Visions

 

I will write until I die. A will to write was instilled in me by the Assyrian. The Levi kept me out of meek minds. I wrote the library at Nineveh. Stored it in my mental cinema plays scenes of criminal dilemmas of raising children in a blood kings line snorted by prisons. Bodies contorted by decisions. In the mind, in the prism of the urban text, colors churn. Bullets bubble, and the young boil in trouble. A city written by segregation. The mind is a language is my cable bridge on which I will write visions until I die. A will to write, as I teeter, I linger at this creaky desk. I teeter on the brink of the draconian mind. Surrounded by laconic people. Slaves who would rather not think, but gather to sing praises to Dagon who rose from the sea to herald the coming of chains on my ankles prevent me from running out of Baden’s basement. A place composed of various variations of slayings. Forced underground where gun thunder sounds and depressed youths plunder my realm asunder. They plunder a pit of hellish cruel thoughts that relish brute sins. In the heart of the beast arteries are torn to feed the Lords of the streets. Those vampires can't tire shot multiple times even got holes in the sign. Signs of the undead liter the urban text as sentence clauses. A witness pauses in the mists of a statement. You don't want to be another incomplete clause with blood painted on the patternized pavement is a mold for crafting progeny copies brown and hard as mahogany. They stalk the halls, then feast on the suffering of other beings until there's nothing left. As I shiver in the corner with visions of sudden death. Visions that I’ve been writing up textual military Juntas since Sundiata Kiata was fighting old regimes. By the grace of God I came to be when Thoth wrote me in an epistle during the Umayyad caliphate when Marwan ibn Muhammad fought the Khazars up into the Volga. But like the Khazars I couldn't be subdued by speech. As writing, I rebel against the structuralist maelstrom where my daughters are fodder and my sons are used to plug the plot hole on Gilligan’s island. I am the rupturing coup, the virus, the Abu Backer to your Persian highness. I drop a name like spit in the faces of the victims of a botched FBI home invasion. Muhammad Ali wasn't the greatest. Using my claret ink I've dragged more beings through deserts than the number that made that monster famous. My deserts are pages populated by my imagination. I’m ahistorical, in eternity and blessedness I'm timeless, thus I already past the open sterling doors in the House of Ganesha. I thank my mother for my poetic religiosity. She taught me how to be magnificent as meritorious transcendent open sterling doors in the House of Ganapati, no Catch-22, stumbling blocks or vicissitudes. Since back when Little Bear was on Nick Jr. In the basement, hustler music, soul, funk reverberates. Artists articulating outstandingly premium orations, superlative in verse ever since, pillows smelled like piss. Swept leaves into the sewer. Legos, fruit snacks. German roaches, humid summers. Babies get beat searching for their parents. Terrorists roam the streets. Bootleggers selling CDs. Seated in the corner store, owners, with accents speak of the one god. Up the street, around the corner, heart rates fluctuate, like the crime rate, cardiac fire alarms. Viewed videos of us as toddlers. Got whoopings for talking back. Remember being in the dark, pissing in the golden rings on the wall. Pissing on the steps, peeing on your brother, letting him think it rained. Until he looks up. Killing baby chickens by accident. Just trying to help them fly to the welkin, the upper heavens. A man chokes his wife in the street. Watching Superman then Batman on the WB. When shooting stops walk around the block and play football. A kid tosses it, you catch it. Riding bikes and talking shit. Beneath the cobalt blue sky the ice cream truck ditty beats the visual representation of it to your sensory palate. Ice cream that is frigid smooth, gelid refreshing. He moves, you become a homebody. James Cleveland and Shirley Caesar sing as Mommas cooking greens and cornbread. Big brother introduces me to Jay Z. Now I want dead presidents to represent me. Rap in phraseologies, crazy dialects, Got into dad’s Budweiser. But he didn’t know, so no apologies. Smoking squares with a cheap lighter. Watching Andrew Black on public access. Head rush high off nicotine, High as the Griffin falcon, SR 71 Blackbird. Lady's braiding hair while watching babies with extensions playing. Fuck the impatient police because by the grace of God I’m feeling peace of mind. Like I'm still in bed, sheathed the nine, feeling sleepy sinking into sheets where I find crumbs of bread. I used to eat in my blanket and wonder Déjà vu. The day was too hard. I made it through the day like swimming straight through a monsoon storm. Feet was aching too, so I made a drink. Took a swig to ease my mind in requiescence. All thoughts and requiems for dreams characterize my essence illustrated in Norman Lewis paintings, every verse is a resin, brewing, grating, sticking to you, hurting like driving the wrong way down a cursed one-way street. Getting my mind moving like Hymenoptera I'm blessing the page with a coloratura communion like the pastor on first Sunday, eating fresher than subway. Stanzas passing like the pigskin on any given Sunday. Meet me at any bar, drinking like drowning sperm whales teaching cats how to classically paint billiards framed in amber outlines. Sipping ambrosial beer like Ambrose Bierce with apparitions of senoritas haunting river banks, giving ghost hunters that come-hither face. She makes me feel just like music is the soul of the poem, rushing into zinnias. I feel you in the now, The La bohème I feel you like Rodolfo felt Mimi’s death mysterious as Udolpho, nibbling on pizza from Ceci's, left the galaxy behind, for the cosmic. Hit the block with Coptic texts from asteroids bombed by spacecraft releasing mineral factoids in lectures on KELT-9b. Relaxed in mind, exemplifies the simplified mental strides through fiction, like a gibbon high on diction. Or mighty mice on missions finding life in brick-and-mortar prisons. Relax my mind that defines professionalism, no embezzling my melanin it's quite telling, like snitches, how I accrue peru like postal felons stealing mail. Consume so much old crow that I got Prions, I speak in kitchen cleavers, with all the charisma of a cult leader. Reciting death cries of tortured Selk'nam fathers watching their children spilling internal organs because they couldn't concentrate in the concentration camp. I live on one end of the spectrum spitting Ron Swanson mustaches with a lackadaisical passion. I'm Dr. Facilier; the way I magical negro these sentences out of my circus tent top hat like rabbits. Stunting is a bad habit. It ain't tricking if you really got Mad Libs. While you spit fire; I spit corium oozing fissive materials like a used DeLorean. I brew verse originating in a nuclear reaction, emitting decay heat like rotting ethereals, like fission materials made of numerous factions of isotopes decaying at different half-lives. My persistence defines decay heat. I am difference, dark matter, the metaphysicians black light the central component, the catalyst, the only truth is that which I aggrandize. Diluted molten materials modify my Stoic configuration. Even my urine distributes highfaluting critiques of Saussurean lectures. I am the originary allure, the limit of experience distributing a potent concussive aphasia. My dermal apparatus is a crust hindering heat loss. When I speak this thermo isolator can melt concrete  releasing aerosol particles as I vomit lead byproducts as the Northside melts meltdown, war-torn black Celts trapped pale guards march across Hadrian's Wall as that melts. Vespasian slaughters my zealot alma mater. Busch pierced my liver. Lungs full of spirits. So, I ran to the doctor. Can't afford the healthcare exchange, so I run to Masada. Gen X, Dockers. Getting dressed for the blood wedding, but it's not my time yet it's the west's Armageddon. Abandoned big structures next to big brick ovens broiling black figures feeding them to each other. Coal cannibals consuming dark meat. Get your steak knives and your napkins because every day is a Donner party. Palestine torn a Parthian. Everybody’s a target, but past the darkness I see the return of the urban megafauna drinking water from lakes in the wake of melting western glaciers. The melting western gods of failing values of the pale face. Turned down Cherokee. I heard pre-depression melodies. Zombies dance to the acoustics of the undead. The lap falls off the lap dancer. A head rolls past a dead baby left by Adam Lanza. Babies born talking dead. Little talking heads. When that corpse spoke I heard him speak of dead kings. Above him, dark green leaves moved like fleshy lost beings through hedgy north streets. He said (“he” being a severed head)

-         When drama starts, you won’t always see the impala parked.

