Combustion And Reconstruction

I have a stalker
Her name is death
She penetrates the outskirt
Of my being
in a dainty way
I’d love to do nice things
For her
But then I awake
To realize she is already dead
And full of nothing
But lies, deceit,
Rows upon Rows
of
Endless aging
And
decomposed catacombs
Don’t listen to her
She has a husband in Hades
His name is Napoleon
With a Napoleon Complex
Down Upon
rows upon rows
Of
descending
Ancient catacombs.
(A lot of rich people down
In the pit of the earth)
Where forlorn
Mansions of Hades
Reside,
Combustion
And reconstruction is essential,
Circumambulating the
The futile wreckage
Which preceded Dante
In his misplaced terrestrial wisdom

PS.
Don’t worry
I see my therapist today,

Selah

what I find in the daytime

                   what I find in the daytime


you can find anything in a city park
in the daytime
when the
abysmal Latino youngsters kick around
soda pop cans next to a city park trashcan
this trashcan is an emasculated
trashcan
the chains wrought
round the metal shaft
speak voluminous
pathos of kinship
but don't fuck my niece
anywhere in the nighttime
this is what I find
about a city park in the daytime
4 PM is good for cocktails
if you're an alcoholic
in the daytime
and the nighttime
this is what I find

if I had one wish
I'd piss on the sun
in the daytime
this is what I find

in the
nighttime
the angel of death frequents my apartment
this is what I find
in the nighttime

Dreaming,
I  hear
her voice calling my
name in the daytime
this is what I find
that
she is pretty
and
she wants to fuck me
in the nightime
this is what I find
but then,
 I can't wake up to go
to school in the morning
to make friends with
sedimentary Fred and
the Fossil Fuel Companions
in the daytime
this is what I find

I'm a ghost in the nighttime
pouring old sentiments
into elementary Keith's
bitters, and
the
daytime Jews
 are just for hangovers
in the nighttime
this is what I find
that,
even the devils gets lonely
in the night time
this is what I find

when I was a child
 in the nightime
I would wonder,
do aliens make dumb statues of themselves too
and then
 bow down to them
like fools?
in the daytime
of my youth this is
what I would find
that
humans are dumb
in the day time and
the nighttime
this is what I
found

The Universe Running Downward (from a bridge at 4 AM in the Winter)

                                                    The Universe Running  Downward

                                                  (from a bridge at 4 AM in the Winter)

                                              Bearing witness to immutable tragedies

                                We've seen Sanskrit engraved upon ancient pyramid walls

                                Biorhythms of baroque intensity

                               coruscating within molecules of our small intestines 

                               as we  try to sleep

                                only this

                                is not a dream but an 

                                                 artificial (humanity), 

                              terrestrial firmament of light and lies,

                               what I'm trying to say is

                                 I know because 

   

                      1)         I've stood from a bridge peering downward 

                                   at 4 am towards the sea,

                                  vicariously overlooking the tragedy of my youth 

                                   The sea remained immutable to the tragedies

                                   peering downward at 4 AM, 

                                   our past sorrows perpetuate

                                   the immutable sea of human desire.

                                  

                                   I loved a woman 

                                  

                                   I never loved a woman  

                             

                                Looking outward over the city lights 

                                 (in all their complexity) 

                               at 4 am in the wintertime,  

                           I saw an indecisive  seagull towering over the sea,

                         indifferently wavering,

                           I was that  seagull once 

                           perennially oscillating,

                           towering,

                           condescending my soul to the sea 

                          ambiguous 

                          people and traffic lights

                          wrought my nerves to the brink 

                         of oblivion

                  if I let them, while

                          working an abysmal

                          graveyard shift 

                          enduring lies and

                          deceit, preoccupying my time, the

  pride of life reverberated within the

                           ancient nocturnal city 

                         at 4 AM coming down 

                         from methamphetamine 

                         watching Forensic Files

                         under the city lights,

                         I saw nothing once and

                         bared false witness to the 

                        nothing twice 

                        serving 

                         demonic childhood ideals of

                        falsehood  and avarice,

                        these Ancient misunderstood 

                       women 

                       permeate my subconscious 

                       while I'm trying to sleep at 4 AM 

                      under the sea of the nocturnal city lights,

                      closer and older now,

                     the universe  running downward

                      upon a

                      rowhome in South Philadelphia

                         toward the rural city outskirt

                     the sea of nocturnal city lights, 

                      remain immutable at 4 AM in the winter. 

                      see me in my bedroom then

                       while I was trying to sleep.

                       shouting upward from tenement dooryards to a  2nd story window 

                  

                        Failing to sleep during the day,

                   because the ancient women will find me dreaming and

                castrate my fears

                with their primordial shears of innocence

                  drenched 

                   with blood  

                  the swaddling cloth embracing

                  urban sink faucets 

           I've pondered these faucets from

                     other peoples sofas in the city

                  awaking to daily news of deaths and overdoses,

                  pocketchange tsunamis

                  hidden within 

                 the inverted gaudy loveseat

                 of  human time,

                   is a lie but real

                  at the same time

                    I used to drink red wine in the wintertime by myself

                              cursing the ancient women,

                            they only wanted me to view myself

                            as they did,

                            to be like-minded

                             only 

                             I do not love them 

                             nor want to be like-minded

                            at 4AM

 gazing downward

                 over nocturnal city lights 

                          fabricating the immutable tragedy

                             of time

                          as it bashes our skulls inward, 

                           our spirits outward

                          toward the immutable sea of penitence

                       

                    I was never above the sea,

                        I only thought I was

                        that is what the ancient women were trying to tell me.

                                  Selah