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Bryce Jul 2018
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Completely snuffed
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.

Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless

To give a place
To the missed

That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.

Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of

These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Bryce Jun 2018
Good morning miss,
how do you do?
I have something very special today to offer you!
Oh, wouldn't you like to know what it is?
I know you're busy, ma'am-- it won't be but a bit

Thank you, ma'am.

Now, take a gander at this--
We live in a very advanced age,
With much to do that cannot be missed!
With television and telephones and magneato-static tape,
We can easily forget-- get lost-- frequently lose our place!

But with this brand new...
You'll find your worries quickly erased!

..Well yes ma'am, if you'll let me finish.

Now see, its easy!
All it takes is a tune
a look, a whistle, even a fingertap'll do
This magic machine
listens to your needs!

It's small, and light,
and shatters quite
So you'll want to have it on hand.
For safekeeping!

It listens to you,
like no man would do
And ensures you are the best you can be!
Once you pay the price,
you won't need think twice--
Yes ma'am!
all the knowledge you could want in the world, to a T!

How does it do it?
Well you really needn't ask
It works through the mutual human task!
Every man, woman, and child comes together to contribute
It does not discriminate, you do not pay tribute
No ma'am no, this machine seeks no gold
Just you, is what it wants. It simply wants you.

You'll take it? That's great! I'll get you in next shipment
they're sourced from a faraway place, but it won't take but an instant!
With boats and planes and automobiles,
We'll get it to you
We'll make sure of that, words true.

We're excited for this!
You won't believe what you've missed!
And very quickly you'll find the world just doesn't do
without constant supervision from the...

Now if you'll excuse me, miss--
you have a nice night.
Bryce May 2018
How many songs wrote never known?
How many crescendos
lost to the echo
of merciless Fortune's squealing tired tire?

How many words?
never perturbed
silt beneath the oceanic span
between here and fame's centurion?

How long until god thrusts them into day?
to trace glibly along the interstate
for some passing child to stumble upon
and resonate?

How many bodies
removed of soul
Riddled with bullet and dirt of metal
sank deep into the earth and turned to worms
and protozoa
and chirps
and birds
and grass
and bark
and leaves
and trees
and Pax

How many greats' fate
Do we forget in our mad scramble
and the many fateful decisions
To save
or burn
Their words
and hands
And let Destiny
or Jesus
or Allah
or Krishna
or Mahayana
Guide their thoughts
to greater heights

Of how much
Have we lost sight?
Bryce Jun 2018
Yesterday the ever-present dead trees that lined my childhood road
Decended deep into the stream,
Killed a woman
One soul
Smashed deep against the windshield
And with drops of coconut blood
And leftover grocery lists
And sunken perfume

How could it be like this?

But man
What a way to go
A funeral procession of thousands
Stopped for miles
What could you have been?

Your ten-milisecond
Moment of fame
And the hours after you cease to know
Like the most
unfortunate poet
They saw you for what you were
And wondered...

It was you
God chose you
And brought you home with the gleaming face
Of a modern-day

I went the back way that day
After becoming impatient for an exit
And so I guess you came into my mind
Knowing that every plaque in the continental
Is you acting a little bit too quickly
So I looked you up on the phone
And said thanks
For whatever you did
As a soul
Here and back again
Bryce Sep 2021
In between the next steps
I think of you

You, off on some adventure
Seeking truth

I had it in my hand, a jewel
I polished until it fell to dust

My lust
Nailed my own hands to the boards

And lost
Bryce May 2018
When i was a little boy
and my booties could fit within
a small couplet of square metal
to which I had been given

I did not question, I did not complain
I existed the sights and smells of simple place

I licked the mist that watered plants
Crushed coffee beans in the employee
for they laughed at such a little boy.

It was 2002
and America was still somewhat free
When movie theaters had plastic seats
Empty exits
Then I sat the edge on watching Pokemon

Living in an electronic simulation
Taming, Creating monsters in my spare time
Travelling the tri-valley
Commute of a thousand years


It only takes minutes
And my soul drips strange when I see the house
Devoid of lavender,
Cut of oak tree

The park that once held the promise of a century
Diminished into brief obscurity
As new developments
Shaped like matchbox
destroy the grass
And raise land prices
To end the american dream

Paved roads that sang of free
take their toll
now I cannot see why this could be

What interest could there be
To paint our chided memory
Out of mind, out of sight?

