an exhaustive compilation of

audio skips, left on replay in an

empty room.

would emptiness scramble for

that room--after the recording ends?

as if reflexively concealing itself from an

entity that suddenly emerged.

a sibilance that broke with no break.

its own recording picking up where the

recording ended.

the way stagnant water resembles a fish

out of water.

the seizuring digits of a grade school  

calculator, forgotten in a pouch put away

for storage.

as the half man/half butterfly morphosis of a Zen

master disturbs the meditation of his master's,

master.

being cut clear in half with his stick, through the

manicured flatness of sand granules retracing

their distinctive sounds.

while they adhere to its rigidity.

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.

dungeonesque clanking, subterranean bass
shadowing his 6ft. nine in. horror-addled gait.
the bizarro treble of: decapitation/necrophilia/
dismemberment, introduce Ed Kemper to spaces
he lays comparative disproportion to.
neck like a Great Dane, drowsy bookish eyes
smeared behind circular glasses, decisive comb-over,
& walrus mustache.
his intelligence quotient test herded him where
geniuses reportedly dwell.
monstrously sidestepping from where things can't be
measured--murdering his mother & her friend, along
with six female co-eds (not to mention his grandparents
on a prior youthful conviction).
now imagine Ed, plain old Ed--taking a load off in a
soundless recording booth in prison.
clearing his throat & reading into a microphone--
hypnotically translating into a cavernous monotone.
jarring the listener to heightened attention with emphasis--
seventeen audiobooks were recorded by Ed Kemper for:
The Blind Project.
how ironical for such an elocution to bleed through--
in this way.

a google earth stalker hovered &
zoomed in on localities that predicted
his frequency like an equated John.
fanatically checking for refreshed images--
that he may feature as an action shot of
undiscovered talent.
the quirky habituation of her long distance
fix, a savant's out-of-body experience.
a rendezvous' autopilot, more accurate than a
dreamt address--a gooey **** driving fingernails
into tight fists.
despoiling the lifelines of palms, eyelids cracked
open like blinds voyeuring on the closed door
policy of the indecent.
now she jams her zipper, while hopping in &
out of bed with self-mythology.
alone with her body, or alone with another body.
she's back on google earth again, fastidiously
searching for an appropriate potter's field.

leaning towards those in your elephantine ears,
fast with reerecting churchy whispers--have
monumental opinions of you.
while you're used at ease, in adjustably particular
ways--nodding with pathetic gratitude.
your sister's ***** slip that night, in regard to a
pinnable justice on your cold ***--goes around in
sisterly unsaid.
what you desecrated with the dead weight of
forward motion, isn't even aware of retrograde as
damnability.
a chartless pole leaves an elderly woman where
she lie, for good--as you sleepwalk away from her.
she's lonely because you probably won't make it there--
despite all the surrounding evidence.

the weak ancestry of your menstrual
flow leaked its curse under my roof.
as the moon became an aborted
metaphor--a witch left back scavenging
for a grade of being.
making evil little faces with no magical
reserve, froggies caught in your throat.
unintelligibly shrewd pangs clamoring
for screams deep in the sticks.
with a flightless broom dry heaving
between your legs.