“Misunderstand” Foreign land poetics vol #1 with The Schizo Kid

    Soliciting needed inspiration from other worlds and the curve of the street.  Overwhelmed by the underhandedness of this world.  Curled up inside of this womb, or is it a tomb? The belly of an emerging birth. The slow-moving scenery creaks by in my dreams.  Summarizing my life into paragraphs, paradoxes, packed into boxes.  Paraphrasing my existence into these words and stanzas of raw prose.  Something that everyone can understand…Where I reside it’s a very foreign land. I plant my flag, but doubt and madness drag behind my like fishing line.  The compromise of my eyes, I’m  left to wonder.  Just who in the hell’s sky am I under ?  I can give myself some credit, or a stern reprimand, and assume the burden of truth.  The storm that blew away my roof. Now my words and my thoughts are all scattered like seeds…tossed into the fall’s unforgiving wind.

    I remain the reluctant host, the ghost writer that creates my shadowed narrative.  Documents our lives and haunts us or helps us,  Stirring up the urge to purge.  The resurgence of past lives flood the present. Returning my words, my composition back to the land of the living.  I try to be more forgiving.  The splintered world of the Re-incarnate. silhouettes set in ceremony.  So, I re-emerge as wind.  This life’s just a stepping stone, a symptom of the infinite space that dwarfs my life into particles of light.  Falsifying my passports to countries that don’t exist.  I scratch my head then deliver another verse.  Like a metronome of rain.  It’s all in the delivery what my third eye sees.  When I die I’ll all of my royalties, I’ll settle all my debts and leave my regrets behind.  I won’t always excuse my illegible penmanship. I dreampt of something offhand, my pages turn into sand. I misunderstand just where the hell I stand.  Across the water, the sunrise blinds my weary eyes. Is truth really truth, or just another disguise ?  It’s uncertainty that I always actualized. A dark seed that precedes with the clinical procedure of living.  Everything seems fake.  Maybe my life was a mistake.  Draped in the mundane reality that crushes our dreams…splits it’s tattered seams.  Muffle my screams into silent resignation.  Surviving is my sole destination.  This is my curtain call, so I stand tall.

    It’s all tumultuous, I’m tongue tied.  Pulverized into the purgatory of verses, and the darkness of our culture.  Retroactive mind scapes, all is ever so askew.  Walking with a crooked precision like a broken pool cue.  I write, then I write, then I write some more.  I always say busy hands are crazy hands, the blank pages are desert sands.  The gladiators have been reincarnated as professional hockey players,  The general managers are the Roman senators of course.  The fans, of course, are the Plebian hordes.  I’m not sure who the emperor is, but I think it may be Don Cherry.  My ears ring from living inside of my headphones.  My wires get crossed, and across the street there’s a man who looks like he’s come back from the dead.  I push past the sign post of the desolate realism that says, “Hey some of us are drowning, throw us a fucking life-preserver!”.  I’ve always been a keen observer.  A poet warrior has to be the fastest learner.  I’m the sole earner, yes the only bread-winner of the people who reside in my physical frame.  I’m not laying any blame, but my family tree may be awash with a slew of madness/genius tight rope walkers.  Coffee does the trick first thing in the morning.  Maybe I’m mourning my lost childhood.

    I’ve got synapses, neurons, and frontal lobes all firing and back-firing on all cylinders.  Distilling my pages, here’s one for the ages.  Poetics and ramblings stored away. Piles of notebooks that age to get better or worse with time. I can’t decide.  The grizzled sage, I’m turning the pages.  Let’s fast-forward to death. I’ll probably say looking over my weary shoulders, “What I wouldn’t give to be alive.”  Alright, well here I am. What’s your major malfunction as the sergeant might say, as spittle falls from his lips. At night, I just write in longhand.  Then this crippled machine soaks it all in. It has to, it has no choice because I’m finding my voice

                                                              The Schizo Kid   2015

2014-05-07 10.59.44


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