Out in a cabin in the back
    woods once again
            
               what speaks louder that words
               are my words and the masses just whisper.
                                             Rabbits **** bears,
timber
exoskeletons
crack,                                ­         porcelain
                                                    und­erbrush
                                                    surre­nders,                          those red strings
                                                         ­                                        nudge me
                                                              ­                                   to acknowledge it,
the Shakespeareans are creeping in on purpose,

      i've tried too hard to please this hardwood floor.
                           Excuses:  I am--
                                                     --walking on the body of a
                                                               ­       violin
                                                   ­  --measuring the plucked
                                                       requirements of the craft,
                                                          ­                    a melodic one.
                                                     --forgetting my voice.
I met your envelope
                    of panic
switch--vapor lights
staring down on my skin.
                            Pink elephants
                     bound on crosses strung up in red
                                                  --you stitched their brick hearts.
                               I was welded
                                        to the screen door by the touch
                                                          of a                 one-way street,
epidemic voices are farming the cure for salvation before our cauterizing
                                                     ­                                                 muzzle flashes

                                                        ­                           --the outline of your fleeing justice.
I smell rain and why I fell in love with you,
                                                            ­                       --you never write when you're angry

Calm these rabbits around the spirals
          the *** is still in my wind pipe
and the morning will be late till spring.

         Screeching lightbulbs rewind impatience
------The naked nuisance is scrubbing into your nebula.

Hands that helped us into the pit
            Beware       them
                                            again

Popping trophies and other autobiographies
coil into soda cans like strange theories.
                     objects    objects
                   everywhere you go

                faster. slower. pause.
                revival. tow. exhaust.

A shroud of air
on all the lines of sight
fills the shelf space of my existence library.

Promises like the grape vine
burning down outside

make me regret learning
about the nuclear bomb

2012, the year that was supposed to end                           our race
                                                --a water-line for the universe
                                                  that apparently doesn't care.
      In the tally on the wall and the chalk that makes it up there is the reverence to cultivation
of change--fear.  It was this fear I felt all 365 days that caused my arteries
                                   to ***** and my blood to accelerate. Fear caused pain
and love and both of them in hind view are venomously magnificent. I may be a descendant
                       of primates,
                       maybe--but I met my hope by the ocean. Leaving messages in the sand
for passers and onlookers. It is wonderful how the sound
                                             of the ocean--a voice--a warning--a heartbeat keeps us alive.

Jump out to the camera
homage to the renegade beats.

For weeks reading screams
mock us, their torment
crossing mental frontiers
—loud streets, sprite deviants
smashed 1999.

[Abomunist Jail baby]

Stop suffering, you weren’t swallowed
God machine Thursdays.

roses are sentient, violets bounce
prophet muscle
—abracadabra headaches
purging Hephaestus,
whose breath at my altar
awoke. I never remained
a threatened voice. Hollow voice,
fleshly chain torture,
“my Satan you are truly a dance”

discharged generation
thinking conversations