This is Bukowski on the toilet, a heavy dose of ether, mushrooms for alice, the holy ghost for preacher, fulfillment of the scripture every time my wisdom hit ya bust inside your ear and fertilize the flowers in your brain. Swallow down my spit to let it swim inside your stomach safe beneath the epidural - blue fluid in your veins. Breathe with a sacred lung, speak with a bloody tongue wet with the funeral of all empire. Communicating with you from the other side of time. My poetry’s eternal, invented words to rhyme. Paint a picture color me in Langston’s hues, seeping into your subconscious with my patterns and cues. Phiolosophizin only of the light and its reflection if they put me on the cross i know the notes to resurrection. Overt music containing worlds of beauty unfolding like a lover revealing her sacred heart. Grown from the seed of my soul, this tree is yielding healing fruit I split it open that’s the state of my art. Union and communion, a mother and child reunion, a masterful adaptation, a ghost orchid is blooming. Love in stere-ereo, hard panned with tremolo, Pollock on graffiti, a rhyme-sprung Fellini. Bless your faith in fiction I’m livin for for 40 summers. Crime is on the rise and God is taking all comers. Tell me what you see when you’re behind closed eyes, twisted in your favorite chair beneath your velvet skies, chewin on a tape worm gnawing on your belly, praying for a little peace but it won’t call you on your celly. Ask me where I got my style the answer causes confusion, so here’s a brief history of my evolution. I crawled out  the ocean, specifically pacific, now my flow is coastline beautiful and prolific.