'I dream, day and night, of becoming one of those invisible little saints; I dream of touching the world with my actions unseen, but their effects rippling for miles, as stalks bend by the grace of the wind.

Were it only so easy for my clumsy human hands to lift the hearts of a panorama.'

words to drive fast by,
cheap and fleeting with the windows down,
summer screaming in and the life inside of your lungs
roaring up and out, begging deaf elder gods
for a god-damned explanation.

That's my therapy:
musing about welding myself, tooth-and-nail first
around a light pole at a million man miles per hour.

makes you feel so small, but so rooted:
empires built on bad promises and bright colored shirts,
dug deep in your homeland dirt,
memories just piles and piles, miles high of every bite of cigar, vodka, and femme-flesh
that passes through your gnashing, needing jaws and explorative (exploitative) lips,
greedily tasting more than your fair share of crystal clear life.
This is the wide-eyed drink the devil would pour
every night ending in 'y,' animals like us
keep on lining up for more,
choosing left or right
leading to the same box in the ground
the same slaughterhouse door.
and i couldn't, wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world.