ensalata del mar

i am the solitude
stripped...not solid
i am the song
of the expiring bleached
child
hair blown like hay
tied down with sea oats
and rabies foam...experienced now,
i am the drunken prophet that
i ran here to die
-to leave behind in a hail of
levi commercial gun battles

i write because i can't sleep
i stare at this page
curiously
expecting to read the lines
the inspiration
that my season should be afforded

i expect "apocolypse now" style
symbolism but
i have only thoughts while drinking
and in the morning there are no
words

the rest of the world
continues with tomorrow
thinking that i'm still here.

unconsciously
i scratch down the biography notes
of a dying man
hurling headlong through
the fables of insanity
funny though...
i hold it together as if
observing some grand experiment,
unaware of what the consequence may bring
unaware of any damn thing

i think it might take a job
riding rollercoasters
to save me

a good laugh is like a
good cry anymore these days

i think of my mother burying her mother
and i long to be with them soon
in their collective and sweet
hereafter

but i have the junkman's work to do
the thrill seeking life of
a junk addict glutton
is a fiery suit to wear
-a cold cross to bear.
leaving me staring down thirty three
wondering

what more
could be left
for a lover like me

if this mind's cliff of mine
leaves your fair maiden dangling
and you're worried 'cuz you
think you've ever
known me
then you should be

if you cry in the night
missing something because you
think you once loved me,
then you don't know me. pity.
i, once dreaming
killed castles housing dragons
to display my faith in thee.