winter sweeps these streets

we sweep these city streets, with faces grim and cold, the glass upon glass crime, glassed in, like citi streets, run owned by, the body sleeping, crumpled up against the atm, a warm, but well lit spot.

on the lechmere T, two kids texting, one with a CD titled "star fucking hipsters," a trip to cambridge made successful, reading the map, lacing the shoes stylishly.

we bleet these city sheep, well lit and all, and fleece these gritty streets, like these greaseballs.

flit amongst the pantheon of faces, the humanity laid bare, wheelchair and cane dragging bicyclists, the full money spectrum of face made up, something hidden, scarves and hats and hefty jacket prices, these shoes or those shoes, these feet or those feet, these streets or whose?

my little sister sleeps as deep as her latin

asleep in the fire of fuck all,
we went searching amongst the bodies,
for what grains of truth could be found in history,
and instead were fed by the vibes of our own feelings.

righteousness, was a word for a passing time,
when we could seek ourselves with impunity,
and amidst the hulking behemoths of yesterday, tomorrowed
we bore wholes amongst ourselves, drained the miasma,
made mudpies, laughed at the clay evolving.

in the vein, of finding it, we would chew on rocks and ruckus,
the sweet succor found within would jazz our chilly vibe,
and the definite approach to everything, would be met
with less haste, less certainty, and just a bit more time.

frankel's muse

and there wasn't a whole lot of meaning to be found around nowadays, it had to be forged. In a time of limited pleasures it seemed that life was increasingly strange, if not love, then drugs, sex money power, the world was only full of so many things, how many of them brought any lasting peace or comfort.

as if in the lasting, we could make it better, the best that I've seen is the acceptance of change, and of the impermanence of joys, of the give and take, the tidal pull of it all, sloshing the belly and the essence, the untouchable, but still sloshable.

packs of ciggarettes, drunkenness, the mad release at the point of orgasm, mach speed through a swath of deep powder, there was a relatedness to all of these things. A deep touch into the center of the being that said yes yes yes yes, this is what it's all about. Could microbes in free fall experience such joys as they were shed from birds wings, flying south? A kick to the pants of melancholy was to be a match stuck to the finger, lit one handed, inattentively.

ouch! burnt crisp skin, licked, slightly salted, the same flavor as overroast meat, this lump of flesh and bones was meant to feel free, suckahs!!!!

that's what it came down to, flight, joy, tingling sensations of love not fleeting at the scale of lifetimes, or at least the ability to make time stop, say, "rip my chest open" let the burning heart out into the water of this world, plunge my steam baked brain into the salty brine of positive emotions, come back gasping clean laying on the beach, hot and cold, skin peeling, still growing.

the one bird whispered to the other, "If I were him, I wouldn't think so much..."

lampshade

and we rage against the silence and the deafening sound, as in all bodies meant to be somebody not just six feet down.

and we fade white like winter, the comforting ground, only to rise springshine in the body we have found.

against the flocks of mankind we stand as tall as we can, despite this the sage passes lives like fistfuls of sand.

to be or not to be. that was the question. to be by not being, that was his suggestion, yet king high, or mudmaker low, we slashed middle class, and let blood flow;

as in pumping veins, and doing what the head do.

and the why said what?!

and the who said, "he!" and the we said "she!"
I went downstairs to find something to eat. It felt like days since I had had a drink of water. The room where I had dwelled was full of objects, not all of them useful, but then again, John Stewart Mill was crowding my bookshelf solely due to my resistance of the impulse to throw him out the window.

Oh the elusive slippery film reel of happiness of one's own life, cannot be grasped through books nore music, but maybe, those same fingers, unflinchingly, bite like nails into the wood of the hearing now.

the everybody said "yipee!" and headed down the stairs.

I was there, toast in hand, mouth full of jelly, looking for the cider in the fridge when they finally caught up to me, and bit me in the ankle.