I used to lay feverishly awake at night staring up at the ceiling of my barracks cell like it was a blank page with the spins
Occasionally expunging the spirits from my guts into a salt-stained porcelain pot
But The Words
Beat through the buzz of every other night
The Words
They came like fairies to dance in the mist of my mind and they pulled me from my drunken frame into the astral substratum behind meaning itself
Like a dialectic mother pulling, and calming, chaos with her word swollen breast
With half sleeping body my mind swam through the brine of language in the ink of night
Like a mad poetic specter with restless everything syndrome
I quivered and danced with the endless flow of words which would erupt from my middle
Flowing on
Flipping back
Curving
Caressing
Figure-eighting
And swan diving through my hypnagogic soul
Resting unrest…
The sun would take over, as it eventually does, illuminating the Sanskrit cigarette smoke floating against the tangerine papyrus of government issued curtains
But The Words
Continued to exist behind the veil of my perception
Leaking through un-noticed from all the bardo’s and throughout all my sordid states
Whether in hungover brown cigarette-stained fingertip obsession
Or controlled robotic patriotic possession
Or daring to tempt Poseidon (we without gills and webs)
The Words
They lingered in endless chanting pleading for the page
The Words
Singing mantras of madness and genius
Forcing themselves in forbidden instances into my head & through my erect pen
A spurting river of poesy and joy
Which scoured my mind pipes and was a salve that tenderized my tired leather heart
A lucid juice that whispered of a singular soul, a single dreamer, dreaming it all
The Words
In liquid connectedness
Broke through my damns of shame
And flooded my valleys of loneliness
The Words
Ripped the curtains from my consciousness
And when I peered into the void I saw my own distorted reflection but was unafraid because~ it looked away first
The Words
Smashed through me with quivering ecstasy
Ejaculating inspiration
Thrusting my expression past the tight labia of pre-conceived notion
Deep into the warm wet hug of conceptual womb
And the manic~ calms
And the quick~ becomes slow
The ink exhausted
Conception begins
A page is filled
An idea is given life and solidity in this strange dimension
A cigarette is smoked
An itch scratched
The pen lies down to sleep
But The Words
Like heroin candy would still call sweetly and I would answer
With craving unsatisfied in-completion
And clinching mind cramps I was addicted to poesy and without it
I would watch as the flower of my life withered
My future decaying into a temporal corpse before me
And my past a bloody sea of boiling anger
For a time I became a slave to the night
Buoyant upon a river of whiskey
My mind grew dark
But then-
The Words
Became my boat across the river of insanity
Away from the island of misfit misery
To the far shore of the absolute mystery
And once those strange waters are transited, you leave the fucking boat behind
And when you run out of words and worthy things to say you put the pen down
The Words~
Become replaced with life
The Poetry~
Becomes experience un-reliant upon explanation
The Passion~
Puts down it’s pen and picks up it’s purpose
And so in action of existing~ Lies the most beautiful of all poems
And in that single glimpse of pristine awareness in which the story of life is written like words on golden waters all people and all lives are but a page~ of singular book
And The Words
In the eyes of the absolute are inadequate scribbles
Temporal lies
Discordant vibratory notes than only hint at the mystery that shelters within our middle
The Words
Are no longer enough
