I wind my heart back a few hours and let the minute hands knock into each other.
I wind my heart back a few hours and let it proceed to share, scare, and comfort in its procession.
I sit inside a chair, the confines, stronger and stranger than cement.
What is the sound of one person laughing?

Beauty lies dormant, a silent preamble.

What is the sound of one person aging,
Beauty looks away from what she can have.

What she can have
=/=
What she wants

E---------------------------7---10---12---15---17----t 22h 20v
B-------------------------8----------------------------------­-------
G-----------------------9 -------------------------------------------
D--------------------­9 -----------------------------------------------
A-----------7 7 7 7 -----------------------------------------------------
E--- 0 2 3---------------------------------------------------------------

"Abscission of Eschewal”

If I am still, I can hear the voices.

Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.

“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.

The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.

Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.

Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.

I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.

I hear a whimper.

I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.

In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.

A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.

“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.

I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.

When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.

“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.

“How do you know me?” I ask.

“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.

“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.

“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.

The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.

“Are there anymore?” I ask.

“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”

I check her wallet.

I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.

“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us.  Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”

“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.

“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.

“Crimes before whom?” I question.

“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.

“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.

The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.

"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.

“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.

"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.

“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.

The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.

“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.

“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.

I heard a motor crank on the phone.

“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.

“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.

I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.

19 For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.” ------- Ecclesiastes 3: 19 King James version of the Bible

Today, I’ve tried thinking.

What that is to say:
Two words, the same, mean two different things. It is an anthropologic meltdown of madness, a twisting torrent of words tearing, a cacophony sweltering like a teakettle steaming. There is madness in the docile, and trees grow on both ends, flowering at the root often moreso than the leaves. I claim to have no wisdom, but in my abounding foolishness, perhaps, I will be wise. Two negatives when multiplied together, become a positive.

In a feeling of staying, I feel I should leave. In a tearing between body, mind, and spirit, one phrase looking as another, seeing two words as something else, saying much and meaning little.

1. Take index finger and extend it in front of lips, holding it parallel to lips.
2. Firmly place it into mouth.
3. Jar finger up and down while sputtering lips.

Much is revealed in obfuscation. Questions answer much more than answers, sometimes.
There are letters in algebra. We teach math with words. To teach is to learn. By learning, we’re teaching…others watch us learn and learn from how we learn…how to learn. Then, we learn from them, those who have learned from us.

One word is haunting in my own work.

“So?”  

Somewhere, this is written already. When it’s written, it’s written already. If somebody else copies it, writes it, then they know that they’ve written it already, and all that they’ve written has been written already.

It’s an implosion of my own thought, today.  I pray tomorrow, the joy of clarity of my own thoughts and writing will return, and regardless, I thank the Holy Lord God Almighty always for all things. I rejoice in Him and love Him deeply, more than all, fear Him, and praise Him, and worship Him, alone. All glory in all things to God Almighty.

Chapped Lips (BrainRAPE)
Women have brutally ***** my mind, cursing my physicality.
My eyes are celestial ghosts.
My pores are drilled against pine pieces.
Little fingernail pieces…
I clutch my hands together to guard my fingernails from buzzards.

I **** chicken gizzards into my mouth, raw.
With chapped lips.
They have chapped lips, all of them.
Chapped lips to **** in their food.

I am unraveling webs in the scathing sentence of intolerable desire,
A prison of prints and pictures barred by beautiful blondes,
Rigid, icy, spaced by invisible thoughts between them,
Rows hypnotizing one after the other, belly-dancing while they wear their smiles.

They break from their line formations with socket wrenches in their right hands, coaxial cables in their left hands,
And they slink and slide and slowly salsa to my mattress against the wall
As they adjust and tighten their wrenches upon each of my arteries, and feed their coaxial cables into my ears.
Their strawberry perfumes force me to note new appetites in my concrete lungs.

