An unfinished ode

need i say more?

to watching the knife glimmer and wanting her to die
to not knowing where the week is
to no tobacco filled tubes or bottles of liquid vileness
to pumpimg fake bullets into the air,a real cowboy
to rubber band stretch and skin sting
to not going out that evil white door,i need an axe
to lost volumes of kerouac and buddha
to missing them whose names i dont know
to that boy in the coffee house whose eyes looked into mine and mine into his for an all too breif eternity
to seeing him outside the window and ella by my side
to walking through dimlited university towns;cold trying to find a way home
to the smell of old books
to always being the one standing outside the kiss
to lying naked on the carpeted floors and the see through cotton pillow cases,i could write the kama sutra on them
to warming my fingers by the soft candles
to seeing the eyes through the sunglasses
to the hitman sitting in the diner,downtrodden riding away in his elcamino
to being the hard rain thats gonna fall
to the dead boy walking into the light,is it me?

someday my music will die and it will lie in a garden of broken lps and 45's and it will be surrounded my faeries and honey tea
im sitting on a mushroom

to tibetan demon eyes and bachata mandolin
to the surge of beat behind the eyes and flowing through the drum that is my leg
Glory to the vajra surge,praise the buddha pf the streets!
Hail to the hand that beholds the skin outstretched as a holy hindu saint
to the squeaky whiz of inhale
to going over the down south river on that old green bridge
to hallejuha
to the holy solemness of the graveyard
to the bells of freedom ring
to the jingling of bangles
to that slow samba pulsing through my phillipino feet red with cilean love

i dreamt of walking through the streets of detroit,houses of colour and magic musrooms and butterflies.a colorful detroit,only if.
i woke up and then died and then woke up

to the coffee that looks like pumpkin pie being nuked
to remembering climbing the giant colorful robot and sitting on his or her(i could never tell which)shoulders
to having my feet flow of the ground me touching the ceiling and breastroking through the air.sheets flow like kelp below me in a deep green sea.im riding the whale of to an octopuses garden

to being an unconventional american,a quiet parisian,a wild phillipino,an an irish dream
to walking into churches and kneeling and knowing no denomination
to having my peace with god that nobody understands
to the suitcase in hand and the road ahead
to the lost words of gone prophets
to images that will never come again
to those fresh blankets of snow that apear while i empty warm clothes from the dryer
to not washing the dark off your handsto that smell of curry and fallafel and liquid soap
to having borken wings but the eyes of angels
to waking to that afternoon grey sky piano and dissapearing into the river
to the mystic cry of maori women and the humof orange clad monks
to the slow clank clank clank of the freighttrain passing through that small college town or hearing the ting ting ting of a teaspoon swirl through cold lemonade
to not being able to see the scripture,lost enlightenmnet or a new frontier?
to seeing taj mahals of stars,walking with krishna and his flute
to lovely fall days in pere lachaise
to not digging what im writing
to having teeth of the beast  and a tongue of angelic serpents
to living in the holy matrimony of sound and the convoluscence of noise
to being niether black nor white
to being the beat of the the drum but knowing no sticks
to being alienated in the factor that is my life and cutting the reciever off from the world
to being buddhafied
i am the solitude
the loneliness
i am two men in the dark,clad in black boxers and a long t shirt of snow.my feet gone