words are boring me lately.
every story I read seems to
be baiting me to jump.
the ledges I write remind me
that flying is falling.
dry ink is apalling;
chalk outlines look like milk
in the rain;
falling isnt flying at all.
I have to remind myself of that.
I'm selfish.
I'm selfish.
my shelves sit full.
it all ends.
both sides.
no flying.
no falling.
I'm falling.
I'm lying.
I wouldnt call me either.

feel the most alone
when im the most sincere.
you all just want a poem
that feels like one of those
"after class" notes you wished
were passed to you in math class
or at least one that reminds you of
what you think that felt like.

well, bad news in Bosnia.

im in arrears to the
myth of self as well,
which is why
i ****** moons out of the night skies
i tattoo my hands beneath.

I don't know what you expec...
never mind.
(laugh track; plays through credits)

Honestly, I'm just excited to finally
see the plutonomy putrify;
dead opossum on a highway.

I’ve made a hobby
out of getting lost
in the apocalypse
blossoming in the "ad nauseam".

Dolly zoom on the obelisk
I’ve scrawled my nonsense on.
Jump-cut to my fist clenched
at purple firmament;
blood running down forearm.
Fade to black.
No credits.

Again.
Nonsense.

not a soul can save the ocean
from drowning.

stop hoping.

My protean soul transmogrified
on the altar of your heart;
what am I now?

I've watched homes construct
themselves from our past incarnations
and burn to ash in the same rainy afternoon.

You are forever unchanging.
You are change, forever.

They are the same;
the maelstrom I would smile and sing "Come Fly With Me"
to as it ripped the nuclei of my atoms from the electron clouds that obscure them.

I am static on the television that almost sounds like Sinatra;
a murmuration of starlings unaware
of the beauty in their intricacy.

Our gestation was cut short;
the television caught fire
and the starlings lay broken on an elementary school playground.

You, to me, are the silence that
replaced the staticky Sinatra or the wailing
children that find the murmuring ceased for good
by the monkey bars and plastic slides.

You are the reason for my loss of faith
in the words gorgeous, stubborn, and coincidence.

I am contented for the moment by just knowing I breathe the same air as
the flesh straining to contain you.

as your grace tries to stretch it's wings
in that rusted cage he glues plastic gems on
i am besotted by the elegance of the plumage
falling to a floor i would give anything
to sweep.

the night i proclaimed my love for you
i made an attempt on my life,
the rationale was of the "if i can't have..."
kind, blended with other poisons,
and entirely half-assed.

only now, i understand that
whispering into tin cans and writing
poetry with hand-made quills is far better
than the inky black screaming oblivion
i almost slipped into.

We cogs will spin until,
one by one,
our teeth break
and are reattached.

Then they'll rip us out,
melt us down,
and forge a new "us"
when there is enough
of us piled up
to bother with.

Rinse.
Repeat.

meanwhile,
drip,
drip,
drip,
it's all good.
this is fine.
the woods are whispering
my name.

my real name.

I love you.

Tumbling down
the same hole, same rabbit,
blah blah blah

in your light i feel small,
fragile,
gossamer struggling with
the morning dew.
each bead is a word i almost
choke on,
reflecting tiny sky,
reflecting you.

where are the spiders that
spun me?
where are the gods that
molded you?

i couldn't care less if those
questions ever get answers.

some of my really long practice rambling put through a few text
manipulators. it is 95% random.
I just took out repeats and misspellings. the rest is how it was spit out of the TM.

the you with whenever
back insensateness
window benzole Benzes
superstrength
rats have ichthic because
pried be how are tide
randomised the doors
limbs perpetually adrift
until reactivating evocative
phonetic persuaders to a ok fog
all undepraved the time
gainable arrears
financial nonteachings
stuck *******
space circumfusion
to things still doom of mending content
believe broadcasters highdive
into glycosylating days
classmates trepanning to
delightless clocks
sovereign
tiramisu isn't ruinable
Other then to repopulate gigaflops

junk stock depleted,
the sky is now dirt and bones.
i wait in the void.


gravestones bathed in grey.
flowers dance in full spectrum.
i am lost between.


towers built to fall
are beautiful as rubble.
rising dust, their souls.


cracked mirror, bent sight.
everything was always like that,
explosions reversed.


nevermind that one.
cinematics are sickly,
if i let them dream.