He spoke of fleets of impalas sacrificing the youth to order. The hope ceased then the water the municipal was hune, and not to mention ghosts of old buildings, haunting plastered walls, below stained ceilings, below blood red skies, the poltergeist groaned for life, as he had memories of metal ripping his head off. Undead from Morgoth. Land of the living dead where they Rob Zombie spoke the unsaid. Unspeakable names in Norse move to old English dungeons. After one hit wonders wander in shadows. My brother was locked up falsely because of a gooses gander at these crows come together for a murder on Fox as I put my niece to sleep. I feel the tension outside of a white Jeep, assassins with deformed creeds attempt to slaughter my peeps. Like a bartender, I used to not deal with children So I put her to sleep. So, I could watch gunmen rush in fingers riding a Winchester, where my homie knows me well. We sip Miller's beer. His daughters pregnant. She's a warrior. She birthed the mandate of heaven. Sweeping fingers across the page. Dabbling lyrical gravel on the tabula rasa. Inconceivable as Chaucer in pandemonium. Disemboweling the assassin's deformed creed. Jackson Pollock guts on the tabula rasa. Minerva's owl gets disassembled after it crashed in the street with memories of municipal puppets ripping the dead off. Putting pressure on the poor. Giving the wealthy a break. Tax breaks for the wealthy done with Machiavellian stealth. We suffer cuts to WIC. Social service circumcisions. Driving crack slit roads. Cursing because it's fucking up my suspension. Let's purge the source of our coercion thou hath brought fire. Young pyrotechnic editors coming to reverse his revisions into another version. Watch them turn the Hermeneutic circle as three kids stroll out of high school across red lines. Moods intense, angry. Ten kids stroll out of high school to areas of leeches sucking funds through community leaders. Thirty teens stroll out of high school, taking a break from the cycle. A thousand men went to work under the whip of Jim Crow. If one speaks up, Jim has no problem killing them folk. So they hold it in. Folded up aggression, put it in the pocket of the unconscious. Now they unleash it! Now nothing will stop it! So, fuck a trash can. I'll truck bomb your CVS pharmacy. Making urban leeches regret disarming me, the fire alarm rings as black rage raises its arms; it sings negro menthol spirits smoked after petrol-dosed lynchings. Hope seeks a presence through glacial racial injustice. Old faces with new facials sent flagrant fractals to oppress us. Cops multiply like fractals in my icy north habitation industry emits contamination. This indecency fills kids' lungs. Thus, the capitalist god erased them, but as trade deals go ill, the third world rises. Climbing western ladders once used to molest siege and batter us. Lathered in the wests bukkake splatters. Beaten with the military-industrial penis We are the demons of the west's past. No middle, just one percent and lower class. Yes, us poverty-painted kids. It's time to defy the hounds. So ride now. Practice praxis like he in brown skin that gave the impression that he would stride through a sit-in. Like the empiricist Boyle he was at home in the inorganic world of forms and qualities. A cataclysmic stream through time that defies the Skeptic's criterion "presence" with a darker tonal pressure. Brown skin that gives the impression that he would stride through a sit-in. Until a bottle hit him. He's knocked out. Waking up, yanked from a Freedom Ride. In prison he kept the guards pissed with his singing. Using wrist breakers to loosen his grip as they tried to take away his mattress. Putting him in solitary after assaulting the cell bars. His egalitarian values wouldn't allow him special treatment. I record his deeds at my clerical writing tablet as I construct worlds of color in monochromatic script. I beat the desktop keys like Sherman marching on somebody’s music class. Hulk smash like Ta-Seti arrowheads in northern Egyptian and Assyrian skulls. Diodorus Siculus referred to me as Hyperion, the watcher, wisdom, the physical incarnation of the sun burning in the earth like an asteroid on entry as I tell of seeds, who dwell in me. My lungs I empty like a chimney. But nimbly with grizzly hippies in homemade flimsy clothes. They all came to hear me bring the instrumentality. Rivers of galaxies converge into a gentler style of being.  As we enter the grounds of freaks.  United in a balanced globe. Foretold in the Dead Sea Scrolls. My lungs I empty like a chimney, Clear up! You’re too near to the steer gearing up with Suspiria fears in the interior of your cranial area mirrors the effects of diphtheria on your rear got you tearing up. Stuck in stool with ghoulish thoughts about these clueless frogs who do us wrong. My lungs I empty like a chimney. Clear up! You’re too near to the steer. Melodic since the salad days. Gearing up. As I tell of seeds, who dwell in me. Shomer of urban decline, like a Watchman. Molding holy grails. The only souls who broke the mold. But veiled in Peace Makers. Shotshells that held the savior's nails. This breed will touch and shatter minds to tatters, like Elfen Lied. A breed born of notepad notes that this Jake Sisko transforms into apparitions, with my keypad. Made lists so thick I had to resurrect Roget for this lexicographical deep tramp through the thesaurus. As I type epic utterances. Lexemes in fragmented realist fabulist fashions. I’ll still hit low. Just because the Muse feeding off my brain like an unchained pit bull. A gut-cutting, gut-punching detained fist, closed in the cell of the psyche. I still rip wholes through limp prose like H. L. Mencken. I’ll rip holes through Mencken like Malik Wako Chapu Ambar with a razor-sharp Khanda. Mopping blockheads. Toppling these rotting unwashed trolls in the cell of the psyche. A fist with teeth biting pleading and striking. Expressing pain like storm battered seas gnawing at the pillars of the earth. No one at arm's length, as I witness the crumbling of sanctified walls. I convert the rubble into seraphic metrical versification. I convert the rubble to necropli. Who can fathom the Ligottian necropli. Demonic cineplexes, trypophobic silhouette, hollow minarets occupied by enigmatic chasms. In the aphotic theater I'm an anti-minimalistic minister. Administering the Glamor. Even in my drivel I expel hexes. Eyelids permanently lifted. A window with busted blinds in a home engulfed in circular ruins. A staggering tragedy, timeless as puce corpses in an English peat bog. Stalked by mangy dogs and amphibious beasts all with greenish teeth, fog fills the vacuum, but who can fathom something deep as 30 galactic centers, politically speaking, it’s Monday night, cities half sleep. H2O breaches causing phone screens to glow. Regulars regularly regulating ridiculous amounts of rail on a patio. A musician sings, so I step outside to speak on my take. Cause this random person got to know. Philosophical nobody, like the rest of you. No one can rescue you from my annoying/horrible poetics is like being trapped inside a collapsed vestibule on a shitty vessel sailing to my nihilistic retinue of imaginary advisors. Where I'm a shining incendiary magically crafted by Agnes MacGyver. Escape my low self-esteem in guitar riffs stoically sipping a Mahatma Manhattan at the bar drips of rain still off and on. Seated in front of the coal-black speakers. Adjacent to Pee-wee Herman's spinctoral creeping was my doctoral thesis. I chill with strangers, working-class folk employed by danger. I used lawn ornaments as bail. I drink with airline pilots. I sleep with politicians and then extort them that's why I'm not in jail explaining the exorbitant question of method. Reverting my own interpretation away from the REAL because I'm a double double buckshot of Scotch. No rocks! Bubble bubble blood out of a head wound. Not enough lead. The head wound screams of sanguine rivers pouring into the cracks in logic of stand your castle doctrine. Arrogantly I critique my feces while cringing like a Scandinavian vassal taking a drink from the wash bowl during a calm night, til I entered beneath the veranda's twisted arch. Picture an eccentric park filled with a bewildered audience. Many in resplendent garb. Eyes fix on semblances of souls expressed in melodic intonations. Instrumental ambiances dancing with fingers moving so fluid, I can’t ever tell if they are particle or a wave.  I don’t have this capacity the skill or alacrity. My will is a 96 Toyota Camry car battery. I'm used up; thus as refuse I reused that suppressive tool, as unrest accrued like young Chechen dudes with used weapons removed from authoritarian officers. Getting these state piglets off of us. Writing is my Lee-Enfield/Colt 45. Administering alphabetical artillery rounds threw oppressed cognitive dissonant buried minds. Kill the zombies with critiques of conceptual paradigms with a conviction to spit Archaeologies like Jameson. Language games from men ain’t the same, some lived. The plot- two migrations. The clot of de jure segregation was stopped. De facto is where the facts stroll. Black kings sing of Triple beams. Middle class exists as ripples past the nexus. Inner city centers of no pity Sinners in a litany, souls slipping. The basket that holds your goals is thinning. Cats grinning, black citizens living in habituses directly inhibited by a state sanctioning state sanctioned killings. living in habituses directly inhibited by a state sanctioning state sanctioned killings. In brownish casual shoes with boundless mackerel views of how this town’s sickness came about, witness testimonies, on steps sit boney breeds get stoned, she drinks distrust and thinks of his lust with disgust as he sits where the clustered poor attract the same economic strain, they agglomerate poverty locked in space. Places indoctrinate toddlers dream of kings migrate from the island while the magician spins the cycle which repeats itself at an individual level. The spiral of disinvestment a cyclical hex that started during the first half of the 20th century There were black communities with stern class continuities. Supporting moral structures. Countering abhorrent ruptures. The upper class and middle classes could afford decent housing with the migration of southern blacks to northern cities feeling that the other lacked. White elites patterned black movements to cities; they strengthened the covenant to maintain stability. Using subsidies from the government and insurance schemes, whites kept the suburbs free of diversity. This is a science and an art. To deeply mark men. Contracts by landowners persisted under the guise of the free market. In the 60’s the state flashed its Johnson. After crashing integrated labor movements it pushed his great doctrine. The de jure ended. Although de facto, it still persisted. Especially in the icy north. Imagine a congressionally backed housing bill. Blacks move in ethnically patterned patterns. Middle income blacks exit the citadel. Moving next to whites reluctant to live next to us, though we are as beautiful a cool spring nights moonlight reflecting jewels, they saw us as blight. Many whites fled the perceived outcomes of civil rights in out-migration. Causing many of the vary problems for which they would blame us. But it was them and urban leaders who traded Millcreek for Pruitt-Igoe. You can still see Civic Progresses will, to leave or obtain a residence for the disadvantage concentrated due to negligence was impossible and due to a lack of funds, the prodigals left us in a loop that seems illogical. NO! It was the pale leeches who pray to false idols as they prey on dark meat, not the prodigals left us in a loop that seems illogical to the outside viewing in, to watch those adaptations to conditions that zap patience as you enter, the center, the ruins of stores and the accruing of moors due to a lack of resources. The tragic rides the backs of the poor kids who dwell in the scorched city. Marked dark by social movements. The far north has art forms documented by global newsmen. Delmar locked you in so many souls gone. Locked in, crude laws, like death consumes all in patterns. Caught in a splatter of race you smell what’s the matter. The bourgeois moved now all is bleak. Truth is an honest thief. It haunts the policies of those who fought wrong, you see, the greatest wrong is to leave. The greatest wrong is to prevent us from leaving. Surplus words must turn the sentence into clauses as I mention men who thought of these systems. Suburban sins caught us. Mold behind bricks rots lungs. Cancerous, minds sick, tots run into traffic as minds bend the plots done. Life is writing. Things and themes seem timeless ‘Til we forget the fact that poverty is not merely a lack of what we all need.  The essence of poverty is inequality. Classical liberal theoreticians blame those born in this world with slim chances. It is the capitalist system that has to produce victims, a reserve army of unemployed women and children. For the sake of keeping wages low. The spiral of disinvestment, a cyclical hex. In my cave, in the dream. Now imagine a community gated by a street. Sometimes I walk merely to think up reasons for me to be here. The urban is yellow wallpaper and her people are dreams. Some of those sad scenes start walking toward me. I run to the court of the dragon. They gain speed mocking me. I awaken thinking;

