Byline: Radio Waves

Buford Youthward

Man is nowhere till he knows the essence of emptiness against the essence of gold. Abiding in blank ecstasy, everything is ignorant of its own desolation.

A simple arrangement of natural objects may make for a decent still life but still my life is frenetic and frantic.

I use a switchblade to cut into the present watching the future leak out.

Wild men who kill have karmas of ill, wild men who love have karmas of dove.

Salty hot dogs washed down with wine as spots of foam crest on the ocean. Every so often I catch a soft time in a hard way.

The minute we wake up we've already done a deal with the devil, gone downtown with a rebel. Grating against the friction happens when moving forward.

I'm no lawyer and don't care about truth. Truth requires consideration of all sides of an argument or issue, the nuance of all the nuances. I'm not down for that right now.

I lie in the tavern that feels like a cavern coming alive with wall paintings, alcohol and flame, smelling first- and second-hand aromas. I jump because there are better things to do.

The growl of the engine smoothes out the rough night as I realize time has no meaning. The radio waves roll all over me.

With perfume, moonlight and exaggerated emotion, I'm moved by inspiration not practical needs, and like a visionary lost in one's dreams, how the dream created informs the action, not the dream remembered.

Trying to understand how some people come off always thinking they deserve a shine, I sink low in the stillness of all that is absent, all that is unsaid.

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