregebov anymore. So there, poetry’s getting better.
When I meet a philosophy prof, I know it’ll be gravy. History people are too haughty. They’re interested in facts, not afraid, intimidated or humiliated by them.
I’m quiet. At work I listen to perverted stories. This dude did a threesome, a gang bang, the Eiffel Tower, the black, softspoken dishwasher was “beatin’ up two strippers at one time.” That’s like the most that dude ever says.
Oh yeah, and marriage is still an antiquated, crumbling enterprise, in case you were wondering.

The maps are lain out

With elegiac grace
But the world is all ours
And we are to scamper across it,

.

Celestial light from
The passed
Burgeoning intuition
Within our sense of direction,
As we turn off the lights
To hear the buzzing subside
And we leave the room

Even with all the discussions of ass-licking,

I couldn’t think of a place in my town where I could go buy a Stanley utility knife,
But there is a new cell phone store right there,
And really I have no problems,
But that they haven’t converted the old building into a skate park yet,
And the kids have wants, not needs,
They like you,
But then you just end up feeling bad,
So you walk to the cell phone store
During the day
If you have the money
And do the only thing you can do,
For the only ones for whom you can do.

Sweet smells are there,

And you lie with a drink, facing
The deep rays
Of the sun that are ashen,
Black and gold,
This is your life now,
Ignoring everyone,
Just say the word and you shall be healed.

In my life, I’ve found, lots of things are just objectification. Like if a girl sits next to me after my shift and has a beer, what matters is just that a girl is sitting there, or if she says something to me and laughs, what matters is this quantifiable tidbit. But people can give each other, also, things that are mystical, which complicates the extent to which relationships are actually objective — the source of the value’s assignment is, in fact, just a feeling. And though it’s wrong to objectify, better to remain open-minded and patient, plausible to new, uncharted sources of simple, unmonitored happiness, I find myself sometimes wanting objective things, though they be laced with visions, visions of the number 16 hole at the golf course, with its big, invincible rolling hills, and vision of the fact that many are dead, and that I myself could be dead, many times over. Visions of things happening to us, as they happen to our planet, the polluted river echoing the sunshine because it’s all it can do. Our nerve endings approaching and singing a sonata to the day, which is beheld cleanly. The potential for growth and flourish into an infinite amount of things, of beings. We make eyes with the number 16 fairway, but garner each other, and sometimes what is sought is just having a luminescent hand directing you.

I just saw a person

And she is my mix tape,
I just saw
A person and she
Is my vision.
.
This
Is why
There is space,
To fill how the planets
Could endure.

We’re all left to be separate here,

And so we awkwardly sit
And we may misjudge,
Later,
Extolling that we were wrong,
On a mutual coplanar binge
To the end of the night, where,
As we did in day,
We’ll
Dream of returning as one.

It’s passed many moons

And
She means the best,
Between brick buildings,
.
But she’s felt
These
Moons deep
Within her leggings, and her
Cheek
Color will
Devour
The night
Of its neon beer signs.