It's really happening.
The leftover boxes
from the last moves
are being filled up again.

Enigmatic handwriting
across shipping tape, remnants
from another script
being lost in translation, somehow
scrawled on the wall, understood
and turned meaningless
as paper, shirt, and souvenir
change places,
coalescing in another box
or completely vanishing
behind a dividing line.

It's time to say goodbye
to so many things.
Long goodbyes,
thru work days
and youthful nights
when all added up,
too short to catch
my breath.

wearing champagne
moist circle
of green salty lips
a concrete glass
girl pierced
throbbing dirt
red bone

a translucent puppy
bellows some buggy
and fresh crapped
candy like a
ferocious daughter
exploring the needles eye

We live our single lives
whether with friend, girl, boy
husband, wife or family.
We live our single life.
That is the American Way,
and certainly not
the United Way.

We're taught to lift
ourselves up, bootstrapping.
So I keep sampling
my heart with replacements,
hoping against the odds
that mean means something,
and normal distribution doesn't
give Gaussian grouse.

Or could it be
I'm strapping myself
to the wrong boot
and all my recursive
iterations are yielding
a false curve
to my zero coupon life?

Choir don't need no Gath Brooks

Lordie lord, spam that yawns across earth's lawn,
set your glory upon holy sky!
Baby talk, HA! That's processed Kraft
cheese or strength, babbling to silence avengers.
Do you see or does your finger point
to Moon, Stars and Kautempathkan.
What is a man that you can't remember,
Or a son who can't care of man?
You've made a name of nameless less.
Memhkotainya, name it with dignity.
Show some respect for the handywork,
they stare beneath our feet.
Bleating and mooing,
and Yes, beasts in field,
chicken ****, and fish,
sea lane routes
to Us, our way
Nobly in your ***** named.

Blackheart gives
a gun to me
my brother,
and slaps us
my sister.
He says for country,
for security sake
take this pistol
and shoot us
because we are them.
In traditions long
lost to meaning,
I cover her face
to hide my shame,
kick her rib
to mute the pain,
and **** that hole
before life's drain.

We dance on Kali's sword,
watching memories fade
away in real-time.
Dance, fool, dance.
Arms looped in arm,
we circle, chanting, holding
on to each other
as the world is cleaved,
and shaped into...
What?
Rebirth?
Redemption?
Or just plain old something new.

A chaotic whites
at least not stained red
this time too much.
We small band
looping, preserving,
what we think best
for Vishnu to fill up
the next green sprouts
with purple majesty.
RIP.

I draw circles because
I like them.
They are the hardest
Shape to draw
at the beginning,
a long time ago.
I steady my hands,
by making curves.
I like them.
I color them in
and know which can say,
that is right
and this wrong.
My favorite is green.
I draw green and
purple circles,
liking them in full circle
again.

There's no health benefits
to fasting: still.
Your body responds
in some paleo-way;
calcium leaks from bones
to balance lost ones
escaping during the ***.
Always this homeostasis
while peeing. A setpoint.

There are those who fast
because that is what's left
to them, a prisoner in cell,
on the street, sitting in cubicles
feeling rightness with the same
wrong skin as e's fellow mate.

E does the daily pet cheats
too, until e's tired of it all,
until e wishes that there WAS
a great fallen Leader
to blame, or a giant green Tank
to stand against rice's grain
while holding defiant plastic
shopping bags.

When even violence
has been taken away:
still. We believe in peaceful
God and fast, fast or set ourselves on fire
because the concrete doesn't burn.

What an odd duck.
Reading his mead is like
drowning in sweet
annoyance. His criticism,
self-westernizing
reference to Greek
heroes; I know but don't care
as much as my sister,
My look-a-like; Die Zwilinge.
Who am I to question the genius.
A genius of his craft,
but blind in sanity.
Who am I to question us,
Deaf to the genius
of our own Muse-ick.

It is just us three:
#, Brel and me.
Trois Faisans,
# 6 ft under self,
Master Brel sings
still of Les Bourgeois,
and me toolin around
still JoJo.

David meditates, sings and Cushes words like Yemini.

Yawn when I seek refuge,
and cover me your mouth from pride,
least lions tear apart my mercy,
each piece and part never delivered.

Yawn if I do,
doing with wrong hands
rewarding U in peace with my fist,
seeking a foe for no reason.
Yes. Pass the Fiend thru the pieces,
and yes, lay my dust,
honored on the Erd.
Rock.

Yawn in anger,
so different than the wrath of my enemies,
waking for me, giving me judgement,
finding me a band of hands
beating, clapping, higher & higher.
What does the director think
of all this righteous clatter?
My Ray Charles stitched on trial
for wicked this way done.
Let's groove to the just
with heart and head.

A shield in Yawning.
A left-handed Mit,
judging in right field.
Yes. Yawn in anger daily,
while U in prison, sharpen that stick,
bend your back, pull that gut,
and shoot the broken arrow
to light up the sky.

