Prose & Stream of Consciousness

Stream #1 – conflux and strife

Sitting here and there in clouds of conflux strife, no escape, no survivors, no life – escapist ways alive and rife, ruffling and dumping endless thoughtless thoughts like soupy shitty dumplings hot. Pushed to world’s edge, hurled by God’s untold tales unfurled, fettered bed bugs in hostel hostile hotels – passed by in blue blazes living in hells, flashes of hazes and unknown rooms full of cigarette smoke euphoria – a flat thing and sickened smell – visions and feelings of impending doom, dirty flings.

Boy, what would it be, that cup of tears coming out, those rain droplets burning up inside glazed-over stoner loner eyes – surrounded by the boys – mostly good guys, probably, mostly – why would they lie? We all need friends, some hands and eyes for good times. Pin pricks, really – to know you’re alive – you could hear a pin drop, hear a cell die – while someone’s son is sold ‘well enough’ to hell in a cell to die. You could hear a sky’s dime drop, a building top like 3 shots from Oswald’s thoughts, like potholes in the intersection of reality meeting society, 2 tires blown on open road spinning out at 1, just 0 to 120, route 1. dummy.

could’ve died, you know. and aint that the damndest thing, to walk away from everything with stilted pride after two buddies’ sweet chariots fell into heaven’s sky on the most random of circumstances, the least auspicious of deaths, but me still standing stilted breaths. it took that to know i didnt know em too good, not like i should do, not like i could’ve. i take the lesson and put it in my pocket, with the seawall sea glass closed-open ocean beach rocks i know ill drop later. why does anyone need a good life or a good lesson? no one ever listens as life keeps on living and lives crash on like water waves under moonlit graves leaving unclaimed time left to the sad sacks that didnt die or wont ever live cause they didnt just didnt dont try. drink it all away, she said, throwing my own bottle at my head again. bleeding of course double fast, off course as a sinking boat mast, what a blast, like a gust of wind could come and take me, like no one who knew me wouldnt hate me, hated like God hates sin but He’s not there to forgive.

how could anyone live this way, give birth in a barn to a man so hated, so despised and rejected of men that he could fall in between cracks and still fear the boot that the man in the suit brings and toots with rappelle trumpet call at 4am waking dutifully — fearful looting raiders shaking with midnight nightmare fever dreams cowering. the forest of mind teems with sunset shines behind witchhand desiccated skeletons of aspiring inspiring spires reaching up to Him till towering babeling babylon takes it for pyres, cottages, tires to hit the road, tired and halfway home, wherever that may be, in the mode, whatever that may be, wherever i roam – as if anyone’s decided what or where they want to be when they’re old or where they want to grow up, where they came from.

there’s no point but to stay straight, but the coupled vision doubles and troubles hit the heart with quick flashes and pulses of infantile anger and fear tears apart, coffee jolts and visions of future memories – what could it be? is it just me? something wrong, darling? i can’t even see. I can’t even speak. two words, and it was one too many, so we both walked away, me and Penny- or whatever it was, her name- penniless at heart, dropped like a dime in the middle of the streets in the gutter of the limelight, alone with panic and fright, never typing right, never speaking right, never saying this just co-rrect-ly.

i just need practice, honey – practice makes perfect. la pratique rend parfait. rend? rented, rent, bent, beat – bills in, just what i needed. was it rend, how you say, was it fait, fayly, gayly, just fate, to sit and masturbate – in the crematorium of broken love-make dreams –  i know you know them too. we all need practice, baby, on how to look just right for the red light starlit nights – if we could see them from these streets.

we all need something, baby, all just looking, searching, perched like birds that must be there for something, forevermore atop the open door like one-eyed Thor, closed port, fermé, firmly, fermented, port star wine inventing new lyrical riffs beside reefer spliffs, still addicting kids who just need it for every little thing.

everyone needs something at the end of the day – even if it’s a someone, even if its oneself for once not selfishly bound up in personal hell but letting your light shine and ringing church bells in places you wouldnt even tell you’d ever be, wouldnt even tell you’ve ever been, people you’ve seen but never been seen by, already saying goodbye, passing by passersby, bye, bye, goodbye.

