A Hotel Never Rests

All of the posts, and poetry, and jottings, and wondering's, of my texts are as safe, as if, written in braille, shoved beneath a rock, and hidden...deep in a cave, with the lights out, and the sound turned down to zero, on a world, no one cares to find...so, no one visits. 

I alone, hold these keys, jangling them profoundly, a janitor, in some great 'amaze', mumbling's...unspeakable. Don't know why, I said a thing, really...just, to be my own good company, I guess. Even the owl, does not know where...only who, which she repeats...constantly. 

We get along...she and I, like a 1947 wife, or a post war 50's, American auto. We are one. Where does a man go, when he goes in circles? He goes to the next round, above,  or beneath himself, yet always, a part of himself, as certain as a 'pole star' searching. A man, is where he came from...and where he goes, always treading up or down...the incline to heaven. 

When we talk, and we think we know, to our selves...then we listen. The other guy does too, but you see...he's us. We echo, in our own loss, crying out our own name, aloud, until it answers us. Well, I have made this journey many times, and weary of the stones...I recognize, the faces, that ignore, the travel of my life, the hours of my deaths, the footfalls of my passages, round and round and round this thing, this corridor. 

There are doors, off the sides, temporary respites, we suppose, lifts, descents...every one, a great surprise. No one holler's out, ahead of time..."Duck!", but you may hear a 'little laugh', or a 'goose', at your behind, that urges you along. Just pick a door, anyone. Try your 'intuitive'. Be the empath, you truly are. 

Where ever you land, You'll always hear the same thing. "It was your choice". But, right there, is the first lie. There never really was a choice, just a place to pull in...at the roadside, and some mother's joy, or trouble...you become. 

These gates of Saint Peter, giant bloody thighs...the phallic endeavor...of an enterprise, to get off. Here we go again! "God! Oh, God! Fuck! That was good!" Your innocent new eyes, look round. "Where am I?", says the babe, in its pablum, vocabulary...a giant nipple in it's face, a smile...some gas, an adult mammal, offering inane advice...coo coo kachoo! 

You vomit on its chest...It looks at you, but decides, not to kill you...'this time'. You see, you didn't 'get off', not by half. You got ON again, instead, right on top of the devils 'tilt a whirl', and aren't we having fun now. So my advice: "Quit fuck'n round!" "Quit op'ning doors, of any kind!" But, whose listening. Better luck next time!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Hotel, Vienna