My Apologies to Mr. Ginsberg

Allen saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness
I can picture his beat generation contemplating truth while they contemplate jazz
Looking for a truth to hold onto, that objective truth that must be hidden well
My generation, my new beat generation is dying from emptiness
Madness is an over zealous byproduct, a symptom that can't be directly treated
I see my generation and I, wander the earth and wander our lives, looking for a connection
Who grew up over stimulated and over expectant of the life before us
Who sat in coffee shops, getting tea drunk while the machine clung to whiskey thin ankles
Who confidently walked the isolated streets of suburbia in darkness with styrofoam cups of liquor in hand
Who have lived fuller lives with broader experiences and broader thoughts than those that raised them
Who feel that envious acid reflux in regards to simple minded guardians with simple satisfaction
Who abandoned the pursuit of truth long ago along with the pursuit of happiness
Who destroyed any sense of morals or sexual guidelines long before adulthood loomed over
With colors, with dreams, with no longer taking pleasure from sex, envelopes pushed and hungover train rides from Chicago
Long drives in the dark to nowhere, being eternally present in a third person perspective and removed attitude
Sharing trips and sharing women and sharing bottles leads us to eventual shared sadness a cursed camaraderie
Hazy walks in poorly lit antique stores, getting lost among the labyrinth of glass soda bottles and record players and intentionally forgotten memories
Plotting to abduct and kill the homeless just to prove they could accomplish murder, morals never once coming into question
Who have wondered if they are sociopaths but eventually decided it did not matter one way or the other
Who have become familiar with the feeling of drunken basement sex and the sensation of death
Shadow cast demons standing on the side of the road, watching intently as we pass by at considerable speeds
We are children orphaned and shoeless and starving in the streets of societal expectations
Golden Golden Golden is the moment removed from others

Crash

You always see lots of out of state license plates in a college town. Once you begin to recognize the different traits and driving habits that each state holds, you begin to judge each individual in their vehicle. Hating someone without a face, just a stamp of association, is much easier. Yell some obscenities and forget about it, the most simplest of actions. "Hey! Fuck you, asshole!... So where do you want to go to dinner, Honey?" These situations are as effortless as opening a door, but no less necessary. There's construction on the road today. The sky drunkenly walks a fine line between overcast and joyous. We are subject to other's objective thoughts, cursed by our brothers and sisters as we speed down another dark road with illy given directions. Seeing how long my eyes can "safely" wander from the road I stare out the window, my gaze fixes on a car crash that I hope has no survivors the same way I would appreciate a flower in passing. We gather for communion of destruction, craving disaster just so that we can feel something for once. I want to feel something, anything. The warmth of an embrace, the passion of Love, the sharpness of Hate. All I experience is the vague sense of numbness spreading as the darkness begins to fade, the light will reveal our selfish manner. 

" 'But this road doesn't go anywhere,' I told him.
'That doesn't matter.'
'What does?' I asked, after a little while.
'Just that we're on it, dude,' he said. ” 

Dehumanize Depersonalize

Any attempt I make at forcing the bullet train like thoughts in my mind, using only my mind, is a failure from the beginning. Hiding your blood soaked hands, using only your blood soaked hands to cover them. A constant drip drip drip as you stain the ground beneath you with disease and distaste, never leaving it quite the same no matter how much you scrub. Without instinct, how many wells and ditches do you think would be filled to the brim with shoe box sized corpses? I do not enjoy "things" at all, but rather I enjoy situations and feelings. Stripped of all things that blind, the veil that passes over all eyes making an eternal night that so many cannot seem to navigate. Those who see at night, their eyes see past the gyrating hips, spilled drinks, loud music, warm/cold embraces, and that look which pierces nothing. Look deeper into the darkness, the figures will take shape the steadier your gaze. Past the dancing, drinking, flashing lights, sexual tension, and smoke and mirrors a scene of communion and group sacrifice will materialize. 

I'm never living my own life, I watch the part played out by a Fool who will not listen to my cries of concern and advice from the front row while the Second Act takes time to get off the ground. Never within myself. I watch as the Fool lets some nice Girl, who deserves more genuine attention, position herself and move around on top of him. Never within myself. I'm never there, in that moment I want to ask if She'd like to role play. "Just for this moment and situation would you like to pretend that we Love each other?" I have faked pleasure, I've faked passion, I've faked interest, even my attention to the situation at hand is just a facade. My mind always somewhere else. Never within myself. I have never faked Love. 

