the arrogance to act.
the hope without good reason .

the necessary prerequisites for
animation :

tilting at the gamma-wind, ye
terminal fingers (flowering buds) of the bloodline

homesick meteor,
deep with longing

heavy ,mineral heart

first, man imagined god_
then, he built it

with mother-minded longing .
from that lonely vantage in space

free.pop
picnic.punk
polish on a broken nail

hope is a checkered story of
homewardliness  - whatever that may come to mean

I take three sips of water before looking up to meet your fragile gaze.

You very deliberately dribble lukewarm coffee over bare *******,
Thinking to mean something
By
It


—-
You say :

The Underworld is a plane of understanding at its rootmost lv.
The unseen sketch behind the painting.

It’s the bottom of the ocean.
1st sedimentary layer of that which may receive attention.


It inhabits the same 3/4 d places as we,
Yet shinier things cover it up.

//

Excavated  out through archaeological digs,
Through layers of
Carefully structured cities of daily tasks -
Crystalline life :
The salt bricks and landed footfalls of
Each
Generation .


//

An ugly, honest answer - under so many
Pretty
Lies.

A day In the cave without echoes

A truce with time and decay

Open weeping
In front of Her audience

the existential violence
of closing the windows
.of
dumping the stale bed-side
water
into the sink
rather than the garden
.of
loving w/o finishing that long
process of loving adequately
or w/o adequate tempered
measure

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 blue bamboo print on your white shirt
wrinkles me in to
home

everything  is
a trade
outside of love .

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

the salt_white sun.like a flawed promise amidst the chalk.swath of a sky ,the dry cupric oxide around the circles of
city
eyes

a broken baby carriage under the train platform :
a husked substrate for the gathering
ice .

meadow mouth

lets the drips roll off
from
       desperation-clenched
       thighs         to
fall
upon each green blade born of these buried bits
of somethinghood


as a fatigue settles across
a languid sort of reward,


damp inside the lawful box

sweeping up my steps like
uncluttering any remnants
of a prisoner’s
prayer

at the adaptive obligation,wild after more

styrofoam containers of the leftovers get stuffed in the fridge (after sitting out for too long)_as you crawl up onto the table//tugging your shorts justfarenoughdowntoyour.thighs
they
used to use stone altars.now we use mail-order scandinavian minimalism

the road is blocked.
[temperature readout not responding]

foggy, light mist.
the upturned vehicle lays quietly under its long woven blanket of moss.the discarded mantle of each season’s worth of canopy cover_
restful,
like one single ***** glass left behind in the kitchen sink of a foreclosed family home .
violent, like the passage of time.

she’s steps out across the gravel in front of me,
crossing past my left shoulder’s grazing shove :
kneels down
and grabs at my belt.

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.

And what I have seen is that it is always exactly what it has always looked like

Gut get good and go do some
We need it.

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

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.

what’s left of of a girl
/
i’ve found her  

/

won’t be giving all
won’t be missing the wisely dog-eared
places

:

the moment the portrait
became

cauldron

.
evermore



.the dreams, as they were
.the un-scrubbed, literati-***** genius


a trial-and-error machinegun lunge-forward kind of loving

a kind of loving .

  



                a kind
            of loving.



//the sound the housegutters make when they beg the rain for mercy .
the rain .

/the well-threatened promise of “now” .
the softened blows of its passage.




the blacktop, swimming (and the music.)

_dogs bark in the shape of unsure gunfire as motorbikes growl by and
rain pills-up the blackened planar earth//like an old.favorite gone through far too many washcycles// .breakfast at midnight, they say- ******* the air with hissing tailpipes in the cool repose of darkness.
⚠️begone, foul steeds,the dogheart demands - knowing well, the falsification of instinct in this place.
it’s a new brand image we worship now!it’s a new pantheon of thinly veiled threats!
everything that’s been promised!it’s good for it-but just
put it on the company
card


.

Indigo earth
Breaking tiles in the ruined home of
The
Ancient people
Stone moments like
A
Wild
Dream-fox running in swirling shivers through the inky clouds of
Dispersion /
So little love left over
After
The rains
Are
Pushed out
By the
Distended belly of the moon

people l[i/o]ved
for a time
         _
and that was
  [enough]

if you want to know what love feels like
then you know what love feels like .and if you find out that everyone feels the same way too_you will come to know how to love

Is dedicated
To
Those who have chosen healing over
Mourning.

The world needs you.

Your love is yours to
Give,
Tough - or otherwise.

care or be cared through.

rot-gut mornings and the exiled king of []
digging through grave-heaps
like
searching through
drawers
seeking:
seeking:


trading
  manacles
           for
madman's
  manacles

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 ?

31 is the new dead
I’ve had a glas of *****
And the only promise I’ll ever ask of you
Is to play iron and wine - trapeze *******
At my funeral if I die before you

P.S.
Promise 1.5 :
Slap anyone who is not listening and just talking, right in their useless open eyeballs

Until next time,
Signing out-

The bad good kid,
The one who almost found home

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

As the gun
Rolls of the countertop
In the
Cyber cafe

by the stories it’s people tell of the
past

you find things
that are worth finding .

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

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 .

Learn fitness
From the cyber goth cam girl yogis
With big dreams

Crust like machinegun fire
Sending tremors through the hot
Night

I release the grip
If such is the
Desire

you need to fight

have little things
that you move around

i can’t stress enough,
the importance of s t r etching

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

special boy
worst messiah
greed beyond sacrifice

not a hunter. a feeder of mouths.

not a coward. a feeling. a hope.

critter-lung .
critter-lung .
bouncing in the trashday sun
fill me
with.     something

wilt at the tolling of enough
bells

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.

sung longer lungs. bromide cut
sun sought - sight asunder
save for later slaughter

smug ****, of
var.
necromancies .
push-pin, him

he who swims,
he who begins
with pointing out the
wet opacities of the
        churning
        sky-sack
inside which, we are
tossing
like a baritone rumble-**** of dreamfood.


all garnet and dark, now.
all garnet and **** dark .

holds us.historically hostage
as our.future splays out like frayed wires
under the nav panel before [me]
this is your captain speaking,
we are going to be hitting some bumpy
a|r
remain seated/as you dare

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.

they say that no two sets of ear folds are alike. that each one has a unique “fingerprint” profile to the exact pattern of rolled cartilage bunched up in soft ridges -much like what the lifework of rivers leave upon the shifting face of the earth.

but i can’t help in
thinking that
we alone hold
a
perfectly matching set
of soupcans
in the whistling dark of this tree-house
night

and if
ever
the taught line go slack,
let it bring comfort still, to the last brushing-up
against the expertly crafted sinew of your word-worlding
throat

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.

Tumbles dry leaves around the train station

Tracy Chapman comes on,
And real life is real again.


Second-guess nothing,
And speak with Honesty.