They melt into me, and I melt into them, and we roll into a clay figurine against the plaster wall.
Their hair burns red now, or brunette, or perhaps all the colors of a rainbow of self-inflicted hypocrisy,
And their breath is exhaling like ceilings fans, softly and slowly, out of my lungs,
And I can no longer distinguish which of us is the other anymore, nor do I really want to.

We are a cosmosis;
We are cosmetology unstable, madly desired, and awry,
In an osmosis of imagined consummation.
We are beauty in its ugliest truth.

Eventually, we dissipate, disgusted from transformation,
And I scuttle up the wall, a brown recluse,
And the brunetteblonderedheadsilkskinned keep their cosmosis,
Walking as a ball of arms and legs on six foot-tall toothpicks to separate and reform their bars again.

Empty hearted
Nothing pulling you one way or the other
Bone clock
At town square
Where the table is talking to the chair.

"The chair speaks at 12 o'clock!" the table calls.
The wind howls through the dusty streets
And the typewriter of the the town sends what the chair speaks.

"Hey . -.-- .," the chair speaks
"Where it divides you."
"Divide and multiply."
"Don't blink, for it thinks to nullify."

Doorknob is a beating heart
Bleeding sharp objects to the floor
Screws, razors, and knives bled to the floor.

Walk one way, on carpets.
In through the back door walks another
Ethereal form,
Soft outline.

He's a calculator puking formulas
Puking squirming formulas
With only two buttons
Divide and multiply.

"Life = add, subtract, divide, and multiply."
Understanding: simplified
But Hey . -.-- . seems to nullify.

Take a chunk out
No ****** recognition
A piece of wire from the chin up through the nostril,
Oneself at the back door.

Threatening to sleep,
Twoself.
The couch sleeper
Chiefing at the end of the couch.

Threeself
Craving, longing, slinking around,
Fingers as crooked as trees and wants,
Spines for legs and spines for arms.

A cough through the walls,
Fourself
Forceps
A cough through the walls.

Dish detergent surgeon,
Pieces floating in the water.
Water, a shower surfing on a person feeble in the shallows,

The selves (listen) twitch together and, in time, strike by the hour to
Hey . -.-- .

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to reach Mars?
Was it meant to be a ladder to both near and far,
To the way far beyond and the far beyond stars?

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to be raised up to the sun on a pole?
Was it meant to sniff clouds and those lovely bows,
And breathe comet dust in a breathable boast?

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant as an ornament for onlooking eyes,
Combing and surveying air instead of people passing by,
So the friendliest friends can breathe lovelorn sighs?

Those friendliest friends are the first despised.

How high was a nose meant to go?
The one pointed down will be the one pointed out,
The one smelling the floor will be rejected and fought,
The nose pointed down, broken with blood on the ground.

How high was a nose meant to go?

How should I thank the Lord,
Who loved us so much that He sent His only Son from the throne in Heaven,
To the scourging, beating, and humiliation of His own people
Lash after lash upon His back, cracking and aching as others mocked?

Thirsty, hungry, tired, feeling alone,
Gushing blood from the pounding of long, rusty iron nails upon a splintered wooden cross,
One in each hand,
One in each foot,

As the sun beat His Holiest face,
And the birds loomed overhead,
As the sweat and blood solution on His thinning form
Dropped in pools on the ground.

With only pure love in His eyes and His voice,
Clean, Righteous, Holy, Deserving, offering His own life and every possession and good thing,
With only our best interests in mind,
As sinners listened to His Wisdom, they pounded the nails in all the deeper.

As the scathing heat, imprisonment, torment,
Even locked in a prison before carrying His own cross to die upon,
Denied before His own friends, His brothers and sisters,
He cried "I thirst" from the cross,
Tired, aching, hurting, agonizing.

And despite all,
Despite all He had endured,
His words were,
"Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do."

How should I thank the Lord
Who has done all those things?
There will never be enough.
Lord, forgive me, for I am a fool.

