jpaulgorman

speaking of gangsters the sorry lot selfishness to it's odd conslusion intimidation and nods trust nowhere to be found stuffing themselves into suits walking from right to left leaning all the time toothpicks stains hair products vocabulary of a dozen steam room dwellers afraid of solitude phony cash trash cash minutemen at the ready gang up boys the english are dumb but they fight like desperados

naturalism takes over like a momentumed slide, gaining pace always. perhaps an aged flesh, weary and wise due to wounds of days, provides a balance. the mind is fully alive and gnawing, it's own heartbeat, it's unvisited cubbyholes, unfound jewels. resisting becomes denying becomes habit becomes freedom, layers of wombs.

worn broom sits in the corner the dead hair it's seen blue water of unknown supposed to be cleaner talk is mindless and endless as cracked seats spin reflections everywhere and razors cutting eyes look at every angle checkerboard floor of black and white seventy years old aged men arrive calling everyone by name and just bitchin' loud and long 'bout weather taxes and baggy pants toothpicks always hanging sighs and hums two fingers and powdered necks windows for walls newspapers no credit cards layered cuts extra came in the through the back doors locked and belled half eaten tuna fish orange soda pop number 8 on top 7 round the sides and back don't block it off eyebrows need a trim too damn congress spending lying girls ok? thrift store just had a big truck leave maybe some used records elo and echos drum container perfect for cords

no orders, no rules no commands, no mandates just suggestions of obedience a plan for living, a plan for dying heaven is not a place of marketing convincing is not needed, but desired the rainbow, casting it's shadow of deceit visions of wonderment and attainable illusions allowing all to avoid the truth, if only for a few years the burden of wanting and needing and getting your due forcing the issue, making the stage yours, the world seems tiny huge boxes of bones lying underneath the roots and walking hopers souls of meekness and service all the while living in the midst of divine ages drop the self reflection, lose the superior mind games, pull up the lost, be constant animals plants space art balance knowledge trust believe in madness

off to the west, near the nuclear tests sits a pile of sand and a hornets nest huge rocks and french white wines aching for family and having good times looks of knowing and hands of grease saltless maragritas and two kinds of meat bonfire brew near an amphitheater blues get light from the noise of a heater from gear to rides to room and board made that way so we could afford hospitality holds a lofty place next to angels and the One of grace knee high powder and catching breaths in a state of mind and a state of unrest sweetie wakes early and starts to howl never heard her beg, never heard her growl junior looks strong and he seems real smart flaunts a huge smile and a tender heart up near the divide in a valley of hope lives a family who will always live near the slopes a canyon was forged by the eagle river if my life wasn't waitin' i'd try to live here smartest man i ever knew got some good ...

ain't that white down here no more. just green bermuda seeping through the dead and worn beige. dallas is mostly concrete, gotta get out to the fabulous suburbs to find the nuevo soul of texas. neon, everywhere. new neon. like new jeans torn and frayed. what would the reckless guitar player think of that? no bordellos around here. no cockroaches. the rats eat them and the snakes eat the rats. of course, we cut the heads off of the damn snakes. poisonous or not. i envy st.augustine.

talking of pulsing paragraphs hawking the latest cultural fad mistaking the gifts they once had for a theory or hidden meaning the wind carried the words to finger tips the thoughts that came from their lips they threw their tantrums and their fits so others would find them beaming in the end, we'll all be dust and ash the poems will fade, the songs get trashed under the rainbow, our hopes are dashed don't you know we're all just dreaming

good tweezers are hard to find ones that won't nick when you pull a splinter eyeballs have very little feeling and can bleed blood, contrasted with the whites of the eyes create a spectacular painting if paintings could see, what tales of indecision! the muse in the corner fragile and still her curves and shapes my eyes followed anchored until released trapped in the coffin of life suffocating on our own greed afraid of the world's opinions shocked by the madness shocked by the heartless amen awomen