this house is crowded with waiting room chairs;
this house is crowded in general.
this house has a shanty roof.
this house is made of parapraxes.
this house is made of the stuff of dreams, the stuff of sugar glass, the stuff that reminds you you are reading a poem and nothing else.
this house is a spacebar -- empty and exists to separate.
this house is made of cigarette butts and coca-cola bottles.
this house is ash -- this ash is dust -- this dust is house.
this house is broken up with empty space, dissociated.
we are those that stared up at the sky in new york city and snapped our guitars over our knees,
we are those that hallucinated t-shirts with keyboard patterns on them.
we are those that have smoked nightmares and drunk melted ice cream.
we are those that destroyed our howling vocal chords by screaming at the sun for too long, waiting for icarus to fall.
we are those that don't exist and exist at the same time, shooting the breeze at motels on the outskirts of town.

what do little stuckists cry
when their painting talents die?
"this isn't art! you are not artists!
i'm close to art, you are the farthest!"

i cm frm a planet far out -- far out -- out of this world (obviously).
my lungs are full of nebulae. the space between worlds is nebulae. i am nebulae.
fear is what reminds us of our shadow -- and space is just one big old shadow after all.
cmon kid go to bed there are no martians in your closet

david bowie sang space oddity in two different channels: one high pitched on the left side and one low pitched on the right side. the result is more harmonious than a poptart flying out of a toaster oven. the advertisements for poptarts always show gooey goodness in the middle when in reality it's crumbly crap. why is the word "crap" more acceptable than "****?" why are profanities on a spectrum, and not just this black/white state of good/bad? is it better that way?
maybe i'm rambling at this point; maybe i'm more incomprehensible than conceptual art. either way, i am an either/or blank anti-yes?
how many question marks finish this sentence???

If parking lots aren't art, they are at least a gallery,
cars as the masterpieces which we gawk at, pretending
to be smart -- "ah, a famous Lamborghini piece."
And if that still isn't art, then call it something else -- a form of beauty beyond our comprehension, made by no one and everyone in this town.
Those construction workers who made this are ghostly sculptors of asphalt.
The yellow lines on the road are delicate brushstrokes, laid down by the most careful of craftsmen.
One day this parking lot will turn to dust,
and that is where the beauty comes from.

Sick child in his bed, an inch away from falling.
He only knows his breath is contaminated.
The poor thing never figured out trigonometry or hope.

It takes a while for us to see light --
our pupils have to expand first.
A figure is beached upon the shore.

I looked up one day and my spirit fell.

24 in hospital
Lives for centuries
bedroom lets you sleep with sharks.