unraveling
i become an empty sky starving for someone
in need of a silence to deify

sacrosanct
gold fangs
cracked concrete
black rose
pathos
data flow
ennui
too many ******* commas
my inner dalai lama laments any is to be
wrenched from the grip of mama entropy
rinse repeat
rinse repeat
the bends are **** so im staying under
to swap kisses with whispered history

miss me with the mysterious "here she is amidst the pyramids"
please
im over it

when all the richness within "life"
turns to gleaming misery
will you come nurse a beer and a smile with me
before that altar of the end that howls for a blacker oblivion
than it already tastes on the tongues of those of us
willing to dream it up

that question was meant to be confusing
a wilderness our inner children
can skip off into while we make a home from the horror
bleeding out of the voids they leave behind

i think

my certainty is an empty throne these days

raw canvas
tetrachromacy
slipping
dripping cyan acrylic
expensive but i steal it

this is prostration at the feet of feeling something
this is listless eyes in the grass
this is myth
this is dogs eating their own ****
on empty suburban streets

tell me how it makes you feel
tell me what to charge the next poor ******* i can get to collapse potential futures in front of my work

dont tell me a ******* thing

im honestly cool with letting the plight of the heavy mind aesthetic
settle like diatoms into nautilus shells
bisected by The-Devil-Knows-Who
or even the Devil Himself
wearing hellfire like a Versace suit

it's all tangents
move past it

the world seems far away
the kind of far away you feel
reading the obituaries in the newspaper

out there
just spinning

i trace the door frame with my thumb

spinning
fire spitting out of open mouths
everywhere but here

on my back in the dewy grass

is this what sky feels

you can have the wishes a better me would've made

i'm ok with it

my heart is a billion moths swirling
beneath a farola fernandina in some
forgotten figment finally drifting
out of the immanence i heard you've been
searching for between drinks and pizza

eyes widen
moon smears across a stagnate pond
i bide my time with learning to disappear at dawn

the revenant has my face

mirror mirror on the everything

stakes

what's lost is lost is god is fog
rolling over the sidewalks
in neighborhoods of darker timelines
i might fall in love with someday

flowers grow from my footprints

hymns drifting out of cracked cathedral doors

I whisper seduction to any and all
stones awaiting the warmth of the
morning to end all R.E.M sleep
everywhere simultaneously

my alarm clock rang itself off
the nightstand a millennia ago

and if i must rip rotten fangs
from the gaping mouth of the day
i will do it in the night hours
where every whisper is a war cry
alone and aflame with regret
the regret of never having the strength
to crack my ribs and carve the names
of every single one of these ghosts
onto my beating heart
and show them smiling like a child
while their's beat too

they dance in my head to the sound of blackened canines
hitting the floor at my feet

at least they are dancing

bedroom fades back in
groggy eyed perpetual
no need to worry
i whisper to the dust motes
they will all read this how they want
or wont read it at all
so keep dancing
it lends the moment something dead
i can take for granted
as i stumble down the hall
to the bathroom
where i stand and
stare at myself in the mirror
half naked

I want the audience to know that i
show up to any gilded scale with my own dagger and feather
and usually leap into the
gaping maw of the Ammit analog
before the latter is ever placed
in the bowl opposite
my still beating heart

but
something about this go-around feels
a bit different
a bit off
a bit clearer maybe

maybe not

maybe

yea maybe not

and
yet
somehow
another
gaping
maw

no jumping this time

i jump anyway

everywhere
always
is in the jaws of something

always
is a door to the same place
we have unlearned how to love

we have learned how to run

we have never earned any of this

so this is me digging the graves
of those I will never meet

this is me earning
something
anything
always

black sun rising behind a pair of bone white pyramids

i don't know why i keep seeing this

the urge to thread my absurd dreams into the naked normal
is overwhelming
and yet
every single morning i dig graves for them behind my eyes

black sun setting
golden sand turned into a mirror meant for the grinning gods
of frenzied denizens of some dim and distant existence

my conviction has always slipped through my fingers

eater of worlds
beseecher of ends hell bent on getting new skin to kick rocks in
constant
unconscious
mach speed
god needs to ******* back to his rabbit out the satin magic act *******
full clips
cool kids pulling
cooler patterns to be enraptured with
slap-dash
dash away faster and faster and faster

heat death

we need silence in each and every vestibule

we seek death like a cheap ticket to a free event we know we wont even show up for

