...strapped...

stripped, strapped, and stripped again, for the fin in dory’s story of finding a new sun. fighting on through that burning day, peeled to the mattress like solvent glue for you, no you, no that other girl over there…just lolly-gagging in the effervescent wholly holy fight for my soul. struggling to maintain a direction or relationship to save my life. just a single lonely sailor drifting out across the sea to be. crying for my one to be. back to being stripped and dipped again in the molasses of sticky bureaucracy of and for my soul. i find a sober mind like pin-prick injustices though my being,… seeing the true light of being teething or a loose knot sandwich. for whether or not I am of my own accord will make the difference in being. seeing the chattering clattering souls delve in and out of the local jails impales my spirit with shit so stunk it rots corpses like a 1,000 year old whiskey. to see this plan for righteous adventankerous witherdoings i hold true to what i know. the snow falling like fresh angel powder. the heat of the summer boiling the lakes and ponds to bombs of passionate kisses and wishes from puppies and kitties. stalling yet stalling for the falling of loves inner light in the fight to battle rattle the true core of what we implore as love-making. the sight saddled breath left in the hole of the burning womprats nest. the holding and bestowing of spirit to the dearest. making love in a sweet sticky bath of pheromonal and hormonal wonder. and me, found alone un-stoned at least but with a beast of burden so cacophonally confounding it hurts my mind.

...stripped...

stripped of all my writing tools, the booze, cigarettes and weed, I need to find a new way forward, toward a new past. jail sentences and prison threats lay dangling like cat toys for my consciousness to play with throughout the day. old lovers like reveries playing with me. never to be found. un-sounded and mightily depressed. laughter in the echo at my let go of specific lovers leaves me wanting to curl into a ball, hurl the whiskey though my veins like dames asking for it. cannabis mistress no more i implore for a more thorough examining of my wrongdoings. finding peace amidst the fight i struggle to write under duress of a cleanly and pin prick sober mind. the beer oh dear and the marijuana wanna find me again in a dark alley and stab me full of life sentences. sober house searching for nothing, stuck, stuck, just stuck. nothing to live for, no urge to shower or brush, just touching the lips of death like a breath from a devil. devils breath coursing through my being, seething into the demise of fruition and maturation. just stuck. frustrated like an un-mated marsupial i spiral down into depression. not feeling, just reeling in a space of hatred for my common man and no plan I see from God, should it ever decide to hobble through my door.

...oh dear...

oh dear, the beer has spilt into spirits, fine wine, and lots of sweet sticky smoke. my whole home splitting yet again across land and sea, the speak easy gin mill hooch parlor of my dreams shelfed for punishment of a crime. redacted statements of over joyous occasion slammed to the wall for a stall of market and breadth of breath. my words don’t have to match or dance in accordance to this floor dance but simply sieve the truth from lies. my ties to that felony escaping me. running as fast as possible though dry tundra of spirit. claiming whole upon redaction my thoughts land restless in the moonlight of a temporary home that broke my back and tried to break my neck. now on to bigger and better circumstances i freeze as i speak into whole water mist. crippling circumstance and dead plants. i wonder why I trudge on through the yearning for more. exacted like a knife through my hearts infractions to the game. 5 days until release into the wild, pre-trial spinning off for a dated treatment of my service to this country. seething like breathing dragons they clench onto my being millisecond by millisecond, trenching the benched wafting of a seeming loser who can’t fit through the door. I cry no to this holding of soul, this clashing rattle for support and rapport. Dashed upon the rocks like babies breath death.