Your forgiveness, salvation, and love are so precious, and how could I ever comprehend them or explain them?
Lord Jesus Christ, I love You and thank You,
Though that could never be enough.

God willing, I beg, Lord Almighty,
That I am going somewhere.
Somewhere where though I am sitting in crowds of people,
Separate languages, separate everything.

It's my fault.
In it all, I can recall,
It's my fault,
The fruit I have born from the trees I have nurtured.

I am furniture.
Sitting here, moving there,
Placed inside a chair
Feeling electricity as though plugged in.

I am thankful for another day of breath,
Another day to get up, stretch my arms, and grab a pen,
Jot down a thought, a mismatched feeling, a strange sensation,
Pluck a note or two on the guitar, hammer a chord on the piano,

Sketch a funky thing on a piece of paper,
Talk to my family, reach out to a stranger,
Add a gift of hope, listen to some sound the wind carries,
Love like the next move the clock makes will be to run me through.

I am thankful to run here, there, dream mad, crazy, absurd things,
Conjure childish, stupid goals, reach for them, and hopefully catch them,
And praise even as I grab palm fulls of empty air.
I praise God Almighty especially as I grab palms full of empty air.

I am thankful for the moments of sitting across from Russian girls and not understanding them,
Admiring their beauty as they talk, one singing Madonna, the other speaking quickly,
And I am thankful for the moments of making a fool of myself and stubbing my toes as I walked away.
I am thankful for the audiences played for so infinitely much, the cheers, the times I was and am admired,
And I am thankful for the times I have been scoffed at, the times I was and am afraid.


I am thankful to God, dearly and bountifully, Lord knows, for everything and all things.
Things I don't deserve, things I shouldn't see or have, but things I cherish,
And things that I know are divine,
And in heaven, I owe God all things, but I want to have a hug.

From my Father in heaven, I want most of all, a hug.

I'd rather stand valiantly, vigilantly, vehemently opposed
And leave myself exposed and abhorred by men as some sort of abomination
Among the nations of the wicked, the violent, the oppressing,
Those obsessing, resting rather than confessing,

Sitting on thrones of plush and velvet, comforts among one another,
Transgressing and pressing, stepping further into a heading of course,
A course plotted, addressing to the south,
Lower than any city, any suggestion, below pity and question,

Lord, forgive me, for I am stacked with bricks of hate, not wont to overcome evil with good,
And free from admission, sin's apparition, the unfortunate linger of lust, lies, respect to persons, and superstition,
Where my heart should be freedom from all sin, and my mind should be blades,
Cutting vain vines growing from the millstone seeds of silence cast.

I'd rather stand and have my face plagued and beaten,
Sandstone after sandstone from the deserts of accusation and trial,
Than sit and participate in the forced trepanation
Where some cadaver formerly called the mind sits, and God was removed.

I'd rather stand.
On the salvation of God, love, and unity,
I'd rather stand.

“I Have Been Tamed”

I have been tamed.
By the white wings and scents of springtime,
A set of shoulders sprinkled with gold,
I’d rest my head and think of silk eyebrows wrinkled together,
Looking out of a window, nestled upon a pair of brown eyes and blonde hair.

I have been tamed.
My joy: my dear, sweet, pure angel.
I love her with unending love.
As long as the rivers wrap around together and surround again on the globe,
As long as there can be love and peace, hope, happiness, and joy.

I have been tamed.
Her feet, tapping and smooth,
Perfect little rhythms, like stones skipping along a pond,
I’m so glad the Good Lord made them to skip and shift.

I have been tamed.
In gleeful wondering, an atollment hugging the thoughts,
Tracing my memories around her,
She left the outline of her hair blowing through the breeze,
Eyebrows lifted like bending fir trees over a pair of brown eyes, slightly smiling lips, and golden blonde hair.




