wading in the stream of consciousness

i don’t know the name of this place

but it’s hot

 

i miss my 3 a.m. rendezvous with

the dark streets of decay

just the other day

i picked up the same titled volume

of poems i wrote and read for awhile

it was mostly about a girl

the aftermath

 

i have lots of knowledge

but little understanding

and hate opinionated grandstanding

the moment is all that matters

 

all else is excessive chatter

and unrelated to the recreation of my mind

 

i don’t know what you’re hoping to find

i have no expectations

i best the buddhists at transcendence

 

abandoned dilapidated buildings in the desert sun

on a lonely stretch of highway

every horizon housing a mirage

is the paralyses of my perception

 

i was there at my conception

but i wasn’t there at my birth

somewhere along the way i was reborn

and wrote the dark streets of decay

 

now my cigarette ceremony swirls smoke in the shade

everything’s on parade

excepts the poets

watching the crowd

that’s watching the entertainment

 

there is no attainment

just me not trying to be anything

other than whom i am

 

hiding my dangling nudity

from a crate full of clams

snapping like an auditorium

full of clapping hands

while the curtain goes down

for the final time

because no one could find

the perfect rhyme

because no one asked me

although i would have told them

it doesn’t matter what you find

 

this is a peaceful day

the world is far away

eventually i will return

to forage for food

among the restaurants

l.a. has to offer

 

sanders was right

we circle the wagons

while corporate campaign corruption closes in

seeking their share of skin

until no flesh is left on our bones

 

yeah, i know,

a nihilist voted

but he was someone worth voting for

 

harboring a high desert wind

i rescind

stare at the vast empty spaces

times like these were made for me

i’m thriving

reviving and diving right in

 

this world will wake

and find this poet dying

of unnatural causes

brought on by the excess

of my exasperation

 

traipsing through the desert of my mind

the rapture has happened

and i’ve been left behind

strolling through abandoned buildings

god is not unkind

he couldn’t have granted this loner

any greater favor

 

all the other apples were hand picked

from the tree

but i fell free

found the ground

ignored and left among the silence

of my own soliloquy and language

i am a poet who only needs a poem

not an audience on sunset and vine

gathering to hear my stream of consciousness

 

i wrote this alone

back against stone

so read it in the privacy

of your chair where

you masturbate to porn

 

in hell no clothes are worn

just the flesh that burns eternally

all your sins sewn into the fabric

of your skin for all to see

 

imagine what will be sewn on me

 

reconsidering redirection

below the radar

without detection

my origins were in the ears

that heard jim morrison’s poems

then i devoured everything a poet

needs to feed their creative output

 

my first poem was about love

born on the wings of a snow white dove

i wonder what my final poem will be about

 

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