When did it all close down?
When did everything change?
How is it I cannot recognize anything?
Why is it that nostalgia keeps trying to replace reality?
Am I the only one with all these questions?
Does this mean I am not a true writer?
Because I question rather than answer?  assume?  opinionate?
Am I a coward because I dare not to presume I know those answers?
or refuse to be self-absorbed enough to declare my opinion valid?

 
af

(written in little notebook)

you look like one person
act like another
fear as someone completely different

i told you who i was
what i desire, what respect i hold
i told you i am love sex passion art
i told you i am a drifter
a dandelion seed swimming with water
cutting through nations
becoming the ocean, the rain
traveling the world over endlessly;
we said we were crazy
that was the deal we made
to delve inside each other’s body
spirit soul
ride the music, the lust
catch the wave and rip through life together
free to ravage each other trust each other

you agreed as one person
tried as another
and now fail succeed on your own will

af

(written on typewriter)

the world has already fallen apart

we fucked it up…let’s just all come clean about it
Jesus Fucking Christ how ignorant and obtuse we are

Scream out with the songs of history
but stop forgetting the cost of those melodies
YOU…you, right there
You who have smoked with me laughed with me
gone insane with me
now come with me
to the cresent city, down to the bayou
let’s fuck up some fried crawfish hushpuppies under the highway
and dance the night away
and drink the night away
and live every day as our last
and when we wake up the next morning
and get another day
then we strap on the gear for life
and fuck up yet another day together
same as same as over catfish and horns

an institution as this nation long takes time to fall completely
but brick by brick it is collapsing on itself
and if we do not move
on us as well

go with me
come with me
down south
down west
across oceans
who the fuck cares
just fly around with me
skipping across existence

 
af

(written on typewriter)

I forgive you
for all of your trespasses
and for those I forced you to embrace;
within my responsibility, I forgive you

My door is open
I am not afraid to put these words down
while alone with the space wide open
My past is only a habit with memories
emotionally circular

I know that I am matter
stardust
pixydust
my emotions
faerie

People think too big
trying to create one-world
one set of rules, one etiquette and responsibility…
I try to create my own world
common sense rules, fluid void of the judge
music
god
there to exist, giving in order to exist
improving with everything it is given

so I forgive you
so I understand you
glasses are not necessarily rose but a vibrant color nonetheless

as a five year old
walking to school at twelve
abused from every direction at sixteen
left with a bastard at twenty-one
forgotten by forty
paranoid with no memory at seventy,
I say goodnight to you more now
smile then keep walking my pilgrimage
because I forgive you

af

(written on typewriter)

Just displacing shit…
Cover the bed with papers, hard drives, clothes
useless shit that is created and will be
always
eventually discarded
whether in this life or after our death.

I feel a change happening inside my…my…everything
mind, body, spirit
I feel a unity developing
I feel that there is something I can see

or something that is unknown still

but something that I already experience
something that for as long as I would try
as many pages as I would write trying to describe
the epicness of thousands of volumes…

it is something that involves not this society
nor these words I write
nor anything I knew existed right here on earth.

I feel it now
using this tool as a medium
for my gravity helping to draw me closer to the center
of the balance I have lost for too long
so that this energy
this true, real energy
can take hold
properly
like it has always been meant to

To walk, away from the past
and onto the present…
thirty five years have been about yesterday

It is time
soon
for me to take that next step in this journey

…don’t miss me too much…

af

(written on typewriter)

It is our habit to look past everything we have
and want more
more

but think about it

you say, “I’m freezing”
but I say you have no risk of death this evening
you say, “I’m starving”
but I say your cabinets and fridge are stocked
you say, “I’m bored”
but I say you have an imagination and shelves of books
you say, “I’m poor”
but I say you have everything you need and a means for more

and if you say, as I have said most of my life,
“nothing matters…what for…too late”
then do whatever you want because you have no need to worry
because nothing matters
because there is why not…because no reason is why not
because if you’re too late to be great,
then you have permission to embrace anything

af

(written on typewriter)

Overcome

artist by artist
the hourglass empties the cafe, fills the street
artist by artist
I await my turn to read a few poems to a diminishing few
four comedians and a dancer
silence even a poet is not used to hearing

a few quit and I cut my set
gettin’ late, don’t wanna bore, keep it light
second guesses and excuses
two unhealthy mantras I have overcome
yet I always seem to live by in times of pressure

cue soundtrack

staring at the same faces…
do they genuinely dig it?
or is it just mock reluctance?

I cower, read lost within a few poems
apologize my thank you
and take my seat as everyone honestly reaches out

back to the corner
feeling like I had a few more minutes a few more poems
wondering why I was so afraid
why I felt they were mocking

no one conversed yet they all acknowledged
me
this turtle who refuses to trust the world

whether it is a full house or an empty one…

Did I shy away?  Did I get arrogant?  Did I get ignorant?

…it is a performance

beginning to argue with myself
right as the comedian begins to argue with the host
the greed of all of us
the beauty of communication
the art within an evening going as an evening should go
chaos, poetry, laughter, music, passion, drink

Art is art…that is what I preach by live by
make fertilizer with the shit I am given
pilgrim of one

a blade of grass finally poking through the soil
my back a little straighter
reminded of who I am
two steps back one step forward this time

but always at least one step forward
happy for being self
for being energy, a mirage, an experience
alone with the wonders of the world,
the mountains to the coffee shops,
to a lonely few alone on a cold tuesday night
trying to be something
trying to say something
trying to overcome

af

(written on computer after an interesting astoria evening)