[A man wanders down a set of dryly dusted rusting railroad tracks. A clear sky and flat horizon venture above the brim of his eyebrows...but he does not see his backdrop. He bobs his eyes with the motion of his hastily laced tennis shoes, watching as the plastic aglet faints in color in skewed stress lines as every other step throws it beneath the thickly duct taped sole, fraying what could have been bundled together for miles. The railroad ties make only hollow patters, but the ashed gravel sieves through itself and crunches with a syncopated rhythm that only the man keeps track of. He counts sporadically in his head.]

God
No god
I dont just get it I got it
dont just sniff it I snort it
No city, just sun
just me, just one
chicken and pig on the thigh
bacon and eggs on the legs
they're dying at sea
I am the waves
holes in the knees, don't whistle they sigh
not given, just guide
stumble they choose,
trained like caboose, sitting like suits, game on its two fools, it's no duck just goose goose, ground down they couscous, cold I fix them muesli, loosey goosey, not stiff, but dead they do be. hit em with the pew pew through and through, they goo, juice, sluice, antabuse, they boof I poof the stuff they deuce is boost, old ass news, loose the belts, boot, no fuel, oh gee the boujee
laying down or standing up
if they stains they got the mop
yeah they sung, dung, rolled up on, jesus piece they met their god
Im on the top like waco
bitch bottom out she the bank roll
Grind it up, shove it in, get the papers, get the pen, get the sword, and get the All and tell them this ain't it.


(Came from water, came from space, came from metal, sink in the same, think of the same thing I came from the space that you called the eternal, came from nocturnal, came from the day, came to the conclusion I've never been…came from the same, came from the all, Not able to say, No cane and I'll stay, No way to explain what I've seen. Came from the sea, Athene, came from the old, infinity, trifold, no trinity…)

[He clears his throat to get the thought out he's also trying to clear.
"Why am I here?"
He continues his rhythm, his walk, and his thoughts.
The sun has not yet dipped below the horizon, but has emboldened itself with an orangish hue. It seems to sit and stare at the man, he walks along the tracks without pause as he views.
The landscape is Saharan, barren-like, yet canyons dot the land. As if, the railroad would converge into, dive into the once reddend before ever meandering onto, say, a rickety wooden bridge. It never does either. The tracks, they are the plateau of a steep ridge of black gravel, ferrous sand, the tenebrous esker does not waver;
its base is flat with its only elevation… blemishes… shrubbery, sage, white ash. Small animals seem to flash by the man, but he gives only cordial acknowledgements. He wanted to avoid them using pleasantries.]

(only affinity to the biology, my philosophy, if no one speaks it isn't divinity. It's too told, I have no query…
It's all a facade, You're all calling to your God out in this desert, yet you're paupers still—with people problems. Draining. Stereotypical archetypal lyrics, no practicality. Without practical thoughts pushing it beside itself, would I practically bear the practical thought of living out a rainbowed reality without other practical people?)


[They ignore him. So solemnly bent, He thinks how easy it must be for them to do so, as they have needs to be met by only themselves and no others should interfere. He thinks that this is how all thoughts should be until his own contrarianism supplies a curious counterpoint in a paradoxical cataclysm.
What if when death is needed to be met? The man wonders if Death has already passed him while he was absorbed in the desire to have personality reflected at him but only through minimal interaction...but he would have trapped himself with death by now…]

(Two journeys I am taking now.
One, for my emotional self.
Two, for that outside of myself.
I choose my words carefully, as I believe truth is the utmost importance for me.
I feel as though my life has been a set of decisions already decided up until this point.
I have given those that were in my environment and still subside upon and in my environment a power of authority, and I believe everything in my power is to be an authority. It is not what I seek though. It is knowledge above all else, and with that statement, I know that I know nothing. To satiate my emotional self I must return in both a symbolic and physical way to where my emotional self wants to leave. I need no symbolism, nor misrepresentation. To give way to falsehoods destroys the path of my free will. I can only be just me.)



[The man walks the railroad tracks, wondering why he must be. Why he is thinking such dismal thoughts with such a beautiful sunset. He knows it is necessary to think about it. That's what everyone says. They say we miss the dead. The man has cried for the dead many times, but now he walks. He thinks.
The Man has cried to himself today. His face tells the sun that only some light should escape through his pores, he must retain the liquid like a blister, until he can finish what he started.
The Railroad has all but disappeared…the walking stays in rhythm, and the gravel becomes crusted soil and tumbleweeds.]

It really was
It really was
It was me the whole time
It was not what I thought
Two times, Two lines, it really was
It really was
scant in my dosses
my quibble with causes
Discant with no pauses
placate the retrace
Ablate enate stanzas
Yet plausible clauses advances no chances
allegory aweary, to the contrary, gone past expiry
A story to tell, tower to climb
Tracers to see, sour I fell
Baseless, low sell
Faceless, toes shelled
Traceless, don't tell
a drop in a well

Two times, two lines
It really was
It really was
What was that?
What I said it was

[The Man looks at the tan desert, the dry ricegrass surrounding his locus with no desire to move forward lest he grow the seeds in his socks through weeds he would travel in. Oh how he would grow it so fondly until it poked his skin, then he would rip it out of the twill. His journey was all forward. Yet, he turned around, just to make sure the spindles rattling to the floor was not the teasing pause before thunder—where he faced was almost unbounded. A portal surrounded by Water.
"What would one face being there?" He asks himself.
His answer: "I can only always be here"]

(My Color has faded fast like using dish detergent in hair, color tint remover my ascension, ain't no nair. From wrist cupper to knot knitter, a little wrist left, right now for slitter. I'll fit her better everytime you bring her up, fit it in every hole could call me grout—and them only rhyme on out and about shit. Not a mirror, It's here media. From a Cartesian Stage I speak at you.
You want everyone to look into an impossible world and come out with only the ideas you deemed false and non-starting, but that impossible world is a world, not your grasp of a set of entities, but the set. The entire set. I can do what I want in your world as much as you. I am saying that I have no blame, I have no contrition, nothing to atone for, I’m here because I’m me. I don’t play that fucking game, there’s no syllogism or predication...no blood was shed for all men if some men are not saved...you are you, of no consistency, and I’m me. The only me. And My only Mill is my mouth.)



You're God? Nah. No, No, No, you're just you, and I...I am just...Me