The clock radio predates my birth by at
Least five years
It must .
Looking like that.
On Sunday morning
The alarm is still set :
And goes off before the sun . Before time
Deserves to exist

Smothered in heaps of (hopefully )clean
Laundry on top of the bureau

The Sunday morning art program slurs
Words between the tangles of sweatpant
Legs
And
Unpaired socks

(Socks I am not responsible for)

/

My mother used to have an old radio in
The bathroom that must have been of a
Similar vintage.
It was a beach radio:black with a brown
Grill - thin red line across the white strip of
The station numbers,

Pushing around the little plastic wheels on the
Side,the red line never lined up quite right .

It hung from a long black drywall *****
From its
Squared off handle on the wallpaper behind the toilet

I think it may have belonged to my
Grandfather
We never took it to the beach,
I’m not sure what he did with it.

He may of just sat out with it on the back fire escape in August.
By the spindly dogwood tree that I remember my nana picking white blossoms from in spring.

The blossoms still come each year , I’m
Sure.
(I don’t know who lives there now)

My radio wakes me up on Sunday
Mornings .
My mother’s radio would play softly at night around the corner from my room.
Sometimes she would shut it off in the early hours of the morning -
When she went to bed.
Other times it would just play



///

“Fuzz fuzz”
The old black sweatshirt
Came out of the donations bag,

At first just to reorganize.

There was a thin scent of the perfume she used to wear in high school.
And That was wild .

I had not thought about it
Much

It was ugly
But was once  comfortable _
It used to be mine
But then was only in my keeping

I can remember
Offering it
Sometimes
On cold summer nights.



The sweatshirt
Went back in the bag after some lint - rolling
And
Other deliberations.

I used to be young.

We were mostly
Happy.

M.

Greendark vapor

Broken over
The body-of-Christ moon
In the sky above the soon-to-be old apartment .

I sit like dewless mornings amidst the
Eves
And the evening’s main event,

Disbelieving everything.


Thumb runway of the
Pit .
In your
Sunglasses
Smudge .a

Way of waking .up

In sharp
Contrast .
Photojournalist

More ******* adds than the weather ch. app

Spooky on your tongue
Like
Liking
Controversial historical figures

Vacation promise land
And a sunbaked balcony to **** on


The eggshell sneaker laces
Bleaching out in the open
Filth pant posture


Summercamp slab of concrete
Camo pattern t shirt

**** that you got to get
Done

Few understand the technique :
The way (that) I push the walk signal
so that the whole of everything disintegrates.with the touch of *******

On the smooth metal
The micro abrasions pressed into the

skin swirls

The indifference and calm
The static reliance on wires that go unseen until they are worthless

The firey sun dripping like egg yolk over the city





[It makes up for the ink stains on train seats
It makes up for the neighborhoods we don’t go to anymore
It makes up for the way I never learn.]




The train had come when I was nascent to the platform
New comer to the expectant (waiting) mob
Threw down my membership card and boarded, back turned towards the moon

Pieces of sparrow against the tourist trap window
The laminated pages of trifold maps yellow asymmetrically in the sun
There as the light dances

The plastic palm
Not growing
Leaves


Irresolute

The

Ac bolted above the front door making a lot of racket but doing **** all otherwise

I was one who thought he’d never let rust form on his nice pocket knife
But here I am- 30 lbs gained in a year and only use my leatherman for opening cans of chicken and tuna for the dog

Rust on blades for leaving in puddles by the kitchen sink

Forgetting to call friends

Being me-less and without laying hands on any thing real, these days


I used to spend all this time thinking about the things I would get, and take care of, and keep for the rest of my life.

Real permanent things.

Now I wonder

Long dying tubes of fluorescent light
Read like far away stars against the blackened concrete roof .

If I try, I can put my self outside - swimming in it
As we make blurred afterimages through other peoples’ windows

Jostling in our carpeted seats, inside the traffic’s galactic hum

We are
Left-overs
From the
big dig

To traveling pilgrims

And the exit

Grass strains are a treasure
traded for dullness
For a long time

Shaking like dry spiders with the cellar door opened
Waking up without .