Now the place I bought grilled cheese
Dipped in sharp tang of pickle juice

Bought and sold to an optometrist
To continue questioning the vision
of our adults
Bryce Nov 2019
The sand that creeps around the rock
The base of that column, lonesome
The valley, splayed in beige and flaking
Fallow and constant--
The cold marble, weathered and soft
And lost is the rigor of its shape.

In old age it has grown pale,
White, cracked, sinking into the grains
And I watched with solemn gaze
between the tightened gasps of breath
Thinking in good time to watch
The sinking of this fated tower
Upon the rustic sea of rock

And I watched.

Pompey, the last vigil for our Trojan souls
With no way to mount this feeling
And guide it to the pastures of the east
Or comprehend the rudiment
Of the west--
What phoenix keeps the desert in its crop
And feeds these grains to hungry beaks?

I could not satiate these thoughts,
The burning of my heart that dripped
From the embers of that bird, aloft

Pompey, for your sake--
Do not give your name
This place, the knaves, the cruel
Failure of council
Will be our end of days
As it knew yours.

Please forgive us,
We have no place to run
No Coptic King nor Ptolemaic ring
No sigh but sin within this vein

We are legion
Humming the prayers of heroes sung
When Quaestors rap upon the snare
For tides of valor left in blood

We are the mist of that
Coagulated stuff,
Bound upon the rock
And left to Love.
Bryce Oct 2018
A little less than two
glances between history books
Dewey Decimals
You dreaming between the leaves
resting in the earth
Waking you up to the divine eather
and being comfortable with our dying bodies
loving the treasures
searching for time

I will sprial into alcoholism
or Marajuanaism
or Lysergicical Mental capacitationalism
I want to connect with god on this earth
and lovingly
Bryce Jun 2018
I suppose
if I could metamorphose
Into a new skin
with wings
and a bigger brain

I would.

I contemplate
that this fate
may not be
the best for me.

And yet

I wait

I will grow
and cocooned in the modern american sheen
Dream of wings
miles away
from an airport or two
across the bay
they wave
from boys in areoplanes

I know
there is great green valleys for me
with deciduous trees
and anemones
and bears that ski
on their big fluffy bellies
in the shadow of some upthrust rockface

I beat
the drum of ****** life
and think the heavy drought of thought
and drink
the steaming heat of dreams

I knew
when I was a zygotic mass
imbibed with life
and stolen with soul

That I would be
The best ****** butterfly
You'll ever see.
Bryce May 2018
And I gave my First Snowglobe to them.
…And When I had given that to them, I had told him to give me a gift in return that may have more to itself than just simple life.  

“Inahah oona sept amni kquestal”.

Yet I had no other thing to give, this broken soul, beyond more than just flesh, I was naught. And so she had nothing more to me than that of the great overtone, the great silence of the earth, of space, her arms stretching invisible to hold our gaze to her innumerable foreign light show and state--

Perhaps there is another lover of soul somewhere within?

And he said simply to me, that there is someplace for me to be, someone for me to see-- that there was innumerable and inexplicable, incalculable and incomprehensible, powerful and overwhelming deterministic fate that guides my eyes, lets me chose without choosing, think without thinking, know without knowing.

And he knew—and she knew—and they knew with a knowing that I can never know; true and whole and unspoken, I can only dream to describe.

"We made the world for us, for you."

And I felt their love radiate that ferrous heart, steeled with centuries of pain and removal, heated by the ***** of her truth and guided by the loving, tender hand of his true brilliance that blinded and pleasured my aching eyes.