-         What happened?

I fell asleep. In my cave, in the dream. Anguish drove me mad. I fell asleep in my lament. That’s all I think about the massacring slaughter of poverty in an instant all goes black;

-         Am I slipping?

Got a message from a voice behind me saying;

-         You are now in the hands of the living God

But can the living god hold me? After all I’m not a rigid Hierarchy. Decisions by and large be forged by my many parts. Me is an accumulation. For clarity assume me to be a nation state, which is composed of states of states. Always active no intermission. I have no enemy I don’t respect in this assembly. In the core of my habits categorical matters are stashed. Matched with affordable standards. Hate is a defect of the powerless in penury. I am a Hyperborean Highlander speaking consequentialist magic from my bully pulpit of a cyber-meta-clorian canvas. I’m not a rigid Hierarchy. Decisions by and large be forged by my many parts. Me is an accumulation. For clarity assume me to be a nation state, which is composed of states of states. Always active no intermission. Turning the sternest religious fanatics into delirious static. Shocked the masses with superior magic. Damaged gods with Muhammad's power of fire. Awaking sleeper agents in the matrix with the rod of iron. Tower over the State then devour peaking gofers. Defiant as lifeless Mayans fighting white men with silenced nines. No soul in this golem, but there's a ghost in the shell. In this shell is man’s trans valuation is man’s salutation to the dammed values pity amalgamation. It’s a feast of morals worth the least of kernels popped under the heat of the inferno of the day. I’m not a rigid Hierarchy. Decisions by and large be forged by my many parts. Me is an accumulation. For clarity assume me to be a nation state, which is composed of states of states. Always active no intermission. Realize now that the unity of self is a decadent fiction. But this fiction may well fester. This original sin. But what makes the powerful so powerful? It’s the priestly! Privileging those deceasing in poverty. Telling them their disgrace is a balance.

-         Yours is the kingdom!

This prevents them from thinking the kingdom is on earth, not in them. They are prevented from linking freedom to self-mastery. Overflowing power, no plastering passion behind false notions. But gathering all admonishing values that precede from weakness and abolishing them. And understanding that the street is a barrier a sign of the defeat. Beware of the mines placed there in the heat is unbearable as I stare at the neat fortresses. Castles of the fairest of kings is what his title is. Listed in his libelist bibles which he gives to our schools for kids to eat. Because he barred food from my people to starve out our overmen because we don’t admit we quarter them. Water kid seeds who grow into rebel trees. No more rebel reeds. Crushed by his Grinder into papyrus. We are wise to your stone thinking and your lying forgers your Simoninis. But he’s still after me, a pawn a demon spawn trying to capture me or kill me. Is it my soul he wants to steal? Bleak vistas await me in the lake we must make each other into prey because there is no escape. Kings have set up traps for lesser beings that they think don’t need and don’t want to see the fact that I am the extraordinary man next to lord this very black city, if he isn’t with she then he’s minced meat. Simply survival in bleak recitals needs chime through lean minds who see why criminal fists are individualist changing society with sinful hits to moral tables from old times. Based on poor old fables. Sold minds can’t be bought back, only shattered. Moldy splatters of quotes in attics up ladders of the psyche where the father is buried. I think their dreams can be designed by me as I bind dying streets by uniting breed in an alliance of holy beings while defying the police. The higher man killed two sisters. Let him die or establish a new truth with her Power. My loud curse drowns out foul verse and opens minds to the power of the Eidolon which said beware of his steps, the god killer. You can’t stop, he’ll turn demi gods into fileted bones with the sword of Cratos. It was the integration that disintegrated the hope in this matrix there was a company of explorers conquers, tourists looking for the origin that receptacle of deep knowing the Perpetual Eidolon. I was looking from a windowsill at the symbols grilled on his regalia. The leader looks back at his pale lot. One speaks up, but is pushed back by the cadence of the leader;

- We were placed here for a reason!