A conversation with a former Lover, discussing beauty and our Love. Walking through a museum of what we once had. Visiting each exhibit, discussing it fully until we're satisfied or much too upset to continue the tour. We only allow ourself to visit the art that hangs in this sad hollow building, never owning any of it. 

"You see, I'm not so worried about finding someone who 'Loves me' necessarily. I'm worried about finding someone who will Love me and denounce any Love they had in the past. Someone who will tell me they've never Loved anyone like they do me and perhaps it wasn't Love at all. I have to be the center of their universe or nothing at all and I know this is so incredibly fucked up and unrealistic and impossible. That's why I'm worried, because I know I could never find someone that cruel and who would Love me. Then of course the entire time I'd be concerned that if we move on, will she denounce my Love to some other guy? It's all very troubling to me honestly and I'm not sure what to do about it."

How many times has someone told me they're worried about me?

How many times more do they actually worry?

How many less?

I'm never within myself. 

A constant struggle for lucidity

In and out of consciousness
Childlike
The waves rock us back and forth at odd intervals
Sometimes violently, peacefully at others
Like a mother who had perhaps three or four too many drinks, certainly much too early
The scent in the air is that of fish, of gasoline, of big men and big ideas

While the Moon hangs low and full,
A single bulb on a pull chain lighting the corners of a slum while the Gold is slowly snuck out the back door

I feel the pain/vibrations of the writhing worm as my hook pierces it
Once, twice, finally a third time
Buddha refusing to plow the fields for the worm's sake

In and out of consciousness
Like a child, like a drunk, like a Man who has lost touch
Dreaming small leaves a Man confused about reality when he wakes

Eyes watch the clock as if it were a liar or thief,
While waiting to call Her
Waiting to call Her at the exact time She said it'd be possible to do so
Does She notice? Maybe

Holding on to the edge, toes curling instinctively
Night creeps in
Drowning me slowly in darkness and I do not notice until it's fully upon me
Fooled like the frog boiled alive

In and out of consciousness
Like drunken sex, like uncertain thoughts
Am I really here?
Is this really happening?
Sure I've met many Women but I've only Loved one

In and out of consciousness
And the capsule slides down my throat with ease

Sociopathic

You told me you had no morals, besides those you took up to bear like a cross for the crowd to see. The watchful eyes, checking off their lists, they know you're on the right side of the line painted generations before them. 
You told me you could kill a man and feel nothing the next day. Which goes to make me wonder: Had I not survived, would you have still shed so many tears?
When they were watching?
When they weren't watching?
I know the formula still would've been applied, as it always is. Judging social situations, the variables present, and all potential outcomes. 
You look stunning on paper my Dear, but that does not last unlike Love. 
Love, fleeting like the wind but always coming back.

"Nothing Else Fills"

Trying to catalogue while in the heat of the fight  
The heat of the moment    
Trying to focus on a single drop of rain in an afternoon shower that you know will be over shortly

Every instance, every experience is merely a brief interaction
Never truly touching anything outside yourself
Never truly knowing anything outside yourself

Looking back into the past is only staring at ripples in the water
The true curse: knowing they will fade soon
Urgency to seize this moment

Helpless

Cursed to being caught in the rain. Outside. Closed doors.
You cannot. Will not. Open them yourself.
"I don't throw the ball up and try to hit it. I don't play that game."
If you don't help yourself, you're helpless.

Mind/Body Relations

Do you ever have trouble discerning between emotional and physical pain?
Not being able to tell if you're yearning for something tangible or just some understanding from a "friend".
A hug. A sturdy meal. 


Coconut rum in a non-tropical setting, prepping the gears for easy movement and unaltered paths of unhinging.
Let me move the veil; The curtains. 
So I can see that there is life behind your nervous windows. 

I Inhabit Too Much Space Within My Own Mind

We make our own rules, convincing ourselves of right and wrong. 

We could do anything if we allowed ourselves the indulgence while slipping below the judgmental and ostracizing eyes of society.  

If you don't know what it is I'm talking about, have you ever told a lie so well and often that you believed it yourself eventually?

