the day poetry died

the day poetry died in his mind
he was found on the roadside
hit by a semi-tractor trailer and
it was then that the wind was

his mind leaked thoughts as
pages strewn here and there
throughout the cosmos and ma-
ny times he just flat out confused
or scared people so much so that ...

...just words whispered without
any meaning or any sense - &...

poetry died the day it didn't make
any more sense to him that was
the day words had no more
meaning as he drove down
the road with the window
open and his eyes open
but his mind closing a
little at a time ...

the slide
descent
into madness
of necessity

they were right mostly -
he was fucking psycho -
but what they didn't realize
was that the ones who can
change the world and leave
the world usually come from
that end of the human gene
pool

still,
clear
water -
wishing
wells -
falling
down
rabbit
holes
laughter
mocking
thunder
and rain
claps of
clouds
drifting
slowly
into sh-
apes.

shhhh....
apes is
the code
word to re-
lease the im
-agery

he continues
the slow descent
into the center of the
black hole of all reality
that hides behind clouds
of dust but is always there
converting energy from one
form into another from one
universe to possibly an-
other and other than
that he was okay
and the days
passed
pleasantly
in the room,
the room - the
woods and the
leaves falling on
the grounds as he
waited for the next
to visit him in this place
and sit next to him and
shake their head, not
knowing what to do,
what to say to calm
the way the waves
rush back and forth
in his mind and all
of time proceeds
forth cut into a
fourth time or
beat or met-
er. stop. a
stop sign.
a sign.
a soft
sigh, &...

and the leaving
barely left a blip
on the media
landscape of
such a large
planet such a
large reality and
as the ghost of
the alien soul
escaped the
atmosphere
to go live up
there the
whispers
of a thou-
sand hour-
glasses
turning
sounded
all at once -
the rush, the
hush and bustle
of swimming through
life and not being seen -
not causing a scene -
small social pleasan-
tries.

he tries.

from the depths
of the black hole
from which he
derives most
of his comfort
there emerges
a stream of
energy as of
yet unseen on
this scale in the
entire web of
galaxies spinning ...

he forgets sometimes.

don't get close.
don't ever get close.

they found the
fragmented poem
scattered across
multiple pages
and yet it all
meant nothing

all the emotion
channelled was
no longer relevant
or even necessary.

he lost them.
frequently.

past the event
horizon there is
no more hope there
is only the slow de-
construction of the
molecular structure
of existence into
numbers of loose
strings of thought
whispered by the
4-brane ...

just words.

they were
just words
they were
just friends
they were
was more?
they were
hello? wtf?
there were
losing you!
there were
come in.
those were
income?
these were

drifting
futher
out or
in de-
pen-
den-
ding
on how
you look
at it - the

hello?

he drifted for
what seemed
like too many
lifetimes and
it was all
illusory - his
whole life - his
entire word edifice
was alien to the world
and cast off the planet to
exile on the moon and the
moon was sucked in by
a rogue black hole that
happened to be passing
and that's where our
story begins.

they said he was crazy,
wanting and needing space -
outer places away from the planet
and all the people that overwhelmed him.

they had words for it - what he was - but they
were whispered and never uttered ... he
was paranoid but they were after him -
he was sure - he was on shore leave
and they left him behind on a planet
far away and from there he made
his way to the center of the universe
and it wasn't Sol or Earth at all and he
laughed but there was no one to share
it with and wasn't that the way it always
is?

they didn't understand.
because he didn't either.
he was that ... so much and
nothing at the same time so in-
tense and boring at the exact

moment.

sigh.