The entire web of the cosmos, in my eyes, dreaming and thinking that maybe I’d be back there one day, whole, float-- bool and cruelty of world inconsequential within the vast expanse of everything—

A powerful, emanative, restorative code of the universe that held itself no information but all, no hate but the misidentified ache of longing love, differed from the soul of the grinding earth—so far away from god through sickly skin and broken bone that without expanding into time and vaporizing into pure light, these feelings which we can never know.
Bryce Jun 2018
Laying awake
Praying for my soul
Taking the ticking seconds in
As they flash by quick and instant
Leeward Receding
Backward stars into the distance

My mind will wander towards that
Strange astral
Unknowing lack of will
Hoping that maybe I'll land on some
Toadstool of another view
After I've gorged my fill

There's gonna be some string
That my soul rides back home
Following it like a dipping power line
Oscillating along the ***** road

But it's all relative
Maybe It will come in an instant
Crashes through the door and out I go
Reaching down the barrel
For lost time

Maybe I'll do it to myself
A crumbling temple in the sand
Reaching ever higher in the mind
As it all erodes out beneath
And like a tree
I fall
And nobody is there to hear me

All that'll be left is this
A word, a thought, some dream of bliss
I can't claim to know.

Had I known,
What future had been sowed
Perhaps I would have found a better way
Back home
Bryce Jul 2018
Here we are, awoke
Turning the effervescent wheel's
Lively spoke
And speaking of which,
Dreaming through the day
I sit awake and with God I

"where have you been?"

In shining stars and spectrography
My surveying eyes alight to watch the
Shift and fizzle and burn and cook
To turn and dance towards a thousand ends.

Time a laughable wire severed
To hone the momentary soul
And yet
Let go towards the endless drone of ever
Lasting beyond the melting bones

It is a beautiful flower of a thing
The last through the door for rite of spring
Swinging, arms out on the galactic road
Aiming for all at that great unknown

And yet,
I stare up at a beautiful powder-coated sky
Watching the clouds curl and saunter by
Knowing this truth, never seeing the same thing anew,
And hoping somehow to be indemnified

Of what?

We speak the same
To reiterate the revolutive turn in all but name
The earth owes naught but dust and dirt,
To all which is and ever earned.

To not forget that which we come,
To not mistake the hand of fate;
That all that is shall once be done,
Then faith of life is ours to take.
Bryce May 2018
My mind emerges from the muck of dream
Sheen of crust and blurry view

In my mind you loom

In my dreams you sing your tune.

Step, clomp, foot, stomp

Off these laces
Pull these wagons
Heft these towers
Lay their power

Dream of vistas green and new
Untouched where?
there I see you

Log cabin of Linking Logs
Cobble our souls and roll them in stones
Heat our hearths and steam our schemes
Give us that leftover dream

But flags wave in every breeze
There is no land for my free

And that farm on the brook
I dream of maintenance
Will fall as quick
into this reapere

to pull the gift of life from dying soil
And play that I can have paradise
on earth

With iron ore
and sweat of toil

I will build a walled garden
to respect the rest
and tell myself

To keep dreaming.
Bryce May 2018
Today she texts me, requests my company with her at the Modern Art museum downtown. Shrug on a coat, out into the winter air.

It is biting cold and left unchaperoned, my hands lead themselves to burrow into the down of my jacket pocket, where they fiddle with themselves for heat. The air tucks pale and the sun shirks the southern hills that flank the bay, framing the sky with its misdirected rays, and it makes my shadow long and light.
I think about what she said to me. How she rubbed her eyes when she stared deep into the sun between the trees, how she said it still left its mark in her vision even when we made our ways home.

And yet, why couldn’t I bear to look?

In and out of rowhouse shadows, I watch my own blink between the canopy of flaking, piebald birch trees that line the sidewalk. As I walk it lives and dies between the flickering leaves, tucked behind a natural shade--still, soon guided with my silent sure-step onward into that inanimate skyline, comes scarce to return to itself only in moments of sunny unobstruction—few and far between, the closer I get to downtown. At times I expect it to appear in one place, only to be surprised by its unpredictability—the way it stretches itself in angular relief, with supernatural zeal, to situate itself within the light; beyond any control or command.

Yet beyond the street an army of distorted silhouettes stilt themselves across the glass facades of unknown offices, dancing and flickering, painting the caving walls with unmistakable life. They march obedient to the cacophonous wanderings of city folk, those unspoken kin, an army of unarticulated fuzzy forms smeared across and in the spears of metal thrusting angry, jealous, into the sky—sapping the light, encumbering the grand city with their heavy towering darkness, seeping the day’s illuminating rays of their heat and majesty.