Hair that fights with its surroundings like rolling tigresses, paws drumming over one another through a cloud of sediments,
Sun-bursting hues and radiation, each strand kissing my eyes, an exclusive glow caressing and basking.
I cannot stand to look too long to her nor look away into some distant vision,
Out upon her flowing silks, I left so many thoughts and skills, that I pray to God not to take either of them away.

I wonder if my heart was not made to be tugged and pulled by a woman.
Love, do not forsake me;
It is more blessed by God to give than receive,
But to give love and not receive is painful to the brittleness of my bones.

I lift a silent prayer.
A prayer wordless, in the silence of confusion,
A prayer in contrition, a sentence without locution,
I lift a silent prayer.

In a heart torn every ventricle from every chamber,
One piece thrown to a desert, others in mountains and clouds,
A flood flowing from the aorta to the formations on the right and left,
A request rolls from the winds to Heaven without any sound.

I lift a silent prayer.
Trusting God with the connectors, absconding away thoughts and feelings
To His perfect will and timing,

I Side-Slipped,
Ripped out my own spine and licked the bone all over,
Pictured punching an overcoat tailor all the way through,
Past the goo and let the blood run down the grooves
In my arm

As I step through him and his new hole to the other side
A place of fortunes where no one can be absent,
Where we are all present there at the same time,
One misstep in rhythm away from taking permanent residence.

I Side-Slipped
And heard a saxophone and a trumpet on my way there
From a gravel creek
And saw the wind fan the flames from a rectangular set of candles bronze and peachy in a Freudian blur of a parking lot.

I Side-Slipped
And now you can wash in me everywhere
In a tub with the inscription, "Eyes and class are proportional."

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?

The Cover-up.

One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):

"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.

Love is a thorny branch thrown from the dust,
From mounds and memorials beneath, it was ******.
Some secret, undivulged, it snuck to discovery,
And wound around lungs as a vine  in its revelry.

Some angel with scissors, will she cut the pain of it away,
And throw heavenly breath into me on this day?
Either sword or shield, it morphs to its station,
Manifests and swiftly addresses education.

Lord, help me through, I am blind to its spectacle,
Stabbed vigorously through by love's pangs at the ventricle.
Lord, help me, I am left insecure,
Lift me to stand; please, restore the impure.

I hit the ball.
The ball winds down a grassy corridor, gleaming in the fall's orange glow,
My breath stifles, closing a moment, and it all starts to bend.

(inhale) Bending... (exhale)

A troup of lizards march up this chalky hill, and a curve lays like a lanyard discarded, groovy and misshapen
And they walk with detached, floppy fiddle strings across the green to apprehend the ball.

The ball eludes them and redirects to the rough, and the hole sits, agitated and circular.

(inhale) Bending... (exhale)

On the couch, I stretched.
Thinking and wondering why gnats never sleep.
I'm at the apartment, one thumb over my left eye looking at the exterior of a DVD,
Thinking and wondering why gnats never sleep.

A closed mind in transit with a DVD lodged between left and right brain,
Left eye socket with left brain in
Right eye socket with right brain in
I press my thumb to my right eye, and the DVD spins, tickling my brain and playing.

(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
I putt.
Gently, one flinch from the right arm.
Loosely holding the left arm in place.

The ball rolls again, grinding the grass beneath.
It has the gumption to gather its matter and mass.

(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
Click.
It is sunk inside its cubbyhole.

A humming violin brashly buzzes at first as a bow washes over its strings,
A motif meticulously dreamt from a distance, a daring denouement evaporated into a silent wellspring.

[The Moment]
The violin opens into an ampitheater of heads and legs,
A place where the movement of moments plays itself sideways,
And every open space is a sheet of music sideways, heard but not seen.
Every part and promise is a thing to be heard and well seen.

A face at once, a note sounded, the moment of promises projected on the symphony,
The sounds of want and need have a way of playing and praying in harmony.

My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.

They pipe in.

The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.

My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.

Nepotize Me.
Must have been thirty thousand phone calls.