With the
Personality of a carpeted bathroom

Belly hairs
Stiffened outwards

Inside the deep wash of dry baseboard-heatered air


It’s good.
To think back sometimes


With waxy cuticles     against the chapped    
    lip’s
open
    curl

You throw my shape on the ceiling and walls/
It’s a fury that burns with cascading light.
Jittering inside the rooms we fold together for each other

It’s quick and flash-like.
Striking often,
We are strobe centers for hot fingers of electricity searching outwards in molestation of the quiet august night.

Y

The hungry wind prodding the meat on my bones to measure its tenderness
Tugging at my outer garments and tracing its icy fingers across the folds .and reaching further into my
(core)

We cook slowly in the dusty window light
Splitting apart as we dry out, [denaturing our lignin ]
As the hazy rays sweep up

They will be scrawled across the floor and our bodies
Like the thin pencil marks of man made gesture

In the shapes cast about us
Wheeling
As
Only
We can

No good news is the news - and
The witches’ brew
Bubbles over
again

Flanger fire .
Dragon spire
Call me .crash me .cook me inside
And over and over, I rolled
Down the grassy hills. Down the dying dirt.
Down with man and his upheld promise
Breaking bread beside me
Bedtime brain rot binds me

Hold me. Hurt me. Hit me, hurry, with something good.
Or at least better
Than
it’s been

It’s crass enough out there
Without your green scaly eyes
Take some time. Prepare a surprise. Make me feel alive.

It’s about time for us to finally
explode.


It’s about time we took the *******
End their ****-eating grins

Skin head ****-faces must die

The spermicide in your voice
The sink drain spinning
     .After much coaxing


The hair clumps climbing in bromine drips

As the acid burnt label’s yellowing edge
Waits for  further  corrosion  in the cabinet

As we seek to photosynthesize.  Into greater     limbs reaching

We shed the jitters

Humble before the promise of our own smallness

We feel the growth in our bones.

Thin.

Not yet as a door.

Not as an ear.

Not yet as a scar.

Not yet as a shadow.

Not yet as a self.

Yet.

Yet.

The ebbing

Of your eager look

As we roll our eyes,

And are no longer noticed.

.

We walked up and down the driveway

Each pace, a page turn
Bringing distance : One dog-eared creasing, by one

Sharp stones skittering bird-like and brittle

We speak
My un-doctored photos

Hanging beside

We swing, as juniper
We shuffle

Caught in a barking fit
As the trucks roll by, rumbling up dog feelings.

Hands clasped together in mutual observation

As the moon swallower slithers legless    in its embryonic mess

Looking through a stack of old Nat Geo’s found in an art room cabinet is
probably
one of the most sublime and authentic human experiences .

It,being untouched for so many years.
I, being the fist to cut it up for picture projects .
I remember
The
Transience .

And the dusty ficus
By the window nearest the closet in the further-back, less used part of the
space.

The very aesthetic that I’ve been searching for
Since

Your name is a desert flower
Handed out to me
In the readying dusk.
The canyon walls
Pass a soft light back and forth like Rumors  

Nourishing  no lost soldiers in this valley .

In breaking several fat leaves from the stalk,
I expose cross-sections tapped for undrinkable  fluids


It is spoken again.
And justly.

My wool sleeves push dry against the earth.
Padding me.

The smoothed edges peel back for flesh
The torn finger hangs from the skin like dumbed ornament
Wagging falsely
Unwilling to begin the slow decay now promised .