And yet, these floating individuals continue in lock-step, filled with indescribable finality, conveying their dripping, sliding doppelgangers across a foliate of empty reflective facades— with each purposed footfall further submitting their spectral shadow to the naked inundation of light—to exclaim to the sun their own simple, unpopular, infinitesimal form from which they receive their hostage.

Unnoticed, unaware, unknown; I stare up and watch, wonder, thought—my shadow splays itself hidden in the ****-soaked earth, full of trash and discarded waste, not worthy or willing to present itself in the innumerable fold of people—relegates itself to the cool undertone of shadowed street, invisible and diffused rather imperceptively into the homogeneous grey of asphalt.

By the time I reach our meeting place, I naught distinguish my own pendulous shadow from the forest of dead steel spires that propped their long coats across the wintered streets.
This is an Excerpt from a novella I am writing. It is currently mostly alone, and merely a descriptive tool. I will post more if people enjoy.
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.
Bryce Jun 2019
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.
Bryce Jun 2019
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.
Bryce Jun 2019
There sit the pebbles on a stream
From ancient depths and time unseen
Stolen deep

From mountain peaks
And laid gently beneath my feet.
Bryce Jun 2019
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.
Bryce Jun 2019
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
Bryce Jun 2019
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.
Bryce Nov 2018
Hillside tree fingers
anxious branches hear winds
and wave to old friends.
Bryce Apr 2018
Rain baffles the aching windowpane
Between the streams midnight clouds sing
A beating drum of thunderclap
When all is said and done

Somewhere very deep beneath
A sea of tears
and babeled ballast
a sunken dream awaits me

As raindrops pluck the surface
with the tender touch of violin,
I hear your dying cry,
Nearer my God to thee

Take me, take me,
Your deep love and misery
I cling to dry hopes
Upon foundering spires I find their sin

The chill of unknown rope begins,
Alight beyond the reach of man,
They twist and turn all they can,
To rest with forgotten porcelain

How god had laughed in envy of me
to strike his simple icy tune,
tonight I sing his name
last of air I breathe,
this child's toy,
this ripped balloon.

that last gracious song of autumn,
you sang to me that early spring
let it be known
I hold you now,
Forever entombed.
Bryce Jan 2018
We made it so
That lively rock found its way around the sun again
Firepit kicks up and we burn Christmas store shoeboxes to make colored flame
I love those tendrilled heat-waterfalls that fly towards the sky
And disappear almost instantaneously
Inside the boys sing lonely country tunes
The development walls encircle somewhere in the dark
I watch from the lawn chair and stare towards the interstate
Orion takes the dog star for a walk through moonlit sphere

In my flaming eyes what would be seen
I want to know, please tell me
Do you remember what I did? Had?
Nah, neither don’t I

Get up to stoke the fire
Starbright flames twinkle in between the airfoils
Two hundred year old phloem cracks under the stress
What would take my soul maybe eight minutes
Happens in the momentary second
If there was a stellar plane we crossed we wouldn’t have known it
Nor’th we could distinguish the areo-planes from the stars
Sixty more of these and the world will have come far
And yet we have never touched home

Light a cigarette or crack the can-seal
Lets make sure we forget this moment
I’m already buzzing with anticipation
To awaken in that dreamless bedspread

The flames sizzle out now
Someone poured a beer on them
They hiss with a rush as they dampen
A cauldron of dying time-snakes
Drunken songs fill the gravel as the procession begins
We repeat yesteryear for the lack of change
Detergent of any heat
And the ease in which we slumber now
Nature has its fill in the cracking
Drink them instead
Bryce Jan 2019
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.
Bryce Jul 2018
Fold you up like unwanted fat
cook you into a rocky stew
placed beneath a mantle of ice
far enough away to be misconstrued

You are old laminated time
And pillowed rock of incomprehensible
Earlier than any lime
Or sand, or sediment, or any kind
You are the grandfather rock
of mine

When I step with my inconsequential feet
living but transiently
I cannot help but be erased
that even you hath but one resting place

All the plants
and sands
and ever since the very first
we have always been ******
to this earth
walking upon your bones
I am sorry we cannot do more
but you know your creator
Speak in the same language
in amalgamators
of which we have forgot
and for that I can say
we are envious; are we naught?