He said without disdain. Meanings permeate their faces. Anger seethes as they search for the displaced. No humans are outside to guide them through the ruins. Abandoned shrines and homesteads. One soldier sees something moving. A few rush toward it, but it’s just some old vet, begging, poor old dreg. Before they left him he said;

- Welcome to the dead city

They should have left. Then it hit me, they will never leave! I pick up leather seams left by those whose armor is too heavy many of them begin dropping shields, a they begin to realize they are in the desert of the real. Food desert! Bloated soldiers starve as the sun turns them dark. The leader merely walks ahead, they toil in the dirt and starve many consider mutiny cut off from resources anger burns in their hearts. I ran back to my basement. Thinking of the storm, but I sit on a foundation where I’ve found great wisdom in eruditions that grounds my inheritance. I look in the mirror and there it is. The ambition of the Imperative and the mission given to me by she, the true fair one, with the understanding and explosive verse. I will destroy the walls and remand the lords of my people’s curse. Those who will not dismantle the walls, the treacherous Numen will fall. People trapped in urban prisons and never allowed to exit will develop certain characteristics. Lessons burned in as we adapt, evolving devouring our enemies, watching them scream in hollow point symphonies. Decades pass; the centurion kills off the transformed with scurvy tricks. The mutiny was sacked, it took too long with no throng to mask me I picked up a gold clad piece of armor, he had seen the marker of the chosen on my arm. It was simple, a matter of my intention, see, that municipal tool found me, like dark paint, he said;

-         You are stained. I need a guide before I embark again.

I told him I would show him where his trophy remains if he paid with something deep; he agreed and acquiesced to the condition. That my prize will be on a need-be basis given. We came upon an elaborate labyrinth that had the scent of something antediluvian. We traveled well into the enigma. When we neared the center, I picked up some speed and cleared his vision, he went up farther, angry, in fear, sick of the dark seeing a light around a corner he scurried forth seeing the Eidolon before him; little did he know it was Me!

He said;

-         It must be a mistake, I would have known!

-         Seppi-  I said, - it’s a dream Your ideals and beliefs are falsely based On the real, through faulty claims. You have not bound me, nor what I have written. Now you wonder what I’m demanding. All I want from you is the understanding that I’m Romantic as Sadak, So famished that I just Doggy paddle through the waters of oblivion. Saddle frogger and Lassie then proceed to slaughter lines with an excess of synonyms. Romantic as Sadak, searching for the best. Tantric steps through syntactic structures over turning the phalo-centric with outlandish lyrics. But just for a second, then I fall back in step. Stepping on skulls, too many steps ahead. To pay for school. I took loans from the graveyard. I accrue interest in new forms of thought. But I never paid the interest So I guess I robbed the dead. Robbing the dead during these long days. Been Sirius since the dog days. Work, drink, sleep, think til I'm delirious, like I drunk a drink with a mysterious ingredient. 

It's the pharmakon! Lime stone concrete forms the walls. Amantiado boxing me in like Paciau. Claustrophobia attacking me now with a doxastic justification that dots man's sense in ought patterns. Swats tracking mock plans in lock boxes, left the black men godless in catatonic paths of rockets zapping pockets of Resistance to attacks from doctrines used to latch us down. Pile us in bryer patches, of vile batches then light the match and burn us like nazis burning classics. But we turned the ashes into swarthy artists un-redacting our past.

It's the pharmakon. A gift I was cursed with. I'm the supplement, supplanting my values over this Earth. I'm the king and the prince. The black determination, sublimating the state according to Hegel history ends with me, you are moments. And fuck Hegel, I'm the religious, the two in one. I am viscous  spitting greasy oceans. It's the pharmakon that makes Jeremiah sing as Herod cries of kings stolen. Fire brings Mephistopheles dares abandoned tots and fiends to question indoctrinated creeds. With the rock unsheathed the gladius-hacking monks into magic dust. Seven an hour, abstract labor, severed. The hedge is ungrounded. The wedding where freedom was left in the sun, now steps are hindered, the match is lit, demand grows, hence my labor becomes paper for state capitalists who also understand that Marxist sociology starts with social inequalities within cities territory is unfairly varied at the expense of the poor. These characteristics are very specific to capitalistic influence in regards to real estate, the result is struggle. In the appropriation of housing as well as fewer goods for the consumer. The state contributes to urban structuring, guided by ideals controlling services, merely puppetry. The municipal in the urban text is a puppet to ruling class interests. When people don’t go outside their social places. These folks tend to concentrate; this  is called, social homo-geniality some self-segregate due to wealth in lesser cases a menace seems to stigmatize inhabitants with a malignancy documented in social history changes. Debates about a genetic foundation of race are unsound. The claims are attempts to ground race in physiological bounds, chains. It’s an attempt to justify poverty. According to this stupid logic rich men are thus the right lot to lead the masses of inferior detractors of his mirror. War against him is futile, lords among men rule styles born of them who now beg them. For mercy and food while hordes starve, he’s quenched. But the darker bartered before the lighter order. So Back on your knees Bezos with your Bitch-ass. I’m the captain now. Too late for a flag raise your tax. Break that dickship in half. Caught Murdoch during a fox hunt. But he chewed off his leg and bled out over the mucus trails left by that ketamine mollusk Musk, so I followed that Nickelodeon slime to a Tesla truck. But it fled into one of Buffett’s Berkshire Home Depot shed box houses. I opened the door and Musk emulsified with the Tesla. Murdoch lay shitting himself clutching a picture of Chuck Norris.  Sam Altman was asking Grok how to wipe his ass. But then a 404! That methane munching Mechahitler data center was detonated by Boxtown’s Black residents because the darkness marks us, a fear of change and the other steered the hate. This blood stains our ancestry and our being has been formulated through racialization; a group’s cultural imperatives compel rational behavioral decisions; their intent is survival. The right’s too vain to see  that is why we deviate from the mainstream. That most naïve Egoism. Fascist irrationalism instincts that carry over from life habits of the dim past seek refuge in nationalism. The authoritarian attempts to enact pure barriers through intragroup contact. In America racism was used to create a labor class separation of groups by race puts us on a race-making track because segregation is separation based on sex, texts or race; men believe classes should be packed in with those who look and act like them--it’s also economic racial flights left men jobless. Generations left in place-based plots since the doctrines of politicians who dealt with a problem through the ideology of presentism. Groups cut off from resources develop truths steeped in a superior yet, demeaned culture. Born in the national values; the segregated mind appeared to be warped. Their its right and wrong are transcends those foul views that never allowed you to better your house thus everyday is workout. Lunging ducking bullets, running burn outs. Lift my head out the dirty mind in the gutter. Broke a rubber. Cum and eggs become Flubbers Human Clutter. Angry Unemployed, hitting the mother, but found a new lover, bound to drugs, drugged her. Spilt synthetic radioactive seeds on her landscape. He boasts of atrophied, stolen rancid beings. He yoked with damaging memories. Its simply a male prerogative to subject women to the punishment of jail, the logic is nonsensical during televised aftermaths of alleyway assaults. Sienna red bricks, sipping red stripe lurking in your backyard with a lead pipe ready to strike you out like Chris Griffin hurling lead balls. Taking bikes community activists. Attacking Aryans causing calamities. A raging vanguard. Mounting a defense. Get masks and shields. Get axes and ammunition. Somebody's suburban momma will be crying tonight. Get ARs and matches. Get police radar and police tactics. Kettling confederates. Isolating fascists fascinated by fancy Teutonic ruins. As we Mongols get bubonic flinging desecrated confederate monuments drenched in rabies ridden rat droppings. So if you ain't ready to end yo lie get a Cenobite from every religion. Get holy relics, knives, candles. All the shit you maggots embellish. Surrender wont effect my decision. Planning hellish forests of gored paradigms. I demolish paradigms. Smart as Edmund Husserl. Dropping solar flares. Quelling all isms stemming from Aknaten.  Kept the psychologism. Because I’m the origin of the mathematical Hot as lead in Aleppo. Shook you with cinematic texts I bled. Now look who gets psycho. Demonic Abbadon! Verse richer than Abbasids. Deep as the fucking Marianna's trench. Traumatizing reluctant fuckers. Surgical verbal murder. I need another exorcism. Fuck it! Let me finish my mission. Giving lyrical tummy tuckings. I put my soul on the line like Nik Wallenda. Appalling assaults sent me to Ptolemaic vectors. Back like Bacuala from my star trek. So never challenge my facts. Lest you want your paradigms on the line like Nik Wallenda. If you ain't ready to end yo lie get a Cenobite from every religion. The lie is a condition of life. Get holy relics, knives, candles. All the shit you maggots embellish. Surrender wont effect my decision. Planning hellish forests of gored men. I have no enemy in him I respect in this assembly. Get buck wild, go ham, just don't stare. This is for all my people who don't care. Happy to be alive, at the bar sipping on beer, cut off all my hair. I said don't stare. I escaped depression, recession and regrets. This is my space my place, my time. Complexity is my ace. I'm the sole whole beast whose gone feast on this lyrical delicacy. My people decedent, deliberate peaking with hell beast urgency. This ain't Falluja but we are an insurgency.  Buckets of alcoholism, bartender bound. See My personale up front, the first to hear. So much beer, you'll gone drown me beneath the arches and columns of dreams are the conditions under which a world of comets and cell phones can exist. The arches and structures of dreams are intangible waters. They do not change. They change and they do not change. The flower dies, but its form repeats . It has form, eternal life will die.

