Asia Minor

Does it ever really end,
Did it ever really begin?
My sister, she told me,
With a beggar's grin,
A grim recompense
Midst a regalia of death.
The butterfly in the mist
Pressed against the page
Like a window to infinity.
The slow march abreast the waves--
To Carthage then I came.
Catharsis.

Dialect so plain,
The valley of the caterpillar
Between two sheer cliffs.
*Slow clap* pillars of either this or that
Either one.
I say Father dear,
Mother severe,
There is no sight to soothe me,
Everywhere the tide of illusion eschews me from society
As if something guiding,
Vines around my feet
And your shadow at 12:03,
Dust in your face,
Eyes watering on the barren heath
And there is no wedding ring,
And there is no reverberation,
Only prison and pain and malice in station,
The palace of waste and indiscretion.
Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds.
Radiant playa of doom,
Who needs actions
When you've got words?
Antithetical

Poetics of grace
Of wax and then wane,
A polish of deepening sickness.
The deepest most blackest home,
Darkness darker and feeling alone,
If you listen to me
I can show you something:
A fallow field all surrounding,
A friend knows no fear,
A friend knows only truth
And an open ocean all around you.

American Poet

So this is style...another rose emerging into the cold, petals wilted, thorns exposed. A complete inner world of contemplation mirrored distinctly in a lucid and supple prose. I'm aware of my heart on my sleeve, it makes it easier to breathe...or was that easier to bleed? By any means, please, marry each idea to it's opposite. More Amarillo rest stop and truth beside your pillow and Joyce, him too, talking of the routine. Maybe to expand upon this notion: The rest stop is in your head and truth is what Sojourner says and Joyce, he's the intellect, the deft hand applying pressure against the wind and the breath. The one who chases the ox...and the hare and you're right there again. Like the lug shaft pressed firmly against a boot, another seed I have lying in root. Oblivion in me. I'm resting in places too calm to disguise.

Kanye Listening to Kanye in his own Home

And if it's one thing written in wisdom
Were there three things following,
Or only that familiar sense of emptiness?
A tinny sensation as I bite the bit,
All bytes and bits, the tinniest little mess.

The whole world will be blessed,
I never wish, I don't pretend,
Live on a razor and feel the edge.
I can feel my face and fingers,
I can see the flavor of the season.

Salsa--and the art of the freshness, or,
The secret of life and everything,
May everyone of my words ring true
And glow like burning coal.
Every page like it was written in my soul,

From me to me,
For you or you,

I'm tangling in greys and greens,
Let the moss grow slow on the south-side of the trees,
If you need me I'll be in my room,
Watching Aziz.

Let me go, Really, Let me go ( aka Get Your Hands up out my Pockets and Your Nose up out my Window)

I can straight up tell you
I have more skill than nine out of ten.

Between my fingers and thumb
The microphone lives.

The beta-waves drift,
Slowly away.

Tonight,
I am in my zone, my head.

I'm just another writer in a chair,
Now, please, just shoot me,

Put me on a shelf,
I only have one more life left in hell,

So let's get it rolling already,
Let's go,

You know the motto?
No tomorrow,

I'm from Yolo county,
I got a lot of gold to sell.

The Number Twenty Two or 12 and 10

Twin aliens
On a 51-50
Watch me,

I counted 22 crows
Eating
In the muddy field

As I walked home.


Broken promises,
Memories half-true,

Sailing in an ocean
Above the moon.

'Instrument immortal,
Tree of all roots.'

Mother of all visions,
Father of fortune,

All fantastic emanations,
Any illusion,

All truth:
All strings must pull,

Or be pulled.
Different towns,

Same news.
To the tune of the former,

Many new awakening,
One noose,

One neck,
One death, mem

The ocean all around,
Many now drown,

Only thing I know
Is Maya, the soup of existence,

But I count 22 crows
Eating
In a muddy field

As I walk home
And gaze into the distance.

Hex - Harmonic (Coldcut Mix Version)

Just a correalation between the rug,
The Persian rug,

The bug,
And the music.

Meticulous arrangment,
Ambient works,

A careful confusion,
Every fiber of my being screams;

What?
I cannot tell you.

I was going to go
And say something like,

'Every fiber of my being screams,
Isolation,'

But I've forgotten the meaning.
I scream intoxication,

The pulp of my soul-stuff
Is being mashed.

The thing I realize
Is

That every moment is
The thing.

This is it,
Can you see?

I don't try to be the oarsman,
When I can be the lead.