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Oct 4 · 90
Bryce Oct 4
When I think of you,
As but dust
In a carbon filter
I am disgusted
In the fact
This is what
Was expected

And thus,
I would not be
as I am,
At the thin
Of your skin

You had found
In a day,
Or in an
Of the sun

You would
In the way
That I do--

That is the curse
Of us
And thus
I make my
With love.
Oct 4 · 42
Literary (You)
Bryce Oct 4
I am a sojourner,
Wandering the paper-sand shores
Of pulp and rock--
Tracing the fields of ink in my mind
And following them
To the terminus of thoughts

And yet there was never a longer trail
Than the constant sound of vowels
That placed in me this solitude
And promising to

Go somewhere; see someone,
And see now--none but you.

To sail seas, searching for pearls
Across the shores of every beach
Inside the depths of chitinous chests
Hidden from the world

A jewel embeded,
Found by me


You are the fire of the Greeks
You are the Pharos, of lovely beams
You are the granules beneath my feet--
The pearl I never thought I'd see

And I am an island of thought
To rest your tired storms
And pour your heavy waters here,
To wither these blackened stones

My love,

If there was no more land to fear,
These shores would hold the skies
I'd grow a garden from the sea,
And let you name it ours

Of all the mountains nestled here,
And rivers coursing high
I'd have their shadows take to thee,
And in these passing hours--

When all the words are written,
And all the hymns are sung
As long as there is air to breathe
I'd say you are my love
Sep 25 · 345
Bryce Sep 25
Could you dive
From the 29th floor of a building
Into the waters
And survive?
Sep 25 · 143
Mono no Aware
Bryce Sep 25
Even now,

The lone pine
Stretched its dry roots
And gentle,
the lime
Of rock,

This sky gives me no comfort,
A fallow plain
Empty of rain
Rolling winds across
the Firmament

And the needles whimper
In the autumn breeze
As a field of clouds churns
In the mountains
At the horizon

The day is lost here--
Where time comes and goes with
No witness,
For the ancient sea
Is but talc and bone

And in the distance,
The glimmer of a car window
Reflecting the sun.
Bryce Sep 24
This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--

But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses

Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!

While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge

That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own

Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!

Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned

There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur

This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold

And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed

When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats

And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests

No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.
Poetry is art and art is dead, and it cannot be resumed unless understood in its aesthetic. For rivival comes but once and only upon death can the world understand the will of the living.
Sep 23 · 93
Bryce Sep 23
You give me the feeling,
Of Dido on the funeral pyre,
And I am the wood

You have me as some beast of the wilderness
Fears God in the spear and the teeth of metal
And I cannot help but run towards it

You are a sickness that has developed in my head, an idealism that may do nought but destroy me

You are terrifying and controlling, destructive and wholly
Consuming the flesh of my brain and in pain Perpetual

And you go on not caring.
Sep 23 · 85
Bryce Sep 23
Standing upon a terminal of the Pacific,
I am as calm as the waves.
As the sun falls
The colors gradient and gasp an infinite breadth
Of nothingness between the bowing photons.

I am dreary and blue,
Blue as lapis,
Listening to the waves that make no sounds--
But the sifting sands on the edge of the earth.

There is haze on this day,
And the light asks me to see it differently
Than all the days before
It calls to me, an empty voice, saying to me

That it carries the birds
And the winds
And the gulls
And the sins
Of my friends and brothers who live amongst the hills
And dine amongst the trees
And cry together between their sheets

Of metal and mold
Plastic and cold,
The earth gives me a shiver upon my skin.

In this everything,

I am lost.

In this moment,

I am skin.

On the border of the horizon that cuts
The oceans and the air
Ships without sails fight the gales and win,
Coming to rest in their deliverance.
Sep 19 · 47
To the house
Bryce Sep 19
Like cattle,
It is hot and dark in there
An anti-amniotic sacular
Pulsating through the tube

Here the humans brood
Awaiting destinations carried to
Pressed light against the walls of their cage for rest
The flashing of distant lights behind the darkness
go unnoticed

The stars are hidden by our feeling
Disguised by the more important sun
And our spires cast their cold steel shadows
Giving us none

The light is cast and we accept its sadness
For what it is-- pale limitations
And the decay of its photons
Give us space to call it names
Here, this is where we are

A far away from the stars.
Sep 18 · 91
I give you
Bryce Sep 18


I give you
the fire of the soul
The blood of the earth
The dust of the aether
In the gasp of the known