So, what is the goal?

What is good?

What is right, or what?

I walk the alleyways between the skyscrapers. I search for filthy trash on the internet. I search for greasy garbage. I walk through mountains formed by the law to find the law. But I already knew the law. I was taught the law with a belt. The belt has some inferences about my back. Premises indicate the conclusions and conclusions indicate the premises. Creating sorites within sorites of pain. I observed a gradual increase of pain. Increased sensation of pain. You know almost every impact number. I told until the end. These punitive proposals have been converted into a standard format. The father who lifts the belt uses the belt to define. This is the page and the punishment is the Definiendum. The belt is a bridge. I walk across that bridge because I want to find the conditions in which a world of comets sings with the stars. A world where everything is permitted. You want to live by the law or live by water.

A false choice.

Increase the value or maintain the value?

In my cave I had the privilege of nibbling on these honeyed thoughts as much as I pleased until a friend forced me out of my honey cave to the grand hall of his lucrative bank, an old man told me:

-         Pay your debts. Pay your debts to all those you have deceived. You must become rich. And be rich! Give back everything that does not belong to you.

Then he pointed at a person with a blank, dark look, filled with fear, full of dread, and sadness in his eyes. He was wearing red cotton trousers and was pacing around the room. He saw our concern and asked;

-         What do you want?

His voice was a cascade of emotion, overflowing with my desire to help, but for the old man, it was gasoline. Gasoline! The old man took a pistol from his closet and offered it to him, replying;

-         I think it's yours!

The blank faced man's mood improved when he put the barrel in his mouth. He was hungry.

The old man's son defended his father's actions and told me;

-         You must do good to your enemies and harm to your friends!

When it was time to leave the old man's house, I wanted to reflect on perception, which is not ethics. Outside, cars and exhaust fumes are products of sensory perception. For Plato, objects and the senses are unattainable. For example, imagine the concept of a mirage. You see water in the desert. When you get closer, the water disappears. Like the truth. When I think I know something, that thing disappears. The bullet disappeared into his head. Objects change, appear, are born, emerge, and disappear. The hole in his head was a clue that represented something by pointing at it, pointing toward the thing. The clue refers to the object.

A bullet hole is the sign of a shot. He was a friend who thought it would better the leap off the bridge in a bang than ran like I did. I ran away from the old man's house. I saw how his ethics functioned. I ran through buildings and fields. I came to a bar. I went into the bar before the water flooded the building. The water forced the door shut. The inside of the bar was made of wood and smelled of vomit. It gave off a smell of vomit. People were drinking or sleeping. The bar was in the hull of the boat. A woman walked through the walls singing as the water flooded the hull. The water submerged me, grabbed me , and kept going. She carried me away until the woman lifted me up and put me on the bar. She told me;

-         The best doctor works for himself, not for the patient.

She took a drink from a customer before the torrential waters flooded in, drank all the beer, and said;

-         The best drinker has all the power.

Then She freed me to wander those dusty realms places where books accumulate in piles, many of them I have written but rarely read. I search for the fundamental fantasy. That most fundamental of fantasies. I discovered a forest of plastic emotions. Mud fields and bullets with text messages. There they spoke with steel and gunpowder. I discovered a tower deep underground. Subterranean tempests kicked the cracked walls of the tower like a violent sky. But in the depth of the tower, I saw a path and candles that smelt of blood. I met behind rusted iron bars in a souterrain prison. He said to me:

-         I am Enkidu ! There is the man Leopard! Your time is limited!

I leap out of the nearest window and I swam as I ran up the hill, in a sea more turbulent, more agitated than a series of bowling balls avalanches. Water had a form that filled forms like space. Nothing is somebody. Somebody took me from the water. Somebody lifted me, pulled me out of the water, and took me to the mountain. At the summit, above the mountain, the sun shone like a million ovens. Beams of light! Below, we saw the great cities, their walls painted with green vines dotted with purple fruit. Stone temples, brick houses, giant iron bridges, flowering trees, glassy lakes, and beautiful blue rivers. I was lost in this world when she told me:

-         Water is lost in water because water didn't know it was water. You are lost in water, but now you are a lake of glass.

