Thursday, May 6, 2021


A fabulous reset, a moon driver - 
heading into an unprecedented 
crippling fog which morphs 
the capillaries and 
weakens bones
to a powered 
salt lick. 

The windows covered in mist — 
do not touch, they will harm 
your egotistical wagon
your rail road is 
to an 

My dreams have seen your face 
in too many words and ways — 
I cannot scream at you 
nor can I walk in sync 
through your 

I can no longer breathe the air — 
except for the olive tree
which shapes 
my carved 
view of the shifting 
of the yellowing trees
I am in the backyard 
the environment 
and I eagerly await 
the black hole 
in the mail. 

J.C Hawkes  - is an alien who arrived on this god-forsaken planet in the territory  of AUSTRALIA - in the middle of the decade he’d have preferred to been of age as to party with the poets he admires to this day. The Burroughs’ and the gorgeous Patti Smith, the Ferlinghetti’s and the David Bowie’s ( in his Coke Daze) - yes! the dirty filthy 1970s always suited his fantasies.  He was of age in the 1990s instead and somehow survived, the day that fuckin’ Kurt Cobain died! By discovering Jim Morrison, he never did care for teeny bopping lights. 

Now in his later years, he is approaching 50 and he is quiet and reflective and writes pages of poetry daily about his memories he actually lived. While on the inside he only ever wanted to write books, grow an old man beard and live in the mountains in a cabin built for one.   Grow old and die there - this would be fine  - by me. 

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