Headless pens I organize for once

Headless pens I organize for once,
in red lidded boxes pressed from the
clandestine polluting low-brow factory that works
under the veil of night

every night as if
the authorities don't know
I know - I smell
but I get beyond myself
here.

Sleeveless books go together.
Well..
with the decapitated pens
and the slivers of paper that lie fettered
fat on the desk, in the bag, on the shelf
papery whisps I'll never use still use me.

Relics of trees, trees, trees,
relics of me standing in line,
counting time as it passes with each slow stroke
of a bored beyond coma lady
sitting behind infra red
Calling out my total sum.

Last years famous deal 2 for one
and nocturnal churnings of the plastic factory
inhale, exhale, I cough wondering
will this be the end of my lungs?


And if not this - maybe the diesel chugging around
the
cul
de
sac
called rental home will.


Here, let's down another clear cup
arak the fennel,
seeds distilled,
Lebanese style
trying so fucking hard to forget
why I even came here.


Spending nights eyes half fluttering
in attempts to decipher kabbalistic methodologies.
How to torture self thoroughly
my autobiography.

Maybe I will compare myself to
Sylvia for a change,
or mourn lost memory residing
somewhere in sub
consciousness.

I could do all that and then some more.
taking it further into the chasm
beloved dwelling place
point:
where hell and genhennom meet
and the difference is only in the temperature.

Here I come and go again in search of some new remedy.
No thank you guessers, this time I'm doing it
solo, sacred and exploding for all its worth.

Landing on the raked, upturned and clipped
PAPERS,
intents rise to meet free fall.
Crunch the shards!
Indent the sheaves!
Once again art is pulled from the wreckage.