the distance from a mouth to a note,
the space the lies between notes in a song
the distance between lips and straws,
the space that can be found in the neuron unfired,
an idle synapse,
an untuned radio.
the sound the bed makes when it's old and you're
too big, overgrown, your lovely new york skyline t-shirt
won't save you from the groans of disowned metal.
the space under a keyboard key before it becomes a letter
and the space between letters and words, indefinite.
an undisclosed location where extraterrestrials are
meant to be is currently beds and lost hopes and bits of paper

i sent a sigil through public broadcast
and cursed peoples' eyes to undulate
until, swollen enough, those oculus rubies
explode in a maelstrom of blood and pus.

through tv static, untuned, unhinged
a series of hexes float across snow
as muzak fades in and flesh fades out
'til senses give in and odd bells grow

off viewers' arms -- the flower's hue
based on the individual's willingness
to let hummingbirds feed on blood clots festered
through sweet-tasting nectar, golden, confined.

the man with his hammer had sat in the theater
and gazed upon gazers whose eyes were transfixed
he hammered the heads of the headless thespians
and went to break streetlights trapped in the moonbeam

i have zeus's skin saved somewhere but i lost it,
whose eyes were gazing on moonbeams unshadowed
by nobody's thunder with water unfiltered
mineral-laden and godless surprise

i think it might be lodged behind my dresser
hooked to the outlet and sapping out lightning
the hammer of nobody's head is a streetlight
the thespians hammered their theaters full.

a streetlight flickers as above
it the stars flicker, too
and below it someone's bic lighter
flickers. he flings a cigarette ****
into the storm drain.
whoever lives in the sewers
must feel awfully lonely right now.
someone's headlight is out:
an illegal asymmetry, a trick
enforced by the galleons of punk photons,
defined by waves (or particles) to ride upon
like the waves of sound that travel back and forth
between two angry motorists just laid off from work.
a new cigarette is pulled. what is this man blowing
away from his self and out towards the maybeinfinite undying
universe of unbearable light
sprinkling on him like rain that suddenly hits
a warm hornet-infested day?

the sensation of a bus on the morning, a morning whose sun,
a flickering light, never goes out, even when unplugged.
you go to get a coffee, i don’t like coffee, so i keep our spot in line.
we boarded, i boarded. you were there and i was there
but really only i was there, in the end. i closed my eyes
and the lingering triggered cells of my retina maintained
your image for a few seconds. i opened my eyes again
and adjusted, never comfortable in the seat, *** and back
inevitably aching around the one-hour mark of a two-hour journey.
where we were going that day is unimportant now.
you brought water bottles, i drank the water bottles
and left none for you. i apologized and gave you the rest
of the breakfast sandwich. the hero’s journey
is a concept in narratology and sociology, among other fields
saying there is one central story, a template that all else fit.
carl jung had a lovely nose, and you have a lovely
pair of cheeks on your face (and elsewhere) and i
can’t help but kiss the ground you’re about to walk on (a blessing,
good luck to the earth for carrying your divinity).
inevitably

i know it’s a dream.
sometimes i wish that it was more than a cloud, a cloud
that hovers over us, frilly and fluffy, seeing me
heading towards the city and wanting to see the ocean
but knowing full well i won’t. neurosis, though
says i will, and as long as i’m neurotic i’m on my way
to the sea. i write about this a lot because i think
about this a lot. the driftwood i fashioned into a knife can’t cut
packages much these days.

do you see the ocean the way i do? no one does, i think.
last time i saw the ocean i cried and my
tears intermingled with the saltwater so now i don’t know
where my sorrow ends and the sea begins. i want to show you
the ocean but i’m afraid that if i do the water will bore you.
i want to feel your hand, laying down at shore, but i’m scared
to know that you’re not feeling the sand, only my love,
and i want to feel both.

i've shot a dog in the back of its head
i don't remember in which life i did this
but it was a life i'd detest to live again

i have no dog inside my chest
i have no cat inside my mind
i have no bird inside my gut

i understand the ocean better than you
ever could, an inlander within a prison built of
browned ivy. i rose and rose again from the sea
after the waves crash and yet i know nothing
of how the tides swirl, besides me being part
of that neverending cycle of salt and bits of
coral. can summers go by without a seagull's
cry carrying me from the inland and plucking my
soul towards the great waters of home?

i had died the other day and from my grave
i saw a hand with rings upon each finger. on each ring
was a gemstone that spelled out the infinity known
in my fearful tongue which bleeds whenever
i bite the knife that cuts the flesh of time;
will i ever understand the meaning of decay?
will i ever comprehend my bones giving way to worms?