I imposed the glass on a stormy visage. And the "I" that was imposed on me. It is the only "I" they will ever know and the person I need to be is that person who can triumph over your hypocritical hypothetical imperatives. Maxims pulled from those heretical webs are embarrassing. One note concepts emiting from apartment buildings, fruit flies, orchids Broken lights and Chomsky’s progeny. The love of logos and conviction to its phylogeny the unwitting misogyny, marriage to the monorchid. One note concepts, we must pretend have two balls. At gunpoint with a grand Meaulnes smile, I envision times past when Rousseau referred to my writing as savage. Kant critiqued me with a wit as biting as a toothless rabbit, analysis lacking precision. I was forced to respect tradition and fallacy. Fraudulent discourses, in sickness placating what you call truth, here it has no inviolacy. There are others, your lazy lies are grating there is more than just you, lacking all sapidness. Hope you suffocate in your rigidness. Enseñador de the categorical. All praise to the last, now first in prolabor actions. Mad at the feckless hordes with droves of cash stored in those non-for-profits, no compassion, evil clowns, in decadence, in repose. Their makeup is charitable foundations. Hiding money, they squeezed from a working class, they see as sponges in this abusive marriage based on hatred. But what are you going to do, argue online, digital boxing with other arrangements of pixels, deranged, bound by fallacious content as the algorithm devoirs your insides, leaving sound bites. But really, what are you going through? Some arduous mine, a literal hot seat where you are torn apart by two hands ripping ton corps like the phenomenal pulling me away for the noumenal. The former seems easier until I realize I’m actually living no more than those dead inside despots in decadence, but I’ve got hope because I understand that the voice of the father is a gunshot. I remember when the demons laid down as my words struck them like bullets. I remember when the demons laid down as my song hit them like my father’s belt like they were smoking weed. He wanted me to do something, in my eyes I turned into nothing but a bag of unfilled desires. A joke yoked to debt and a life of regret and rubbish. No one to blame, so I claim the responsibility. But this “I” is fake. A mask, a veil, a black curtain hiding the uncertainty. I asked the other. This symbolic sire. Father! Why have you forsaken me. Making me think the Lord hates me. I categorically wanted honesty, maybe you should have put more faith in me. I need faith I myself as I wait in an empty office during a solar eclipse. Emotional roller coaster. Remit my counseling session. I have a solo event with something from my holster. Get this, these feelings out my head. Hope your epic flight through flesh is quick. Don’t call it blood money, kill yourself. Friday night I hit the same place, still hurts, hell is a feeling. Seeing anxiety demons through They Live sunglasses. I feel cursed. Fell several feet in my depression. My will. Well I don’t want to die, but the thoughts- they seek to convince me otherwise. Guns can talk, and blow kisses. Final kisses for your last wishes. Sitting in this car wasting gas, drinking to forget, but when you are alone I will return to remind you that everyone hates you except me. My love is true hate. My love is flowers around a beartrap, with a sword pinning down knowledge, confining facts behind steel doors, while mining Digital archives, ancient chronicles, a cord, a series of interlaced wires keeps them bridged, affixed to the canon. The doctrine of a primeval logos, painted on quires of folded manuscripts, the alabastrine organon. Classical precepts persist as rumors of ruins the unknown abyss grows as democratic access widens, using Hakuin’s illogic to plow mental fields and sow strategic rows of information for harvesting data and planting beartraps. Surround them with flowers then ensnare facts with crows because “If you raise crows, they will tear your eyes from your sockets.” A vexing sight, I’m thinking this as I’m seated in an empty classroom, yet paradoxically I’m perplexed by eyes exploding from skulls' fleshy bottle rockets. The explosion is the pure realization that I’ve poorly studied the fossils locked in archival safes, open dungeons of digital manuscripts. Connective nodes housing human knowledge. My crows are good teachers, teaching humility through ritual attack; truth is the pure revelation that pure truth is formal. In formal attire, truth exits the noir limo. It enters the ceremony, passing by those in garish phony clothes, and concepts, who are simple. Too simple! Truth smacks the face bullshit; truth pops the pimple. This is why you must raise crows. Your old eyes are used to shadows grasping at collapsing fires and guessing figures, Pseudo scientists dancing in pires. Feeding off the words of hacks and liars. My crows are black-winged servants of truth harsher than a forge, the crows temper concepts by tearing out your old eyes and setting fire to your egos, so the Sun’s beams can stream into your sockets and give you life, the Forth Way, awakening your consciousness. But the thoughts- they seek to convince me otherwise as I traipse, trudge, traversing calcified concrete, ferrous towers outlaid in orthogonal box-like grids. I witness wayward scenes in the quadrate crystal windows. Distant images of desire on sheets of indigo and beryl. An auburn bookshelf displays the wall before me. A wall in cased in shadow. I closed my eyes again and I saw him dangling. The rope cleaved into his dermis. In his face was my brother’s face, my cousin’s face, my face. We were all dangling over a crowd. A cheering crowd, whooping and hollering. The amphitheater was massive. Massive enough for the sport of these people, venation. They were seated in the u-shaped chamber, but stood as a select few walked up to the stage with torches lit and blazing like a gas explosion. They were coming toward me as the clouds broke, and the light shot down like slatey grey snakes tossed from the cobalt heavens as I strolled down the coal-black funereal street. The sidewalks were haunted by faceless apparitions. Larvated folks. Faceless wretch’s forlorn wandering the streets. I glanced at something dangling from a street light. It swayed in the wind like a log, or a branch. As I approached dread began to creep up my upper back and shoulders like boney fingers seeking the back of my neck. I glanced upward and I saw him. Swinging in the wind a bag of lost possibilities. The lariat, the riata, encased his neck. So taut was the lanyard that it tore carapace, cleaved. No! It fractured his dermis. It divided his skin in to unfluctuating fragmented rolls. Rolls chestnut brown as logs stacked on the muddy maroon shore of the mighty Mississippi. Where ancient temples once stood atop mounds so tall the sky-piercing tops were stepping stones of the gods. Gods lost it time. They journey to the past through riffs and infiltrate the living. They repeat the exchange centuries ago. Because "To speak is to commit tautologies". The performance near the majestic Mississippi. Where people were forced to see a brighter future through the lariat gateway where the clouds broke and the light shot down like slatey grey snakes tossed down the coal-black funereal street, haunted by faceless apparitions. Every iteration is re-iteration. Reality is a series of Shelves housing antiquarian, archaic quartos, compendiums with recently created octavos, folios and treatises contain the story of his death. The account de sa mort has the capacity of iterability. All meanings are there inside the phrase, the word, the appellation. All uses of a phrase have already occurred in the anterior. Every iteration is re-iteration. "To speak is to commit tautologies" because all discourse is citation. Iterations are the superior athletes Give any context and they will play. Fuck JL Austin and Searles assertions, in this field of statements every one of my iterations organized in signifying chains is an occurrence in the real so Shut the fuck up talking to me, jaw jabbering, get off of me. You are a pissy, pathetic George Costanza in a diner complaining about the paper capacity of binders. Uninsightful small-talk industry plants with vegetated talking points repeated rapidly like Jake Tapper systematically prattling at three times the audio. Annoying people, thinking they are clairvoyant people with witty pithy phrases like keep your voice down. And they say it in a Mexican restaurant with ear-piercing blaring booming music. Apparently, I’m louder than son, corrido, banda, mariachi, and ranchera. Shut the fuck up! So I’m driving down the street, on lunch break. I’m behind this Uncle Sam pick up. Taking up one lane of this two-lane street were five cop cars with sirens glaring pop rock hopped around thin blueline bunnies rushing with guns, swearing as I Donny Darko glean these detectives immersed in Punisher fantasies: This pickup stops qnd I’m like, it ain’t none of your fucking business. Has nothing to do with me. « I don’t care or wonder, invoked the Forth Way with caffeine. I’m awake listening to Gurdjieff talk about Beelzebub. I wondered for a second if the pickup was an undercover cop or if he was just waiting for a criminal escape, until I realized this idiot wasn’t awake. Move your fucking car. You are he who hides behind morality. The priest, cura, cleric. He loves having a lot to watch. Perversion is recognized in the structure of fetish. Which is a symbolic substitute for the absence of the other. This becomes subjective instrumentalization (an exhibitionist or a voyeur, or a masochist, or a sadist). Like a lesser god. Saver of a seat for a substantial god, he is a cushion, a masochist waiting for the big ass to sit on him. The pervert is aware that the symbolic is law, but he has rejected it. Every word of it was a lie. I can't have a contract because the pervert is the army of the United States pissing on the lives of Native Americans. He puts his desire before, above, all. And his desire is instrumentally real is my revelation on the highway heading to see my big cousin. Driving past the pyramid shaped monument to the bullet bra looking storage facilities, past the gray dirty silos looking like paper mâche molds of Oreo packages. Soon I came upon the house where he will be blowing Oreo crumbs harder than Mississippi tornadoes blowing cars through one-story brick, ladrillo brick buildings, edificios, bâtiments. You sit and you take it. You stand and you take it. Then say: “Yes sir” but like lip syncing Beyonce or Elane shit talking Seinfeld. You fake it beneath smoky, gunmetal slate skies. Trees with thin fingers reach for those who run, the kettle is dry. Hot metal borrowing, terminal, termite holes through the burnsides, caressing cheeks. Dead eyes watch homes burn like heaps of lynched burning bodies Squirm til they Kick in the door. Brick in! Hit the dresser. East side race hecklers saying "they took our jobs" they wanted us tarred and feathered tears fall as they die our Titian brethren Homes looted, clothes stolen, booted, out as violence permeates. Violence is segregation vitriolic, its criminal based is separation, based on sex, texts or race. No escape from Ideology as we attempt to evade hat bleached face corn husk hair, in the aftermath of the monolith Monsanto monopoly polluting babies, baby trees seedlings. No Islam, not Peace because Islam means Peace. No Islam, no peace. Police state took the black civilization. Rush was Ezra Pounding the radio. Castrating reason. Vacated, Volatile vitriol virtually makes me want to violate a vagus nerve with vice grips. Dealing false fringe ideals. Disrespected, snacked in the face, people keep forgetting to give me credit for what I accomplished. A lack of grace is a symptom in this toxic septic reddit culture, everybody’s a therapist, everybody’s a critic. Everybody’s forgetting basic human dignity memory functions in a way that’s enclitic. A flippancy signaling filigrees lining symphonies of malignity. It feels like they are doing this intentionally. They seem to think that talking down to someone is therapy, to patronize is somehow dimensionally related to counseling. Feels like my work has been undone when I’m confronted with their laziness and reverence to flimsy evidence, intentional mental haziness that cause program cuts, looming layoffs, looming dental issues. Regret for an idea once rooted like a fir. Cus out bozo boozed out on conspiratorial polemics. You vote for the clown you get the circus. A carnival of Eric Andre impersonators. Pranking babies birthed in PFAS. Anti-intellectual wannabes sipping piss from rich urinators blame fornicators for the fall of the west. Ineffectual idiots ignoring the systemic, preaching noncompliance to consistency from corporate corpses of high horses thinking they are reaching beyond death to golden hamlets, heavenly thorpses to eternity and blessedness of affordable groceries. Actually, chose suicide and poverty’s coteries with high prices, game console price hikes. I laugh in schadenfreude as I’m bleeding green. I overdosed on Hopium. They see a carpenter screeding, “Preen the feathers of government”.  They think but with ICE strikes. Preen the feathers of the establishment. Recalcitrance brought us to hard times through space and time, the new guard spimes with neurolinks furthering the national ravishment. Leaving un scattered, unracked weights on rubber tiles. Up early the luminescence reveals dirty stains on the black floors that pedestrians ignorantly ambulate past to attack Moors bringing non-phonetic, advanced systems, as the pearly toothed people smile staring, caring deep in their distain. They hate the surgeon as the scalpel slices the cancer, a murgeon on the dull contorted faces, making noises so blaring, tearing ear and eardrum from socket. Oh shit! That’s them talking, saying the darndest dumbest things from empty mental pockets. You see it, with eyes so deep in the dirt they are decaying. You saw the bear coming knowing I might die, coming my way. When you start screaming, know that I laugh as you cry, as you lay with memories, nightmares, chattering teeth. Screams beneath the veil of smoke. Thoughts trickle spattering, sleeth down the brain drain, a hell of one joke. The dip-shit slave to indecision, mind of a melting icicle, made a decision to set himself on fire. He had seen immolations before but ample time passed, weathered paths, now paved didn’t seem that bad, wait! It might even be a panacea! I was brassed until the lighter blaze sparked,  oices of pandemonium amassed, rose in up drafts, from the sixth ring of that cave inside a bronze bull, the heartless choices of the nit wit nave brought him here to sing:

