About a daily routine, when one wakes up,
a light flickers
and we know so quickly what hasnt been done yet.

The sanded sheets, feckled
Life like theatre.
what appointment is
made in our head where we all fall.

The calling crows on branches past,
the low lags
The crack in the shell of the crab,
o woe
the morsels white and shredded fall forth,
im just questioning,
and wondering what or where I need to be
in future time,
o woe
I think that right now some things just seem silly,
I feel that some things just
seem redundant  
O woe
I’m to be alone for how long
This is the song of death,
the weary sagging eyes have bled
I’ve dripped from the sinew Slow dredges of cough
O woe
The bird in flight, who’s grip on on the reddened stick and bouncing brush waving hands of shining leaves like flickering lamp

I’ve had nothing but beer to drink
I’ve had nothing but smoke to sip
As it barrels from my mouth

Dec 30th
What soft light bounces between the wooden shudders, These slats in rows.

Let’s grow ugly and fat together
and let the lines of a couch or bed depress into our form of repeated placement as we wear small spectacles and squint anyway as one reads and the other sleeps despite the yellow wash over white linens and deep shadows.

These slats in Rows. Clouded white light
peering around the vestibule.

Nobody walks on their heels with their
head crook to the neck and their eyes
behind. Nobody walks backwards.

I’m not here much longer I don’t think I can take it. Living in uncertainty without an element of death or danger, only monetary insecurity, is the worst stressor which far surpasses the former of having to watch ones back, of having to look forward and plan, of tenting or warming oneself by flame.
This living is death.
I’m to smile today, and it’s not by choice but elation
but laying in the hollows of the wooden floor built up on stilts where every step echos as you slide with socks backwards for just a moment, this conclusion of thought itself in the soft paws and feet treading, where in echos of the depth of the warm pipes and soft dirt and dead lost pets  and cabinets of sticky noted named bottles of soap of people long since visited and mounds of photos resounds family.

A drawing of the moon and sun is hung from above my bed and every morning I wake and realize the mistakes,

(of how your) name rung like a bell through my body


how silly

Break the
Love in Purity who’s to be discouraged from ***






I know not what’s next I need my mind out of this hex I wish she loved be back again but a million miles away from the moon and I am the sun
My Sol is lost,

And this is where I ask myself why I’m so aloof. Who am I. What is myself. How grounded am I to the affects my body will experience from the actions I take.

I’ve spent a long while meandering. Running even. I’m confused. About everything. I’ve unraveled unto where each segment of spirit and personhood is delicately dissected and laid forth for observation.

What part is in defiance

Sewage eminates from the grate
The door is crooked, and doesn’t fit the frame
The nights await for those left awake
The days bleed by
Scrape the gum off concrete
The heat has dried the lake and the fish flop
and eyes are left wide and scales flake
What’s it truly like not to breathe?

Love lost and love lept from balconies
And steps between stoop and pavement and before the floor the thought of becoming better. If only I could dissemble each twine of thought balled in knots to
The next which led to me the spring forth and become the grass,
soil ground from bones and the wood once engrained with beautiful carvings of deer upon a mountside reaching low for morsels
Balconies break but baked what to reach for, what handrail can come so cruel as to pry each finger?

I leave myself and my body with it, I giggle as friends joke about getting high off whippets, I’ve singled out the thoughts which creep. No longer notions of flagellation, each word a bare reminder of fragility to this foundation
of mindfulness.

Do you ever get nervous.
And you say the wrong thing  

No I want it to be spring.
I want to feel love bring me a bit closer.
Pilfer through the past,
run with a purpose
but I know one thing is for certain it matters not the days or the weeks and how things worsen

I see the clouds
and how they’ll part and how I’m
a person
the versions who make them selves appear is weird
but I know the end of suffering is near

it’s the crowded rooms in the train stations waiting to board, lazily the coach opens and you hop aboard.
The rewards of watching birds flock Inside as the atrium between you
and the outside is wide.
When I remember the past I break
through the worst.
Wishing for the feeling
of love without hurt.
In pairs they’d fly though the building, following the train as it moves to the open, to the green grass fields I wield this ability to see the congruency of each step in my life.

How alone I feel without you
How quickly Id concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wear me
Like a shoal
Crush my trachea  
With your feet
Oh the people you’ll meet

How alone I feel without you
How quickly I’d concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wring me
Out
I’m your song bird
Dead in defeat
Oh the people you’ll meet