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

Sundering chorus pulled apart
Into stances//
Fanning out into a cacophonous god-Heart
And me.

Seeking council of the
Shoreline

Whitehead breaker
Drowning in the.wet
Air


You are what you search for :

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

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

So much white hot vibration of
Hatred
Stuck inside these little cubes
Buzzing like madness against the walls
Thrashing to get out - as the
Walls shrink
In the name of efficiency
And the tower rises further higher
Into the thin mists of false nirvana / vacuuming us
Upwards^
As the vapors disperse
And all is knowable
And all these cubes smashed together in a grid
Of silver light
Of radiating illumination, railing against any slim crack of peace-like darkness left
And

The grid is god
The grid is greater than god
The grid is us as gods
The grid is finality


We are each cube, thinking we are the grid, itself

Thinking we are anything except
Caged into electron-cloud-mind-
Uncertainty

Thinking we are anything but driven to
Extinction

Still spasming, there, in the light
Still burning hotter than stars, but with the heat wicked away instantaneously and by design
Leaving nothing but cool,
Polished
Fear :


•


In the
Cathedral, again_

as if          mining silver
from the very air           that swims
            just above their
traveler-hooded crests ||

heads, meant for dreaming
     :
of the bonds between all                   distance .


prism dust ||
passed like
  the     swapped     civilizations    in     your
                            spit-
         from lip to lip .



ferried                   through

a
weary, unknowable path  ||

              outofwhich,our
[outstretched eyes form the terminal bud ]



-

it catches your mouth about to move
and fills
     it
with opalescent
tributes





 
it,

_

   stored and released


in the dna
circuits . in
vellum and
stone

||



in breath, body, and their respective undoings.


that which
keeps     
      reading          the stairwell


keeps.  and is kept.

the roadrash of the path ahead
mars the viable skin graft of
her tender side-
haunch forward,
too towards the future to care and

new **** walks in with purpose
here to speak ugly and true

the tufted rafter-huggers whip stares downwards at the

hate-*** hero

all cowboy, again
but this time - good.

am i humbled
            as i cup hands to the drip
                                              machine
  of _wantinglessness

am i listening to the horsehair-plaster hard enough

to remember
her hematite cough
                     [ of love ]

strewing gun.mites across the room
like seeding the sky with flower-futures


concatenations of ****** dread
casket basket
            rumor of
            the next thing.

scab fingers
ring diggers

shun mirror
you skim new menisci
                     off of
                       the
    locals’ strange traditions
like parsing down handmedowns
                  into piles of
keep.              and.              get the **** away
from me.


       like the stories cryptids tell
             their children about us
  ( so that they don’t stray too far out of the
                           forest )

unapproving dissimulatiors
                yawp
                  and
concentrate
on etching
pathways for the unendeared
             amidst the
moon.trodden regicides
   of that which is loosed unto the
   aether


footholds, findless.
in pursuit of esper footfalls within the ambulatory shroud of
             that which becomes
                      instant .

a
wisp of the homepointed . a
flick of the
wrist-grab, willfully
a
  fissure
in
  fissured things.

the scramble-dark iris
the         way
that hipbones throw : music
        as wielded by sorceress,

wild in trembling macrodactyl      
                 prestidigitations
                               .








the grandmother of conifers keeps vigil ,
                        as always

Lost time
And lost to time

Measure me next, without the
Sun.


I am not yet the wake of air through the tussocked expanse//

Nor, the jazz-beat of her rain clamoring to disrobe that which is made modest by soil-cover.


Sky-wheel tithing .
Bluestone plaything.
Sight-line, leaching .

mellow fed fun slide
help ***** slipped
slop neck chipped
huck gunk up through
dry and tired
mouths

like foretelling sirens for the twister
but, sister- it’s better that these blisters
from the still rot riots
from tired auxiliary habits
the meat ****** hammer table hungers
the hinges in the same doors like ugly, earworm-popsong-poisons
the scuffs in the rug
the runs in the tapestries torn down to wrap/lug loot from the pillaging of the castle sanctum
like these cold towers
like nights with out night watches
like a starless mind

like what he said about hemlock
like knocking down the mysteries hanging like static from around the corners of your eyefolds
like skinrolled maps to oblique stations of new and hipper torture device forms

The secret is
Active rest

Just as water seeks its level,
So too, do the oceans
Churn.

the only sentiments
worth
s
e
n
t
i
m
e
n
t
i
n
g
are the  
         ones
pre-agreed-to
inside the

[cyber - cathedral ]

World shunt
Against the
Bile-hearted wearers of these ugly badges
Of different colors but same shapes

The godfearing and godless will **** you all the same.

What they call satan,
Is just self-awareness.

It’s a good time to be
Good
If you want the world to still be
There
The best to next to next day

It’s words
It’s the jazz
It’s the music.


The dancer’s waist,
Yearning to be
Grabbed.