-         Please help me- these idiots scream blood steam as I'll tell a story like a perforated colon coming into your scattered brains. Which are eviscerated like you woke up at 5:40 am. Threw on the dirty clothes you wore the day before because you work in a warehouse, and if anybody judges the way you smell, especially anybody over 30, then they seriously need to question the decisions they made in life. Peregrinating out of the house into the chilly natural standpoint. "Peregrination," yeah, you ain't never heard of that word. It's from the French word for pilgrimage because it is truly a religious experience to work where I worked. Not the enlightening experience where you see Jesus healing a school of lepers with leukemia in Lithuania. It is the kind of religious experience where your mom makes you take a bath in the dirty bathwater that everybody just used. But you don't take a bath; you just stare at the greywater, waiting. Waiting until you were there long enough to tell a believable lie. Then your parents drag your stinking little body to church. Smelling like ass through those thin cotton nylon pants. Going to work at that warehouse was that kind of religious experience. Got in a caliginous Camry coup. Started the car and turned on NPR because I'm an inept bleeding heart. Liberal enough to complain about poverty and able to hate on our capitalist overlords who would still be filthy rich even if they invested in the underprivileged a little more, but still enough of a piece of shit to not have an issue with unpleasant design. That's what cities do to force the homeless away from places where we can see them. Like park and bus stop benches with the armrest in the center that makes it hard for people to sleep there unless they have spines that curve like a parabola. Needless to say, I'll say it anyway, I didn't want to work. I was mad, hot as Syrian civilians firebombed by Assad. Hot as a Philly helicopter bomb dropped on kids and they mommas in urban brick and stone buildings. But you know what? This was my last day of work, and when I got to work, I was going to tell my supervisor, Don't test me! Like I told the ACT Procter. By the way, I did very poorly on the ACT. I suck at test-taking. Not sure if my poor performance was from not studying or if it was from me randomly filling every circle, so I couldn't possibly be wrong. You ever make images with the ABCD answer dots? I drew a snake before I filled the rest of the circles in. Those graphite circles were a clue, a road to my future. I drove down that road north to Morgoth. Down streets caliginous, malicious as my style is stylish as a pile of platinum scripture. These streets were bestial, like that place where Frankenstein's monster fights against Herbert West's monsters with a hatchet. That's where we get the term 'bury the hatchet.'' The supervisor was that which lurked in the cinereal cubicle. An unctuous prison encampment where he launched nooses. He was one of those creatures from the Isthmus on vacation in Sheol. I seriously considered pooping on a portrait of his family, but he was so monstrously hideous that he would have thought that I cleaned it. I arrived at work early as an abortion. That whole job felt like an abortion. Because I had to take orders from an abortion. I was disheveled, appearing derelict, revealing the badge, the chain to this unctuous Isthmus prison encampment. I ambulated up the stairway, which was pale and never-ending like a depressed Shahrazad reciting Silvia Plath's poetry on the gallows. See! That ‘nooses’ metaphor makes sense now, right? In the office, one gets the BENS because one is suffocated under mountains of paper and fountains of files. I crept into the supervisor's cubicle. I really wanted to tell him that he was a terrible sexist gerbil man-monster face doo doo-headed, shit-nosed manatee-mouthed molasses screwdriver, gerrymandered fast spasm. These would be the torpedoes I'd spit. Grammatically extraordinarily seditious syntax. But I just asked the ogre for an assignment, and as I was drowning on the production floor, he sent me to the darkest, coldest storage room in the building. The place where we kept the burn files. Files burned in a previous conflagration. Shelved in boxes on a steel meshed floor. He had a gaze as caliginous and malicious as my style is stylish as a pile of shit. Truly felt like a lukewarm pile of shit picked up like dreams dashed and crumbled into the final level of Sheol. A loose grouping of buckshot further splattering thoughts, shattering veins. that’s why I ignore Thomas the lacking critical thinking and self-reflection Tank engine. Weak-minded dancing in fire, now that’s natural selection. 

