despite the futures that we are said to be robbed of

with
something
worth tethering to .

care or be cared through.

where the self-contained creatures go to -
_
under the rug-shaped lash-lines blinking
dusty, with rashes made out of lifetimes in
fluctuation and
actuality.we sweep our history away in
little tidy circular brush
stokes
struck out against
the toothy
grin
of
these so-named

brain bombs obliviate_all signs of life in the city sqs.as all god-oid methods live on as a convenientandeffectivethreat levied bysquabbling heirs to her cold multitude of rancid throne-rooms/do you want to survive?
        the slow-panting dog shadow leans in closer, still,
/learn to dance the night.  … .. ….. … .. .. .. .

sleeping predictably, the city is at last disemboweled in favor of a new and ****-less being -
   all parking spaces, finally free.

the call to action :
like prehistory’s most compelling protagonists howling out from the austere tar pits in which they are mercifully entombed

/free my fossilized flesh!/
the carbonized ghosts clamor-
and we will .
we will choke out the whole of our stupefied brood with the breath of their ancient bowels respirating, anew
in ash and motion .
in the name of each family’s future

Power
is a trade.

yet
lambs and other extant specimens do not participate in  this same barter.

their deals are shorter and more sincere:
/ at least leave me the sky - /

/no./ the reanimated ancestral cloud billows,
/all is a dome, beyond which, none may gaze/

/ be still and pose gracefully within the god-dome of our love./

a shower, like a casting away of minuscule multitudes
singing along and misremembering the words
a dredge into origin
a deluge of removable things

a distorted reflection in the soap-****-nickel-alloy-plated places

a chance

sick to death
of our sick hearts having been sentenced to death .
no fresh breath /
no love for flesh //
no hope for our souls to be laid to rest. ///

they
fill the
grail full of *** for future generations to
take some
m   o r e.


at the intersection without  
intercedence
full of
hope for this
holy war.


slip to cope through this
revolving door



—

the people are going crazy because they are afraid
/bring the axe, you stupid *****/

we need
we feed

ringing in all new winters through brass hoops
on the old ride
wooden horse yelping towards its three
brothers .
a hidden sister
in the woods
in the woods
/

without, in the villages of the kingdom :
a
failed technocratic empire _
illusory knights and squires
go diving for **** fuzz
in a heartbeat
between your legs.
they beg.
but
torture is a twoletter word
i f
w e
b e
,and other sundries

a l l
t
he while ,
i hold harnesses out of your hipbones
like graveyards hold our families


and  

false fibers, like torn banners bind
us
through indecisions.and the glowering repose of all intimations

whereas
it’s always nasty
weather
     in the time of
Man.

as a means by which our star-long horizon can be further darkened
—
nothing gets hidden in this seascape;
only more water added between
us.


we are counted on not being able discern the difference between swimming and  having been
swum through .
—

tidal pulses .
storm brow crinkling up, as the nostrils flare against the wind.
night-sail diadem , let loose from atop ill-begotten cedar mast .

shaking
shaking
shaking sea

cradling a torn architectural drawing of the universe.
the sea spray can’t reach us here,
nor the rolling breath of the low clouds raking in and out of the dark-scaled pines atop the cliffs’ edge.
it’s a moonless night-world
at the brink of dissipation .

it’s a world-less willfulness that holds us back from restoring our sight-hounded hearts.

it’s a breakfast served up for something older than kindness,
we - the complimentary condiments of a finely set table for an ill pantheon.

Grid photo
yves crayola

Indigo red

Hands traced
Walls and spaces
People and things and clothes

Blue smudges on a pink sweatshirt hanging up in the diner.

Blue smudges on the  darkwood paneled wall of a trailer

Blue marks on a window in an old building , papers littered amid  the cross-beads : cardboard cut-outs and
Flyers for events long passed

On a couch cushion, in a basement, where friends were

On a box of treasures

On a blanket on the ground

/
On a  greyed picket fence, with planks pushed through

Against the faded grass of a desire path

On chain link and locks above the bridge

On door and cabinet handles on the inside - glass and brass

On door handles on the outside - composition, unknown

On the dusty, lace curtains of the backyard door

On the bins in the attic, full of seasons

On the bins in the driveway, refuse

On my heart, and hope to

[full blue handprint visible over left breast - whereas other marks were more fragile, cursory, and accidental in pressure ]

True
Ghosts

Are the cared-about things
That you never knew to take (with you / care of.)