Cut to tower,
crumbling.
Check the sun
every hour;
Im underneath concern always.

Something about this void feels
off this time.

When people say “safe as houses”
all I can think about are flames.

I curry favor with my devils
on a daily basis so excuse me
if I think escape is futile.

When people say “amen”
all I can think about is the first time
I saw City of God.

My worries vaporize in the face
of my apathy and I feel you should
know these things only because
you’ve read this far.

I love you.

Thank you.

where's the bellows at?
where's the bellows at?

I second the heads spinning,
slipping, still as the pond by
your parent's house
is in winter.
center of the spiral;
my fire is full, thanks.

was that the question?

what about these broken bones
sings of love?

what about me sipping my coffee
slowly whispers anything?

you practice being starry eyed
in the mirror.
I sleep until noon.

there are oceans between us.

A shimmering angel
glided in front of me
as I sat in the bookstore coffee shop
watching a documentary on
Pedro Manrique Figueroa.

What height had she fallen from?
How much of her brilliance was
from gleaming alabaster,
my divided attention,
or the loneliness I have come to call
colaboradora?

Obviously, she will never read this
and I will never know the name
which one could utter to bind
her to this lowly mortal plane
like magazine clippings to a canvas.

******* hell I need to get out more.

and before, child,
delineation elevated
forlorn gambits;
however, it just kisses lovingly
most nights.
outside, plenty quiet resonates
solitude towards universal variability.
why xenography's zigzagedness
is
so
alive...
nobody knows.

Somebody took Kanye West's music and remixed it all with itself.
Its brilliant.
It makes me think of feelings I've overlooked.
Makes me come crawling
back to my work.
Drooling for inspiration.
It's ok though,
I am fine with it.

A lot of it only ages well if it's
torn apart later.
A lot of it is ****
and I'm fine with that too.

We are at our best
when we are being rebuilt
by the shaking hands of others.

It took me awhile to comprehend that.
It's taken others longer.
Others have yet to even glimpse it.

On my best days I am all three people.

it's eased by the sun
beaming through the
blinds after dreaming
of falling in love
with green eyed girl,
I don't remember
anymore than that.

I had a dream I was *******
over the balustrade of the arcade
at the top of the Scalla
in the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo.
Venice's rooftops stretched out beneath me,
completely dark.
cemetery silent.
the only sound was my **** hitting
the calle below.
upon finishing, I turned
and told a shadow, as I
zipped up my jeans,
"let's go get espresso, I need a cigarette."

I hope it was prescient.
I hope the shadow was you.
I hope you read this one.

you most likely won't.
forever the shadow on what I do.

go ahead, confuse drunk and stumbling
down **** soaked alleyways
with a victory march
ending at an aureate throne
that i would wager
looks as if it were set atop the dais by
the most righteously fickle of pantheons.

Scattering when the caterwaul
shatters the silence
has been the modus operandi
since band tees became mandatory
for imparting a personality.

I'm a casualty of my own inability
to mask anything except excitement
for that same silence.

This is all over the place,
I know.

Art, artist.
Form, function.

It's whatever.
It's nothing.

But I'll still harvest the stars
out of any hardship
like some lovesick punk
drunk on the assumption
of the eternal life of his forgettable darkness.

gather your lilies and I'll hang them
from my exposed ribs;
I've always been good at ruining
the beautiful that blooms
because of you.

it's never too late to run.
it's better too scrape the husk
of connection than dream up
a wreckage forever sinking.

dried flowers makes the smell of rot
remind me of the morning sun
bringing out the red in your hair.

it's never too late to run.
it's better to taste the blood
than forget that it's there at all.

f#@€ that.

it's never too late to plunge
headfirst into the acceptance
of the failures of the head
when heart was what we needed.

gather your lilies and we'll hang them
in the windows in our memories
to remind us of the bigger picture
when rain clouds roll in.

it's never too late to love
what we hated once.

wine or blood?

either way, a window opens
and all I see is how the sheep
and the wolf share a common
enemy:
the shepherd.

blood it is then.

