The bipolar poet gripping the porcelain God this mindset, it's a jazz set, it's got a high

top tappa tappa and I am up there, a-tappa-tappin' on the cymbals, hells clackin'; I once floated like a leaf through the school hallways, on an updraft, in actuality drifting through the sulci of my own mind, those dark alleyways [wiped out, swipe of the eye; where am I, and where are my eyes I feel like an animal, skulking these catacombs, hole-punch wide-eyed palms against the walls] it was dangerous to walk them at night. I encountered strange, destructive men, with hands jointed like spiders [but now] here is the victrola it is spewing out my voice it is spilling out words and words and words and if it does not stop spinning it may just cast off into orbit, spinning, spinning, the words in your mind like specks in the sky [and now] I am a mad collegiate gargoyle, bent-backed with a brow of black I have seen Medusas gaze, seen my true self in the eyes of cobras, poisonous [and now] I am the angry cross-outs scribbled like mental tornadoes; these stormy manifestations

which increase with speed with velocity with every word spoken every word yelled, screamed, written or sung the voice behind filled with thunder; here, the ash of letters stricken by black, jagged lightning-But then, there was a time when I was small, small and pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and simple. A child. Simple. There was the shoelace infinity, the tree pillar of the sky. I became a thing of infinity and sky, airy, perpetuating, and riddled with knots; I am now a shoelace riddle. I am losing myself in the perpetuation of the infinite hands of the clock; their caress is cold like ice, and the forever of infinity and the ticking, the ticking, that tappa-tappa-tap is fucking deafening; dude, the things that I've heard, that have hit the bones of my ears, they hit me. They have rattled my bones. They have turned me to stone. They have left me a pale grey of asphalt and ash. I am the color of the sidewalk; I am the mad collegiate gargoyle with perpetuating auditory hallucinations reverberating through my brain and I am made of concrete and these things, words, musicalities they are like dark jackhammers on paper; a-tappa-tappa-tappa-a tappa-tappa-tap

[and now] ideas are falling from the trees like leaves, red and gold and crisp and the people they pay no attention to them nor the ones crushed, in pieces, beneath their feet. I walk about; these are my eyes, packed, pieces of ideas, dark as the inside of the earth; it is sometimes molten behind these eyes, sulfurous, archaic. I am submerged in this pile of pieces; sometimes, when I walk home, I pick them up off the sidewalk and bring them back, to press into books. and a weed, skinny standing stark, face to the sky, holds its small leaves like beggar's palms to the sun, the rosette there circling its throat, an upside-down crown those strings in your mind are pulled taut, thoughts criss-crossing, like a spun web shining in the sun.