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.

the wolf is wild
the coyote is wild again

(hand over heart) this is a right.
(forefingers to the temple) this is a privilege .
( both hands cupping the stomach) this is a fight for survival.

the thing that’s feasting upon the things that are feasting_
the gut cauldron .
the soup of you .

and the night breeze was like a half-remembered book about wild boys named after horses who die in the middle (who well know of such things.)
you banked the median HARD like the worst kind of skipping stone
and spat a small bullet of gum out at the ******* pickup on the other side of the road.

the 58% waning moon, cocked
like leaning one arm way far out the window .
the shed petals and leaf-buds hailing downwards from swaying canopy-archways into somewhere new /
pelting the windshield like softly homing drone-strikes upon the cool, black and yellow world.

when you had to take out the ©0₱ for his gun, a quick knife-draw cut away the body cam and went in hunt of dashboard tendons after finding his driverdoor unlocked.

-you filed down the numbers and naively measured the clinking paperweights shaken loose from the clip with calipers for later reference : to make sure you ordered the right ones when they ran out.

she cried

and cried
that night,

the getaway was clean.

the night air was
Perfect.

The stairs still splinter out dry laughter, muffled in the gloaming plaster
Hall -
Spackle-rough to the cracked fingers running along those century old idiosyncrasies
I, belly-hurt to the passage and the passing of it
All.
I return there from excessively average physical distance _yet from many dynastic   Wheelings of
Contemplative
Removal.

A broken thing
And
I, the faithless
Steward -
Throneless
Amidst haunted
Kingdoms of a dismembered corpse-god
And other short
Stories


With threadbare
Memory of
Patterned bedsheets crumpled in perfect modelposed gesture of blissful entropy, the
Nearby school stadium spotlights still send tower beacons into the mist of the night
The cars still slur by in the wet black
Crackle and
Hiss
Destroying the fidelity of other songs in
Perfect, humming

Obfuscation .




Void-fellow, home
.

in a world without god:
within a community of believers,
a god’s Will will yet be done.

as ever
and again shall be:


the
             most tangible horror
of
                           Man.

we linger
in those fuzz-****** images of
Home.
we take off, rocket-wise, and at heart-fast velocities
into the gathering pools of time
like lamp-centric product placement in the moth-saturated marketplace sector
like film
over whatever’s left in the glass
when you’re
done
i’ve  decided not to be
i’ve decided to swallow what once hunted
us
Here .

out there:

burn on

It trickles down to me like dry rain.
I beat out on the earth to measure my time

The soil looks at me, as if I were strange.

He
Humbled me

She
Humbled me


The river running, humbled me away.

.
.
in defense of somethinghood

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.

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.

Do you feel like there is so much which is obvious,

That no one bothers to see right in front of them?

And everyone is playing the stupidest game of make-believe ever invented?

You play along when you care to, you know the rules by now-

You’re good. You can be anything.



But you’ve never bought-in.

//



_thought   that i was  m o u n t a i n
but
i have been
       the zag of air
screaming pinholes into stone


thin, raking gust-prints.across the impervious, disappearing
    w o r l d. .

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

soot-footed,we careen off the edge of our sea.scrying corrective endeavors     [seraph - lensed ;feather-wet]
     as the spire
becomes a
  d  
  r
  i
  l
  l

Inverted hermit

Hole in time, like a well
Clay
Bricks swollen with memory
Diving deep into long churning oceans of night ink

And speak your peace
By standing softly
And letting time swill together in collected tidal pools - in the recessing draw of the ever-black


Bourne a-mast to the windly observance there

we wanted to become that symbol
any symbol -
to mean something.
and when we failed,
we became real

[she turned and whispered to me,
“hey.”
i shrugged back at her and became
whole again forever.]

( purple)
He tricks you into loving each groove in the soul
As sky
Wheels, blind

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./

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

There are only ways
And the time we spend
Together.

All human emotion,
Is what we want to say.

the paint on the door holds more history than the minds of the populace it seems

A humble god
Would chose to be powerless
Seeking only to observe and learn.
A god which is not humble, is not god,
For selfishness and self service is a folly belonging only to that of the living.
It is the natural byproduct of the need to provide to one’s self in order to sustain and survive.
It is the folly shared by all living things:

I must take
Such that I may live.

To remove mortality
Is to remove any native proclivity for self service,

Therefore, a consciousness which needs not,
Asks not, and takes not

Does not seek to introduce, nor extend, the influences of its own
Will
Externally.

A humble god
Simply
Observes it’s own
Breath

As it decays
Into

Nothing .

Rolling downward ,
With the simple
Ease
Of
Gravity.

stone-sighted
medicine.breath
the snow-fallen
                   heart

   aimed home
             -
and in all the parking lots,
and lonely gasstation-checkoutcounters
the howling things that dare to:
howl out

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.


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 them.

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

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.

[]
king of the fingers.
decomposing  in the [party scene ]upstairs bedroom
mountains and boulders wear down to things like me when held under
that gaze


you are the ******
and i am the dead that you dress like.
you could reach others .and
i