the way to do this
is slowly
to force all the shit out of my brain veins
because everythings got to be somewhere
and anything
can only exist
in one place

so these bad word lines
poor ideas
if they're on the page
they can't
be in my head

that is the devil's logic

and i can be left
to go on
about sunset love
the zen
of death
smokestacks
and twisting metal in a certain slant of light

little little
observation and existances
that hint in train break whisper and hiss
at some sort of human condition
make us all whole again
in starlight

something something something
about the headphoned black man
dancin with yellow staten island ferry
singin along
to the latest album to save hip hop
this month
his little girl
twisting a pig tail

and how all this happens
in the same eyes
i use
to watch death
occur
again and again

and nicholas cage's voice
monotoan and tired
talkin about
"bearing witness"

and tom waits
always right
and its sadder each time
in starlight
but damp now

in my head
i see beutiful
blood
always well lit running and pooling on black asphalt

and every new yorker
stares straight ahead
like it was
a religious practice
cuz mecca is up there
cuz getting through
to a holy light
up ahead
is a singular point
cuz every footstep until then
is tediou
or empty
or polyester
or a chore

and when i force
all this shit out
with the burn of time
and ink
then i'll be able to talk
about you and me
and eternity spilling out of eyes
and lamposts
in a way
that always seems to reverberate
and never feels
overworked

maybe a fragment
here can come out
resurrect later
a kernal
in the starlight