i hate livejournals

My facebook account has not been working right for the past few weeks
so I deleted it.
And today I officially became a boardie.
Two moves that will make chelsea proud.

I'm free of facebook, aim, and texting for a while.

This should be a liberating summer.
should anyone ever need to contact me:
ekiekili@yahoo.com

My dearest America,

It's time we re-kindled our roamance
I've spent a more intimate inland,
alone in subtle midwest. it's myo hio.
dear nation, i won't wait any longer
i've been known to look in brooklyn
on strategic thursdays and sundays
stashing my buick by brownstones in rows
all the same, sidewalk america.
man on fulton tells me i glow
more accusingly than i'd prefer
guilty skin, guilty face on street corner
guilty letters on the page.
i've been know steal accross state lines
with less and less every time.
though more and more it feels like borrowed time.
borrowed time, not stolen time.
i swore i'd give it back,
must i give it back?
perhaps stolen time.
and off i escape in my getaway car.
you can't disuade me with brittle lies.
amounting sorrows under watchful eyes
i wander dusk late
as you decide i shall wait
but i fill my own cup with coffee
though the cup i stole from you
(along with your time.)
oh america its US isn't it
and you knew all along
and i waited in vain, or you did.
and i caused someone pain,
or you did. though we cannot reveal
give in give out give up and go.
brooklyn again, this time michigan
though you wouldn't know.
you don't need to know
am i with you now?
I step out with america
always in my traveling hat
what happened to etiquette
what happened to connecticut?
is that you behind those polite curtains
drawn tight shrouding the night til the dawn.
by dawn i could elsewhere
by bus i'll enter cities unseen
by the time you see the sun has risen
if you have the time
america,
i'll be there.

love,
ike

another night
hours spent idle
i can no longer feel my right foot
i dare not believe it exists in such circumstances
five pills left and
the doctor won't answer my calls.
fare thee well
you've been a fine foot thus far.
laughter rings out
from the man who never spoke
as he repeats "connecticut"
over and over to himself
keeping perfect eye contact with me
as he laughs. "connecticut, hah!"
perhaps its no longer there
i have to wonder
But i checked just last week
i drove there one night
i had to make sure
there was more than just a voice
at the other end of the line.
everyone off
it's the end of the line.
everyone off
it's time to make room
for bought alliances
ones with contractual agreements
not to disappoint.
i've no more room for cracked skulls
broken brains, heads left open,
thoughts spill out
thoughts left trailing...

Dear Landlord,

I would like to appologize for the smell of dead hippies
That has taken up residency in my room for the time being.
I assure that no one/thing died in my room, however.
(This does not mean that already dead things never payed a visit.)
Please ignore that shards of glass covering the floor of my sunroom
when my coffee pot broke on the first day I moved in.
I once played with the idea of cleaning them up,
but they pleaded with me saying they had grown
accostomed to their new locality.
And,
If you would, excuse the cabbage on the roof,
I promise it's harmless.

Love,
ike

P.S. I really need my security deposit back.

i wish to withdraw
from this feigned disaster
here and now,
not in the idle there-after.

a song of laughter rings out
from the carillon tower
distributing time
in exchange for more power.

perchance this hour
i shall take to the road
singing to walt whitman
or to the pavement below.

and i do not know
what the city shall say
when i enter alone
and depart the same way.

i know either way
folks home won't know
they just go about business
it is my business to go

if i could paint a picture
it would be of a train's whistle.
you wouldn't be able to see
but a girl is boarding the train
i suppose her name is emily.
outside of the train
lonely richard watches her depart
at the last second he hops aboard
the last car of the train
because it's one of those
old fashioned locomotives
and this is all happening
in the 1930's.
probably near chicago.
richard did not love emily
richard loved adventure.
emily never knew richard boarded the train
and she started a new life
probably in milwaukee.
richard kept going on that train
he sent a few letters off
to a girl he never kissed
and probably wanted to.
i suppose her name was margaret.
but I would only paint
the whistle of that train,
so it really wouldn't matter
what her name was.