A liquorious draught
That tickles the throat
Where providence sat
And closed heaven's door

Spittle and drivel
The fleshy sacks grovel
While Satan
Clawed his nails
at the sand

Of souldom!
Cast amidst the stars
And Not moving very far

A *****
No more
And Gamorra absorbed
Before that perpetual want
of more

the scent of battle on the wind
Sulfur and toxic gas
Humans behaving mad
Leeward of the path
Struggling and daft
Illiterate and crass
Fallow fleshy sacks

I am in love with it all!
A raving lunatic with
romantic comedic timing
And no taste for time
But on the feast of the bone
And savored moment

I will be alone!
Except for you, poor soul
Who reads in these words
Your own fated toil

I miss you, I love you, from even beyond the pale
My words float in the clouds
And scrape the sentimental trails

Back home once again,
Maybe find my next trend
Or Hear HIS next sermon
And go tell a friend.
Sep 4 · 22
Bryce Sep 4
Soon it'll be me
Staring down the nebulas
The contortions of the sky
The stars that wander by
In my eye
And almost divine

Just practice nodes
Trailing the wheels
Rotating per Fortune's minute

This place
The vessel I will abate
At moments end I feel the hand of fate
RIP and tear my string from the yarn
And born again
Somewhere in the galactic arm
Sep 4 · 25
Bryce Sep 4
The way I like to understand the soul--
When someone goes "home",
And their body fades

It's a great cosmic spigot
Running endless
fresh water into bright buckets
On this waning summer day

When feeble little hands grasp at plastic
And hold the sweetwaters
Close to the chest, bringing them along on journeys to the distant sands
With every step spilling
Tiny pebbled beads
Of that water onto the ground
Gradually shifting the weight
Until comfort holds, unaware
The space between the fingers
And the pan

Eyes glazed with redness, tired

The little one in us falls asleep
As waves lap quietly at the sand
And the mountains rumble inevitably into sand

And the feeling of the earth is lost
And our body, like a rusted telescope mount, unable to stand
And spills the whole pail
Into the pale
And we leave this place as we began
Jul 24 · 87
Not my Job
Bryce Jul 24
It is not my job to be a poet,

not my job to spew hopeless clauses

Not my job to weave callous causes

Not my job to print insipid logic

Not my job to parse sight through the darkness.

Not my job to tell souls to behave

Not my job to give credence to knaves

Not my job to sell this gold to the state

Not my job to give words away.

No, it's yours - -

Yours to obey, yours to disdain

Yours to compare, yours to reapir

Yours to create, yours left to fate

Years of the past are not of one date


Not my job, not to wish or to pray

Not to shine one's soul with spittle
And lacquer its grain

Not my job to place words, no, merely to give
Not my place to give words that do not serve fit

You all know better, you all say so
And for note, with a sad, careful bow will I go.
Bryce Jul 18
The souls
Given circumstance by historical
Methodology and theoretical wanderings
Jun 21 · 177
Bryce Jun 21
Lying poets, they take their words to street
And sweep their hidden eyes to the pissant stone of curb
And drink in the sound of vehicle
Dreaming to be heard as loudly
But soft
And dreary
As the cloud
that casts its watchful shadow
Over the golden hills at the edge of space
And perpetually disposed themselves
Of any real fluidity

The sun pecks at the skin of the earth, as the waves of heat dance for her
And I become lost in the very essential part of it
That runs across the blades of grass in a quiet park
Where children scream gleefully and rub up against the chain-link
And the dogs empty themselves in feeling

The church bells, a trolleycar, the hobo collecting cans from an oasis of free trash bins
I drink the taste of **** and flower fields in the sweet summer sun

I could not believe what I had begun

The dream of Milton, my friend Kerouac, the Republic
The marble columns on Sansome
They are a treat to my ever-aging eyes
Seeking something in the dirtied troughs of heat
In the summer sun

But when will I be done?
Jun 18 · 245
From the 29th Floor
Bryce Jun 18
All of you below
Are little tiny ant-people
Bumbling through these funny streets
Hidden beneath my shadow.

