i
tonight he
ard t
he
whole increasing
churn of asleep
moon light
profess
*******, a pair
of giggling
gorgeous effluent
skinny skin

and peaked mounting
each lush pale
drop of flesh
a pinkest isle
dithered and

cooed a string
of pleasant
sharp rasps
of whitish
light

   (the moon like
like honey drips
the whole sky fantastic
and carnal with
the imploding bulge
of her Winter
set ****
        ).

like thighs

                   (shes got 'em)

them thick as ******* thighs
all skin and creamy
and the backs o' her knees taste
so good
                      (like sugar shes got 'em)

and that dark little spider web
o' ink shes got coming up her
shoulders out over her clavicles
shes got her neat little muscles
under it all bunching and loosing
muscles when she's (head down
biting 300 thread count) her hands
don't lie gripping and grabbing
snaring sheets and,
  

                                          ,
                   ­                                                              ,

The thought
that we may have made the wrong decision
terrifies us,
so we choose to ignore the possible exploration it might take to realize
what the right decision might actually be.

The gray, old statue sits lopsided in my mother’s garden
Twenty four inches high and leaning ever forward in the mud while
enduring the sun
and enjoying the snow or rain
Because she gets the most attention in the weather that depresses humans,
Mortals drawn to her alluring virginity and enduring divinity
Groveling for guidance and searching for silence in less than tranquil gardens on earth.
Mary cries gray tears for America and grey tears for Europe
Because we all fling questions up to her for the same reason.


But we will never realize how small we are until we hit our knees and stare eye to eye,
Instead of
staring,
crestfallen, down at muddy Mary in the garden.

This ****** with binoculars
sat waiting in the blind,
half hidden by the rushes
That grew tall on either side.
Perhaps I’d spot a Peregrine
or a hawk on the attack.
My camera is beside me, and,
should I catch one in the act.
I’d photograph a mating pair
(but artfully, with tact.)

So far there’s just a flock of wrens
Not much this day I see.
I start to get the strange sensation
that they’re here observing me.

in the span of sparse seconds, thoughts united &
won vs. maddening midnight
specials – our voices,
                                                 our choices
are now running further down the road..
our hands are leading,
our fists, breaking obscene visions that our visionaries

never even had.. r(evolution)
                                      happens everyday

some greedy little bitter man has put together a picture-perfect person and out of pure laziness and malignant attempts at control he pays off a psychopath to make it happen but we’re just a little body, flesh and bones come between them and their paychecks so why not make it easier? they made a factory out of our garden and nothing grows in factories it’s manufactured, easy as one two three four five six, we’re all sitting on an assembly line waiting for some alcoholic man to shout at some pimply-faced twenty-something “FASTER! FASTER!” so it begins! press of a button, we’re created, step one: your parents were given the baby books, kids! infants, they’re all the same anyways. they’re not individuals yet, they haven’t been encoded so relax, parents. want them turn out like you? sure, do what your parents did, worked out well, eh? been occupying this factory your whole life, then? well anyways, step two: they spend less time with you because you’ve been in this world for three years so it’s time you get out on your own…. step three: they gotta YELL and scream and children aren’t supposed to touch things or say things or scrape their knees because that’s more work for the adults, and they work all day, just like they were programmed for, good little machines 'cause they forgot what it’s like to be a baby or an animal or a plant or a God but also the resentment, a child wants to live but how ridiculous? there’s no life in industry… all about the money baby step four: you buy your education because it builds your character because money says power but when did meaningless power equal respect? I don't know but they force you into reading the same old instruction pamphlets left in the break room at the plant for the past century or so and five: your turn to work for fourty years in this polluted place because it’s hard to break free from twenty-three years of moulding into a cookie cutter you never did fit, that’s why it hurts so much when they try to push you through, your muffin-top is sliced right off and you’re contorted to fit the view of perfect sugary sweetness but just to make sure you're ready they coat you with vanilla icing to cover up your imperfections, perfect, now step six, and this one is the doozy, and because you’re **** broke: go back to mom and dad’s and grab those baby books and again and again and again the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats….

pocket filled waistcoats rub
their ears, perception like
fist full grass, an expedenture
that pause when you drift,
as well.

you cannot carry two children,
one in each slid curve of elbows.
Their ringlets will weigh the mass
of expanding legions, discipline and
love in revolution an absence
from rounded bellies.

neurons do not balance in transgression,
their procession the infinite arch of
fugues weaved through rhythm erratic feet.

two strike a semblance,
a cape-fled general gagging hemlock
to the weaker stallion's dry spit.

SO
high
we ******
up
right
NOW.

ALL
we do is
YELL AND LAUGH
in the crib.

I BROKE
the xbox
a couple times,
so
WE BOUGHT MORE,
MACK
came through
TALKING ****,
so I hurled
THE LAST BOX
in a splatter of shiny
FRAGMENTS.

SOMETIMES
the neighbors
come up,
come through
for a little purp.

WE
on the
COME UP.