i bought second hand happiness from the salvation army
i had reality sterilized and sanatized for your protection
shiny psycho personality traits why can't you trust me?
i'm toeing the line like never before.
you can get your hand chopped off for breaking those laws.
stay away from national borders for a while
so how is toledo? you ask.
"it costs more to exhale than it does to inhale these days,"
i comment to the city butcher
as he chops 10 fingers off of a stiff hand.
"i'll take a pair of thumbs" i say
i pay him in carbon monoxide
and run off after a sewer rat who died two days ago
because he couln't cut it stateside.
i packed him in a box and sent him off
to an old author who could do him more poetic justice than i.
tried out my new thumbs at an abandoned section of highway
nothing happened so i ate one as a snack and used the other
to hitch a ride on a mail truck bound for yonkers.
i threw money and gold upon the streets upon arriving
the prince and i kisseed each other's shoe leather
he claimed it was customary, though i couldn't help but think
that his dreams would be a little sweeter in the coming nights.
to apppease an impulse i bought a gun
and shot myself out of a cannon
to see it i could beat the bullet to the punch.
oddly enough the train arrived first.
all aboard and gun in hand i roobbed that train
in perfect midwest tradition
collecting all the precious fingers and toes, and inhales and exhales,
rats and mail, shoes and steaks, good ideas and bad ideas.
leaving the passengers naked and unaware.
a bird flew in the window of the train at that very moment
and built a nest in the mustache of the conductor
and laid an egg in his belly
and i fled the scene before i could be blamed.
i returned home only to collect my cactus and my ukulele
i shot the sun out of my cannon and
shot myself out of my gun
magnificent fireworks were anjoyed by all
at least those who chose not to be wax sculptures this season.
everyone must serve at least one season in the wax sculpture army
its our patriotic duty ever since taxes went out of style.
they might cut your hand off if you don't.
But they might cut your hand off if you do.
either way i'll be selling second-hand hands in the sunset,
at least until the next eclipse.

She didn't think communism was a bad word.
He did.

It seems as though
your dialogue has faded
and you're left with
scattered soliloquies
addressed to the mold
on the floor.

Perhaps it has achieved
conciousness at this
late stage in it's growth.
you hope it will be bold enough
to answer your pleas.

But still you speak in riddles
because the truth frightens you.
you wouldn't leave your chair
if it weren't for those blue jays
guuiding you.

Down the dirt path
to your seat by the pond
the music in your head
plays perfect counterpoint
to the scene around you.

The careful rhythms of
autumn leaves falling
Brown and dead, readly to
carpet the earth beneath your feet
seems to match the cadence
of the soft bass music in your ears.

You close your eyes and
let your body fall
to the ground and regret
the months spent
chained to your chair

Tied to the misery of
imagined despair.
"I'll change tomorrow"
you quietly resolve
always tomorrow
a better version of you awaits.

You've handcrafted
pefection that exists
only for youself.
For shame another
know such beauty.

...

the radio is trying to make some point with trains and death.
i 've books and books strewn about, reading 5 interchangably
going cross eyed and becoming less cross
i finally believe what you said.
and i know what i want.
and i'll get it.
i've won the bet, i've paid the price
soon i will reap the rewards.
and i'll make them repent.
i have been carving away at this land
making it into my won image
of what it ought to have been
and i speak volumes of my land
didn't you once tell me
you wanted to see it through my eyes
throw your bastard beliefs to the wind
define it rather then be defined by her.
defy the lines you were colored into
provoking that manifest destiny feeling?
was it not destiny?
i've never seen a dreamer with eyes shut tighter
you've hanged pan with a necktie
an alligator just ate the concept of time
and now he's hungry for you
somewhere between landlocked and lost at sea
addressing the breezes and raindrops to a memory back east
gives you all the more reason to stay locked inside
shackled to port window to a world that does not exist
and you protest the feelings.
and you're startled by mirrors
and it's not any clearer
you're growing to fear her.
allow me to steer.

i danced on the rooftop with my silhouette
in the late eve of early spring
as the collected poems of allen ginsberg watch me from within.
smokey stars past through the periphery of my vision
as i repainted my own silhouette accross my face
in an effort to reclaim the shadows i had carelessly cast.
i am left with audible recollections of three generations of jazz
i had shared earlier with odd affiliations, three of no relation.
a 70 year old bass line walked me home
alone to return to my room which lacks a bed
and my instrument which lacks a string.
so tonight i sing a song for me
lucid delusions provoke revolution and i'm sans a solution
(in the key of e)
i'll acquit at all costs and revoke my belief.
in the shards of glass i will find relief.
until the green automobile comes for me.
until then i remain beautifully free.

