Car Car Rimbaud

Car Car Rimbaud

I write in almost a delirium as something unknown crawls through my veins, crawls through the drains leading to my mind, to my brain to my soul. Where it will stop only I know. Pulsing through my body tickling my thoughts and playing with them like we did when we were children racing through the knee high bright green grass along the creek, calling to one another in a secret language only the young may know, screaming those lies and bellowing under the swelling, pregnant skies. I look in your eyes and I see the truth although you don't exist or at least not yet. The untold weight of centuries rests on my knees, not my shoulders, they aren't strong enough to hold the burden all they can do is throw a grenade and call in a few soldiers. Laughing as we ran through the thickening smoke reveling in the destruction of our childhood, children no more, running to the door that would lead with no return to the future and the past at the same time. It's up to us to see which one will last giving no breath as I look past the flowers and see God standing there glaring at me with a cursory glance and waltzing off into the cornfield with Buddha and maybe Richard Gere. I know you're not near and I know you're not far. I know there's no answer but I know there's a hope that doesn't involve dope. The life of a thousand passes through my feet and up to my knees past my thighs gripping them tightly as it slowly caresses the product of genes squished between the jeans and moving fully up in a torrent of pain past my chest, up my nose and living in my bangs for a while before moving out of me and on to another host leaving me breathless like a stale winter wind running away from old father time like a child who has decided at last to break free from their past and the old way they lived. Denying the truth because it is not what it seems to be although they tell me I'll grow out of that in time, wanting to know exactly where it is that they get this information that they call reality. I've never seen it cited in any book but the few I have read that come close provide some answer but not all, it's incomplete without the knowledge to realize it is. Crying in the dark, my tears taste sweet like sugar running into my pores and burrowing deep like a rat finding a nest and waiting for its chance to strike once I finally give myself up to the bosom of sleep, wanting to escape the eternal bliss we call life. Despair, though, is my friend because it gives me a strength I had yet to find before I had known this sweet lover I call confusion because that lover is unknown to most except me and them, those that they don't know about far out in the bizarre universe past the reaches of the milky way maybe even on Saturn, I'm not sure as the New York Times hasn't reported it yet. The toe on my foot tells me it's almost time and urges me to act not knowing that I already have and have failed at the attempt to establish communication with that other world of longing and late nights, of touches and screams of pleasure and pain all mixed together as the bed springs cry out in a song of triumph until finally they settle back into the dark night as though nothing happened at all and the night had been quieter than it seemed at first because really nothing happened, it was only in her mind, an imaginary friend some might call elusive or maybe just shy. The babes in the alley are much more real even though they have been gone for quite some time and have been at home with their mommies growing their solemn way towards some future as yet unnamed and unmapped uncharted and couldn't even be charted by Columbus himself. Talking to myself and trying to reason out what it is that I call myself, is it boy girl man woman thing it or could it be neither or none of the above? Maybe I'm just a mass of organized cells working to destroy me and work me up into a frothing tangent until my head explodes into a burst of fire so strong it could level Nicaragua in an hour and extend into Chile by the next. Maybe I'm imagined, the product of a writers fevered poundings on a keyboard, the joint clenched between his lips slowly dying and withering into a pile of burned leaves at the bottom of the desk while his cat slinks about in a slender way trying to decide whether the mouse in the corner should live or die. Spare ye or spare yourself? What do I know about life, only a young person with a life half lived and very little hope for the other half having seen more in the process of living vicariously than you will ever know, loving more men than Cleopatra herself through the cd or the rusted old pages of a novel written by a man named Lester or a man named Albert but aren't they really the same person just under a different name? Love doesn't come swiftly nor do I care. I'll just sit here and daydream and look towards the stars talking to him as we sit on the back of my dad's old truck waiting for the man as Lou Reed once prophesied while he jabbed the needle in his vein and waited for ecstasy to blow his mind and tear him asunder, spreading his icy remains on the ground below as his eyes float down the Ganges somewhere off in the middle away from the bank so that no one will ever find him. With no purpose and no name I don't know why I continue except that in some small way it might bring closure to the paragraph  because every paragraph needs an ending that will satisfy them because if you don't make them happy who will? Maybe Gandhi will come and tear down that wall so that Gorbachev doesn't have to and maybe Bush will become Pope tomorrow after a coup against the Vatican. Maybe the world will explode tomorrow in either fire or ice only Robert Frost knows and I bet Jimi and Janis did too although they're gone now down the eternal flame of rock 'n' roll fueling the fire so that it will always burn even after I and you are gone and long after my grandchildren have destroyed the universe like wandering martians waving their cookbook right in front of our noses and us never realizing exactly what it is. With green and blue flashing in my corneas as the computer seems to expand somehow in a vortex threatening to suck me into this never-ending vacuum it almost seems a comforting thought to know that the world depends on me and me alone in some small way although that might just be some billboard I read on my way to San Fran in the dark loneliness of a night well spent of love and lust you can choose which one you want because this is back to square one back to the beginning back in the end of the line as we travel down the godforsaken crossroads so that we may decide whether to sell or to keep whether to lose or win whether to fight the oncoming storm or run to our bomb shelters, bundle there with a blanket of pure gold Donald Trump gave everybody. Flowing from my fingertips as I stare at the dog sitting on the bed with a confusion unknown to man not knowing where the words are tumbling, maybe coming from another world or outer space or the luscious and enticing arms of a warm dead man calling from the deepening clouds or the inner sanctum of below the belt. The end must come sometime but I don't know when and I don't know why. All I'm going to write is one more sentence so listen to me please there will be a test on this later. Love had never been had so it can't be lost and the life of a pea plant is not as important as you think because after all, don't we all have to go on the final journey some time or another and what better way than death by confusion?