Give me time.
Time.
I will ferment a new thing to drink you
And be domesticated [ by the sea ]

don't worry.i can guarantee
that if they where handing out participation trophies
  to humanity

you wouldn't get one

supermarket endcap : ingredients for smores reminds of summervacation and being in thecottage and going to the store late for snacks, and the phone call that comes aboutthe dead friend

as the dog grows big enough to steal the kitchen sponge right out of the sink,
as my arms grow thinner,
as the kimchi jar breaks against the inside of the trash
as the a/c sits tilted and dripping from the window onto the front lawn,

<a̶s̶> people are forgotten.
<strike> as <strike> mouths become softer.
<strike> as <strike> patches fill in.
a̶s̶

It’s always trash day somewhere pt. 6

Like convection currents sitting atop pavement in July
Like white slices of paper dragging across the air between your words
You write me off like -
I think I can wash you from my fingernails but-

A new perspective on old music videos I always hated
Not that I like it now but just that I’m different.
I jot you down like
Growing up doesn’t stop
Like a fathers shirt in a picture

I bury my self in my head
Mouthshut and wanderlust wonderful
The wonder years
Are twisted


A couch in my mind
Plush and rough like old stuffed animals


The shore sheds me and sands me down to size
Like a frame on the side table I
Sit tilted to the sun of the window knowing only cool air from the vent while outside cooks the earth with grease and greasy hands
The diner fans push air but don’t let you breathe
Stuffy and heaving
Like
****

And
If I were to remake the world it would be dim and orange like darkroom lamps .
Full of ferns and
The appropriate
music

Like an art installation .

No words - just looking at each other ,
Dull watery eyes and understanding

On the edge of thunder  .  but never quite breaking

I’m small grown over big
Not big to to begin with
Not contending with giants
Not engaging in casual conversation or understanding the want of it

Glow.

my long belly fills   with air and moisture as the door closes
.pushing currents into the hallway_ disrupting dust and heat

     the hair on my limbs is matted and hidden
behind layers of world proofing,
about to be shed

Home.dead

the windows shake as I look through their ghost bodies
     the floor is silty and
     cold  t o  freshly shoeless feet

the lights come on and all is shown
and that’s it.

     the furniture will be rearranged tonight  .

the dog, crated, waits patiently for the coming of morning:
and with it, breakfast.
still in her red jacket
delivered today
she lies somewhat uncomfortably in it. but not
angrily, as before.

the dishes pile up in the kitchen: not caught up from the week_
they will remain too, sleeping until dawn
standing as evidence of time passing
and of bodies being fed.

minds will wander to other things
but bodies have been fed
and they push into tomorrows (because of it.)
[.    ]

the tar -
the tip., slides in as the fingernails grow slowly outwards from the body
sun hits the vinyl siding of the houses across the street
raking sharp light across them like cliff faces in famous photographs
whose colors were only seen by ansel adams himself
chevron patterned blankets are folded over themselves in rosaceous limp hillsides

window . split

And me,the

there is a term applied to religious
   paintings : mandorla which
literally means "almond" in italian.
it is an art history term referencing the shape
of the halo around
gods
and their mothers.

the word seeks to describe
the shape only.

w/out context
the almond shells in my hand .give way to
the metal hand-held ******* of years passing from
(those pictures)

i speak,but

my _breath.is caught in the jacket loose rubbing
elastic cuff
ribbing
stretching out
reminding
.hairs around the toes in the shower
stay behind. even under the sock
throughout the rest of the  work day
trill
evidence that memory connects to
event
[]][][[]0][]]
looking through my husked fingers to block
the light of its halo,
the sun bakes dark objects only
in winter
with home dragging along ;*****
in wool'fibers
home drug
like old music
unlike new music which is recorded
forever;
stomach pangs for sandwiches but the
mouth drags.along
      a l m o n d s .

the s-curve of the soft **** in the bathtub

wrapt around one leg
and pressed against the hideous yellow
ceramic.
the water is turned up too hot
it rinses over the back like a failed ritual
,the sins will not be washed clean
,no one will be forgiven

hair is only pushed around in patterns
around the body  from the dripping
flow .
art is not seen or remembered
amidst
the dangers of winding down for the evening

It doesn’t rain the way it used to rain any more.
And it doesn’t really snow either

(Insert office scene)
( insert childhood)

I am changed
And everything I had is
Gone .



