Stay here or
stay the night

Say you're at my place
and our shadows are aligned

What wild culture is
that of our kind

Striked kite
-lightning bolt-
key: string
rod electricity

Surprisingly
so,
my preparations
have done me
a great service
-hours of
dictation-
as I
feel
relatively well
-perhaps a
little stunned
by the timing
and method-

A measly
text:
but I
suppose it
was fitting
-a meager
end to
meager
efforts-

Taken with what
exactly? There’s no
hunger left in the greedy

That same old thing always
had weak knees for begging and
asks with arms extended: May
I have some more please?

The sound of stark reality
sounds like there’s not much left
in the *** but dried bits.

Taste full
waves made
rolling
moare of
you

discom
bobulated
model
compiled
of tons of
things not
made of
us
in a
constant
grasp
of your
bending
banyan
limbs a
mangrove
combinding
to keep an
open
meyend

total
composite
of things
outside
of me

Ten fingers
went to tend her
garden of buttons:

The right hand kisses cheeks
with Mr. **** and then greets
The Twins with a tender twist,
as the **** on the door when

He comes,
and we lay atop each
other to be a team—of beams
of light strobing across some sheets
of ice, maybe—with steadily raised stats

Oh my God, I forgot
how ******* amazing Manga
is and I wonder can't

Remember why I ever stopped
reading it tickles then torments
my sensitive nature and
reminds me

I am a romantic when
my green grows and swells
resonating from her hand on
his coat or her resounding
"I belong to him" sound

It sounds like drivel:
to need so little as a trope's
grip of some coat in a storm

Dribbling drops from above,
sunken in cieling
seal skin smooth
saltfish nicely
butchered
bubbling

Floats and
sinks for
ocean floor
kisses
-coquetishly-

Can't stay too
long,

Hey, I'm Mister
Meeseeks,
look at me!
Can you finish cooking?

Can't exist too
long

Simple tasks in
order to give
them a quick
and proper
inevitable
heat death

The **** of some text
is not in the ******
or the lips of a lover

What pleasure resides
in the text? Is it in its being
written or read or dead?

It radiates from the turn of
the page, the rest of some
sentence forgotten in sleep

The code shook
loose from the text
—buried in the text—
compressed with
pressure

poetry is a
pressure cooker:
words thrown in a
*** and condensed
into mush —like potatoes
and curry chicken left in
too long—bit into and
the bones too brittle
breaking, aching

a poem aches,
the code aches
within the poem

Closely, closely
quickly it comes
to K to control
elsewhere the
singular second
in a syllable
can canned
cancerous
a critical component
computing which
muscle

Is the line under
the signifier: a thing
not self-originating:

And the I that takes
a pleasure in watching
it identifies with the self
watching it happily identify

This representation of the
self in verbal and then
ideal form to be faster,

Faster, faster, because
Mommy is near and I have
wings and can ******
you with my bare hands

It's an understanding
in an unconventional way:
To say that the utterance
gives way to strength

The fault of
our kind: thoughts
shared closer
than bodies

Bubbled
then
pops

The thought comes
like an ******
--anticipated--
and dissipates

Where does a ravishing force
come from an unknown tantinglingzing
tantric combination of random hailing
between two (or more) bodies;
As is prescribed by

any tongues
dictionary of
mandated choice

The microwave heats
but leaves a cold seep in the
middle of the meat

The moment
-meek-
minced by words
mumbled under
breaths too
preoccupied
with breathing

The nighttree looming
in full bloom -clumps
of ripe starfruit
hanging from
boughs-
drooping
heavily

The opposite
of deja vu
is to become
unfamiliar
with what
you are well
acquainted

Which will
happen
to you
after I'm
released?

Be struck by
some sort of
jamais vu upon one
chance meeting
and recall a
vague nothing
-millions of
quick kisses,
itchy chins, and
naked cuddling-

Be reminded
of how far
time can pull
two people apart

The poem reaper
seeks those
already dead
-sleekly-
an idiosyncratic
trait of one of such
life siphoners

Sniffs those out
that reek of
disuse and
neglect

He collects
so that
Divine election
can chose a few
limited atonements
for reincarnation

The poem reaper
-sleek and discreet-
awake after its
long sleep

Post-hibernation:
does one address
the thirst or the
hunger first?

There are men
with loud voices

I've been taught
to fear since birth.

If the intermittence
of skin flashing between
two articles of clothing is
where seduction occurs

then where is the
****** gaping cloth
of a yell?

Is it in the cavernous tongueless space
of parted lips: in some silent inky
strident echoing taste
or
in the tightness of vocal
chords pulled taut, the strain of
raised forehead and neck veins?

There's a weight in
my chest like a weight
in his bed, heavy and
unsatisfied and
thinly veiled.

