M: manner than man;
L: Lashed unto lies,
2XL: I shall, I shall!
I’m canceling the projects I just announced, I cannot write those poems. I may release something this year full of poems about what I usually write about, but I cannot pretend the strange non-reality I’m awaking from is something I can lash words around.
I was validated in romance and swagger that an epic romance of mine revealed a Don Juan-level villain waiting to tear my heart apart. That the tragic romance has gone on as long as it has (still there is fall-out), is less painful or difficult than it is waking-up-living-in-a-distant-galaxy stupefied.
I am still the rebel “Dirty Mormon” guy poet and political revolutionary, and I’m sure I’ll have poem-blistering romances like Kyle and Daniel arise in my life. Unlike every other subject I write poems about, the more I write about Mason, the less I feel the world is comprehensible. If I were Albert Einstein, Mason would make me wonder if General Reletavity was just some dumb thing I thought of after a night of drinking.
Brian David out.
Ripping out pages plucking them one by one—leaves or days—of my life, and the leaves on the tree outside are a dying generation this Winter—every Winter…
And life is a prayer formed with the lips of a lifetime of slow time, of waiting to die, and the act of dying is just like saying “amen,” and I took the hymnal and I’ve been ripping out pages…
Last night the Beatles and the Beach Boys battled for my eternal soul.
I was sped away in a little duce coupe, but then a giant walrus in the road took me back to the USSR until, finally, David Lee Roth appeared with his California girls, and that was that.
The chords of music were strewn about my little bitty room like corpses, beats and rhythms looked up at bedside nurses with pleading eyes.
And, in the midst of it all, a gentleman in coattails with slick black hair walked up, shook my hand, and said, “pleased to meet you, hope you’ve guessed my name…”
I wear exhaustion like yesterday’s shirt; passing minutes smart like a cut beneath the fingernail, while a ribbon of concrete unfurls along the ground in the Winter noonlight I am driving, my knuckles drag along the ground at 80 miles an hour…
I have visited this certain California time so many times that it might as well be a place—Sundays, Saturdays, even sometimes Wednesdays, not every day; it sneaks up on time, jumps into rotation and then bleaches the day in its light…
As I reach a summit—heading West, deep from East—and as the freeway tumbles out before me the valley yawns oceanward, and I feel the bladed glint of sun on ocean shimmer and light itself stings beneath my eyelids just like my fingernail…