**

[
The sounds outside my windows]

c.

there are no white
chalk portraits on the wall like we used to
draw : bukowski, haruhi, and the ghost
line symbols.
but it's
the same orange vespa-knockoff sitting
on
the other side of the fence -
thesame withered brambles reaching out
beside the train tracks and dripping with water that
will
soon freeze. and bend them down to the
brown . earth . .
i am bowing too, .

w/out reverence
w/out  hitting the cue


i mark where i stood in microscopic pieces
of the bottoms of my shoes only
i go unheeded .as of yet

it will be
  the same as not at all .for most


these mornings are
  Flowers.

Wind tinted blue eyes sitting atop  the car radio
and scanning the Ch.s up and down in
search of
Seattle
Some lamb headed city
Dome knuckled in fear of
Wait times at the register
Wailing in the backseat forever

Keeping me sane between
insane-leaning morning lights

I fight to keep relevant  beside
Your suede smile

Amidst your
Life-like passion,
Daring to dance like sheets of ice skirting across the road rather than deeply, like beds made without love

Drastically reducing the recitation length of
Origin stories
Before they are told


Dreaming of sparrows where
Cooper’s hawks only - reel above sunroof skyline
(Owl-bellied in the breeze)

Restaurant restart until
We hone home.

i am the doe-eyed and
mop-hung. dripping dry in forests of dull pilgrims
the shirt rubs on the belly,
damaging the pale skin-scape for the 1/2 hour session.
we need the vigilance now
look away and i

grey-same to glass

you,
dulcet lung.
photo-smooth
laying down, pine-black
in my fluffy gun sights

guns in the snow
write stories that stick around
until spring.

i want to skin the wilderness off the rasp in your voice

our legs are good.
but we are going nowhere.


the curve of your forehead is sloping away from us,
the ugly gems of sweat are suiciding off of it_
and
the sun is beating down.

through a carpet of skintight stares : shoes untied and slipping.
combing though it all
cowboyly

it's time to go home,
she says.




*ok,

\\






///////
breath is stopped
and teeth, like glaciers_ carving scar-like channels  in the earth
  
know


i “I’m”
and i am saying too much

in answering, i hold us up from getting at the meat of it.

seat of it. sitting there,stinging me.
too afraid to get so    clear

The white fur stands on edge. tufted with peanut butter
And caught round the ring .

Creaking  like shifting weight over linoleum feet.
Back and forth like hips ,
Indecisive
In their balance.


Matted into layers like stones and soil
being excavated to find
fossil evidence  of lives lost
To
Changes

Keys in the loops
Pushed down into glass jars
Amidst pennies and ash
Chair legs creak and crack over breakfast
And
Conversations of
Time


Jacket on the hook ,
Pockets turned out in careless artform .
proof of
Man’s final triumph over
god
And the lasting power of
Mistakes
It’s a shame you don’t see the legs still kicking in place
Treading water
Trendy in the fake struggles
Getting claws caught in sweater sleeves and
Untwisting each yarn

Like poisoning the minutes against each other.
Like posing in a photograph we won’t share.
Like sharing blood.

Charging wires tremble in icy dry venue
As
The windows fog over like cooking in the kitchen in January.
It is enough to remember harder.
Or want to

Its enough to sell sell sell
I break promises over
Breakfast.
I
Th
I
Nk
I am happier
than
Many other m n
I think I waas
Better off than .that

I woke up to the radio on but nothing playing
I ,
Man’s final artform
I













Or the

You

I was her boredom
As the monster cut up the city

We ordered food. and sat to wait out our imminent destruction

Disassembling  art installations that had grown out of my hair


Going to and from.