Nepotize Me.
Must have been thirty thousand speeches, conversations.

Nepotize Me.
Must have been 20 years old when it all started

Nepotize Me.
Self 1, Self multiplies, suddenly thirty thousand selves.

Nepotize Me.
Them Selves...much obliged.

Nepotize Me.
Room full of people, in a room beyond, there must be a room full of people saying "hello".

Nepotize Me.

Put the words there.
Go ahead.
His is new,
His is not.

Put the words there,
Go ahead.
Hers is great and
Rich in Plot.

Plot...
Yes, Plot.

Put the words there,
Go ahead.
This is filled with vibrant character,
But his or mine is not.

And so and so is great and vivid,
But so and so is not.

And so and so was great at this and that
But so and so was not.

And so and so could write so well,
But so and so is forgot.

So and so is the only one
To write words, of course.
But so and so never should,
Because he writes like a lame horse.

So and so is marvelous and is born to be this right here
But so and so is not worthy to even come near.
This and this is childish,
And this and this is wrong,

And this and this should be in this paragraph,
The place where we say it belongs!

So and so should be this, that, alive or dead,
Where we say he belongs!

Amorous affection, the notion, a discrepancy,
An effect of neglect inside of an oleaginous conscience,
A retaining of words inside a container, an unsympathetic, amorphous society.
Something is swimming inside it.

A summation of identifying identity,
Cloaked in flourescent,
The silences outnumber the voices.
Lips are gripped in vices of indifference.


The thoughts are thought,
As sometimes thought...

The words are aiming.
The words are clasping,
Stifling as we are gasping,
Drowning in the oleaginous conscience.

On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Though the faraway look combs through the glances, the heads lowering and longing

On Fridays, I cannot have you.
The icicle street of perturbing yellow parallel lines and molasses traffic that seems to rake the people across pavement into curvatures of avoidance keep me running.

On Fridays, I cannot have you.
I repeat it, a gesturing phrase, recurring, as I watch the transcendent glow, a denouement to a one-sentence story.

On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Could have: (What will save the moment in untickable preservation?)

On Fridays, I cannot have you.

We are a portmanteau,
Two words together forming something.

Praises to God
For every moment,
Every second,
Every millisecond.

Praises to God
For the forgiveness,
For the freedom,
For flexing his muscles to fully free me from all of affliction.

For victory over the condition of conviction,
How confession in conversation, the collaboration of connection in correction,
Can collude to cover the catastrophic occassion.

Praises to God
For everything, all, and all in it.

The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.

She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."

The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.

The intraveneous needles pumped their black liquids, and I could feel my eyeballs bulging completely, pathetically to their limits as I extrapolated from the tantalum-covered machine the lifeforce I knew I needed.

"You can not breathe here," they always told me before I took my journal past the archway, and I was as good as dead if...

It was always if. If the machine broke down, if the communications were broken, if the moon didn't turn half-way just right at the given time.

There was a solid thought, though, a recurring idea.

"If you make it to Otherside, they're going to call you by name and recognize you. If you make it to Otherside, your cover will be blown," I kept hearing a voice call to me.

The conservation of energy in full effect,
Energy presses from inside, colliding to outside,
A reflection from inside a metal water fountain
Draws it into the swirling vortex; a clone of myself sitting on a bench,
Bench I'm sitting on, several secluded fibers banked upon a velvetine valentine between the ceiling and floor. (Couch)

The conservation of energy in full effect,
Behind a vent, nestled, relaxing under the speckled water fountain (Couch)

WA-ter FoUNtain,
I'm the grays and the bleak black bland,
In the conservation of energy in full effect.

Xitia:-- Sent you a -whimpering, sent you a-wishing.
I, myself: Into a victory, into admission.

The conservation of energy in full effect.

Xitia:--- Where do you sit in the waterfall of lessons?
I, myself: In the back, to mask the need for the front.

The conservation of energy in full effect.