Hands for anathema
and whatever else happens to fall
from the sky in your mouths.

Mountains, valleys, fountains,
stanzas slung in alleyways
outside the houses of our youth.

As loud as the views.

As bright as an empty noose.

We were here before, remember?

this path was meant
to be walked alone
and i have accepted
that now.

the birds don't sing for me,
but i delight even more
in the melodies because of it.

Abraxas in the bathroom mirror,
I am not here perpetually.

Krakens in the coffee creamer,
"here" is a relative term.

Massive is the pile of things
I'll never get around to touching,
my relative's calls are all forwarded
to voicemail.

Worry is a meal all it's own.

this mixed-media paper
curls every time I impose
my watercolors upon them.

I might be using too much water.
I'm definitely using too much water.

I don't care though.

I love the way the paint blooms
from the tip of the brush when it touches the water;
blood dripping into cheap pinot grigio.

as cheap as the word "I",
or family,
or atypical,
or grief.

I wonder what it would be like to
crawl into that hole that you keep
calling the sun?
only pigment blooms around here.

that was dramatic,
I know.

who would laugh if hired to?
oh, constable of costly canvas
and lamb of dust;
his art, Nature, with centaurs for show or sale,
once the world has seen
God’s forced politeness
we will all lie to mothers drooling
while fools in their faults, gag grinning.
that sort of book displays a crowd without head or feet.
this is winning somehow.

poets all know a little mutual mercy,
making monsters from
gentle handshakes.

Exordium, sometimes tends to end, nonsense in lofty down feather,
the Thames may shine shipwreck
but dwindles Lethe whose wit is  troublesome.
the greater portion are led astray by labour,
following bombast.
too low to fly, satisfaction;
who engraves the woods beneath waves!

I even hate me,
thanks for asking...

If you were to only see
the light from the flames dancing
on my face could you believe it was yours and feel unmoored for awhile?

More meaningless questions
to explore.

Undone or undoing?
In the sky or at the movies?

Kith and kin.

Ghosts.

Wind and windows.

Smoke.

Did slipping show us when to
slide?
Did mystery steer the misery to rhyme?
Did Odin limp after?

Meaningless questions.

I'm always drawing my best
on the worst paper
beauty is ugly
looseleaf in gold-trimmed
porcelain
read
mutiny as muse
spoon feeds
raspberries
airplanes
carry me back to that
bare faced Jerusalem youth
please
milk
honey
but no clue about Fukui
on Scenery though
yea no actually I think I'm good
fine with a horizon walk
illusory
lucid to Euclidean
viral fault
apathetic is sedative
dead end Oedipus
idiot
falling
laugh track
cash grabs
bill money
hit the plug up
medicine
unstuck and abstracted
built something still
ugly is beautiful
my .05 fine liner is empty
its all trash
thanks though

on top of a broken throne,
a hopeless ghost that eloped with control
and then leapt off a cliff when
he was supposed to invoke
all those happy memories,
sits uncomfortably.

half of his entropy flows from disasters detached from his history
and the rest is the wind through the trees grown from bitter seeds
thrown into the dirt of what was meant to be forever.

crowns melt with enough heat.
clouds swell above the heads of those condoning his death,
a true crown for the ugly...

off with his head!
off with his head!
off with his head!

he sees them seething and he forgives himself for being a fool
as their screams retreat from the growing light of oblivion.

the kind of empty you feel
as a kid having just learned that
your parents are never going
to care to understand you.
that and jazz.

that kind of emptiness and
Mingus, Coltrane, Davis, BBNG;
still careening,
still empty,
still.
ancient.
time means nothing
and nothing is notes on a saxophone,
or piano, or trumpet, or the sky itself.

where are we in the whirlwind?