I hope you learned your lesson, submitting to your Heracles Idiots saying do your research should have listened to Moerocles. Idiots seated electorally beneath the sword of Damacles hearts emptied of hope must weather this tragedy of Xenocles. Beyond tristes and old forms of organization, you will survive this damnation.  They invoke a constant obstinate fallacious view. Its dominant as a Flemish Arch dropped in that place where slaves were bought, flipped and sold. These terrorists, who dare to hit poor mothers then swear it is because of their intent to save them there with in regions diseased by the ideology of these neo-con embarrassments. But I’m hot enough to melt iron crosses. Ain't no crossing this Jordan, a burning wreck stabbing English sentences. Endless Mandatory minimum sentences, I subject you nouns too categorical battle verse like Garvey flicking off the state from inside an abandoned church. Until my ever-rising volume shakes the earth. Turning that church into a flying Hurst. I'm the diachronic nightmare living in JoJo's closet. That's why I need accountants to bookkeep my experiences of teaching Peire Monard how even Meek Mills can produce beef for the Masses of Catholics, no fish this Friday. It was swallowed by the aboriginal serpent. Stylish like Fabulous without the wife beating. As time retreats everyday is my day. So I'm a do it my way on David Lynch's highway. I'll erase your head.  You nouns are my the minds torn by my cords ripping through fists trying to injure me. Well! I Usain Bolt beat you to it. Self-flagellation on Olympic tracks. Live from North St. Louis. Faces contorted by stress. Incongruent truths hit like piss streaming into shoes. This Truth that I expectorate division like segregation, de facto. Expressions on profiles represent hesitation. No styles too complicated for the revenant cooped the French Soviet upends feudal doodles. Blue-blooded blueprints are washed away in the numerous nuclear hurricanes. I urinated words in texts unread because I love the art. I'm infatuated with it. I run miles, lift tons, strong legs digging craters, jumping boulders until my shoulder hurts. I spit corrosive words leaving corrosive burns. To listen is an act of masochism. Corrosive. Lyrics making Mascoch come herds of submissive homunculus’s. Personas mask, camouflage the biologique. A man is not the thoughts or feelings, he is a symptom of them. Man is a metaphor. When everything collapses you have to go to the real. You take the fantasy to the real. Replacing the absence of the other. It is the process that opens psychoanalysis to the phenomenon, the concept of madness. In the storm when the symbols have collapsed you will see the superman, the knight of faith. Charges far past the analyst. The symbolic is rejected and an imaginary desire passes from the Imaginary to the Real as a delusional plenitude or a totalizing whole. Language does not hold me. Not him. He is Abraham when God said kill the son. He is the only man who believes that fantasy is real without doubt. He is the one who knocks. He is the one who says fuck that don’t bring those drinks in my bar Fuck that, you bet not be fucking smoken in my car. Fuck that, don’t come at me like you know me fuck that, mother fucker stop acting like you don’t know me. We have discovered the way to happiness; Made it through the labyrinth, slew the fascists, batshit pigs, rancid dicks with active locutions. Attacking drove stupid ratchet men who are content, because I'm not content with the tolerance and largeur of the heart that “forgives”  everything because it “understands” everything.  This is a sirocco to us. Foreign American made cars broke down in the front of the house. My dudes coked out talking about how we living off pizza and coffee grounds. But tonight beneath the nox sky I'll see you after work at the bar surrounded by people getting higher than the Petronus towers. I’ll pick you up, but don’t light that shit in my car. At the copse styled bar Lady’s telling creeps to leave them alone. The cowards talk shit like they have a fetish for eating feces. Drinking shit, he has no business drinking. Next to the fire, trying to accost and threaten. Well my knifes Napoleonic with no regrets. Through his ass in the fire. Human pyres of pyrotechnic magic. Shots of the 100 proof and a diet of matches cause me to spit fire. Don’t bring that shit to my bar we have discovered the way to happiness; Rose to every occasion. We have discovered the way to happiness; Years in the labyrinth. Who else has found it? The man of today?— We have discovered the way to the storm; I'm the storm. I come into your scattered brains a loose grouping of buckshot further splattering thoughts, shattering veins like plastic glasses frames. I'm the bestial, feasting on soo much Pizza I shit Imos. I Trump you fucks, slash your crouch. My punch lines are whip cracks, the fuck out my face, trying to be my apprentice like Tommy you ain't never had a job. Yesterday I went to a town hall meeting. I gave a speech saying it will be a better day when I tether leather face to my testicles so I can cum chainsaws. Saw you the other day you told me that you had taken more copper nickel than an antique dealer. Doctors couldn't remove all the bullets. After the third shot you didn't feel it. I don't care how much nickel or paper you got because you ain't hotter than a coffee maker Pissing espresso in Satan's anus. If you like Korean vituals then you gonna like my team a lot because we is Seoul Yeah! We got Seoul. Won it in a spades game to a background of shattered things. Black lives splatter in scenes darker than thieves in the night chattering. But, I'm loud, bombastic as a Aryanana Grande concert. Get it "bomb", bursts as I chew starbursts, writing dark verse making art curse. Fuck Paulo Chelio! I'm the real alchemist! Bombast von hoiheim, bitch. Hit up a local hotel, steal some towels and then use them to wipe me down then transmute fentanyl through a needle. The only reason I don’t look like Smeedle is because I’m pure adrenaline being pumped into a rhinoceros’ balls. Where we have discovered the way to happiness; Welcome to my alcoholics clans abode, box, building, bullpen. Where the rate of hates crimes decreases the property value. Tooth fillings' get pulled since cool kids ain’t cool. They are tools in this chucky cheese ball pit, we all in. We ballin' with kindred souls throwing bows and stripping. Clothes ripping. Toes exposed. Tip your bartender and listen to this darkness spit rivers of pussy quivers. In my tribes commorancy, looking bitter at dorks with valley girl speech. Bash skull fucked skulls as we sally to more drinks. Drinking steak and mash potato stag, trash a trash can after I crashed into a Play-Doh stack. Its hate crime! Hit a bowl inside a dumpster, stay live, like a newborn baby, my baby momma tried to give me but I say like girrrl this ain't mine. I lost the pool game, now I'm going to smoke a decade away when I smoke the decades, almost got AIDS, fucking around sharing needles with Charlie Sheen. Chill out babe. We got days with this cheesecake. I am the Cartesian, doubting your style this winter and every season. Cannibalizing adjectives so long I've developed mandibles. Mathematic modes fast as jets enveloped in tactical practical thoughts. Still looking for a fawn to gore with the rock of ages. Fanatic as Dolin in a stolen Cadillac in hellish dens. Sacrifice tots to their gods famished like Starving Marvin’s poor and damaged, kind of like Fonda in Taxi. Mores take a back seat, can't afford them. Cannibalizing Adjectives so long I've developed mandibles. My habits to hatch formal collateral abnormal grammatical dope. My themes and plots are locked in war with Orcs of clarity. So that's the logic of this moor, (Robbing Roman Corporate war chests). Now love we in Accord  like Honda. Pay attention! Watch me build this from the ground up. Cannibalizing adjectives so long I've developed Mandibles. I go way back to the plystacine. Time traveling. Life's a dream of a head hunter leaving the audience topless. Then lay back lazy, a do nothing congress. I doubt this boot will kick your teeth in, but let's see, shit. Crush a wind pipe deep in its esophageal track, like a toilet brush cleaning the hate with hate of this criminal breed, bitch. I doubt the cops will search for you sooooo why are you still breathing. You ain't colder than a glacier pissing ice in a Quakers anus, if you like pina colada. Then you gonna like my penis a lot, what the fuck you say, I got live rounds with tracers looking like a StarTrek fazer Laser released like I'm Lupe in underworld. I'm a Likin this lyrical labor, theory meets praxis. I'm hurricane Harvey cuming all up in you like you a flood plain. I'm not content standing before the monumental sight of those incarnadine and brown zones with those distinctive stripes composed of ammonia crystals, water droplets, ice crystals, hydrogen, and helium. That chemical composition forming the atmosphere fills the near atmosphere-less sky of the silicate rock, water-ice crust. I am a witness to the chemical composition forming the atmosphere as I look down from the pellucid tower where I dwell. I live in a soaring behemoth as tall as the geyser plumes erupting through the algific surface with great speos, rock-cut alcoves, hewn from the cliffs churned up by Lord Geb and Lady Nut, transformed by the Aethiopian into the burnt umber circular halls where the shaman adored in a feathered headdress was followed by several others wearing porcupine quill headdresses. Men and women in cache-sexes marched up into a silver temple where scientists were piecing human parts together a face here, a finger there, a toe…no a toe doesn’t go…The cosmetic scientists were stitching pinky toes in crowns A halo of toes for each reconstruction. A crown of toes for the great toe kings of the silver temple. Then I saw him, the phantasm I destroyed in that dream dreams ago. His face was now composed of toes with long yet brittle nails. He levitated from the surgical bed, over his metallic davenport. Toward me, a pile nervous shaking corpuscles and sinews. His face was wiggling, wriggling like a field of corn massaged by a summer breeze. I tried to shut my eyes, barricade them to protect them from the horror like families defending themselves from pogroms. But my eyes would not close, then as he spoke to me in thought his face started clapping. The scientists began dropping their lab coats, mounting the surgical beds. And jumping to the rhythm. The toe faced deity said “this is that shit that you dance to jumping”. The altar was transformed into bar, the high priest scientists guzzled mezcal flowing like transpicuous water.