Build softly, and carry us upon your thick
crust like pizza dough, cooking
and you let it sit
Let us win, set us up
drift us apart, leave us crushed
build us,
make us,
break us,
fill us

I want to be restored into your
stony belt and be redeemed
I want to become my own atomic fossil
to connect with the universe through long-lost
and once again
hear the story
as a young lad
the way it was meant to be told

I want to eat dinner with my grandfather again
my real sweet stony-chiseled cheeked
father again
to be loved a boy
and a girl
and the whole world
a soul touched back into the deep
left unshackled
by a ***** or a queen
take me back soon
rather than let me turn into

or Baltica
or Gondwana
smacked into new rock to form
and Tetons
and Moher

Carbonate or Silicate,
and the end its the same
It won't be the end
for that fate rearranged
Bryce Apr 2018
My gaze guides pink and blue of quiet calculator
Searching for the LCD
Hidden behind a pointless screen
As the outside pours itself upon me

It really tickles the soul,
The unbounding energy
I twist and shout as my skin furls
Curls with the waves of R.L-itty biting Goosebumps

Yet I can see between the trees of an old office park
The burned remains of waxy candle-like light
scattered across the rainy windowpanes
that fell around me in an amniotic metal box
I filled with an unopened lung

And behind the neon light she danced pretty as a queen
A silhouette, a silent dream
And I saw her in the drops of heaven,
In the rains of light,
And in the fuzzy deep inside
that echoed the hearty rumble of an engine
And carried me through wet asphalt
Of an unending night

Until I found a bridle

To bewitch she would let me ride

Yet in knowing ways she would dissatisfy,
Show the glaring between her eyes,
Tell me all the things between the sky
The she felt kept us from touching

No amount of metal screen
Or electronic ideation
Will fix the willful sublimation
of our shackled spirits
To realms out of reach

With human aye I fill my gaseous pouch
with the leathery sickly burning draught
of aromatic spinning gin and tonic
The threw my head over the bar
And out the door, into oiled alley,
Where She and I met lips there
Where we both smelled of reek
And Where weak minds tortured like glass
stained with the memories of fine wine

And a sense of overpowering divine

When we paired and parted,
Left for spheres
And both sought some different way out of..
Bryce Nov 2018
It is our turn now;
Tickets spit through machines
Marked for passage.
Bryce Jul 2018
I got an award
For being the stupidest young boy
With a wax soul
And impressionable.

I thought I'd find something
Nestled here amidst the trees
And I did,
But in no halls but the hall of god
Speaking to me
Dancing between the leaves
Singing with every whispered breeze
And yet when I stepped
Past the threshold and into the
"real world"
I was sold
A maniac of utter delinquency.

Everybody there
Waiting for their turn
Auditioning for the favor of hearts
They'll never win
Can't see
Laughing and wondering
Reading without comprehension
Sticking their *** in the face of the classics
Lap dogs licking the milk from
Professed *******
Thinking they'll be next

Its not resentment--
Is it fair to be bent
Towards dollars that've never been spent?

All those silly parks
Divided from the civilized lands
Frontiers of the past
Left to be little staging areas
For that invisible hand

Kids go on spring break
Take pictures between the towns
Maybe a stop along
On the way
To Vegas
Deep in the desert where it'd **** any other day

I cannot escape the unfathomable beauty of that place,
Living off the world in a way God said
To toil and love the pain
In a way nobody does

I am guilty of pride and
Stuffed like a pie full of anger
Cooking it into solid joy
And trying hard to scrape the cancerous crust away
All the dark sides we avoid

But screaming the heat away is good
Thermal induction is the name of the game
Entropic fizzlements like bubbles in the wind
Sublimating all that ever stood.

Yet soon enough I'll be born anew
And what I leave behind
Lifted up
Nautoloid shell
With a sparkling abalone interior
Someone will place on their shelf
And think,

"I wonder where that thing had been."
Bryce Nov 2018
Sun skates the far hills
In the center, a rest stop
Left to dry the sands.
Bryce Feb 2018
They say Cancer is a water-sign
That it is a mutable thing
And cleansing
and that it can fill any body that it meets with
Many feelings,
swirling typhoons
Like tea leaves
and chemical spills
Somewhere below the heart,
They said.