You see? In just twice time,
you see mischief conceived
in womb of lies.
He dug that hole,
and fell head first, a minor
***** slapping him in return.
Slapping him from the heights,
yawning just twice time,
to wake, sing, and praise most high.

How could it be
that it's just me
wondering when we
will laugh again with glee.

What scared ghost do we flee
into Summer's buzzing bee
passed a late Falling tree?

I grant that he
has a good degree
and a family pedigree,
but aren't we all free?

I feel tainted with frosty
touches of Northern fee,
invoices billed from a Cree
living in tent or tipi
while burning my effigy.

Down on one knee
at a Maypole jubilee,
drunk and happy,
tragically at the end greedily
eating too much Sandra Lee,
that's me!

Half squinting a dopie
smile and slanting queer
boats with rhyming keel,
I barter with a misty sea,
wanting badly to ***,
but instead shade my eyes to see.

Discarded to dry.

2x9
fertile cross  
every day      
art up
science wake
pattern make
live box
martial art
pattern mark
build real

2x3
see hear
smell touch
taste there


2x5
episode deal
memory fast
procedure feel
compiled base
cute interlace

2x5
influence cross
ad here
art van
age psi
advantage sum

Chorus, string Music Box, 8. Daud Mazmur

Why does yawning slap my face?
I don't wake Yawn's slumbering
while I work, except when tired. Mercy please.
Healing bones, working.Yawning.
Waiting and churning fear into butter.
And U? How long have U curdled
my milk? Soul food & Paneer satisfies.
Save me some of that satisfaction
leftover. When I wake, yawning,
dead tired, who hears my need for snacks?
I'm tired of sighing,
of sleeping in Noah's bed,
floating on crocodile tears.
I can't swim no more with these eyes.
They're too old, swollen from too many fights.
U go. A timeout for a few hours, while I rest the no.
I hear Yawn's snore,
I know the dinner's ready;
Enemies sit; I share the butter without shame,
and suddenly we are not disappointed.
We have guiltily repented.

There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.

Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.

4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.

Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.

Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?

What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.

False Saffron leiter  
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.

A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.

In the Beginning,
just 1/10^1,000,000,000,000,000 second
after a Big Bang,
before Strong and Weak
segregated,
before Strings formed
from broken Circles,
Song, Dance and Word
were One.

When we dance,
when we sing,
when we write
these written words,
don't we glimpse
that 1/10^1,000,000,000,000,000 second
who's name comes
close only when
these three
whirl in me?

Das Fuehrer gefüllt mit Flöte.

Listening 2 yawns,
meditating on medication,
lisping a cry to Das Führer,
I proffer a pray,
im morgen Früh, im morgen Führer,
im morgen nah; hören Sie mich.
Not 4 pleasure yearning 4 unright
Unctuous crimes. Not with U.
Not with boast (yet not with hate 2).
Hating the bath water with the babe
as it bashes Reaper's polemic
hellfire falling out of window;
Still me, in that kindness enters
my home, bowing cuz the doorway is 2 large.
Guiding in black ink,
writing a way
out of loyalties mouth,
out of sclerotic liver,
and contumacious throat.
I tongue an act, a play,
staying guilty in U,
saying guilty in Us.
Lemmings encouraged to revolt,
Offending in U,
Rejoicing only in Us.
Witness our joy, that Xanex protects
against dull moments, forgetting Us,
bland blessings rightly
Surrounded by Yawn's shield.

JB and the String section

Can I get a witness
over here helping with
mercy hearing my call
Young men diss me honor
searching the lie on Web
Can I get a witness
Pie for my piety
sake when I come calling
to stop awesome is not
searching stillness in bed
but knowing left from right
since I ask to believe
and you ask for what good
facing us lighting in
Hand and glad joy in heart
at the thought of a meal
and wine grown to slumber
under Yawning safety
Can I get a witness

David Song

Yawning wide I awake amiss foes!
More Haters rise against wayward me
No beat say Haters have I in heart
Rhythm down for the count, no help
Roll & Rock.
Lordie lord, how wall sound wraps me round
Gloria singing song, smoking eyes
Let me sing too to you waking yawn
Holler and the caller, breaking rocks
Rock & Roll
Lays me down
And I awake with a lifting Yawn.
Bring it on you thousand Naysayers
Circling round and round against me
Wake up Yawn!
Salvation
Hits haters in cheek and tongue
There's more to me than broken Fang
Saved by master tape my longing Yawn
Beatle blessing to the masses of
Rock & Roll.

They link together,
number and days,
strings of value
punctuated with semicolon winks;
(and consonant curved smiles.)
A grand unifying theory
hanging Baubles, Bangles
and bright shiny Beads.
The impulse Force of changing
momentous Month bending
light years in frequency of days,
mega-Hertz too compressed
up longitudinal mornings
and down transverse evenings
of negative pressure silence.

>intercorrelate.sync.JPC.+.FB

A stapel river flows in Hyena
pack,
rivulets of laughing
data.

Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted
band.

From arterial ort to capillary
place
respires a quantal
love.

Quid non quo
flows,
trickling down in plain
flat,
in crevice crag, filling just
enough.

