Beautiful!
I have begun to refer to that period as
The Experience.
As though some distant civilization
arrived and occupied the
Neighborhoods and alleys
of my Self.
Took over the garages with massive parties that
bled into the basement.
And got ugly.
And did shit.
And changed.
And cleaned up.
And fell down laughing, and
high again.
And wrote on walls.
But only in chalk,
so as not to be too
assuming.
(But the chalk wounded the
brick just with patient abuse).
And they let out the patients in my madhouse, let
out the criminal and the thief and the mini-Con.
The soft junk.
The spiral.
The empty rooms turned
into impossible choreographed numbers
that can never be quite replicated.
Short story notes
in frost of window
the only thing left is
some kind of crude arrow.
The lyrics persist in…
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Yelhispressing 