no one doesn't look insane walking up a mountain

arms swing into wild gestures, eyes squint and disappear in the mad mist

add rain and a vagina and madness grows pearly white canines

me, I always look crazy, always walking up the back of a great sighing priest

before I take a smoke break to drink 2, 4, no, 8! cups of coffee

and I write about how crazy you all look

and I write about how crazy it must feel to be all you crazy fools

add a little creamer and I'll write as if I'm already there

I'll catch eyes with the wise old dog face of something this isn't

I'll rip the sky to shreds and free the whales to their fall

I'll unbutton my lip and weave a story of our common thread in destruction

I'll tape this to a pipebomb and plant it somewhere downtown

ka-bloom, baby, ka-bloom

with exploding hearts we'll stop to smell the hot licking petals of unhesitated flowering

we'll comment on how nice of a day it is for a stroll through gardens of burning desire

we'll celebrate cancer and the births of our children in the same breath

until Buddha or the feverpigs of our minds sneeze it all away

I drink too much coffee and can't stop pissing all over these pages

I smoke too much and I swear the smoke is a pen

narrative circulates in our lungs and pushes its buzz

first person is a chill killer, second person is a shotgun in the mouth, third person is nearly anonymous

what? are you alright? have you pricked yourself on a point of view?

keep telling your stories until you disappear without a trace

don't worry about becoming one of THEM (gasp! one of THEM?!?)

even a lonely jerk like Bukowski knew the importance of being good to his fellow man

gather your storms, see him through the eyes of swirling hurricanes and sunlit garbage

strike like lightning the sweet meat of his being

embrace his devils and details and boast his angels as he boasts

sing the lyrics of his shy banter and crown him with burning brush

don't forget that he is an infant, a corpse, and a man stuck in the middle

don't forget that he is Christ, that he is mud and dandelions before the city

that he is the father and son of the eschaton

that he is the son of the sea, fists of sand, a face that knows its salt

walk the stone paths of his castles and sit in the room that his love built long ago

even as it collapses in bitter rains and floods you in soiled miseries

there are many darks of night but only one night

he knows this, his bones rattling the truth to its many harmonies

he knows the bottom of his heart from which he climbs

he is a dark, you is a dark, I is a dark, I is you is he is she is one long night of many stars

we shine so mad dangerous wild deranged from the punched out holes of black

how could I not be amused, not be one to walk with you like flesh peeling from a burn?

how could I not drink 2, 4, 8, no, 10! cups of coffee and write every step of the ascent?

I'm here to say I'll see you there, I mean, when I get there, that is