With their cut cuticles of hair
And those knotted clumps of muscle
Around the pebble streets they roam
To destinations unknown

All around are towers of steel
All air conditioned and ventricled
Made of stone and office drone
They are the buzzing hives of employables

On the street the blood cells meet
On embolic artery of Battery
On varicose Vein of Sansome
The exoskeleton of this city
Curbed with Grey
and auburn streaks

Far away
Beyond the bay
In the neck of a wood's decay
The tiny ants feast on bark
As cars fly past on an interstate.
Jun 18 · 255
Dostoyevsky on the Train
Bryce Jun 18
The rails scream in the darkness
Sparking, lambent bulbs trace starlight behind tinted glass
No words, just motionless exhibition of man
The shrill yapping of a terrified pup
Ears plugged from the disastrous din of metal rubbing against itself

The train flies through an evacuated tube pressed beneath the innumerable water column
And it is deafening.

Behind us the gentle shipyards, ahead the recipient city
Waiting to drink up our wallets and time with her promiscuous streets
As she bends her towering legs to the ironically Chinese
Blowing its baritone warning flutes
As it tugs itself upon her Bays.

I am reading the book, seeing the Brothers through the din, in between the two cities
The two unhappinesses
and the creatures they identify with

It is a giant artifact,
the tube
It protrudes through
The ships
She sunk and constructed
Market, Mission, Pier, a swamp of concrete
Over the dried clump of trees
A thousand bits of Theseus
And the abandoned bones of thirsting men
Running east, towards Pittsburg
Warm Springs
The line is soft between these rusting zones
And the gold
Forgotten for silicone

I am reading a book
About brothers and the curse of stone
Sharing stares with dirogenous hobos
And girl's pupils
feasting on bodies hidden behind periodicals

The rails scream in protest
The railcars are turning up and out
Towards the end of the darkness
And the start of the largeness

The city waits to list her failures to me
To cry herself to sleep with raindrops of fog
And rasping breaths of breeze.
Jun 8 · 109
Aphoria 6
Bryce Jun 8
Me beneath the zenith's sun
The light she gave to Abbadon
Shadows genuflect and none
Could bear the dark's dissatisfaction

But me,
Beneath the zenith's sun
Is life in God's light bastion.
Jun 8 · 91
Aphoria 5
Bryce Jun 8
Ahead the span of ocean waves
Towards me and man at end of day
Behold her secrets in our gaze

Yet no sound but hers escapes
Jun 8 · 130
Aphoria 4
Bryce Jun 8
Above me, the great zone of sky
Where wonder and darkness forever hide

In her a sad and lonely guise
So blue, so kind,
a lasting cry.
Jun 8 · 107
Aphoria 3
Bryce Jun 8
There sit the pebbles on a stream
From ancient depths and time unseen
Stolen deep

From mountain peaks
And laid gently beneath my feet.
Jun 8 · 133
Aphoria 2
Bryce Jun 8
When the flower blooms
She smiles her pleasent hues
Her juices ooze
Advancing petal and raising shoots

A blubous tower in her youth
She curtsies, twirls in my view.
Jun 8 · 104
Aphoria 1
Bryce Jun 8
Look at the tree
Such soft bark, those hard leaves

It has no place for me to see
Just fuzzied lines in a dappled breeze.
May 13 · 298
Morituri Te Salutant
Bryce May 13
Standing upon these novel halls
The man, waiting
Seeks temperance and a kindness from God

He says,

"Give to me the gift of your knowledge and I will smite your enemy--rebuild the garden and replace those fruits long lost"

And his request echoes impotent through a voiceless hall

He cries, wails, churns and smashes
his dirtied knuckles on the walls

He yells, buckles, whines and sputters
Choked and lost in miserable,

The flanking rooms locked and dark
With constant voicing, gently call

"Who upon ye has the gall,
to name me Father"

And he is quiet.


In Moscow the Siberian fall grips the air
A wandering Dostoyevsky speaks in exhalations to the crack of gunshot in the dawn

A brief tightening of callous rope around his dry poetic throat

And at once his words sought to cull
the exquisite embers of furious retort

And he is silent.


The kindness of a failing city-state
Conveyed on the precipice of a bay
Jack teethed his frantic dharmas
And said to Them,

"What terminus of road
Would ever serve my unwinding soul?"

And as his gut trembled a final thought,
His eyes turned skyward, above the clouds

Where it was silent.


Dorigen, repenting the patient shores of tranquil sea
Accusing the chalk of its blackened soul
Traces the subtle dance of gulls
As their drowning feathers face these ageless things
whysper'd deep upon the winds

And she is Silent.


Basho, with a wanderer's grin
In solumn steps between the grains
Shades the path of unfamiliar road
And every poem steeped within

Where clouds are soft, where crickets sing
Past warbling stream with cadence grim
The Dao, leading ever onward

Says to him,

"Like water, do I rain."


