scenes of gold falling like snow
eyes reflecting alien stars in the middle of their death throes
this is fiction of the cheapest variety

maybe ill write your naked thighs
into lazy afternoons ive yet to take for granted
and call it art

you will probably never read this
and ill take that for granted too
and nose dive into the prolix
and intone the name death knows me by
and
and
and
and slip on these ellipsis i keep leaving on the hardwood
i drip paint and candle wax on
long gone down holes blacker than the bottom of swamps
reflecting those dying stars in the croaks of its frogs
no hope of talk
no lotus blooms
just poets scrawling on cell walls about it
mouths sowed up like the industry that doesnt want me
holier than thou
hell calls often
try not to seem so astounded
these mountains i mold out of old guilt
wilt like the orange roses on my altar i pick from my nana's backyard
focus
scratch warnings in the form of black hearts on every desk
locus
elote beneath swinging street light
coyotes locating beneath cracked moon
cut to me eyes rolling out of my bleeding head
bedrock

lets get off the ******* carousel
share the wealth of being able to trace the way back
to the philosophical trap house
parallel to all apparent selves
melt
melt
melt

sell it

Trigger happy
Finger driven
Don't lift my body
Just my spirit
Is it weird
That I don't always
Like sensual
Unusual at best
I'm used to my human  I guess
I am another animal
let out all my anomalies
& scream for closure,
For criticism,
For Recognition

I'm threading the narrative.
Barely there, anyway.

chipping away the dead grey rock
around violent-pink tourmaline with sweat
dripping from our brows.
tick,
tick,
tick.

i read your name in my cigarette smoke and turned my phone off.

lost,
boards squeek beneath handmade imported rugs,
fingers brush polished brass candelabra,
bulbs burst behind locked doors.
tick,
tick,
tick,
tick.

phones never turn back on,
smoke stains cheap wallpaper,
and eyes were never windows.

i said “cicada”.
layers ******* everywhere.
getting lost in space.

all alone in a cheap hotel room
writing "gang gang" on the beige wall
next to the bed,
I've never felt so alive.

your ghost keeps whispering "oh well, dude"
every time I think things would be better
if I didn't say what I did;
I treasure any hell I won't abide in.

no telling when this feeling will fade away,
I'm bleeding out in every street everywhere.

My bailiwick is perpetuating
mania back on itself,
the radius is shaped
like canopic jars carved in the likeness of mad gods of hells
I've missed on trips through the blackened aftermath imagined
ad hoc in afternoons which we were meant to scatter like ashes, like truth,  like flattery, like rats..

Ladders to illusory
for proof of the usefulness
the numinous has in obfuscating
my *******,
past lives,
fugue states,
immune to the mutagenic malaise of this routine rebuking of being aloof in the face of futures yet to be hewn from the quantum foam.

Empty bottles.
Ghosts given up too indifferent sky.
Empires toppled by nightfall.
There is no "why” to all of this,
just a primal drive off the tallest cliffs we can possibly find.