Cancer hangs in the dome of night,
Between the 90th and 120th degree
Where the sky floats like lithium on the tongue
Playing pick-me-ups with the other alkaline metals
Testing every possible reaction
So that one day another might have
What we lost.

Cancer holds a spirit in its claw
So that in the dead summer heat I can still see
A lovely winter leftover weather
You always hoped you'd leave for me

Sometimes I now look around
at night,
watching these celestial compositions flicker like
ancient candles, blues and reds and yellows.
I wonder what your tiny stars shelter, all those light-years away.
How beautiful you look to my unknowing eyes,
Burning violently, silently
In darkness, dying.
Bryce May 2018
Hair that rains the heavens above
strands of starlight that twinkle brief
In my denying eyes, of which she cannot be
A lover lost to sharpened reave

Of reason, doth she assume her fate
And with the tide of man willed her soul abate

Will ever she be seen anew
With hair alight and lips overdue
To speak the dream of classic night
That enlightened day did obliterate

With pursed lips, I await that Perseus
To call the chattel to pasture clear
And save them from vain distress
Entranced to planetary dissident

Of earth, her burdened souls
Need a demigod to free their churl
Or better yet, a savior met
of reason and fate,
a lover indiscriminate

Men of stars, unseen from afar
glow dim of dying spin
And slumber deep immaterial
content only of all things real

I lay awake, and string my bow
sling the temperate celestial arrow
and point towards the sky, filled with delight
To aim that others may see their queen.
Bryce Feb 2020
When I roll my tongue--
Cellar door,
Cellar door,
Cellar door.
Bryce Nov 2018
The buttresses hold
With rectangular image
The faces of God.
Bryce Aug 2018
Sweetlove let me chase your hair like fairies through the mist

Let me kiss the lip of honey

and lick the sweet bliss

I have never wanted to be consumed more than anything

than by you

Your mind, your soul

I see the verdant glow in your eyes

the answers that lie inside the sleepy meadow

the endlessly surreal nights

getting to feel you.

Because when we're together

the steel spires decline

the roads emerge with floral hues

the city bows her youth to you

you are the old soul

the honest truth

the searchlight casting a deep rose

through the fog to land on

those blackrock shores

Let me chase you through the days

let me have you in every way

I have been a man of possessions few

I'll give away each day with you.
Bryce May 2018
Tube worms hellish creature
Centurion of pitch and isolation
No internal altimeter

Pressured to bake and cook life
Take energy from pressured light
Press and push and valve and close
Entrenched, in line to another world

A planet a dot, a dot a spot
a spot a rock, a rock a dot

Wiggle waggle struggle straggle
Life and death, dream and cot

It is hot down here
In passion of dream
and the brain can easily
Bryce Feb 2018
Darling you know i love it when you play the black chords
Let them echo through the house for a long minutes time
and show me the god in your fingertips

a lover's hand you have with that percussive beat
rumble those strings with a heavy heart
give the dead ivory a taste of your lip

the ecstasy, the thrill
the trill and timbre
the infantile touch of a player's soul
strumming through that sweet sound

It is my youth, my zenith, my dying wish
my every happiness

to hear your musical singing string,
'till the very end.
Bryce May 2018
When Bach and Amadeus
Died in their sleep and agony
I wonder if they knew
What they had achieved

Was it worth the cost?
When the Alps were 145 centimeters
distant from today
and the earth still folds your music
In between its subducting page

I want your great stratovolcanical violins
To extrude pumice and grindstone
to crush sweet music in between
Mt. Rainier and an unknown garden
made somewhere deep
in my quantum dream

The sky takes your notes
It is a great teacher as well
and swell, it does

It tells
me a quadrillion dreams
in every iterative puff of smoke
In every collapse of possibility
of every cat ground to paste upon the street
and all the ones that purr locally
In the arms of some caring soul
A lesser spirit dreaming
In the arms of their god

You play with a broken leg
or an unattached eye
or shaved cilia
And yet still
Your skill
none but ourselves
Bryce Jan 2018
Rain clatters on roof
Howling gust! Water bullets
Safe upon my bed.