If nobody digs up my sins then they never existed. 

I've buried them well under the cover of night and killed those later who helped carry the shovels and the body. 

I am a master of myself, I cannot respect anyone who isn't and therefore am alone once again. Sociopathic. 

"But why would you go through the trouble of explaining this contrived idea? It's because you're alone, you need to connect to someone and you see that I get it."

 

Dead

I'm dead. I'm in an empty room, cold and shirtless. I have the strange feeling that someone(something?) is watching me. Behind me or in front of me are eyes piercing my existence.
Knowing.
I'm being judged in a room full of none of my peers and I can't see past the walls.
Open space.
Eternity knows that this is all contrived, not unlike the potato famine or the souls lost in the Chicago fire.
Feeling.
I don't feel anything. To that, there is a feeling of emptiness.
I can't keep up with the pace of my longing.
Feeding my addiction of human connection.
Dead space, there is nothing between us. I am dead, you are dead, we are not connected.

Obsession

"Hello, the caller you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the beep."
-beep-
"HEY, It's your BEST FRIEND, yeah I've been DRINKING tonight. A LOT. I find it odd that I'm missing you even though you're a stone throw's away from me, don't you?!? Well... bye."
Another night. Another evening I want nothing more than to wander the streets with my thoughts and myself.
But No.
Surrounded by people who care, but who do not see.  Drowning I am. Drowning in ill measures and pure intentions. The wires match up but there are no sparks. Just a spark is all that is needed to start this fire. Combustion. A reaction. Is that too much to ask? A simple spark with friction among the thighs and torso and delicate parts.
I'm sad. You've made me sad. I hope that makes You sad.
Though we are at our weakest there is no spilling of guts, except in the literal sense beside the curb for which my hat goes off to.

Walk down the street
Stare at the horizon as the sun goes down and comes up,
Know that you will never be so earth shattering or magnificent.
I will see it everyday and every night beyond the crashing waves. At war with themselves for eternity, cursed like Man.
Reveling.
However it isn't the meridian that keeps me up at night.

A Collaboration Of Sorts

Circular desperation, glasses raised in uniform 

Our monolithic chant the same, night after night

"The party never stops" 

Our post-zen mantra

An excuse for those with eyes that see.

Lets drown some boredom.

"While one may drink to connect, the other drinks to distance." I don't smile at the over-bronzed bartender as she passes, her skirt so short I can see everything. "Do you want anything else?" She asks me. "Yes please." Raising my glass + my hand. Begging for help. 

The party Never stops. Because it can't stop. The end of the party is the introduction to adulthood. Unaffordable. Clear eyes and clear minds make for neatly folded linens and wiping the faces of disgusting infants, instead of torn tshirts and passionate love making. 

The party will not stop when a sober reality means nothing.

The party will not stop when there's a purple longing for communion. 

The party will not stop when stumbling blindly doesn't hurt, even just for a night. 

One swift pull from the cigarette bitten by my lips leaves my head light like the tip I've left for the bitch taking my plate from me. This party's going elsewhere, it ceases to sleep. I've been taken by my eyes and I'm lost in her cleavage. 

Partying never stops, leaving me no time to finish this po     

Just another, Just another

Just another night with images and sounds and feelings and thoughts swimming around and through me with the colors dancing upon the ceiling. That dry and empty feeling when you need a drink. Sleeping sober. The madness won’t have that, so it kicks up images and memories like a child who doesn’t get his way, kicking up dirt or sand until it creates a cloud surrounding his sadness. 
Just another poemless night sitting in a dark room I think hard about the word “and” and how repetition in general annoys most people, but fuck most people. You have to drive a point home if you want it to stick, I suppose.
 “Just another notch in your belt, you say?” Coyote responds to me across the kitchen while he shirtlessly cooks lunch for us. Setting down the pipe and looking away from one of his many paintings that are scattered around the room I look at him “Yeah. Time, space, distance, none of that helped me get over her. The more women I put in between she and I however did. I put another Notch in between us last night.” The room we’re in is small but warm like an embrace. There are paintings and National Geographic’s and a typewriter and a record player and books and books and books every which way you look, threatening to overwhelm you. “Riley, It doesn’t surprise me when you say you might be a sad person.”