goodbye to little secrets. i’d never tell you why. if you knew you’d already know, i’d already go and leave this world behind, with its concrete jungles and corporate image-based outerspace instantaneous-sent grams on hate vines lined up like plans and breadcrumb-like breadlines by uncritical minds like mine made by design from power structure creatures featuring only evil mixed with good like good hearts come up from the hood but stayed and stuck there for good. if only we could see the stars and mountains from these city street pasteurs where blind pastors preach and no one eats anything good or sees anything good or says anything quite kind or unkind. just blank routine patterns filling in chopping block guillotines for magazine entries and beauty pageants we’re all entered in just to see who’ll win with the most sin and glamourized self aggrandizing lies and spinning webs like spiders for lovers to wander in and be hated, spit at, loved for a day and spent with axles bent and unaligned as undecided world war allies come together in final times — last days for poets’ entries into enema matches, ripping sparked strikes from matchboxes under concrete trees and those unseen stars that if just for one second could be seen could tear asunder like lightning-thunder the whole nonworld means and reassemble back the man and the beast that was brought into world of woman but couldnt stand to face the moment or the dirt from which we raised our race in dire chase and daring bold untouchable unlovable straits – closest, warmest, holdingest closet closed close closed door nights like prom night tight memories packed in hardpacks betwixt those wafting clouds of holes you get with mixed up kids puffing on dreams of generational vibratory allegory stories out of history, telling His story – life – if we’d just let our candles shine like the stars up and down the alleys, if only we could see them for a second and live in the present – unadulterated by growing up movies and moves maneuvered we didnt invent – we didnt even want to take them, dont know who made them. whats cooking, mama, bacon? or is that the hell and the satan, baking, broiling, grilling me for who told me this much malarkey, even the devil slighted by slayers of such anarchy as if barking dogs could stop me or anyone from doing what must be done, as if any poor sucker knows what they’ve done or are doing in a confused world of pure illusion and pain and immaterial material emotional profusion like blood, gut and brain transfusion – the fusion of souls and perfect desires undertaken, forsaken, tired and unbalanced, off your rocker, off the rails as a train, trained in their likeness, high and mighty like the king in chambers of royal darkness, harkening for something as nothing like depths of loch ness, trembling of the nature and fact of its own lonely unsure existence, awaiting company and expiration as nature explains, insists – insistently looking at its nuclear biological mechanical time clock – one minute till midnight – why not? go back to bed then, bad kid, bad king.

go back and tell everyone everything, or dont say anything. like anyone listens, i already said it – why doesnt anyone listen? why wont i listen. why wont i shut up. why dont i write enough. why cant i drink enough to get Up. why do i do stuff. i drink too much. i think too much. i sit here like homemade nachos and sweeping dining rooms thinking of whining workers working brooms like grindingwheel maid wives cleaning rooms and working looms in rooms of trooper human doom animal troops super suited to slaving hotel lifestyles, renting home, rent lives, swapping partners, trading wives, whether darkness or sunlight. truth comes out, truth be told – dont it just – never lies, doesnt betray her own, dont know what happened, who came home – who what came where or why. just lie again, honey, lie awake at night, beside.

besides, im stirring too, waiting for sunrise, like apoetic apathetic arrythmic cardiac thoughts that give propane chest pain diesel fuel nightmares in the middle of the day and the start of the night when sleep befalls the lonely only I  — we all need peace, honey, sweet, if you could only be mine — but like God’s design found deistic, ignorant, stubbornly shapeless and fine as new jugs of old wine. you’ll hear about it on the news and the grapevine, where the vineyards of the grapes of wrath and seeds of strife and new ideas grow beyond belief bigger than life, to crush or make you or me, Atlas, mapless, a stranger in a strange place, hopeless romantic soldier in a legion of foreigners aligned to some insane shared painful manifest destiny that whispers in my chest to me: sweet child, come to me, and i will give you rest. ill give you sleep. patriarch, God damned us- who knows whats best for you or me or them or her or him or where original sin began or where this ship sails, takes us to the horizon, to the edge of this flat planet. damn it, blasted place, spilt beer again. does anyone have another? can anyone hear me?

find a soul somewhere near me. whisper, whisper, whisper…. sweet slight quiet silent sight words to tinder locals and set spirits ablaze in october mazes before winter calls and amazes and comes to take it all for the lord of the harvest. we all need someone to hold us and arm us, enormously harm us, hold close and warm, but somes fires burn hotter, some cold like some icy plasmic soup of scalding flaming disdain. pushed away again. despised, rejected, again. men! men! she said.

man it’s time to get your head on straight. run away with torn garbage bags. who’s looking back anyway? we all need someone lovely, loving, someone running up beside with us all along, even if just throngs of lepers in marathon side by side with deaf-mutes hand-in-hand in sing-song singing wrong. we all need a toke, a good smoking out, honey. take me and light me. dear Lord, i pray for help each day. dont crucify me. the spirit is weak but the flesh is willing though plausibly deniably we said we’re only chilling, hanging at the icehouse as on cold ice, no escape, no winter thaw at all. we all need help, baby, ill look nice on the wall. we all came to die, like we all came to live. crucified every day like they did to you, Christ. Lord forgive them, and forgive me my trespasses and sins so i can look at them out there and think the same thing. i could say anything with the right spin and turn it in and call it just nice, but what does the Creator look on and call right? if only you could see those frozen fireworks a million brilliant miles away, locked away from you by world-city blights. if only you knew, we all need someone to look up to, down at, see through, cling to, talk to, speak easy. feel the breeze with me, feel my fingers, clenched between yours in praying supplication. we all need someone, baby. could be me and you and the world if we faced it, stopped running away, stopped holding our hearts in our throats to not say it, say three word sentences that depend and confuse endlessly with restlessness. we all need someone, baby. where are we running off to?