Love Your Man

 Close the curtains let the hail bring, let the snow fall damp the only ring around tiny little fingers organized and made to think it'll be held onto for years to come.

 If I were to say to you, that I love everything you do, what would you response? Come into my Kingdom of existence.

 Walking through the day with someone without a single say, would you like to come in and sip the drink to free your pace? Free your pace, c'mon and free your state.

 'cause we won't last long enough to say...

 THAT WE'RE ON OUR WAY.

 Well she writes in her mind, and she writes in her own words of how she'd like to leave. She'd like to break free of her chains.
 He walks the streets, thinking the same thing. The only trouble herein lies, they're both chained inside their minds. They're both troubled inside their minds.

 I see her standing there, smiling, as she looks my way and turns me on.

 If any love, wants to be enough.

 You'd get high.

 You'd get high.

 You'd get high.

 Wishing week, said the dreams to the ever expanding being walking through their mind. Trapped are they? Write a suggestion and mail it to the suggestive collateral in exchange for walking to every eye you greet.

 Missing the eightieth memory of the Eldest wise-man. 

  Easy as I love you and I walk through confusion to an repeating instance of pushing back and fourth in the downtown tri-state area. Meeting the faces, walking into the places where the artists gather to shun the normies of the Eastern world.

 Dimly-lit bar with smoke-filled air containing marijuana and cigarettes as four poets smoke out of a Hookah to feel alright. I walk up to the bar and order Southern Comfort twist with Schmirnoff on the rocks. My friend's reciting her poetry to the quiet audience clapping a fine beat to her melodic rhymes.

 Well I got into town about an hour ago. Took a look around to see which way the wind blows. With a little girl in the BarHaven bungalow. Is she looking like a lady in the city of lights, or just another lost angel in the city of night? 

 What is their to challenge when you've climbed the mountain Kerouac spoke of as Ray Smith, Ray Smith the poet, the intelligent narrative writer to teach our forgotten, ignorant, blind and boring children to leave their computers, leave their radios and television and a - do something with their lives. You are never alive until you've tasted the fear of death. Death makes angels of us all into the garden we've tried to keep away. Keep away, I will not go. Prefer a feast of acceptance to the group of asylum directors. 

 They're coming to take me away soon, from the place I've been made to love. She needs to walk away this instant. We need someone who doesn't need we. She stared me in the eyes and I stood a Jane Doe caught in the headlights of the back of a blue bus ready to take a ride on the snake to unconsciousness.

 I'm eternally true and faithful to you until you walk away and I cannot see you anymore. 

 And I am wandering wandering through hopeless night in meager food for souls forgot, I tell you: Is life depressing to the depressed angst-filled...Crying....SUICIDAL..MISERABLE PEOPLE..OF EAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTH!

Or is it?

Is it but a question made up by the endless symphonies of music industries raping the ears of children? A quick buck for quick fuck, lest be known until you are bought into capitalism!

 So will you wake up?
Will you stare?
Will you put on your pants and shirt?
Change your undergarments.
Will you wake up?
Will you smile?
Will you frown?
Will I even see.

 The final audition is tonight, I will not even arrive. 

 I will not even arrive.

 Mark my calendar as another day passes us by.

 Record events and play it to my grandchildren.

 "Please come home. We need more of you in this world. Please, come home."