Milton, his misted eyes
No light to guide their failed sight
Trace an ancient knowing glance
To Crown, his subtle circumstance

No soul in life
could see the might
Who gave this man his funeral rites

And when his words fall deaf at last
On his forgotten time and wishful past

He will stare deep into an inky void
And see
The stars for what they are:

Light, dispersed between the dark.


In the waning tide of Cresent lune
Twilight casts a gentle hue
Below the hill the city glows
The Palatine, gold and new

The ides, with consequence they come
And with them carry the will be done
Augustus' silent retinue of one
Notes a sky of draining sun

For Rome claws at all of Gaia's *******
And from sea to mount and desert dune
Ancient Africa, nascent Gaul
To Rome, will they forever fall

In darkness, the Palatine shadow loomed
Over web of flame-lit avenue

For the roads all led to Rome that night
For one small moment God guessed right

Cesar's legions on the fields of Mars
Clashed swords and drank to their Centurions
As an Era waited to see the dawn
And new blood to baptize the marbled Columns

And in the farms
beyond Rome,
The shepherds walked their sheep to rest
Where families returned to their homes
With stories of the day's parades and jests

And in the time
Between the days
When Rome slept and the crickets mated
The world was cast in velvet night
Lighted solely by constellation

And in that moment
God became
Apr 8 · 429
Man, Unmade
Bryce Apr 8
*******, Evangeline
I hated you in the seventh grade
When you were pushed on me at school
And broke my rib,
As I badmouthed you on the monkeyswings.

But quickly I learned
Not from mom or sister
That to be a man is different than
Hollywood and Disneyland
Nothing Loves, Actually; Forever calls—

Very quickly

It seems

That I go from adorable to expendable

With a bit of mandated mail
And affairs with Eros’ bureaus of State

Back then I played with chitinous bugs
Baiting them fluffy placentas
of budding trees
And stalked them back to their cave
Before I knew my felonies

But I was a baby,
A child—I never could have known what it means.

But of course I do,
I’ve seen
the running of the bulls
The utterance of men
They are angry and gouge *******
with cold vicegrips around their ******
And are kicked
Spurned to wrathful affectation
To be murdered in the evening
With rapturous spectation

“But they are bulls!”

Of course they are
"These feelings are only natural!"

No man can equate
With the pleasurable temptations of the state

Not bird or bug or steer or doe

The only Hierarchy permissible
Is of the animals
And of that we hate

I don’t see you woeing
About that steak on your plate.
Or the Glue in the soles of your shoes.

Stroll a bit
Sniff the trees
Whiff the *******
When it’s in the feed

He runs in circles shouting, chanting
“Oye, Oye, Aye Piche Cabrone!”
As the solo mothers cut his lengua
for the starving Ninos
In an apartment complex
off Oxenhoof Lane


Papi got iced
By I.C.E or the like
And the kiddies will never know what it means.

You’ll never know what it means
To be a bull
Muster your might for this—demand with laughter you die
I am an ant in the ever-washed hive
Of sterile kin who have no lives
They give for their queen or infectious despot with wings

Despite all the kindness they've given me,
I am not ready to be meat for the feet.

In every blade of grass I've faith
That no bird or sin will ****** me from my place
And into the sky or the unsatiated mouth of the various
Disunified highs

For now I share the toil and vitriolic
Jowls of those who hate themselves
More than me
And try to smile and bring food for the queen

But deep inside
I am an ant
And that is all you will ever see.
Mar 28 · 295
O child of the West
Bryce Mar 28
Come, O' child of the West!
As the towers fall and the abbeys rust
And the rising glass facades of dust
Preach you lies and folly thus!

In these fronds of existentia
And those shackled souls scared to devise
Diviner's fall their way to sight

For an oculus of clear sky
shivers in green
For utopia never before seen

God, the amalgamate of rock
And every bullet fired lost
Some section of jewel created in you
And gave the ending her fair dues

The safest tree that grows
In empty valley and fair meadow
With dying breath of barren roots she screams
In sunder surrendered everything

As the child, clutched tightly to her breast
The waves of time, in pounding crests
A volley, a riot of thunderous fear
And whisper poison into thine ear

Do not despair, tis not your fate
For those with gold kept still to trade
In Perpetua your colonnade
Shall forever rest that fair maid.
Mar 18 · 853
Scorpio Sun (Incomplete)
Bryce Mar 18
I'd traveled the distant vessels
of many an emptied lake
Sojourned fallow desert paths
praying for ancient rains