donation boxes overflowing with halfhearted suggestions
futures trading
praise be to praise be to praise be to praise be to
be to
be to
be you
be folklore
be old warrants served to bones beneath floorboards
go towards the morning as well as from where the dirges are drifting out of

incense smoke
the glow of a tv
white noise
no
you know you wont need me
ill float away hoping to find a bright void to anoint with dream-speak
en route to a deep dissent i intend to rent to tourists

you know

for the full experience

there
the deconstruction made ever more elusive our moth eaten infinity
a labyrinth there was no need to stumble into
but stumble we did
over words
over stacks of books or bones or both
over lovers lost long before the longing for getting lost
in the primordial black of being

loss
the language of whatever god dreamed us alive before dying in her sleep

there
the unraveling reality i snarl at in the mirror of my soul

there
the end painted on the walls of our childhood homes

there
any place other than under the only cosmos ever known

all is mind
all is dream
all is all alone

burdens

or murmuration mid-dance

perspective


im still learning that

every morning i write "mea culpa" on my palm
with a cheap ink pen i found in a parking lot
while wandering around looking for something
to write about
little victories
rental history
past due
losing it
putrid
Euclid in a noose
loose cash for a cheap elote evocation
i bleed truth from my gums when im drunk and my heroes hate me

blank stare at blank page
the Pit of Acheron stretching down
pray pray pray with my wretched mouth
for anything that makes me think of your face rising out of it

i still ******* love you

this isnt just feet on the precipice of deepening reverie
this is death of the best of me
please please please let me believe forever that your flesh
still regrets the loss of mine pressed close

my ghost really needs it

sell me benediction and be done with it

this isn't apathy
this is painting with the most boring black i can find
and calling it "like father like son"

im tired of searching
or better yet
tired of acting as if im tired of searching for providence

so again
sell me benediction and be done with it

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.

have you ever noticed anything that sent you spinning
off into the empty infinity of blossoming cognizance?

pupils dilate,
sweat beads,
words collapse back into what they imply; we only know
because we watched the footage.

yes, we watched it together
and yes, it is the only father figure that pays for her own dinner these days.

i wish i was worth forgetting in the future.

i wish people didnt feel they had to be anything but here.

i wish people would teach their children about how i could market loose teeth to coastlines.

im laughing at your puzzled aura
from the next epochal shift.

(man enters and exits stage right, nervously)

it's deep is a depth but really nonsense.

On a scale of 1 to Lord of All,
how important is your
opinion of what others create?

I see you, through these sigils,
pretending every breath you took
is a doctorate.

Did you know you dont have to choose between being the brush or the brush stroke?
You could build boats,
hunt ghosts with broken radios,
climb mountains to commune with the dead,
stare at the stars and make
your own constellations,
or play ukulele alone with a head full of acid.

All I am saying is
there are far better plotlines
than playing sovereign king of the
swamp that swallows you
and believing it be noble.

the flame of the candle
dances with the shadows
on the wall.

life and death are no different.
a dance.

one where I am still watching my feet...

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.

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.

"though the most simple creatures"
in black gloss Ironlak
on the back wall of the gas station
I was told to stay away from.

I didn't do it,
I promise.

my promises are matches struck
by a nervous mom.

you get it.

"wait, what was that?"
war-drums.

the war was won by the underdog;
I was uninvolved.

but I'm here now.
"or love..." is always an option.
I get this weird doubt
about how I'll fit in
with all of it all;
I'm calling it off.

perpetually.

I never measure things.
I should measure things
I should measure things.

days have too many teeth;
the night is a blood orange.

so squeeze it.

squeeze it until its worthy of a cup
in the morning
next to your eggs and hot sauce.

read it back.

those thoughts of yours sure are lofty, huh?
I wouldn't use that word other than
in that instance.

rough draft,
a bit contrived,
pretentious,
flimsy.

I chant hymns in the mirror too.
I exhalt vitriol to the heights of vitriol
and slit my own throat
under full moons
so more full moons will shine
over my *******.

I am the space between the syllables
begging to be an outro.

been at the end of my rope
for what feels like infinity,
Orange and red roses growing beneath my feet though

minutes eat the days up,
it's ok because my days **** anyway.
pity is paid to the same mud
all mystery came writhing up out of.
anyways,
what the Gehenna was I getting at?
oh yea,
the revenge-**** of the century:
me swinging like a tarnished gold pendulum
from the Ash tree I planted a few years back.

the things you write
are so sappy.

that is not to say I do not
mind drowning in their
stickiness.

you should leave them in the sun
and see what happens.

remember when you played
that role in that one movie
about the end of the world?

that is how I feel when I
stay up drinking and reading
poetry by people who I will
never meet.

call it what you want.

