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



(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 the wind

The night of your birth and mine.

In a sub-state nobody will see

for another hundred years.