Great clouds in graceful conduct
Danced their lonely lover's gait
Quenching thirst of other grounds
With such a timely rain

I found upon a poesy
hidden in the shade
Took them gentle to my breast
to kiss away their pain

In creatures here the loss is felt
In summer sun the byways melt
No place for sacred waters run
When Her decisive motion's done

Placed beyond this bowl of stone
The ordered clasts of city grow
On mausolea of daffodils
Her voice forever ceased to know

The glow of sun in zenith speaks
To Her and me through haze and dream
Through knotted rock and speckled sky
I came undone in Her sweet eyes
Bryce Feb 28
Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity

Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains

There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes

I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you

The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light
Feb 13 · 990
Seeking Home
Bryce Feb 13
At the ending of the world
there is a great unraveling
that celestial bow, wound into heartsong
and maestrate the caring music of things--
with these passions of the mind,
God seeking to unravel himself in the ever-fleeing
moment of philosophy, a Persephonic instance
in the archetype of love, psychotic and misnamed,
strait-jacketed in sin and given nothing but sweet
momentary decay

all the powerful souls connect sexually with the cosmos--
payed off, bastardized with a cigarette between their whispered lips
we hold no wealth but the ever-shifting dollar of life.

Fat Jack, fondly Catholic with angel smiles-- holds a rock of God in his hand, rocking softly
in god's busted gut-belly
spread like butter amongst the stars, asking all the same questions of Nirvana--
The last rumble of a skin-tight drumskin wrapped within a screaming symphonic twang of remnant souls--
Walking the notochord of corporeal form
the fantastic drone of rotorcraft, taunting the angelic lads and their brigadier God, singing psalms of limerence
Charlie Parker, musical sadness
Jack-man gladness
Don't forget them in the moment of monastic incantations

High-risen pyramidicals
Euclidian pitter-patter against the gusts and rains
in familiar, repetitive shapes the droplets of ichor
elucidate the frowns of downtown humanity
the locked door at the edge of the room, the air evacuated in fear,
seeking safety in the favorite belfry of an ancient wailing abbey
the dusty oil-towns of century ago
Imbibes the modern-day Maricopa plain
folk digging for dino-rock and black gold, selling dreams to downtrodden lost boys
the mistakes of RV park families

Farmland road
in Louisiana brew
the atmosphere, keeping personal thoughts trapped
a high-pressure zone
the ever-wandering
churning winds of eventual hurricane
the sequence that tickles Fibonacci's fancies and
calls us to dream--
a great Babel of God's consistent scattering heart.

in this great combustible chamber, loud obnoxious gaseous veils
in a low sigh our precipitate souls
smog on the failed shackles of stale blood
dripping this oil on the lips
holding friendly smiles
hiding sickening grins
callous, angry, the honey-chalice sought be not by man or God

Charlie Parker, playing the world's instrumentation
a track to follow
faded as the ancient road roaming
Rome's wet snail trail
blinking and shimmering into existence
a dewlit morning
the conglomerate rock is a cradle for human discomfort
admitted and hidden
to be a better hold than the hands of the earth
in these cornmeal roads,
digging out sugars from her *****
and sipping on the liquor of life in classic fermentation

to hold the road in your hands, the world on your lips
to tell the catacombs of love you would be her hostess,
seeking answers in the bones of ancient souls and refining
in deep sighs,
loving the things we cannot be.
Feb 6 · 969
To No New Stars
Bryce Feb 6
Zara, love of life,
Spake in curtled call
Allfather, lover of light,
To bestow those "ants of the earth"

And arch-bound as the sinew of bowstrings
Howling as the volley hertz roped
Along the celestial violin
Pluck souls from their bodies
In symphonic prediction

Ascende! On the wings of love's Valkyrie-- in her shining eyes will you greet the stars of the Otherworld!


Cleaning hide chunks from Buffalo tusks
There is a stranger, who knocks upon my door
The fire is wide and welcoming,
Borea chides the earthenwork
Outside, the stranger calls
distant through the door.