All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.*



How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,

Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?



Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,

A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,

Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.

Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.



"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,

Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,

Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,

And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.



It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,

The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,

To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,

To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.



"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.

He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,

And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.



The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.

I am in need of litmus paper;
A wriggling creature indeterminately featured follows,
It does not sit nor stand no feet nor hands just wriggling waving scribbling in goopy slop, no stops
The smell of burning band-aids trailing in its wake.

Savage monstrous floatation above a tile sea,
Its motions are elegantly sick, delightful ****,  
And I think I am thinking I'd like to know what it thinks,
But then, I know I should never truly know.

I am in need of litmus paper.
Is it an acid, base, or an accidental space
Filled, yet out of place, a dogma to my face?
Recurrent in its situation, killed once, but a reactivation?

I am in need of litmus paper.
Somewhere, I find, I am in the trail it leaves behind.
In this sign, I am afraid.

As it situates, conscious or unconsious,
Wriggling along, regurgitating from behind itself over and over again,
Halving itself, then fusing whole again,
It stares ahead, using an invisible force, inward eyes inside a blank face, to its next traversed inch in the slimy tiles.

And I think,
I need litmus paper.

Poetic justice, I suppose.
She imposed a thought within me, a repetition,
A groove upon which this melody plays,
A soft saxophone timbre eskimo kissing with the cochlea lashes.

Every face passing in alleys and sidewalks is a puzzle box shifting,
Incoherent until its cubes turn into her face again.
The city within me says she is anew, and this cube does not shift to the same old solution,
But the earth in my soul sprouts vines beneath its bustling feet, and the vines twist into her visage.

My words are phantoms, and I speak them to the newest beautiful stranger,
Each stranger more beautiful than the last, more comforting and satisfying,
But the nucleus of those scattered electrons, those uncertain ghosts finished by a period,
Is the tattoo upon my recollection, my favorite neon puzzle box.

I wait in the ambiguous, discomforting silence for a day she will be solved.

Wisdom, my wife, my beauty,
How long you have kissed me, left me, returned, and drawn my tears.
Wisdom, she sits caressing my face, crying also as she pulls my hair into a fist with the other hand,
Tells me we are married, then tells me in the same breath we were never to be.

Her enemies, Tongue and Pen, have called her names and torn her tenderness.
And I have cried after kissing their fair, lying lips, loving what does not love at all.
Wisdom, it pains me to watch you suffer at my hands repetitiously.
My love, my beauty, killed daily in spoken word and abrupt action.

She whispers as I hold her in my arms, breathing her death rattle,
"You have met love and know it not at all."
I weep and whisper in her right ear,
"I left her coldly for the mistress Judgment."

I lay her into an empty tomb but do not seal it,
Waiting for her to arise again,
Calling to those who met my pen,
"Forgive, and let her arise again."

The smell of mint and clorox steaming across the face,
Under the epidermis,
Flying in the room like swarming mad no-see-ums,
Shooting up the nose and around the nasal hairs in blasts.

A distant garble, advantage one.
Pulling from limb and lattice of the mind, scavenging, advantage two.
The prediction and observation, advantage three.
Assertively convinced, advantage four.
Being rooted, advantage five.

The smell of mint and clorox,
So patternless,
So striving and belligerent.

Whether storms are all numbered, counted, and expelled from heaven's manufacture as sensational, furious strands of wind and rain, who can say? As they arrive, however, it is nonetheless clear that they arrive as effects to sets of circumstances.

I sat up straight as an arrow, freshly awakened from a stirring dream of madness as the latest one arrived, watching the black clouds like mighty arms, struggling and arguing against the trees outside my bedroom window. I had been torn by an invisible hand clutching me by the throat, snatching me from the murk of an ephemeral bedroom.

Engulfed in unsatiated fear, powerless to convulse even the tiniest flesh patch or creak a bone, my body was wrapped in only a gray silken **** cloth. As I lay awake, speechless, thunderbolts cracked.

