Can't

--containing all letters in a spectrum of light, time elapse photographs of moving glaciers down a mountain, revealing rectum and unsightly ghast of daybreak, the morning ridge suffering dutifully, the congruent feasibility of reality spanning panoramic for me to read on a blank page, three shelves of empty journals and the meaning of a having a voice, the unspoken chances of womanhood stored in attic milk crates and cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations, plastic angel hung herself from the fiberglass garter stairs, bares all humanity in her reckless entanglement.  Dubstep and driving is a dangerous combination, the sensation of bass vibrating through your system, circulatory side brain consortium of next level planets, fiber optic Indian trance, dancing Coptic nonsense down the plaster dreamt hallway, Black Cat Baltimore endeavors waving headless endorsements of the ever lasting magic of hybrid theology, the mental embalming of my body, never grown used to the fluxing, the stream of consciousness rattled out of its naked prostrating at my own feet, a hijinks of perspective radiating at my knees and through my ankles, thoughts are canker sores, toad piss warts and chasing hop scotch lightning bugs through laureled yards, both hull and keel whittled down inside my jeans pocket, crushed and sat on with my last cigarette in the pack is broken in half, laughing at me dejectedly cornered in my own hot bed of existence, the resistance to ride the wave of cadence, because somehow the very suggestion of a rhythm and rhyme is cliched, corny, makes me horny, makes you still question if I have any idea where I'm going with this and the answer is no, only that I am restless and incapable of putting it down, laying down my thoughts as if they all matter and can exist without me.  I see jumbled texts crisscrossing highways through my brain, causing high speed accidents, fiery car bent around the grill of a Texas sixteen-wheeler, the long pines lining Highway 59 disappear suddenly and leave us with the stark nothing between gas station towns, lonely ghosts trailing the exit signs and sighing despondently between yellow teeth, grief given out freely and to all who worship plainly, green stained flannel long-sleeves in the dead heat of summer, August drought drying collards down to dirt and oil rigs rusted shut, stuck still in sepia time out of some still water movie drawn out as Conroy dies in rustic sorrow, tomorrow still waning ever in the puckered grass, insisting hellishly its firm stance on reality that if I find ever slipping away gracefully, Russian swan pirouetting pointedly from air to buckled stare and gliding through the fog, landing on the water's morning mist and shuddered up the grape vines, Classical mystifying resemblance to God--I stop and wonder when I say God what is it I'm looking at, so many stars staring across the purpled ribbed sky that there is far little dark matter, the space in the measured vortex of Fairmont, West Virginia, coal veteran mine drafted Vietnam homeless last left huddling under pipe lines.