A last heartsong,
The cup overflown with honey
A facsimile of symmetry
And not distinctly human
There was something to love in that,
Just the simple inclusion
Of all the other animus
Being formed in their conclusions

And following the arrowpoint
Floating by the bolt
What losses there to seek
Beyond a veiled humanity

We strike the fire one last time,
She to travel the mountain passes
Ashen eyes, holding viscous memories solidified

I to gather my quills
My thoughts and brush quickly the embers of love.
Into flame, carried deep into the hearts of the world and explored in violent disassociate
Particles red and hot

Then would Zara Spake again,

"with his eyes on the earth, will he never see but the stars."
Jan 28 · 190
Bryce Jan 28
It is asking the last drop in the sink
Where it thinks it should be drawn to
A gift to it is knowing
It will one day be whole again

Without thinking, heme seeks life through the energy of blanket air
Without thinking, we give farewell
Last thoughts in our misted halls of mind

I couldn't bear to view the color of blood spilled on stone
In the moonlight, all of it appears dappled black and white

All the good that you swear

It is asking love in the drops on the car
Asking for them to clean ever-dirtying metal
Asking for them to wash sins, wash lacquer from immutability itself

And it will never end.
Jan 11 · 875
Valiant Halls
Bryce Jan 11
Finally, that we may be all at once all at once, when the coil is unwound and exhausted and begins to cool
And the corneal fillaments glaze into placid glass marble lakes, reflecting the small spurn of the world they held

That our soul should be upwelled
To the lapping stones of Valhalla, to be arisen by great arms and carried to our tableplace
To jest eternally of the great disgrace...

And woe of our whales, lost long afar
And the men who hunted them incessant
Pleasently warmed and vibrating with the humming mumble of the upper yards,

Worn travellers return to tired halls.

And sing,

"Hei do Yey-- be come what may,
High winter hünde beheld at bay
And Yeh they feed in rare reprieve
On souls of such we will not say.

Hei do lum-- what will be done,
What valor hark thy martyrdom
Upon thine breaths and storied crests
Upon thy tomb, thy charter won

Hei do ill, ye sum thy will
To heed thy lands upon the hill
Down back from whence thy kingdom lent
The battle-horn, heard she so shrill"

And I confessed,

Jan 8 · 221
Bryce Jan 8
Ice caps
Mushrooms with frost on their mycelium
The ceiling of the earth tearing,
Dropping liquid ****** to give quick interest

Outside the planets twirl and explode from small rocks
Impact like pebbles on a great salt lake
The ripples of death create movement
Momentous Momentum

Violative but oh so real
Not too kind but who needs to be
Break down walls and streets and building facades
Say hey, bullets of mind should try again,
Hit something new, slit the hole of older jeans

Plop your tetrapedes between the planet matter and look good for once
Clean unwashed blue and painful on the junk

These favorites are just irises, asking to see themselves selfish and alone
Always alone in the body of god
Always a single cell in the larger overall
Pull-ups and getting down to work
Unsheathed from sleeves and lost in only the most bare of skins

Speaking to the lovers of Horus, seeking sunlight between the zippers of their minds

Rings out the bells, love, death, destruct
All the conscious constructions of the mind

Always of the mind

Never in divine
Jan 6 · 587
Bryce Jan 6
The arrival of senselessness
Is a great shadow over the earth,
a cooling cloud in the summer
causation of looking up--

Gift-givers wander the slopes and with packets of thought,
They run their fingers along the stones and the trees and the fields
Following the trails of clouds wandering just as inconsequent
Leaving tears as rain on the steppes and letting them drain into the deathly floors
asking them to give the ability for new things to drink
This is the true Holy Water

And a patchwork soul seeks, fixated,
answers to the crackled nature of their vessel
Running into the same stone of them, cancerous
soon left to sands and dust

The blades of leaves rattle a sad salute
Their ragged branches sheathed xylem, a perfect skyscraper design
Preventing edema of the like kind

Show to me that this place in not but the momentary awareness of light, a stopping point in the infinite variation

To locate oneself in the rapid raveling of everything into one great big
Sorrowful tear, running from the eternal blackness of the night
that holds noting but the absence of itself.
Jan 2 · 405
Bryce Jan 2
When we stopped at the mission
The cracked Adobe was a message from god

Centuries are just cracks in the stone, my world runs on diamonds and hydrocarbons
On charming interactions
On moments of synchronicity
On rubbing out heat to be dissatisfied into the void
To give feed for the new ones
In the feral zodiacs.