Fresh down to Mexican
border
town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning
delta,
it breezes meta confidence within six
Sigma.

There was the time I waited for a phone call,
and it came and rang.
There was the time I talked on the phone for hours,
and was happy.
There was the time I got annoyed at all the phone calls.
I just wanted to work.
There was the time I looked into the future,
and made appointments for other phone calls.
There was the time when the phone calls hesitantly stopped,
and I left it off, not hooked.
There was the time I waited for a phone call.

How do we do it?
How many quests?
How many fellowships
formed and broken,
going on to separate ways?
Doesn’t the heart rub a bit
sore after each parting?
Are we fools thinking
our’s the most arduous journey,
a long trek into Mordor,
to scale the heart of Doom?
Are we a bit of Merry weather
and Pippin riding on a shoulder
of an ancient forest?
Do we fight the Nazgul?
Are we foot soldiers
once more going into the breach?
We go truth be told
with no magic, no ring,
just cheerful Hobbits with secondsies,
snacks between full meal,
brief taste between breakfast,
and lunch, filling ourselves with joy.

Anger anger plot der Erde
Furrowing crease and knotted vain
von kingdom versus Kingclan comes
Manacle laughing yoke on us
Mocking a Himmel Wutand fuss
Angering Zion mount der sits
Angering clarion das Gesetz
Father begot as forgotten
Son asks me there for a kingdom
Casting iron tinted shadow
On a Klei nation listing fear
Enter a Son past prayering
Enter a wry Serpent on wrath
Breathing away perish belief
Blessing ember after babble

There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****,
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.

EDEKA is a small grocery market here in Germany, and it's usually stuck between other shops. It’s like that where I go. Tucked inside a mini-shopping center, across the street from a Penny Markt there it hides. Before you enter, a flower shop to your left waves and tries to distract. I hardly ever give it notice, until today I had one of those flashback moments like an old hippie hearing a cool LSD trip laughing past him. I was busy thinking about work, and what food I needed to buy when the flowers flashed and a dormant trace flickered. And just for a nanosecond, I thought "wouldn't it be nice to get her some flowers today." Blue-violet iris came and went with the skip of one heart beat. It was easy to keep walking past into the EDEKA.

My hour on the stage half dun
Gone are days of limerick fun
Gone green dragon flying as Lark
Remembering ex-marine snark

In Hollywood bar, his heart trice
Failed, still caring drove to hospice
There, where days laid he on just one leg
Amputated cries, pain dared beg.

Yet after death lurked a grin,
A lark phone call to next of kin.
Frank doctor blind to ****** pun
Irate, berate to unkind son,
Spoke he with clenched fist did shook,
Asking who laments father cook.

Three Wise men
were dividend on money.
The First suggested drawing
a circle in dirt's poverty,
and casting fortune to the air.
If cash lands in circle dare,
give it to the job creators.
No, said the next Scholar fair.
If luck falls outside circle's care,
give it to the job suppliers.
The last Magi quickly realized
that squandered worth never returns
from Heaven, and interest earns
nothing in God's keeping.

Shoot the moon;
cuz all I have are hearts
And a *****
to dig graves.

Let's gather round
the smokey music
pyre and dance
a gymnasium
prom jig.

There's unwanted
Walmart bread
left behind for riots
on Said street.

Don't forget to shoot
because tomorrow
I won't have you
left to protect.

Don't bless my Man,
he done listen to wicked.
Don't bless my Man,
he done listen to wicked.

In a way, standing with sinners,
Lined coffers and chairs and
All I a will is joy.

Will he in day and night,
Will I in water, tree and dreams delight?
Will he in day and night,
Will I in water, tree and dreams delight?

Bring him fruit and papers not dry.
Chaffs bloving like wicked choice.
Not bad so bad.

My Man he's one true or sinner
Wayward God knows the way
My Man he's one sinner or true
Wayward God knows the way

If I write,
"There is only memories here"
the verb doesn't match the objects.
But there is only one
now, a single room,
sitting still, in silence, tasting wine,
a Dornfelder-Spätburgunder
blend, feeling rough
sofa fabric strand.
There is only one memories
for the here, blanketed, warm and secure.

She wanted magic, not rationality.
She wanted me to prove that 1+1=2.
I don’t think she wanted an empirical proof.
I thought logically, if we assign yellow = 1;
yellow + yellow should equal yellow,
but it doesn't, it equals 2.
Next, rationally, if we assign both yellow =1 and blue =1;
yellow + blue should equal green, empirically!
Irrationally, it equals 2 too.
What 2 do, yellow or blue?
Has 1 been overloaded with two colors?
How does one, overworked carry two loads of green?

Moving, we are all in transit
stops, packing things into boxes,
thinking about where now
feeling tugs from there then.

Bubble-wrapped Indeed.
com, searching for Jobs
as we pack traces
because people move on
refusing plastic stasis.

Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******,
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.

My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.

He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.

On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.

He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.

To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.

Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:

"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.

Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.

I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.

My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.

I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"