frying my mind ain't so bad (as far as i kin feel it)--

it's losing my teeth that truly frightens me.

it's listening to my father blindly spouting truisms.
so i may likely smoke prior to seeing him. this will also help me stomach any food stuffs he may suggest we devour.

i mind the people around me when they are not listening. when they are merely awaiting their turn to speak, counting their thoughts and the seconds and gripping tightly to their words with their tongues behind tight lips.

people and their influences. their influences bother me as well. why couldn't they float past the gate of possibilities. why must they insist on following the same tunnel without exploring the windows on their way. without investigating the source of light shining high or to their far left sides upon the aging roads they tread.

i'm unwinding blissfully, arrogantly, ignorantly. i hardly know what goes on around my own perimeter, where do i get the gall, the nerve, the inclination that i know better.

i only want to step upon a stage and bang my drum and sing with a proud tightness around my eyes and a wide mouth excreting the biggest words i can think of with abandon.

i want to live with abandon.

hate breeds hate--

. . . too often

strength won't work
for a pacifist.

does pacifism breed cowardice?

those who share your blood are certain
that you are wrong.

how does one decide between pen and a gun?
i doubt anybody has consciously chosen one over the other/

in a room/
and everybody pushing for the one window/
i'm standing in the back of this room/
kicking faces, tugging on hair and clothes,
they claw and squirm towards this one window/

and this room has everything/
it's all under the bed
and behind the curtains and hanging from the ceiling

but their eyes see the prize/
being this one window facing the sound
of a loud repetitive drum/

unknowable to the people fighting to get through,
those who have slipped through this camel's eye
are now beneath the room, grinding down into dust.

now bits and specks of spirit begin to drift back
into the room
through the window/

the air carries the remaining lives/
they receive a tour of a room they
never noticed before.

hovering above an angry crowd
that continue pushing and shoving,
thrusting and sweating,
pushing through a window/

and my back is to this wall
of a room and i'm holding a small pipe
to my mouth and a match in my hand/

the wind pushing and pulling
small, burnt, ripped and brown
paper through legs and arms/

it sticks to a bloodied stump
on a limp and indistinct
mound of flesh/