She frowned at this answer, said she wanted something less ethereal,
Something tight to clutch
Like the Parthenon's Corinthian columns
Or the great gables of a Neverending tabernacle
She was a greedy and godly girl

I was stupified, staring intently at the cracks
Asking what strange beings were created in between
Tracing the canyon routes with my hands, pressing the palm against the grooves
They were warm with lost sunshine, they had dust and life and creatures of God that sought not the gaze of us, but the eternal love of the dark

I have neglected many times this fact of life, pretending to be a stone in a world of pulsating flesh
Wanting to be abused eternally in exchange for experience

To be Boulder--
With granite cheeks and dusted neck
With cobalt eyes and chiseled chest
Tectonic movement, sparring feet
And left forever towards the seas.
Dec 2018 · 398
Bryce Dec 2018
You are a stone tablet
You are a cold, washed thing
You have fear in your eyes
And the light that shines from you is cold, alone, all over

I cannot connect the things that will not be
I cannot communicate fake things
I will take communion from flowers, asking you to be the petals

We are forgetting the nature of love,
Fogetting that it is mistakes and pain that makes happiness at the end of it
That joy and suffering are karmic and designed
Do not give up on these things

When I can reach no longer for you my heart will pang
The sadness of giving up on a soul that doesn't deserve it
A wanting to give God's incarnations the love he gave me
She will not take it

I do not want these feelings to be the only thing I know, but the fear I feel with you is making it difficult

Please don't play me, I have walked a thousand lifetimes of it and I don't need any more.
Dec 2018 · 2.1k
San Joaquins
Bryce Dec 2018
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats

Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins

The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior

Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles

The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze

Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land

The land of things and endless breadth

This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams

Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 2018 · 186
Table 42
Bryce Dec 2018
With a citronella candle,
A lofty perfume,
Delayed expectations,
Friendly champagne flute--

I will wonder in between
Being patient,
Believing in the irredeemable soul.
Dec 2018 · 204
Walking Towards the Desert
Bryce Dec 2018
There is nobody to leave you in the sands,
Where you leave yourself and the range of thoughts flows freely,
And the 20 mules are stuffed in some museum--their final gift

There is no place to clean your wounds
Just sand to stunt the bleeding

The Paiute, drunk off cactus and smoking themselves into oblivion

They understood that the desert has no need for sadness
the desert IS sadness.

Searching for what? Food? It's all spiked and scared of you out here--
No love on this plane, just in the shape of things

The nick of *****

The bleed of seed

The dream

Dec 2018 · 149
In the Days After
Bryce Dec 2018
It is the way the world looks
When the sun has hidden itself
And the sky is glowing in sad gradients of shadows
Teal, aqua, lilac nights
Making statements to space

I wanted to believe that rocks would take in stride their banishment from life

I wanted to believe they'd be okay with being stepped on
Ground up
Tumbled, tributaried, washed and molded
Into a beaten perfection that lasts momentary--

But they weren't.

They cried gems!
they made the best replica in silica they could

They were insulted and worn close to the breast at first, but shining too bright those greedy fools mistook them for

a legendary thing, sacred, not God.

I wanted to believe that these rocks were intrinsic, that they had something in them
That gold was worth more than its weight
And malleable

That there was god in those plagioclase tears, that they were not the embodiment of sin

I was not convinced
Dec 2018 · 462
On a Jet Plane
Bryce Dec 2018

finally the winds have subsided
the grasses are no longer golden brown

The world is growing in joy!

I can feel my heart burn, the blood of love leaking upon the planks
But it is safe, it is home
It is the lapping shores of the familiar stones
No violent black rock of dreams to stop me from ascending the cliffs
finding solid ground
growing food and making love to the true beauty of it all

And the islands at the edge of the world
Anatolia, the dreams of a new kingdom
One where I was the man I was
Calyps, though kind,
Was a beautiful temptress and had nothing good to say
Just figments and dreams, illusory
She would never make me king.

So here I am friends!
I, your friend
Your crown and solemn head
Please, I ask with faith--
Give me this place to stay.
Dec 2018 · 2.3k
Odysseus, pt 2
Bryce Dec 2018
I, naive

I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain

Thought those rays of sun weren't burning

I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now

Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things

No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves

When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--

The lowly philosopher-king

Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life

Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night

And every other Friday night

Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"

Slowed down for full potential

Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this

almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,

"Love, how much I'd love to be. "
Dec 2018 · 193
Bryce Dec 2018
It has been resolved!

