I'll go to the gym
Then come home

In the morning
I think I'll pack a lunch

And I think
I'll spend
A day at the park

You know
I just don't care
If I'm always poor

This country is doomed
Anyhow

I am a loving person
And It's not that fair
That I spend so much
Time alone

But life is never fair

I spent alot of hours
At the gym
Never got a great body

I'm content
To be misunderstood
Ignored by the world

Looking at attractive women
As I walk around the park

Yes, this is earth
This is life on earth

Mum asked me
If "I had a nice day"

What is a nice day?
I dislike the word "nice"
It is a meaningless adjective

Sounds like something
A mind control subject
Would say

I just say it was fine

And I don't even care
If they threaten to kick me
Out of here

I'll keep the key
To the house

I'm going to live in
The park

I joked with my therapist
About that you know

About living in a park

She used to say
My poems were beautiful

She left me
And her other clients

I enjoyed seeing her
It was enjoyable
She left me

I think
She left me
And I'm leaving society

Forgot a job
And money
I do not care

I am content
To wander here and there

Time alone is for me
I expect no sympathy

I guess
I'll go reading
Tomorrow in the park

I may sit there
Until it's dark

Liz my therapist she
Went Away

Now nature is my friend
I like trees, okay?

Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole
to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost
rites of the first sea of the first salt
running from a faucet. I have heard they sat
for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels
sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale
harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last
for impossible loves, or new skin, or still
another child. And since this was the style,
I don't suppose they knew what they had lost.

Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost
ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal
past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit
of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed
bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault
it in its proof, to wash away some slight
need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt
itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet.
I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal
a better proof at tables where I always lost.

Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal
toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost
ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust
would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.

Thick, dense,
pine tree
forests, ash
grove trees
line the creek

where tree leaves
mask the summer
sky,
dance in their
canopy

the dirt is red
and green
and mud and
soft beneath our
shoes

I never meant to
push you, love,
or live trapped in there
with you.

hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.

feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.

into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.

we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.

we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.

kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.

the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.

our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.

we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.

   (except for more holidays)

After repeated inquiries
into the state of my mind
                                                      you
resort to lingering side-
long glances, trying to
                                                      see
the truth behind my
steadfast denials and
imitation smiles.

You attempt slyness, but
                                                      I'm
qui­ck to notice these
analytical gazes. It's not
your fault that I am
both unable and unwilling
to allow you into
the maze of my mind.

Though hurtful
to us both, it's
                                                      just so
much easier to lash out
than to let you in.

There's simply nothing
                                                      goo­d
in there, you see. Trust
me when I say the terrors
flinging themselves
                                                      ­at
my brain will gladly
make you their prey too.
No one is safe from my
                                                      sabotage­.

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

To be desolate
in the depths.

Better than to love;
The heart shatters.

Lift;
Drop;
Descend
Splash.

Down drown sung breath;
Where divisions hold dear.

To float;
To sink;
To be
… where the void sees

Night; Day;
Surrender in turn

‘Til  to surrender is all there is…
And, echoes

Emit what was…