I think somehow
the look on my face
must be a pleasing design:

a familiar retraceable
state: a reminder that
I don't mind him,

I know my place:
in a small, quiet space,
in his arms when its late,
on the drip of the spit on the tip of
his tongue: a flash of flesh over pale teeth:
a site of intermittence: in a hesitation

a fearful hesitation

There is
no more
of him
for me

There is an I beneath every
made decision despite my environment

My I exists and I notice
its being doesnt take up much time

There should be
a bechdel test
for poetry and
poets

It should
consist of
at least two
voices: one
of the self or
some other and
any other
thing
besides a
man

There's something about
you, and your function
in my society

The kitchen timer and the
baby monitor's feedback
are like a rock and globs
of aimless wood spirals

Spiraling into that olden age,
samurai slicing through
some molded cage

There was no hope
for Dubliner Dedalus:
a shift from naturalism
into the bizarre

Not enough to effuse
or diffuse: a hero
in the firmest sense

The sea
frightens
me.

Too deep
wide
dark
ice
wet
filled with
creatures

It does
not stop.

Kisses sweetly
the sandy
shoreline:
Is it teasing
or begging
forgiveness?

It cannot
stop.

My fear
lies in the
immensity of
its depths
and
in the
thought that
pleasing or
pleading

The ocean
will kiss
the shoreline
-always-
with a frothy
caress

The soul sings
of sweet succulent

freedom: not needing
much else but a sip of sun

and a
nudge of
water

here
and
there

The sun has no
skeleton -to
our knowledge-

It cannot break
or fracture, and
so does not think
of them

No jointed rays to
reach out or
hold like hands

Only
porous warmth

The view
before me:
a sky
comprised
of sky like
Attenborough
sea side

Rice krispies
and water
between us

St. Petersburg
3-6

Blue shifts
bluey pinks
meet clementine
licks violet
amidst the creatures
swimming in the
deep of the fermament

The **** is
more expensive
here.

In conservation
I bathed in the sun
and danced around
a mushroom

to **** some time.

Well, what now?
What else is
there to do?

I could **** my
self, but then
I might die

The wind does not knock
though it be a lonely soul.
It turns, goes back home

The worst part is
not that I love you

It's in how you've
become some routine
within the familiar
comfort of us

The nature of disintegration
is erratic, and inconsistent, and stilted.

This is no time
for sweet potatoes!

No more pre-digested meals,
or mistaking excess for freedom

Let us grind, like *****
teenage tectonic plates

Time's not real
but our energy is

waning and
unsubstantial

despite the waxy
substance sticking
stringing us together.

A touch of sun,
a lick of flame

melt away,
dissipate

Tired of sleeping,
eyes still closed,

mind oddly clear
—boredom does that,
searches so blindly and
fervently for a thought or

idea that it bursts into
a bright dark nothing,

sweeping wave over the
wide endless expanse of
ethereal wiring

Tobacco tar
stuck like the scars
from my tattoos:

pain elective
and
permanent

like we like the
mimetic representational
citations of Bryson Tiller
and Drake,

what hails so merrily
your unsaid name?

To be like
the older
Dedalus
blood wooed
by grace of
language and
gesture,
blushing

conceding
to take a
cigarette

To be the
adjunct one
must primarily
be unnecessary
-or else of lesser
rank and authority-
and added to
an already complete
institution

Secondary
requirements
include a lack
of permanence:
why keep what
is only auxiliary
-indeed, I too
now see-

To be the
unlocked door
before you

Jimmie in with
bobbi pins and
credit cards
or
Knock politely and
wait, ring if left
unanswered

Maybe I'm still
in the shower

To have avenues
nuanced ancient
scientific entities
titrates rationed
rather irrationally
at a rats rate

-do you feel
anything yet?-

To have access
to the Brocas and
Wernicke at all times
-unless compromised-

Nonsensical arrangement
of bits of sounds
mounding to some
amount

To sit
means
to be sitting already
-in the mind-

The same goes for
literature and
written music:
to be read
means
to be performed
-in the mind-

Some great production
of the theatrical imagination:
to project familiar airs of many a
stranger's voice behind the eyes

To taste you is to slip into
that Freudian pit, and
turn a baby still
****** fixed:

To tongue out
the parts that might
identify you fully

Tough ******* like
rough kitties with
soft—but mangled—fur

Two generations
removed from
the Good

But Good
is not the point
of poetry

Two vibratory frequencies
complement and intersect
and turn jarring like:

a tendency to say mean things or
hit me—like a school boy crush—and
sniff me on occasion while I rub
my face on yours like a cat

Because I was one in a past life
and you were a dog

Slip slap
*** clap
tip tap
*** hat

When in thin sheets my sweet Jewel lays
within that ocean-cloth soft and its waves
my limbs can then search, search, stretch, and stay

Where I cast my arms out, a net flung to sea
with currents to wriggle you closest to me
O how floating drifts us to glittering sleep