Vibrations

Every passing occurrence and interaction is just friction in the Universe's exchange of vibrations.
We're left hanging in empty space while post-zen waves travel through us, leaving behind nothing but memories of what we've lost.
Shells of human beings with a vague sense that nihilism wasn't the only force keeping our hollow bodies from implosion.
The wind pushes us around like leaves while the Hawk rides it high above us, seeing all that the Owl misses at night.
We do not cease to be, merely dissolve and decay while the seasons pass and the earth spins and the sun grows tired and space expands.
Continuing forward, curving in on itself. Forever.

Often I feel isolated, rarely I'm fine. There was never a chance of me walking any line.

Anything

I don't like anything

The sports are just contrived masculinity, bottled and sold to the masses. 

Possessions root me to one location making sure no one steals them, oh how I grow to resent my shackles. 

I don't like anything

Nothing exists that I long for, spending night and day pondering how to obtain my prize. 

Except maybe a motorcycle to get the fuck out of here. 

I don't like anything

Starvation can be more pleasurable than indulgence.

Screaming rapture in the streets or bowing my head has always seemed pointless. 

I don't like anything

Even our secret dance in the dark is just calculations and formulas to me now.

Pouring my "soul' onto paper has grown tiresome for once.

I don't like anything

Besides tipping the bottle back and forgetting myself.

Worrying about running out, acquiring more, keeping my body from rejecting  it.

Every day I lose another piece of me as I forget who I am and become a shell of a person. 

Completely removed from myself, I am the third person view of a life not being lived. 

And all the prisoners will laugh one day at "being free"

Suck the poison out now or cast off your limbs later
A cold dead winter's night is knock knock knocking on our door, demanding our first born or first love. Whichever comes first.
The mighty Oak and brother Birch tell their sister Willow the secrets of sanity
The secret that is meditation in cold times
Cold times, hard times, times where time seems irrelevant
Lonesome times

Naked in the woods bearing everything for everyone
Wishing no one
Cryptic plots of blackmail
Approach with caution, handle with care
This is all meaningless, this is all worthless
This is all. This is all.

Nervous people with nervous habits are spitting out words without ideas into machines that once again are spit across miles upon miles to those impatiently waiting their turn to speak ill of their nervous habit causing lives they have chosen.
Worried thoughts concerning events still folded waiting to unfold, nonexistent, perhaps inevitable though there are no certainties.

Leather clings unforgivingly to uncovered skin, unless it's saturated with sweat.
Walt Whitman, If God is a Mother you are her patron saint son in law.
Lucy is a curious woman
She'll make an atheist believe in God/Love/The Universe
She'll have a christian denouncing the Devil's existence
A "sane" man questions his sanity
A mad man questions his madness

Beauty can be questionable but Love leaves one fulfilled like fallen leaves clinging together burning together
Naked laughter pours from prison cell windows while winter sets in outside
Peering into the dark corners fixed on angelic and borderline demonic figures

Stream of consciousness and inner monologues make up my hemisphere of thought
I have a tired soul inside that shows on the outside
Swimming in a sea of post zen awareness, drowning in definitions of meaning that are meaningless

The grass grows because we know it will always rain another day and another day we will die and another day the grass and dirt will cover our faces

Nights

With gin on my breath only truth will touch these lips tonight
Dead eyes, long stares, and tired visions
Tired of staring at the screen
Staring past the curtain and through the veil
Staring at Those gyrating hips move like a rain dance during a waxing moon
Staring at visions that disappear and dissolve into the sunlight
Eyes that see. Eyes that see at night.
Dead eyed and desensitized and dehumanizing others
Along with fields of thought scattered with human bodies as though they were leaves right before winter
Animal like chants from other rooms seem like cries of victory of ex-revolutionaries in countries far off
The Cat doesn't always land on her feet
Beer making Her a brawler, She takes a dive and throws the fight
Loose change scattered along the floor
Dollar bills cling to our feet
One great exodus after another to the pins and needle cold outside for a smoke
The glass tips back
The Earth calls my essence to it
And I feel my body slip

Death Herself

I've been assembling a puzzle
Soon you will be able to step back and see exactly what I've had in my head
Death is a train that we patiently wait for
Some believe it takes them home
Others, it takes them away from it
Death is a long train ride, meant to lull one into a content slumber
A slumber, finally welcome after so many nights praying for loss of consciousness
Another sleepless night, Another nightmare filled consciousness
Imagery along the wall and ideas outside my body
I pray to Her alone

Fucked, long before the foreplay.

"A broken clock is right twice a day" 

This cliche reverberates within my mind upon one of the unrecognizable layers of latent thought. Like a forest, there are obvious separations but it all meshes together at the same time. At night running through the low hanging branches, struggling to keep on the marked path. Always lost, always discovering something new. The past revisited. 

Two consecutive lines of white powder off the dashboard. Hurried conversation. 

"Turn the lights off." 

Interlocking fingers are unmoving, the cogs in a broken clock. 

"Don't scare me away."

The music and memories of a pre-zen moment in a forgotten summer pour from dark speakers in a dark room, washing over me completely the same as they once had. 

But it's not the same. It will never be the same. I will never be the same. 

Our post-zen madness leaves me thinking of the young man I once was, making Love so innocently. 

A Brother of mine says that, "Getting Lost Is All We Do These Days"

I believe he's right. 

Getting lost, forgetting the path we've strayed from, concerned only about the next step.

Even a broken clock is right twice a day.

So why can't you manage it?

Interior, sullen.

You envy my madness.
I know you must.
My ability to feel free when I have nothing.
My sorrow and American name brand dread worsening when weighed down.
You envy my madness.
I can see it in your eyes.
When I catch you, catching me, staring over my shoulder.
The inconsistent twitches.
Do they puzzle you?
My Post-Zen sadness - My certainty that I've found the truth, still completely unsatisfied.
You envy my madness.
You have to.

Truth Is What We Make It

My vision is perfect.
My sight wraps around the curvature, allowing me knowledge of what's to come.
My life, it's divided into segments. Pieces of the saga that I'm living through.
Heartbreak leaves a man empty. Emptiness allows a man to be filled up.
The Sea ebbs and flows.
Life on the shore continues, as always.
My life gives and takes.
Truth is what we make it.