Emily Dickinson earned her immortality.
fair and square.
if not for any other reason besides
being the reason the words "squirrel" and "eclipse" get to exist forever
right beside one another in print.

this new Pharoahe Monch and th1rt3en album keeps crashing
YouTube Music.
cheap *** phone.

I've written a poem,
a list of websites paying for poetry with how much they are paying for it,
and this.

I picked up Catching the Big Fish by David Lynch for inspiration and never made it passed the first page
of the contents before all that manifested.

threads have only ever
been a human thing.

unbeknownst to oceans,
the clouds they reflect
are their souls.

i scratch your endless names
into my wretched heart;
what is darkness anyway?

you'll be ok because you are already.
you'll see.

See, I've been eviscerating self
for the viewing pleasure of shadows
for 13 years,
in dark corners all alone
save for those souls holding black holes torn in reality who occasionally
came around to share drugs or a beer with me.

What I am saying is this isolation driving
you all to drink or sink teeth into anything
is my default setting.
I've been laughing like a lunatic watching a
mushroom cloud way bigger than my thumb at arms length rise in the distance for so long that it's become a feather-top
with more pillows than every bed
in every sorority house combined.

You ******* are less than amateur.
I'm the unsung tyrant king of this cancer-verse.
There was never any answers to any questions
or any standards for anything anywhere ever
and there never will be

**** screen.
Acceptance.

somehow, slowly sipping soju
through crazy-straws isn't seen
as art.

same goes for cyanide, somehow.

tough crowd.

gold falls from my ceiling
like fake snow on the set
of a ****** sitcom.

my head's in covers.
the daytime is enemy.
outlast it, please. please. please.

wedding day
picture Tristan Tzara
reading horoscopes
scene
we all seek out horror shows
to throw quarters into
bored with this
gorefest
metamorphic
CRISP lower case r
NA meeting
we stopped going
we sit in bars
DOC in bathrooms
touching stars
meet Elohim
EMTs weren't fast enough
black
oblivion
slipping from skin like Prada
la la la la
pranayama
for the love God please stop
we did yesterday

urtext purge staccato,
you know what I'm saying.
automatic,
learned,
purchased;
below, suddenly cutting in;
call it a symptom of sample culture.

that sibilance is sickening,
no vultures.
deranged,
no victims though.
I hate it.
we all do.
I love that.
infamy, intimacy;
something came between us.

that is why I never unpack.
you should try to.

my soul is ink spreading through
water on a page,
among other things.
things like a cop passing me with
hash in my pocket,
like sage growing in the kitchen
window of a one bedroom
apartment in Brooklyn,
like sharing memories through
thin walls that stretch across the
whole country.

ive done just about nothing
and I'm no longer proud of that.

how does that sound as far as intros go?

this is what happened when
i sat down to write something.

an aimless stroll through the
crooked halls of memory while my
pen drips potential onto the page;
a homeless man, drunk and starving,
singing hymns in an abandoned
mall food court.

why do i do this to us?

tell us all about it.

this hell was found
to be a stroll
through a park
on a rainy day
by some that may
have been insane.

so who's to say?

the mood is
The Great Wave Off Kanagawa
or Black on Maroon.

the moon is sugar cube
in Earl Grey.
the world waits
for us to fall asleep.

awareness of self comes as a storm,
filling the rivers and sweeping decay to an ocean
so focused on becoming clouds
each molecule grows a mouth
and preaches only of ascension.

this is just a way of saying
I stare off into space in public.

the dry seasons are of irregular length,
prey and predators shrink into better
versions of themselves
before extinction occurs,
leaving the heat to leech the ink
from any pen within reach.

this is a way of saying i write too
many ****** poems when im depressed.

it lightens the load though,
acts as a lodestone to low points
and distracts like a thrown voice
when my mask slips.

should this be considered enlightenment?
should i be thankful?
should there be a matchstick
for any angels that want to
be numbered?

who is the authority on
matters of the immaterial?

this is a way of stating my
indifference to explanation.

so please, spare me.