As I was rendered helpless to petrification, I was surrounded by strike after strike, a confounding series of white bolts striking seven times in each place, following a path of concentric circles around my small bed.

I struggled to move, feeling a moving static across my body like jellyfish stings from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, as I felt the cold chill from each bolt setting my face into a freezing strangulation.

I was pulled away. I faded away from the smoking holes surrounding the bed, the sub-zero chill outside and the torturous heat of fear and arrhythmia pumping spews and spurts through my arteries inside, and I was left to wander in my own fantasia as I stared up to the ceiling above me in my real bed, daydreaming of its meaning in epistomological fashion.

Ink and rabies flows in our veins. Copper cogs hold our eyes into place, and we can see the undulating liquors flowing like waters in a transparent waterbed, rolling back and forth with gravity.

Ink and rabies flows in our veins. They came with togetherness, in the same pen, passed along, gently, from one hand to another, a friendly enough gesture, cultured, combined, colluded into a single consciousness of tactful inks together, tactful links together, a single solvent.

They were once separate towns...separate people...until Radii Ink and Yuli Rab were together...

In between the crevasse, the edges of *******,
Two boldly jutting stingers perpendicularly putting
A slick gripping upon a slim tantalum cigarette,
A discreet bayonette from weapons that should have kept

Their secrets, saved their wars, retained their scores
To themselves, mourned in their shells, sat in the corners of their skin and bone cells,
Weeping through fingernails.

The acid cannot wave between the lips,
Absorbed, contained inside their grips,
Decidedly encased inside like bottled ships
That cannot sail from inside a deafly, deathly speaking slip.

Those circled, muscled sinking feelings
Driven cold by air, the scarab dealings
Flying flus, thus rabid reelings,
Blades cantankerous on wings revealing.

Bottled, at stop, on gums that go.
Bottled razorlings, at stop, on gums that go.

Dear Lord, please pull us together.

There is a shattered
Reflection looking at me

I understand what it is.
I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
I know what it is.
I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

Tear him down.
The eyes that ramble away from him say, "freak."
Into some new direction, some better pair of eyes,
Much more appealing.

I understand what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

He says, "Hello," to a stranger,
And she wants him to find something better to do.
Something more appropriate for his "kind."
He turns away, whispering a prayer of hope, waiting.

I understand what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

Would you want to be ignored?
Would you want to be snubbed?
Would you want to be told someone more like you should take care of you?
Find your "kind."

Find your land, where all of "you" live.
Wherever that is.

I know exactly what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

And now, I know what I never want to do, and hate if I have done.

What is boredom but subjectivity,
Always viral conductivity
From one and two and here and there
A way of ratifying one's personal cares.

Likes, dislikes, attractions, distractions,
Formulative thoughts and rash reactions,
Bombardment of character and theatrical woes,
And no one can say from where it comes or goes.

A view from behind the pill of bitter estrangement,
Lenses and visions of complicated derangements,
Better or worse, one subjects his collusions
With the darker abstracts of critical confusion.

So what is boredom but a lack of reason,
A hiding place behind a suspension of disbelief,
What is boredom but a condition of pondering the lack of what's to ponder,
Construction of illness rather than intellectual relief?

Words I cannot express nor abide
Well inside behind my eyes
When I find I think of time
Not spent with reason or rhyme, with you.

Labored moments I have shared
When unfair others dared not care
That I wear my loving stare
Only when I am perfectly paired in heart.

Now I see what I could not,
That I forgot what love had brought
To my lot that was not caught
Just looked over as a spot upon a canvas.

I'm a Christian and I love the Lord Jesus Christ.

I love you.

God bless you.

Hello.
How are you?

Will you marry me?

I have a dream.

What's your name?

Would you like to spend some time with me?

I'm happy.

I have emotions.

Excuse me.

I don't have enough money.

I don't have [insert item here].

I don't know.

I love America.