There will be no Magical  girl transformation sequence .
There will be no battle. And triumph

I was the summer.
Burning other people. while we stayed inside
For most of it

Winter is a string
Plucked and vibrating sharply against the skin pan
Of my head
Like branches I bend,
Young enough still.  to yield pliably
Under the burden
Of snow.
The ashen sun   rises like dust .   about the windowsill
We trace the paths they draw    in particles and movement,

My face tightens around my bones
Drinking collagen  from the exposure
And learning

Cozy between layers
In the history of the world

Steaming as breath around the mouths  of
Rivers,
Not yet sleeping
Not yet filling the spaces with
Me

.


there are only two types of socks in this world.
those that get shrunk, and
those that get stretched out.

life, like laundry
is about adopting the best practices to hold out for as long as
possibl e.
you gotta fight the nature of things
to
remain


.

like lightning in the pines   ,
the scales shaved off of each seed-head
by the threat of my
booming  _  voice

like headlights in the road
near misses and
dogs running free

like finger hairs
*****

he opens the chewable tylenol capsules like carefully peeling away the skin of a ripe fruit.
legs crossed at the kitchen table,
[buying time ]
_she stands at the sink. not doing dishes
but rearranging them.

the radiator is hot and hisses
the oil is delivered today

the mail is sorted roughly

ea dark hair        rests
like mud thrown against the  pale skin   .ribs are counted down the
back as
i trace the spine to its source
shoulders, cloven          into the
bilateral symmetry
               of that line [like any high eukaryote]

sides like tar, stained with wet curls
wrapped around and stikking tight like
the                          tentacles
of something
deeper                   reaching .

.


The heavy weight of the dog at my feet
She is hot through the blanket
The night is crisp and dry
Outside
I shift my legs
Bending them at the knees as I turn sideways
She curls
And fills the space.
Rolling into a tight ball and pushing against  the me that has become
Burrow for her body

It is the first cold night.

And I have seen growth in time passing

Summer t-t-time and livin’ ...
Small change
////////////////////////

Congealed words stick to the roof of  (my) mouth like peanut butter at the beach.
  My jar lid rolls away across the kitchen floor and towards you.

My toweled legs stretch out like vines climbing saplings,and feeling out for a new way to go once they reach the top.

Searching


Sun drying clothes on the line and leaving them out all night to gather insects.

Making plans and breaking them.

Dragging

the living room floor on top of sleeping bags

God is an urban legend
More dangerous than a creepy pasta in the news

And youth is less corruptible than nations.
And the stories
The normies
tell each other are comfort and exclusion of fault and responsibility .
Sensation spreading
I play with my ribs
Thumb side pressed below shoulderblades
and skipping in and
Out
Of grooves

I move
Towards you
And in for the
****


If
******* can hurt it
Then do it.

Barcode sticker on the shower wall wet and dripping ink like one handle hairy bandaid from a leg

her voice is war
and i am the feet sweating in heavy combat boots
the cardoor slams outside the window
they leave without us

there are things in this room that can **** nations of artists

i am synthesized under a microscope
like being shot through by many arrows
slowly-
slidedark around the corners of the glass.
i twist and roll .      belly over
ribs
as her eyes, chalky, talk to me.
i take it
toothily
soil-minded, both.
heads with weapons.

gritty gums is love+
dim viewfinder is love+

dust in the screen-shine
and shoes under the table

[my] cheeks are drying out
each time they are swabbed.

[i could be i n the world
i could be in this world]

the watchband is tightening. as the arms
are . swelling
as the sea is rising
rinsing salt [and other semi-conductors]
around in my mouth
caking crystals deeply into pores and
dimples

like thefloodlights         coming     o  n
to **** with the lives of bats
and bugs .     both

sake in the kitchen.
peace and control  .  
   my body decomposing over a slice of bread

learning to see people as objects
pinching together the corners of pages.with nails that need to be
trimmed

scrolling through  screen
girls skinny in their dresses

folding down
with
[waists that are really waisting]

like an oily thumb .tracing
pink lines across a bright white
leg
like a dry tiger.

like youth and destruction in-side an aging murderer's  head

                                               ­                        -like




                          and oh!
                           **here comes a tune fromlong ago