In Front Inside Out There

I could be found in front of cameras. I could be found in empty train cars box cars made for shipping freight. There could also then be found skid row alcoholic men and the flies swarm round their open snoring mouth. I could watch and catch the flies and lasso tie a strand of hair to make a leash on them. Fly on a leash. Bumming money to buy food and drugs and cigarettes. I could be 16 in a riot that I helped to cause. I could see the power all around me.

I could be dressed up high on LSD walking through the town a cardboard cutout partly zoot-suit chain spinning, partly glam rock kid androgyny, partly mystic hoodoo man, partly avant garde transcendent, partly just stoned kid away from home that doesn't feel like home. Nowhere does. With my tribe. A resemblance. Exogamous family. Smokes make me choke and cough up guck and still going at them trying to get used to them like that's what I’m supposed to do. How fucked up is that.

Like as if there is a way that it should be contained to be that way, which doesn't even matter. None of this is in your ear. It's the earnestness of it, of the feeling of it that's correct like yes I won't deny it any more correct. It is liberating, that is clear.