What the poet accomplishes
    might be the work of of ego
      filth of thought
  presented as if
      it's good.

   And  the reader
     is afraid of being sullied
  with cheep emotion
    crying about imagined losses
  and heartbreak that doesn't heal.

  Crap like that.

  So how does one craft a poem
    that means to be more than just an idle roam
   across the nostolgic minefields of
     triggered emotional responses.
  Notice the decorative sconches.
    word chosen merely because it rhymes.

 What kind of poem is this, then? save your dimes!

     A plea to you
     for you to hear me
  from within my darkness
   and take pity on me
    for acting and being
      a constant fool,
   another moon of sorts
    any light I might have
       does, of course,
      only come from you.

   What is this reflective glory for?
  Once the poet realizes the total mistake of
     all that emotive glue
  left like toxic waste in the stream
     of conscious energy,
    the field of malicious malarky
      where everything is snarky.

  There would be no hope for anyone
   if all of these were completely true.
  I imagine someone might come up with a world of hurt
    of their own to strike down
    all of these fallacies and
      correct those errors of being
  that we have fallen upon
     in our quest for god-inspired words
  forgetting
     the very
       Word.

  How is it that they end those poems?
   I read the snopsyss of luie of learning
    21st century English,
         an academic endveour
 in any case.
  The gloss:
     He believes
        that he doesn't know
    well enough
       to say what it is
    to you, dear reader,
    what he believes
     for fear you'd get it all wrong
   and follow a self-destructive path
 based upoon adherance to a miscontrued phamplet
  that was left in the cache
   clearly as an accident

  Those thought-bots
     go out marching to the comments section
 and tell the world what they want them to think
   all of it being arbirtrary and trivial
   and yet demanded
 or else, an appeal to the fear of being
     'out of the crowd'
  and fear and intimidation
  through
     enuendo . . .
  oh, I know him he's . . .
   and other derisions
 all  created from the delusions of the fallen creature
   who everyone else can read his mind
    just like they can with everyone
   but they doubt it.

  Such were his thoughts that day and he
    for got to pray
  in any real way.

   So it was hunger for food.
   asking people for money outside of the convenience store
    isn't really convenient but
   you do what you have to do to survive
  people do.

  And he wished for an old friend
    who he didn't even really like
 but it was fresh in his mind
     things to say
   to that person as if
   any of it could matter
     where he is now
 talking to you from the muck of oil sheens on the river.

  Note to self: clean up that river.

  River is clean years later.
   He can see the man's face in the outline of clouds.
  All of this is his imaginings.
  He doesn't have any where else to go.
    He shuffles back to his room where he sleeps, the house that he inherited from his past.

  Don't be that kind of lonely one
    lost in sunsets with French Bread meal stories
 and always staying in resorts on the coast.
  Your stories of wine country,
     a gormette trip to Provance,
  And the tails you tell of grand masters
     as if you really knew them.

  Enough of it already.

   So we stood
     by the fence till she
   came riding up on that great big mare.

  Alone  there
    without you
   I'd still feel you near me
     in my heaven
  that I'm building for me
     and you don't ever have to come there.

  Alone therre
     on the ridgeline
   I'd hear that thrush
      call
    all night
   not ever think of you
     but always think  of you.

  I never think of you
   though I  always think of you
  and when we are away
   it is as real as when we stay
       together
        of apart
    it's all good,
     pretty much the same thing
     if you are here or not,
  if I hear your voice or not.

  Because you're always there
    like the moon, you know
 reflecting on the good things in life
   and sharing the best of it.

  If I tell you sad tales of woe
     and get in your way when you need to go
   what kind of friend am I?
    I don't want to be that kind of guy.

  And the sychophantic
    urge to splurge on you
  doesn't really work,doe it?

  I listen to the silence and hear
     nothing of you.
  do I worry? do I need to fear some separation?
 or do I bask in the knowledge of the reality of love?
  or is all of this a waste of words?
   clogging up the cache with many words
  when we only need 
   One
   Word 

 (so why so damn many here?)

  It's just boredom that makes me go on with this.
  I've got more important places of mind
    to flee from with the fantasies that
       can never come true.

 We can try and force these memories to be
    real times.
 My eyes have grown  weary at these words.
  I nod off towards the past to say good bye to it.

  No words are better still so why so many here?

I left heaven aside
   for it was broken.
  but they found it there.
    They got up in it,
      like dervishes
       worshipping
     Kerouac
       and emulating
  his dissipation.

   It isn't a heaven
    for fools like you.
  pass through.
    It is a trail to nowhere
     if you didn't blaze it yourself.
  If you were Kerouac
   you'd be annoyed
       that you'd followed the fool
   so far up the mountain,
      so far into the wilderness
  as if this is your heaven
    when it isn't.

  Move along. Move along now.
    there may be a lot to see here.
     but lingering might result in getting stranded
  for storm clouds from far away
    bring the blizzard here.
   High Sierra Fear.