Untitled

stalls of rest stops
fast food places
under a tree as it rains.

the headache of mellowness
drowning out the sound
of others voices.

memories as black and white as old movies
that give you
a scary feeling
that they were all too real to be
acting
and actually alive
and it meant something.

I light up a cigarette as i have done
on many, many, occasions...
i lay my head down on my knee
and i digest the smoke
and the seconds of night
where you feel your own ghost.

the haunting feeling of a song
like i am in a church
preachers of desolate deserts
and lonely crowded streets

i am connected to the strings of time
a guitar with no hole to
amplify
the sound of
the same tune

over.. and over...
and over,

and over.

i pluck at myself in attempts to break the silence
even over the noise

a tall thin boy
with the name ending in a promise
that there will be a fourth.

names carried down
to a waste basket to be
washed

a father
with only the relation
of each others problems

daylight an illusion of
peace,
that something is being shown,
that..
something isnt trying to hide.

embrace the
gods reminding you of
the stirring creation inside
or wake up
as they say..
and

start it all over again
with a fresh cup of coffee
or nicotine
to dull the senses.

the day breaks through
the blinds
when you haven't slept
for what it feels,
3 weeks.

and something explodes in you
like a grenade on the television
with the sound turned off

the night engulfs me in its mercy
and now, stepped foot out of the house
i have something to write about.

the sad thing is

it will never matter all that much