Honest animal
Lying man.

.

A day In the cave without echoes

A truce with time and decay

Open weeping
In front of Her audience

.
.
in defense of somethinghood

Expose yourself to things you disagree with
Disagree with things you are exposed to

Make decisions that are better than those who came before

Although that does not disrespect those decisions
Which served to get us
Here


To this place
In which we may name such
Navigation

blackened toe-nail lessons
found
at the bottom of the
door

thunder forecast;

mother of memory
living inside
the
globule-breath night

rail-gun
for
the cloudcover

Gun-breath kid .
Petal heart to the wild expanse
Resting stone shoulders upon the axis of the earth

We dig deeper here ,
In search of the birthplace of cold rivers

Finding only veins of gold
And nothing flowing in those of the living

Miner for their last   exhalations

everything  is
a trade
outside of love .

but we devils make
these deals only
to
inch that much closer
each
time .

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

we are collecting
preventative measures
             like assembling
       an
anthology
of misplaced
               tiles
in mosaic
memorandum.

if           we have a year
left,
if we
continue to postpone
              the
destruction,


art may
yet
retain its
artists

as artifice transcends
artifice




.

i'm listening to the crickets outside the window tonightfor the first t ime in a long time

unga bunga ,
and other short stories about everything that has ever contributed to what it means to be
Alive

heels on the hard
bone
heels on the hard ground

tippy-pad
tippy-pad

hardwood-hurt
home.

atop tall buildings
and
watch.the
sleepy city.
fail to
wake

they shake
the
houses.they break

the
power-lines,
bloodlines,lines of fortune settled deep within the recessed creases of
the populace's
damp
        palms .


         ---

and in
failing to offer alms to the
dark
wanderers ,
mankind's blackened heart
prepares for each final
act of
self-betrayal .

and
clouds       open
                   to the
       closed .

you shout me a look like little plastic pieces of the physical battleship board-game getting knocked to the floor.i know
i see it
we leave the reassembly of the coffeetable gamestate and the rest of polite society’s dubious mercies
to the next pair of fools.🔫.🧬🏺.🧹.⛓️🐺⛓️ ≥🐺.
too cool to go down with someone else’s
ship/too hip to flip.

the early adopters of fashionable trends know
that self-fulfilling prophecy-core is in this season

wear it hard while there’s still seasons to witness . prove some social fitness . don’t say anything that your keyboard can’t predict_

(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.

and it was only people
trying .




and it didn’t matter what was
real,
only
what they believed with all their
hearts .

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 .

makes people feel safe.

their kindness


    is a kind of lobotomized love.+pushing paper around.like making everdistant promises of delivered goods

//:scarring dragonbelly sized trenches into the slowchurning flesh of the world.a widening gap between
actualized.v.abstract justice .            1t’s virtue on credit,
paid off in laundry loops w/o a tangible exchange .



   choose
   now!


or find these heart-sized boxes made of an entropic eventuality:this habitual tug into the center_towards willful repose _laying down.beside
the fluttering lashes,glazed over in the cool bath of dawn
///
waking too late
loving too late
******* too late .
***-slung beside the driveway sun.

i lift my soft scale belly to the yawning expanse,
       aim now !

aim now ! !

                                aim now ! ! !



?:

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

b ronze  a ge
morality

I feel like humanity is loosing a war that’s not even being
Fought

as music the fills hall-less, drifting assembly
of
[]ears

seeking, ever skyward, a pedestal to
****
from


demigods and demagogues.hum.with  the
white-hot vibration of  
          erasure  

needing to sting
like needing to
***;


needing to *** like
needing
   bread;


dis mantling   the
lapis-dark
shawl of the
           night

in search of
   the
hubris
    of
  other .

Rough-scuffed finger-tips
Touch the worn metal
Disk
Of the walk signal.
As the mad man blows polyphonic descending runs into a double saxophone
And screams raspy do-*** into the
Musky spring time

Oh yeah

Oh yeah.

We are

Smuckle berry
Finished
Here and

There was
A
Way
To
Behave

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.

