What is your idea of placid? How about a mountain campground? Yes, but here in the midst is a querulous brain a competitive heart

The choir of the saints is heartle… They’ve parried happiness a lifeti… seeking only the old earth, the marsh of the meek— where earnest suffering

Ten days secluded now, improper and unshaven inside a black and gold hole, dope den of sultry sound and opiate mood.

Think you’re doing something? Thing you’ve got some power? You can walk on coals, swallow poison and live, but who is at the helm

I still know what it is to dance, I won’t discount romance, and if I like how it looks, I’ll eat it or wear it

Empty Avenue, Death on the the installment plan, Righteous lady, insolent man, I, patience expired.

The cicada, once with the humility of a barnac… weeping beneath the fern, now screams its inane mantra, which

Mojave Desert crushed cars stacked six, seven, ten tall. From the junkyard juts a billboard:

The moment you flit by my ear, my strings are severed, I droop like a marionette— I remember I know nothing.

You can get better, or you can get worse, or you can stay the same. But you can’t change. Nope!

Love is a svelte dagger, a gentle rapping, a triple-seven. Love is my law, makes me weep,

death with a sickle and like most any farmer their work is never done and life never stops springing for… and never tires of trying

A whole lifetime can go by simple and average, without change, misunderstood, or understood all too well—

III Too late to call vagrancy a fad, an experiment. I am too old and still at it. But it isn’t like I am separate

Just leave the fucking flags at ha… Or half-staff. Or whatever it’s called. Just fucking leave them there.