I drank a glass of whiskey every night to fall asleep. I thanked the clouds that missed me-- burly smoke that choked the grass and the leaves, but not me. The Social Contract had no dotted line though if it did i'd jot and sign, to give this house to the phantom who deserved it a bit more-- dredful at night and mazes of doors.

I stayed fast away stacked away like papers, closed windows so as not to blow away, yes, even the hated maiden of fourth street would be safely kept if I were not as spent, as to be fondling jars of change that were worth not a cent. Or the things to be said that just float in one's head when you're passed out on the floor tugging at sheets from the bed--- wide---

but I drank my glass of whiskey, and could not fall to the dark. The basement had a hole in the floor, and boards were in pieces and parts around this drain-- facing it, a whole world of mirrors and trinkets from the vain, to be stuffed down the middle floor's heart or to be flung to the wind to swim like karp.

I was up and awake, mad with anger, pouring a drink as out the dark sparked a wink. A flash? no, rekindling ash, the cigarette's not completely trashed, as I searched the tray to take final drags, I'd not had one since quarter past, one or two, and the clock said "20 2's"
I assumed, "2:22" seemed more like time's path.

Dull in the night's hung molecules of anti-matter-- voids and sad words that disappeared into the erected nothingness-- clang!

My glass? My tray? My window or mirrors or things to keep vain? No, God's had no presence it was Cerberus' works, as the bottle had thrown itself 'gainst the lip of the drain.

Dear me, no sleep-- no peaceful night's sleep. No horsetail's silica to keep the frequency down-- Flashes of light grew louder, and I grew madder-- mind control and the government had its tracks set on me-- yes, they had wired my cellar to dab tabs on me-- they had taps on me, bloody fucking son of the enemy; what could they want from a man pushing 20.

The glass? I'm not of age, but I drink of the flask that was past from my father and his very dad? The one that bore blood when they were gone from the war, and the world war before he was taking for less in a land where forests and jungles replaced flags raised at half mass?

More light lit like a night light, though I had no outlet, just candles full of wax, burning in copper, sat clear from the stacks-- the paper, ah me, the papers must've been confused as a crook's book-- some cook book of schemes to plague liberty's entity.

These papers though, were poems, and little one lines for the love of my life who disappeared from the tyrants and high time doctors who shrunk heads at the hospital-- she escaped, I sat for the harder course of 8 days, reading the notes that she wrote and left at my feet-- "I'll kiss your cheek before I leave, I've kissed your lips many times and I'll kiss them just once more. Love forever," the name of some whore. No, the name of the cure from all of life's pain and digital age--

Thrashing the hall burrowing smoke came rushing inside the room where I hid oh, or the room where I hide? Present or past, soldiers footsteps were rushing to flank me-- to skin me, waterboard's and take me, erase my name and feed me pieces of the paper's that conspired--

The smoke turned to fire, that danced around me, present or past, the roof fell to ash, snowflakes of nuclear's age to create the "snowball effect" so I flung myself towards the drain-- wires and full cups, spirals and spirals-- blue at the tip, tailing and trailing, by inches it missed--
"What do you wish! I conspire not, I am the son of a murdered man's son who was murdered as well in 1971-- and the flag as his cloak hangs by a rope on the pole near the path that leads to the street. My energy is man, not liberal nor fiend."

Digital sparks lit the drain beneath me. I stopped red in my tracks, dead in my tracks and lay white as a rag. the wind blew over an entire tree's stack turned to paper and ink namely "The Social Contract." To some men, words are to be admired-- but the men who are tried decide to will great words to fire.

the suspense is worth
hot tea, a white tee
suspenders
and dreamy we stand
till we sit
laugh at the fan
and i can't feel my hands
or my veins or the shit
will kill me someday
but i hope its tonight
where broken tongues
are twisted and dumb
relaxed-- relatively speaking,
wonder from the wisher,
well from the spells
and my soul in the picture
lashes in the flicker,

doubtful, black cap
black cats
relaxed so
tell me secrets
or keep them
with pictures of me
pale skin to green
contrasting "he"
doesn't get wiser
he only gets older
a kiss on the hips
bliss lips
on her shoulders