Between the redwoods,
Taste momentary dewdrop
the fog sweeps away.

In nestled clearing
Doe stops upon the hillside
Eyes wide upon mine.
Bryce Feb 2020
Do not ask me to recite poetry,
nay, not with grape in my veins--

Do not ask me to proofread truth
as the rocks
or the water I drink in my cupped hands

I am a father of simple
child of no one
brother of singing voice
son of music

I am but acids
tripping on acid

i am but time
tripping on seconds

I am but stone
with electric current
reciting current events
eventually distinguished

but not for me
not for these
or time
not mine

this is the curse of poets
the curse of 23 followers
and counting

the liars of open scheme
and dying rhyme

i am the last scream
that bathes in obscene
and truthful
Bryce Jun 2018
Venus and a sun-dog in the setting day
a signal that everything's gonna work out,

botanist at the table behind a wall of succulents
telling me fungi
and the way they fixate
the soil
for plants to grow and eat

summertime there are no fields to plow
we're all off anyways
searching for happiness in a kiss
in the promise
of a long-lasting relationship

titanic orders, but that's only a myth
to Smith
maybe not the rest
they're blessed
with that floating boat of happiness

a mean end, that stuff
no means of ending that
they laugh and dance
a quirky ritual
I still cry at the loss
of innocence

goodbye kendred soul,
pass off the torch to a new you,
and bit a sweet adieu
to you,
in the way we both behaved
stumbled our way
out of the garden
and on into the earth.

For what it's worth,
I see he'll be
everything you dreamed
he could.
Bryce May 2018
Puff and Pomp of Circumstance
I maestrate my digits unseen
As an old lady hums loudly off-tune
begging to see their face
I tap my fingers to the drum

Watching myself walk the stage
Knowing I will receive no applause
How many people will watch--
Scoff as I go the distance

A piece of paper with a shiny crest,
Firewood, tinder, disinterest

A hilarious dream,
The biggest lie ever sold
But I still walk and talk and sit as I'm told

No great symposium,
No perfect forum

As every time I went to speak
I was silenced,
Pleaded to keep clean

The great farewell
dictation of objectivity
Of dis-indoctrination
I wanted to scream

No ma'am you are mistaken
The quaking words you claim are making
A better world, a better place?
Setting the stage for the end of day

And a rambunctious after-party
Full of mean mead and black wine
******* in the grass of the divine
"Let us remember..."

That they have never been

"...In the holy presence of God"
Bryce Jan 2018


Bryce Nov 2018
On the blue river
Boats pass lazy in the sun
I rest in the shade.
Bryce Nov 2018
Two golden finches
Take breadcrumbs from open hands
Resting in a palm.
Bryce Jun 2018
Ar ar ar
Merry deathmas

Massive boon of life, you
No man feasts on your bones

Not those very fungi


Fi Fum drum you Protoctist ****
Shear the skin from the fun
White and node of muscled life
Make your narrow bed of marrow bread

Yeehaw life's a draw
and death presents a certain

Theres no mystery in
the biggest mystery
That it goes
with 777ccs of force
and maybe 1200 horse

and divine giant you
cud and horse and seed anew
stool of toad and brush of mold
return to state before
there was...
Bryce Nov 2018
Eating out my bowl
I wipe my heart on the sleeve
with phlegm and oils.
Bryce Jun 2019
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.
Bryce May 2018
My dad says my fuzzy dice in the mirror are an obstruction.

I say that's the whole point.

If i live or die tomorrow or a thousand years
from a dollar to a doughnut
I'll bet you can turn your ****** words to gold

Jack, man...

I wish you were here
Bryce Jun 2018
In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.

My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.

The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.

In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.

With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.

I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.

I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.

Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.

We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.

An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.

Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...

She opened the door, in I walked.

In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.

Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.

In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.

The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.

I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.
I'm still thinking about this dream, and the one of the night before. Long has it been since I have had such vivid hallucinations, as with indiscriminate drink and smoke managed to mostly eliminate them from my life. It is both disturbing and satisfying to see them once again-- to perhaps withdraw meaning from them once more.
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