I draw on my walls
painting the unthinkable
confusing M.C. Escher himself.
Green and brown
are my colors of choice;
I like nature settings,
so I leave blanks for snow
and noise.
BUT THEN I HUCK A RED CAN OF PAINT AT THE WALL
Next thing I know
I'm sitting in a bathroom stall
wondering
whether
Betty really is a good fuck.
Her number is there,
I trust the writer to be trust worthy
because I trust he didn't pee on the seat.
I trust that when I flush
my shit doesn't just land in the street...
I sometimes stare at my feet
as I walk on my walls
leaving muddy tracks
from when I wandered through a rainy forest scene
like the seattle music scene
of Mushroom aided Alice type dreams.
I once fell asleep at my friends band practice.
I had been playing the roll of:
"Manic Insomiac"
and crashed.
In my dream
I was screaming
as I shot holes
into bleeding walls
just to view the inner structure...
the inner structure...
the inner structure of dreams,
the foundation of spark,
the flint for the heart.
I draw on my walls
with food color infused butane,
but am only now
beginning to realize
that I cannot
run
from my ashes.