I'll be reading in the
poetry section.

my disillusionment,
I spoon it out like sugar.

I stopped using sugar
years ago.

here you go,
darling.
be careful its very very hot.

creative output is in overdrive
(that's contrived)
it's exhausting
I love it

jail is like an african black clay
face mask for the ******* soul
I think I'm the only one who
views it as such though
but alas
I remain satisfied

eh

that's what ambition actually sounds like

why do you think
I tried burning that particular
house down,
out of all the houses
on our street?

loaded questions.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
the "I" of now hates himself
for all of it.

every question is loaded;
fun house mirrors.

believing it was something
like a nice early 20th century
restaurant is convenient
now that i’m trying to write
about where “I” was before
the doctors forced me back
into my body the other day
at the hospital.

the clink of silver on porcelain
becoming the relentless beeping
of an ECG is imagery that does
all the heavy lifting.

of course, dissociation does come
easy to my generation.

we all do not wear watches either.

only more problems, right?

I fall deeper as I
watch her yawn in the sun.

There better be a fountain
made in her likeness
at the center of all this.

there is always more hallways.
this labyrinth is unyielding
to my desire sitting like
a king atop my curiosity's corpse.

more hallways,
more thrones.

stop, please.

far from home,
far from conscious,
a fall from grace
isn't as far from
greatness as
one would
think.

progress.
unsung,
fade to black;
fin.

is it though?
I've been renting hopes
like the rest of you.
centrifugal force;
I'm minimum effort
in your pivotal war.
miss me with the *******.
hit the mug with the honey,
[full clip]
that wool slips and let's the light in,
[that isn't funny]
im ******* trying here.

on the interstate
I feel like a virus in the bloodstream
of some massive beast.
I feel glad to be here.

I feel alot of things.

I feel ugly is underrated.
I feel apathy like hearing rats in the walls.

at least I feel anything at all.
really.

intransigence,
streets refusing rain,
all syllables march back
into my mouth;
i'm drowning.

last night I dreamt
of your red mahogany casket
creaking as it was lowered
into the cold earth.

(a lonely little girl catching
raindrops on her tongue)

all of this is fiction.

diamonds fall from my mouth,
blood up there in the mountains somewhere;
something for everybody.
everybody dies,
but everybody tries to forget that.

i'll share a cigarette with you
if you happen to have brought a lighter.

i know,
i always forget something.

last november i found a dead hawk
lying in a ditch while out for a stroll.

i took it home and buried it beneath
the same tree i have buried all my pets under.

we are all so very small.
we always forget that.
i try not to.

I've been dissolving slowly
this whole time.
I dont know quite how long
that is.

Fleeting glimpses of gilded good
amidst **** loads of, well...

This isn't a call for help.
This is sincere.
This is dismantling of style.
This is alive like the rest of it.

Every cigarette I smoke
is the last one I ever will.
Every syllable I ever wrote
is abominable and I love that.

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.

lich king with a litany
of reasons the ****'s creek
trip went off the rails
last season

only the skies are ever replaced.
Zarathustra was overbriefed
as always.
it makes me want a doomsday,
a noose swing,
a new face.

this spinning plate thing
is not as lucrative as I had thought
it would be.
still no worse than I was
so that is something.

I burn journals of old poems
at open mic nights.

Decadence is a sign that a
society is on the brink
of collapse;
kids playing with
stacks of money in muddy steets.

So on and so on.

Every other moment,
beneath my feet,
I feel the ground's metamorphosis
into open air.

Truth is a tightening noose.
Trying to syphon anything but lies
as white as the proof is deniable
is useless.

Spoonful after spooonful flying
into a smiling mouth;
no airplane sounds.

Missing the tentacles writhing beneath
the detritus on the Earth's surface
is as close we orphans can get to
being detrimental to a cause.

Claws marks on the inside of coffin lids
scrawl their own metaphor for the squall
that drifts slow and minimal
but ends at The All coming to a
screeching halt in the middle
of the walkways connecting
the land of the living with
the dreams of palms outstretched
for what we will never learn.