The lonely, yet fulfilled margin-scratch
The rope-less tree  
The tree-less yard
The yard-less home
The home-less mind

Imprints on human time.

is:
fingers through hair,
breath in the morning,
a good t-shirt.

where memory is safe,
the right sound-track,
a path.

and
there may yet be a world left to fill with
hope.

the wayback machine doesn’t keep them : a real, contemporary library of alexandria moment


not a product of the internet
a product of THAT internet

something that has been
both
       systematically expunged
and also simply left to decompose

digi-deathbed .
scrubadub head.

my little broken bread_

apps don’t **** people.
app developers **** people.


..

fills a void in you_
like the mist of dawn settling into
the untreated
wound of last night’s
moral dilemma.
the tendril fingers
of something older
than
domestic man.
it’s
war-moon waxing
like

a faltering empire /
like
an island
  amidst the heaving breaths.of a
dark ocean

a cosmic message in a bottle:
and all its ever been is the same as now .
all mythos and religion;
all cult kingdoms; all god-kings

it’s not about what’s out there-
it’s about what’s in here that we’re trying to save.

the ugly things that crawled between our teeth
were cool.
while the slang was new, the sky still irradiated us-but[cloud-hurt and uncautioned]we didn’t mind .
while the slang was:
we built things out of graveyard-ingredients in order to survive past our youths
and
insofar as having not yet been annihilated, we look at eachother with nothing left to say that won’t sound out of fashion and
_                  changed





//:it’s a dead mall universe
and the squatters just set off the sprinkler        
  .system

.
is the thing that you
want back

where your figure of a lotus is a crumpled up papertowel on the coffee
table
.last night’s dinner still evidenced across the smeared
glass
and all of the pencil marks of time
upon the marginalia of my
skin

fitting together like guns to a victim’s head:paving over holes in parched landscapes_and
parsing out factions in a divided populace

they are

finding and
braking

handholds

in the artificial rock wall
of
a
city made out of
pictures of cities.
selling
an exclusive virtue
made out of

want .


my

want
for us
       is otherwise.

you say, as
all of recorded history is
annihilated in favor of
quarterly growth


and in the coldopen, the sun rises over joggers
going nowhere .

calling the beats
calling the sea-roughed wannabe sailor-types

calling the ham radio in your head
calling the used binoculars and the clear sky of a warm night’s impulse

calling down through this
anthropological migration pattern
for
the trading card
charm
of
new kinds of
Fake.

it’s beach day for the //bad.guys
you.          better
catch the shoreline before it’s sold away

feel feel think
feel feel bite

still _courses
//through we,the wet.
[though dry curses be cast upon us now]

/




rays.thatbetray
the intentionality of
our days and all the tasks assigned therein

20 seconds of alarm.

it’s calling for the tepid disquiet of assimilation

it’s calling for pretenders to assemble in
the shadow of new thrones

it’s calling us by our names

in the language of it’s immeasurable, mylar breath

everlasting.the
wellknown mystery at the
door

again

the harm storm of california
and the titanium world is
beautiful

smiling back at you
with those tinted, 2-car garage eyes

and a view of
eternity, so long as you don’t
check
back later.


for those not yet gone numb
where the market demands it,
life is
__

for
when it counts :

a
boy with one palm pressed up against the corner of each pew
kicking up into the
air,
flying for a fraction of a second _
looking down the aisle
and worrying
that he won’t know what to do with his hands when he gets to the
end

a
world made out of
itself ,
alone .

mother, new path
a homeless, homebound hope

/

dig me out from this cocoon
by hand or by mountain

changeling, change
husk-harm armor, i



/
sea glass
storm word
steer this
soul-herd


asunder

offered
with
this
legal tender love

chains in the name of
it

flattened planes in the name of
it

it’s all the same in the name of
this




if it looks pretty through the fashionably-branded 3rd eye in your hand
it must be _

fact-based decision making /
the inherent , long-term kindness of truth .
the patience to seek it , regardless of popular opinion or ad campaign /
the inherent cruelty of averages and crowds /
the willingness to build wings /
the bravery to use them /

the hubris to use them unglamorously .

the tower , the fall , and the sea .
the illusory virtue of the inventor’s son :
the illusory personal value-add in possessing unearned, inherited things .
virtually, anything you want .
anything you want, virtual .

the perceived magical nature of wisdom /
the failure to pattern /
real math using false measurements /
real harm using falsehoods against the world .
the failure to achieve mastery on the first day /
the persistence to achieve mastery .

you can do good things_

same old imagery
same old annoyance lv. threat
same old s-s-s-summertime
and the living
do so

it’s a dark, wet morning
and the city inside you
sloshes
to attention .

dragging pieces of the world
down
quiet
highways - and

through uncounted chapters
of all histories :


the food chain.
the great exchange .
the plain way things happen
[that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  

