Morning Walk / Job Thoughts

I.
What will become of abstract
chairs on tabletops?
Coat hangers inhaling first
gasps, crouched on stone,
legs numb, no-mind,
staring into perpendicular lights,
the sun rising suspiciously
before my fogged eyes,
giving way to the white lines,
soaked in ash, fizzling deeper into
the cornea, then spat back into the new sun.

II.
Was it these monotonous languages
scrawled into eyebrows, which left you
searching for god between fibers,
without the whole?
Ruined angels now starved
looking for nourishment in plastic,
while I shell for shell,
rip bricks apart.

III.
Ah,
the sweet smell of mustard gas and
marijuana!
The tragic clanging of metal
& false accusations, empty glares and salvation,
fat sobs from eyes, clinging to electric lights,
dripping constructively & running along cloaked walls.
What a strange existence,
blurred between frozen meditative bliss,
and chaotic big bang catharsis,
extracted from every light and life,
to be dropped casually thru eternity,
laughing: drunk and boisterous:
held by holy crutches upon which stands Dionysus at
ripe old age to wander deserts,
stench foreboding, learning the truth all over again.

Afterthoughts:
IV.
A pure mind is like a bottle of wine:
the longer it is still, the stronger it becomes.
Yet, just like when we drink wine,
if we drink too deeply,
our minds / the ego: becomes drunk.