It is a crusted concept, inept and unabashed

It is the last call on a windy city tram to the south side

It is a favorite sports bar closed for remodel

The pleasant bliss of air and undisclosed favorites

I will finally extricate myself from the grips of Charybdis

I will continue on, my sail billowing with glee

the air is my fuel and neverrun empty

Can you give a piece of El Dorado to my newfound friend,

Can you give them the same happiness you promised me

and don't let them wonder too long

These unforgotten experiences that mean something to you--

It is an orange rind in the water, silently exfoliating the ions

It is a concrete structure undefined

All the stones that are friendly and snuggled intently against

the mold

I will find new homes in the volcanic chains and wonder about you

You will never again remember the same way who I am, just the faded constraints of the way I challenged your brain

Think of new things! See the trees as lungs

and breeeeaaaathing

You'll find that love in another chunk of god, no complaints for the weary

The kind and lovable axeman who cuts u--Pondicherry

I am a static mold and will rapidly extrue

All the magnificence of things that I cannot view

I am a rhythm of the heart, a beaming drum

I analyze the air and drink it like ***

Fermented love of god, give me no return

To give that which no man has earned

thank you,
sweet love
thank you for showing me something new.
Dec 2018 · 239
The Rain Poem
Bryce Dec 2018
Funny how it is.

A bright light, morphing through the clouds

The soft touch of droplets, melting into shingles

The only time you're really able to look.

Wandering along the roads and banding together, they are everywhere at once!

a political movement--libertines, belligerent against the rule of continuous airs

The princely stream that does not love them

Raised into fists, falling to bombard a defenseless floor, the poor baby of collateral

In it there is hope for the cloud

the ground does not mind being wetted again

Halfway around the world the deserts are still empty and warm, where the sands of oceans taste wind

On islands the land is a pinprick between a cloudy sea, it is green and bleeding and drinks in the light

All the baby birds of earth look up into the raining sky, asking for?

And given no answers with godly warmth.

I dream to show you this world of mine-- the one all too unreal and divine

You are a moment of rain, rapidly becoming Ingrained within the concrete
Lost in the forever of this place

I am greedy and wanting to leave my mark, I invent hydrocarbons to build smarter oxygen drops

they one day become us

They always become us

I am an early storm, violent and unkempt-- I seek immediate retribution,
I ravage the lands

With no further to go, I will dissipate


And give the light space to show.
Nov 2018 · 152
Bryce Nov 2018
On the blue river
Boats pass lazy in the sun
I rest in the shade.
Nov 2018 · 942
Bryce Nov 2018
She had shown to me,
Aurora sweet alighted
the excited verdant ions
a scar of atmosphere
the mantle undivided
to give as sacrifice
to give life to snow

Ye not tempt me with it
Burden of beauty
of foggy things in my dreams
at fancy ballroom mirages

to be found in the refrigerated drink section
outside the air is cold and cools oil on gravel
while across town the burning embers of a home
melt the snow into rivers

The fog of dew on the leaves
drunk, speak the lips of the slain
to look up into the blue
and find solace in the rains.
Nov 2018 · 2.8k
Bryce Nov 2018
You had not joined me
My totem-journey to the wellspring of the Colorado
to seek the source of things uncontained

the stars washed over me with asphyxiation
the breathless gasp of space

--In the deserts;
the emerald barrel cactus
is watered as the earth
and the passerby
cut into the crust
to sip the wine-flesh
to be drunk
and exhume the inhibitions of living

Forbidden berries
in the garden of quills, spear thistles
trust upon the air to protect her children

a good, silent mother
does not refuse
the gift of deflowering
as she is stripped
of her sharpness
and laundered
bestowed in salted bison skin of a war-chief's pouch.
Nov 2018 · 73
Bryce Nov 2018
I would ask you to clean your staff
Before embarking,
The plebs don't want to see you
With dirt on your draperies

Give them a show and a favorite name
Give them a home and a place to claim
Nov 2018 · 94
Man in the Marble
Bryce Nov 2018
There is a man in the stone
He is grainy and unable
To make out with the sky so moist
And uninviting.

There is a man on the bench
He is on his way to stone
He is a soldier and shoulders high metal rods

There is a man in the church
He is a cockel and a fraud
He loves father god
With all his excess.

There is a man in the road
He is searching for a soul
He finds God on the pavement
And in the curb, on the stone

There is a boy in the building
He is dazed and lazy
He dreams of death
And the bliss that will bring
Nov 2018 · 71
Bryce Nov 2018
Reaching for cigar
Thinking of home, somewhere else
The planes fly above.
Nov 2018 · 205
Bryce Nov 2018
Sun skates the far hills
In the center, a rest stop
Left to dry the sands.
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