Wasted nights and courtesy of the wholesome smiles of New York City streets I give to you another random unfortunate death account and the AIDS epidemic spilled out and all over and inside urethra or perhaps a small cut in genital region perhaps not who knows how these things work exactly the opposite of how I thought I would have wanton sex in an alley way I wandered upon a street woman of opiate aged eyes and leathery skin with aroma pungent and unpleasant emanating forward and assaulting my nostrils and lower brain cells broken from years of abuse (we’re talking about both of us here) synapses firing all whacky and for a moment I of course thought that indeed a chat with this woman could lead to little more than a sad story to fuel middle class anger at the fucked up world in which we live nihilistically hating everything we could learn about anyway and always we started chatting in all possible dimensions we met in our mind’s eye a cross section of infinite times and things and worlds the moment we spoke I knew certainly that this was happening in all my memories as well as right in front of my face I could see tendrils of auraic energy spilling in from other selves eons past my hands were trembling as she muttered something about spare change or another fix hit of whatever lord god she prayed too huddled in her home made of a sheet hung from one stoop to the next all among East Village trash indian style wiry legs sit on whole foods shopping bags for comfort of some kind you see (don’t you see) all these things in summer heat and city stench metropolitan flames of possibility erupting in the air around us I drunkenly kiss this causality of western over-indulgence with grease of her cheekbone and that too kisses me with unexpected energy and passion this continues onward among the sounds of lice jumping to scurry into some beautiful place of eternal Fall without a doubt she and I need this more than the other times (before and before and before repeat this universe over the same it is always the same, no other path here don’t you see) weave in this closed universe and the other ones around surround sounds of yes my love Reagan WAS a madman she whispers in my ear to my delight I concur with the souls of many a dead sandanista and this harbor of drug addled insanity and waxing desire are certainly mined with my sweet doom floating around falling over her body I softly kiss arms and my lips travel track mark highways and ask “heroin” nods indeed so thus is the gunshot in the air to start the disrobing race while late night bar goers walk by because they have seen it all and we are invisible despite the momentous thing occurring before their eyes they continue onward toward some unknown future certainly so many times before I’ve felt the sting of monotone and addiction and neurosis but bliss was not those but here now while she pulls herself closer to one us entering a temple of thick velvet and dusty sliding dirty thighs maybe rough with the possible babies of whoever held the hammer gear and nails and dirt to bring her peace before our ecstasy erased all her demons but the one she passed to me there to share scarlet death letters I see her future in the peak moment of this convulsion - and antiretroviral drugs and years of life changing the world in which we live and managing these little invaders crawling in to my section of our united temple underneath mid-rise stair case alley-way - looking back she recalls a nod-filled night of absurdity and the morning after heading toward St. Vincent’s for a new path guilt free not to worry about me left for dead there beneath a canopy of paisley perhaps we travel thus but who was I anyway to judge these crystal clear visions in ineffable intoxicated intercourse… Galser Marcos
Reject as false these golden days Which are sadly the silver lining of gray years Lasting until dusty breath escapes with a word of regret.
Mechanical structure outweighs us with esoteric moving cogs Turning slow and deliberate while we press our varied paths, Unaware or unable to slow or change the motion, We eat the honey and wait or give in to inevitability, While the world changes only for the worse.
Every week he sends me a list of things to do, or people to call, so on.. This week:
"Mike, I went out for North Korean food tonight with my wife; I told the Waiter that there was radiation in my Song of Kim Jong Il NOODLES He told me no sir!, there is not !
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lead_into_gold's journal
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