away away

Soul-satisfaction says,
before each night,
to earn that sleep
Soul-satisfaction must find it's end.
And so my face could look like a face again
if I satisfy my soul
through broken amplifiers, possibly,
or words.. and not lazy sloth patterns--
so go slay some excuses.

I walk around town in thick-night
past a knitted sweater world
of a swelter-cook day.

I'm a sober person actually, I hope you're
not surprised.
Probably manic, who looks like a tripper.
Just a tired face.
Take away stress and compare me to congress
and all might kinda look okay.
Could smoke some herbal insight again.
Something natural. Rest-assured, never tried poison.
Poisonous dumb drugs swelter communities.
Via propaganda signals and zombie medication.
Spent time trying to get some off poisons before
but who were any of us kidding.
Still ain'no what to blame.
Some threadloops are casual and some
tought to squint through completely.

No calling, it seems stupid. Would do death
before that-- it's a slow death, that.
Been four months since some cannibus
and never leaned on it. A few times e'ry few months.
Sensory-intake sensitivity, process more information
at a seemingly more conscious frame-rate.
Learn of self-patterns.
Never even bought any of it.
Cassional gifts.
Now it's like,
through breath, it is a challenge,
But through natural process of breath-cycle, 
there is a calling
to create that sacral space.
To go into the nameless in breathing-exercise.
Bottle of vodka'll last a year. 
Go every once in a while...

so when things hit heavy
in the guessing-department,
the human-societal implement of causation
to destroy oneself in some way
has it's different urges.
It's different faculties.
Like remote-control crash a spaceship
into oneself
and see that you were driving it,
all the while.

Get drunk on moment like a wanton funner
for the Dionysian  leaps--- but by word and play
but none play... who plays? maybe I am ignorant,
of who is playing.
Another MOOD would have different,
more confident answers.
Today's is a thinner veil
of showing outright some trials
of self-uncertainty here and there.

Those are other games, those street-light games,
and so many dressed to impress
to the bar, with feather skirts high like advertisement
jingles
saying hello to the jungle,
and smells of artfc. flower overkill perfume spray--- saying
dance dance spin---
Men who can bribe them.
intimacy with commonground
coming lackluster.
Sex is listening to someone tell their soul-worth
and sex is also having sex, well, too.

And there is affection
near pear-trees and
where strange animals make whirling purrs.
Cold creek water washes the diesel-fumal air
out the pores of wandering skin.
Ocean-invigoration, today,
with deeping in the cold.
Bright waters awaken any
backpack wearer and briefcase carrier
upon setting the being into turbulent waves.
Sure does awaken and have ya come alive.

& ye park right near the library
at drunker's-wander hours:
A new student hotel has 556 stories up high.
Mumblesome slurs yell down towards 'ye,
but, trying peacefulness,
and not confrontation
like climbing up there and fighting rabid animals
like a rabid animal
and going off and out on someone.
No clunking, no headbutting,
or viciousness.
Smile and moon em with the blinding sun
and bite on the tip of a flower stem.
Some flower grasped because it was a necessary intuition
to plucka vivid yellow flower with three caveblack roundings
in the middle of the middles.

Try to be a good person at the heart to others
truly
without others acting
suspiciously.
I don't WANT
anything from you
except some goodness, too
clear of the animal-gut-games.
Viscous, hidden smiles.

We are all in this maze-together,
with collective analogies
and treadmills of Guinea pig wheels.
Either way, collective evolution, if sensed,
could reiterate noncomplaicency toward
diverting a golden age.
Your buildings will not be remembered.
The mountains will.
The ground will recall the mountains
No person will recall the buildings.

If a hippie could channel up some anger,
I'd be delighted and proud and probably fat
on all of the muffins it would drive me to eat.
Actually, earlier I picked up some muffins.
One was meant for someone,
but Mother Time snagged me
and burnt my bunions
and wouldn't let me go
until the adulthood hours themselves
came to an official closing.
That flustered me. My me-ness went askew.

So going to:
Go in to the super ultra store.
artificial light
makes me look like a vampire.
artificial light
loses to true pastel.
I look good when the light is low!
and people guess
and hardly know.
Bought some paper and got some pens;
cashier says she likes to write.
Go out to write what I think must be said
by the bike-racks there in better-toned light.
Because for some reason I thought I
screwed something up.
Ask Soil and B., they saw my claws
and a set of window curtains
with mysterious tears.
They were not my tears
of course, of course.
So I ran off.

What I thought I befuddled
was probably nothing at all
but a cup-of-cups
overthinks.
Can't write there, too many skuts of shopcart
sounds and thick machines grinding gears.
Walk over to the motorbike and sit on that groundboat.
Saddlebags stuffed with this and the world.
Lakestones are the world,
and a masonjar with 2 late sips of coffee left
are the world.
Coffee is a drug, confidence
is a drug. Nervousness is a poison
like those things they're building those
spaces for folks to go and use,
so if they start to die
maybe they really will not die.

Realised I don't need all that writing paper
I'd just bought in artfi. light-land
or all those pens.
Stopped to drop in
to that bright-light product place.
Gave that girl some paper-pages
and a pen.
Said she likes to write short stories.
Said something to her in the best
human language I can.
Say 'here, write something on your break
with these.
it should go far--- I did not need all
this paper
tonight.'
Which was true. I needed just two pages
with the right words.
Maybe asterisks or keypad symbols of all types, who knows.
She said thank you I appreciate it
and I don't read emotions between content thanks
or things said due to survival-reactions,
like be-kind and'll go away.

I wrote,
"Hey Season,
ain't I foolish?
It would be to speak the sounds
of sleet and hail.
To listen to 'ye talk
as my ramble-button's off
would balloon-drift me to
new stratosphere.
Like the balloons used in a World War
only one that had gone astray.
It vacates the idea of adversaries
and drifts into sense of paradise.
Mother-Time gnudge-sprung me
and by God don't lemme seem
like I crossed any lines.
It is a goodness of friendship and
natural current-- So I'll
listen for hours
and not cluck-cluck-cluck.

Water of Waters take in
emotional-information
like every nightmoon
is the spheriest and full.
Even as a teenage werewolf,
don'think a pebblespeck round you
is dull.''



Naw, that was never written.
Would have
turned out right'on
if it were.
Things'll turn out right in any regard,
whether I like it or not.
So I'll have to deal with that
and have the joys and deal with the pains.