[that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that, which

the dreams you have when you fall asleep (specifically) before the movie is over.
[like feeling safe enough to do so.]
like
winding up with cloud cover
and
summer, here already
like
no garden again this year -

waking on the couch
in the early morning
suddenly        and to
relative
                       silence





                                   .

the world
doesn’t like bukowski now.
they didn’t then either, but now they really
don’t.
it must be
all
pretty now

that reflects the light flashing off pale
fingers_
like glimpses of wet noses
in the looming underbrush

wet, hungry noses .

wind-rustled world.

sights and sounds
no longer .

offered
with
this
legal tender love

passive perception points out a small
visitor
just below the ***** window sill
as
dishes on the edge of biology are slogged through
the
[wet]
cerebrospinal tendrils  cling to the thin line of wall behind the pockmarked metal faucet
like
far-flung dendrite fingers cling to passing notions : such as a soft-focused background sensation of the clouds moving by you in the sky beyond the confines of this room.

dark opaque eyes
first two, at the end of each antennae like the body-plan of a Cambrian killer
then four more present from the amorphous body
bulging out like dive bladders filling up with ambience
tracking you like leaves do to the sun much slower
thin
not-bug appendages get too long to be normal
then even longer
it is reaching for you in the camp kitchen as
  y o u
back up to the light honeycomb
  door

Respect people, but not necessarily their ideas. Treat others well, but never accept  fallacy by virtue of politeness, indifference, or short-term gains.

Do not reward bad behavior.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease. The crooked wheel, screeching and locked in place, needs to be be held accountable for its own failures and not be allowed to punish the wheels willing to roll.

Fight for what you believe in, but do so honorably. Have hills worth dying on, but  choose the tallest ones you can.

Seek always to better the world for yourself and others. Be willing to endure temporary disadvantages in doing so.
Do not be willing to accept permanent disadvantages in doing so, unless you are in love, and you are sure.

Seek to understand the impact of your words and actions upon the people around you and the greater world. Run simulations in your head. Weigh the perceived consequences with compassion, but do not allow yourself to be rendered frozen or silent by the threat of Future.

Everyone takes the short cut - and in doing so, renders the path congested, impassable, and ultimately unuseful.
Take the longer distance, do so quickly and with nimble but steady gate : hinderances fall away as you refuse to suffer fools and you will know the nature of ways.

Aim to be be patient on a geological scale-but never tolerant of cruelties.

Even if there are no absolutes in the taxonomy of good and evil, try to find and be what feels like good.  Don’t worry if that doesn’t bear aesthetic likeness to that which is commonly marketed as “the right thing.”
In so far as can be sustained, be a force of protection for those around you.

Know the difference between nice and kind. Nice is polite but allows for cruelty. Kind allows for rudeness but suffers no cruelty.

Take agency. Know your limits. Always seek to push them carefully, but deliberately - it will reduce the risk of being broken by them when your agency is removed later.

Expose yourself to things you disagree with. Disagree with things you are exposed to. Unconscious and non-critical engagement with the principals behind group polarization is what creates the vast  majority of humanity’s self-inflicted problems.

Tribalism is not always good.
Tribalism is not always bad.

Know the rules of the big invented games. Play these games to the extent of necessity only. Engage in critical thought like your life depends on it. It does. Know that the virtuous rule-followers of these games are food and fuckdolls for the gamemakers in the end.

gulls rule the shoreline in nobility.
as we are all subjects to our surround -
sound - world
so too, must the place
         subject

black is the sand.
long is the posture.

cedars are split for us_in honor of the ages that will pass before they rot
away

set.
i don’t want you to think that i am anything but the attic stairs.you will know me well by the dust and dryseasoned timbers.i hold your artifacts safe for later.short to long term storageit’s always a bad estimation until it all sets in.rinse and re-but.the birds are all car alarms around here_it’s their version of neoclassical heavymetal.i know you know

it’s a breadcrumb world out there
and we are hungry in the woods

i wait beside the echoing pool
you trace out the lost path dripping down your thigh like a map
throat open and maw-ful
throat full and maw-open

lung fire
feeding on the wilderness .
belly-hot-want

our roots are :
/delvers
/divers
/descendantary.No


forests become obfuscations for removal :
[lost] is landless now
and a new animal arrives
it feeds on our  l o n g i n g  .
until we are starved and treeless•gut-ruptured full of promises


i roll you back onto your side
cheeks flushed_but cold

[do not hold harmless that which harms us]

i rake my hands across your heavy thing
you shake like eons in passing
you quake my heavy thing
you real my fake away