A Book Unwritten

At Smash Street, which at the moment exists as a jeep crowded with kids, on an interstate, hurtling through days and nights of between tall houses, we are beginning to understand that what we build as constructs upon which we live our lives, we are seeing one moment after the other occur in a linear unfolding that, in fact, does not exist even if that is what we see and feel. The way we perceive reality may only exist in our minds. Example: when I wrote that Smash Street no longer existed because we were moving kids around, our nemesis being deportation, that did not mean that Smash Street did not exist. In the unfolding, it meant that Smash Street, was off in another dimension, this one subversive, it can be done if you care and care enough to do it.

Smash Street might exist as a group of boys camping in canyons of Arizona rocks. Smash Street might exist as a group of boys squatting in a squat. Smash Street might exist in the form of one motel room the motel owner has given to us, no questions asked. Between there was a time when the eyes were slower in their contempt than what they hhave contempt for today. Especially the whole I Do Not Want Anyone Telling Me What 2 Do, which becomes sort of dormant in the face of evidence that clearly suggests there is no up, there is no down, There is only forever, and entropy, and we don’t really know what any of that is.

I agree (I would) with the boys that it’s all a dog and pony show, which sounds benign enough, but isn’t. Take one kid who used to lash out at everything with switchblades and any other metaphorical weapon who has his own reshaped hero, imbued with the safety of his peers. A responsibility what is responsibility responsibility is the perception that what you do in any construct of time has consequences — it matters — and there is power in that performance performing the boy’s shadowing restrictions, invented by himself, it’s a moral code, and he created the goddamn thing, his idea as to what responsibility is now grabs his cock and pulls. Two galaxies. One fuck coming up.

Once again, sex is a political act, it always has been that is why is is sex.

They are afraid and everywhere we’ve gone, every family we have stayed with, hiding out, every sleeping in the jeep parked at the dark edges of a park the tricks prowl around in.

They have money or they don’t.

The trick gets his cock sucked, but this time the boy gets paid upfront, and there are three other boys right behind him, just to make sure no one got hurt. You have someone’s back and they have your back.

They are not unlike atoms that pop pop popping out of electrical and magnetic fields, all of it is related, if process was not connected to perceptions of process, what we call process would be irrelevant. The summers of my remembering all the vanishing into the juice of memory and his brother, Carl. It’s not just about running away. It’s about a balance in the same way dark matter and gravity do their dance of winter afternoons after drinking hemlock on the train that left you behind.

Their histories have denied them the kind of invisibility a poet gets while writing, if not in a verbal reading of the work, than a hearing of it, I have no fucking idea of any books I have ever written, books are not written, there is an Annihilation God, a nomad, and he’s fucking fickle, and he wants you to eat his ass out like a lighthouse beam into a black sea of false regrets.

I will eat all the gardens covered in ashes. Whoever knew loving could ever be this good. Now. Now. Now. Time is a deviant secret and the boys in the backseat masturbating to culture’s own reproductive wind and time of death and then he looks at the clock. Time is a clipboard. It all goes in there. And there. And there.

An old and empty house you share with rabbits and raccoons.

Hide me in motion to you never knew you never knew. Is there anything else to learn in the face of so much left to learn about. How long does it have to be for you to be alive. Do not think this is in a deviance of the universe, jump on any dementia you want, dementia is a deviance in the current climate of regret.

The intersection of science and art will always go back to sex. Autumn is the death of us. We die. What else is there to write home about, death and sex, or left out here on the catwalk, without our shoes today. Indifference is worse than death. Indifference is our voyeuristic noir.

A climate of your stars sometimes we argue over physics late at night, the boys and I, just leaving Memphis, and the rain everyone has a fucking opinion some of which are right out of Hollywood. Okay, so explain to me how…

And then he does.

Fashioning his arguments. A test by fire and steel and and thorns and bites. He wakes up slow. No shapeless nights of leaning forth again.

In depth. His peers are declaring war on laughter and they crack up long before the bridge. Relationships can be a sea of mud on the current of a river more crooked than a barrel of fishhooks.

He knows what a money shot is. He would appear in porn again if the money was right.

I exaggerate.

Pull in closer for the money shot. People want to see deluge because it was deluge and only deluge that facilitated the survival of the species. People making people and now we have done a very bad thing. We see ourselves as so fucking smart when, in fact, in our omnipotence, we need our diapers changed because we are full of shit. As a species, we are full of shit, and you it, bitch.

This is the scene where I get slapped. I give up. Okay, Hollywood is the magic kingship and free drugs. You arrived at the bus station. I know exactly what people want.

But I do not have to want it with them. No, this is not my trip. There is no money shot, there hasn’t been anything to shoot for years. This is supposed to be both stigma and humiliation because procreating is supposed to be knocked up at the genetic level and rhetoric ranked next to god and his goodliness.

My trip is to run around the woods naked high on six, seven different drugs. People want to see the Titanic sink. Invisibility and her storm clouds and her injured he thinks as his mouth tastes the better dope not that sheep shit in those little plastic bags of invincibility.

They have to ween themselves and he’s a sterling example of he is so fucking right to detest being told what to do because wisdom and hogwash are the same, and they’re not, and pretending will not make it so, we all pretend, we all pretend because if we did not, we would be unable to suck the cocks that come our way. We would be lost in our despair we are already lost in our despair, and as a species, we are beginning the construction of yet another culture war where fair use is the sound of scythes, and our reason for being here has yet to be defined but the war is on. She’s back and she brings infinity with her.

This is poetry. I write poetry. I am here to tell you this is poetry, art, and protected speech. A pieces of ass has nothing to with physics until it does.

Mushrooms. The universe at large. Purple mushrooms. The mushrooms from Uranus are especially more pious than disgraced. You need to keep them refrigerated or the mold has babies like crazy and the red turns to black, and hubris is standing on our bones.Tripping is like your very first sleep. You know you were there.

But to rejoice when no one else is there. The Sangre de Christo Mountains dusted with a ruthlessness of snow in dreams and tyranny. The boy sees it like a movie, a responsibility for time, knowing as he does, time only exists in relationships.

He’s not stupid. He is perhaps already destroyed. We can all be destroyed, and some of us will be destroyed numerous times. Pissing like a dog on an old adobe wall. Destruction, like most fetishes, or addictions, is our dark house inside the thing, and then their twins, the fields. The headlights of concupiscence and the desert plunges into a dark that resonates in the shadows of the graves time and his tyrant whose heroin is fear has left for the rest of us as we change our bones to exile’s lament, lament all you want, or get involved, these are not ideas of thusly families, but of rivers of their blood. That river runs like a river through my dreams.