The lights in my rearview mirror tell me to slow down
But I can’t as I am trying to escape your labyrinth
You won’t listen when I tell you
It exists only in your mind
Yet it’s real enough to you that it somehow still traps me.
I spend a day walking every street in lower Manhattan
I escape limping on a tender foot.
I put 3 months between 3 years
I put 8000 miles between my greatest fears
And I’ll go countless more
To keep this life in constant motion
I drove 700 more angry miles
Until I came face to face with the sun
He couldn’t know
That I am well rehearsed in outrunning sunsets.
The sign on the highway says no stopping
The letter in my mailbox tells me to stop right now
And prepare for my trial.
Which can I obey?
In defense of the of the midwest, here I can cease to exist
However, I spent two weeks remembering
That the sky was blue and the world wasn’t flat
It's useless looking for the edge to jump off of.
In the end we’re all going 67,000 miles per hour
Around the sun.

In keeping with american tradition
foreign labor was commissioned
Asymmetrical though not arbitrarily positioned
In the patches and paisleys and non-parallel lines.

To adorn these walls in our haven of wood
Residing in disrepair as very few would
Masking the mold the best that we could
With pink, green and yellow just as we should.

Adorned in patches forever was he
For the holes in his brain and the holes in his jeans
Renewing disrepair with strange patterns unclean
He’ll change his mind before he’d change his scene

Covering ground, she’s all about town
Yesterday’s style, sans the gown
Even when she’s gone she’ll be around
In a flurry of paisley she’ll stand her ground.

If she’d only read between the non-parallel lines
Then perhaps she’d find the time
Frantic, fraught-less, thoughtless, yet kind
It’s between these lines she’ll lose her mind.

For years to come we’ll mock tradition
Until the disease goes into remission
Living for the sole end of acquisition
Of a more fashionable disposition.

Hey brother, could you spare a dime?
For the patches and paisleys and non-parallel lines.

sitting on a rooftop
alone in the winter
in toledo ohio
causes me to realize
that i've been living in toledo ohio
for 2months now.

though i've been living it in the past tense
thinking only of its novelty
and not of its's reality

places that are near seem dreamlike and distant
and people that are near have become
only that list of adjectives
that i will one day use to describe them

no one from my real life
will ever see this world
to validate its existance

i've no reason to believe
that life hasn't paused
back east without me.

but what do i know
i've just been eating too many cocoa puffs
and sitting on the roof
in toledo ohio.

february
28th
no leap year
to stash these thoughts in
own up and its over.
it's no use trying
to stay afloat
i drown in their watery gaze.

l got a broken spirit
a migraine
and the will
to lay down
in front of the hour hand
of the analog clock
just to find out if
i'll be pushed along
effortlessly or
cut in half
slowly.

all i wanted
was a simple cup of coffee
and to be on my way.
little did i know i had been put on trial
for trespassing on a memory.
since when is time travel illegal i wonder
as a serve my time seated at the counter
per request of the warden/barrista
since i dropped a name
he had heard before
and so i was guilty
of existing prior to that singular moment.
my cell mate was a 60 year old woman
at the stool next to me
who had used to live 20 minuntes north
of a dream i once had.
now i live anywhere
i try to to explain
until i realize
that i have been eating alone
for the past month.
an affair i've recently made public
to the discomfort of the waffle house waitstaff
to see a young girl dine alone.
i have set sail in my land boat
a buick bounty-hunter of county roads
trying to solve an equation of subractions
rather, i sit baiting abstractions,
words will weigh without retractions
i have created a world im accountable for.
"she shall press, ah, nevermore!"

i think 4am is only socially acceptable if one is on drugs
i am not
i think 4am is the worst time and the only time to hear a gunshot out your window
i just did
i think 4am is the best time to feel lonely
and i do
i think 4am is the only time to look at facebook pictures of people my age who have kids now.
i am not one of them.

4am lonely is better than babies.
thats the most intelligent think i can produce right now.

im fishing
casting lines
withy rusty
forgotten hooks

few fish come
and i can't
even decide
if i want
fish for dinner

i drove
a thousand miles
to the pond i knew
50 years ago

to catch
a fish
that will
probably give me
tetnus

well
anything is
possible
and i brought
my perfectly polished
lobster crate.

reading pomes at night
i know it is you.
i know it is them.
from they way
he spelled those words
with perfect eye contact.