Feelings
Are shapes that we are squeezed inside
From which, we can’t imagine what the outside
Looks
Like




Hooked ear pods
Are the new
Security
Blanket.








Guess,
I wanted to be
admired for something I did on purpose.

I have only the touch of my hands
Left -
And the muscle memory of
Something  
That almost became
What it was
Supposed
To be.

In summer, the young tree bore many fruit.
Not large, nor well formed- as the tree was yet young and only in the second year of fruiting.

Yet the number of apples was many.
And this tree grew honestly.
It was not grafted, but planted, and came to maturity in the natural way - with years of patience.

Some time ago, before the new families moved in, someone had planted this tree, hoping it would grow, not knowing if they would be around to witness its fruiting.

And they were not.

Whomever the planter has been, their part had been played and none more is known.

Yet the tree grew.
And it began to learn it’s trade.


But the apples were of poor quality, the tree being new to the task. And, as is to be expected, more time must come to pass before the fruit may become beautiful.

These early-borne fruit fell often, never reaching full size. And they littered the dry lawn in multitudes.

The small apples would rot, and became gnawed and ****** upon by all matter of things. Birds, bugs, beasts - started to devour the littered horde, but never fully.

So half-carved fruit carcasses lay around the base of the tree and reached out past the extent of its shadow.







Take me at face value

The best laid plans of motorcycles and minivans
Fall to pieces in between the  long yellow lines

We zip like skeletons down the well
At sunrise
Returning to old versions of ourselves
And playing catch with bad intentions



By dry riverbed I bury future aliases
As offerings
Rivers will stay dry in my time
But someday
Rains will come down from mountains
And wipe the town away

Creature feature
In a Double sleeper
We wag our tails at weeping branches
Dragging feathered knuckles against the softened earth


Inside this house.
Beside me,
Head-like
And thoughtless ,

We
Dine.

touching is like a hairy arm in a loose long sleeve
dust particulates breathe space between us.
the news comes on the radio.

counting the world on your fingers
counting.

curl


and you're
mine.

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_

do the jack-pines
know that they are going to die
when   the golf-course gets redone in the
spring?

do the amber utility lights know
the
fossil-records they foretell?


do the puddles count  the diamonds of glass
shimmer-trapped
in the
asphalt   there?

do the coyotes  call
eachother
by
name ?

forgotten words for it.
small ornament beside the face

in need of fly paper
upon her return

the scan lines are layers of sediment
piled up
  in thin slices of observation
  over
  us

the desert sand
moves through our eyelids
like other peoples’ problems that become
our own :

each woven loop, a desperate handhold of precious cargo
each intertwining thread-arm
shoulder to shoulder ,
dry.elbows locked /
@ a citystate’s walls
a crystal cathedral refracts the
prismcut pathways of the bright
   shawl slung over her neck like a
yolk//
   shivering at the tall gates of
this
****-farm for the ****-hearted

they turn her
away.
they turn into
men and **** the boys.they
fight back the
desire to love and
burn houses for the want of
                night-
                lights
on someone else’s
lawn.



hey, be. hey, be ye.

humanity
belongs to the mad.
only
the sane may die
         unlived

dis/belonging ,
The broom-swish thrush (******)
curtain.fall of

your
lash-filled
scan

hits the side of
  my .  body      like

        [  ___ ] .






   zip-fold me  .   into

jackets
     full of
It .

was right .

in the power of human beings to change the world
and the enormous weight of responsibility that comes along with that.

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



///

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

That’s all it is.
The most fundamental form of communication
Boils down to dichotomy :
This or That

It’s the only Real language .


Yes and no ,

Drum and silence.


Beat
     patterns into the veil of the night
The
     Moon. Is.
  Watching      .






                        .







       ­                 .

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.


..

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

your friend's tongue presses forcefully against my ****. as if
it is a
muscle  
desperately trying to prove factoids
we
learned about it in middle school.

//strongest lb. for lb. in the human body.

you take yours lips and drag them across her.
parting her open with little fingers-
wishing they were able to reach into more
places
at
once.

Crust like machinegun fire
Sending tremors through the hot
Night

I release the grip
If such is the
Desire

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