I was wrong then. and now condemned to rewriting the same small repertoire.over and again
until they feel legitimized by their own histories-
I caught you off guard the other day. I told you about my dead ex-friend that I never hated as much as she wanted me to.
you told me it was fine.

[spf30] sludge sweats off down into crevasses i want to touch.
gods break apart
in the clammy skin under the folds in your side as
you
twisted back to me  .

you handed off a trinket.
i took it.


gold was the metal cast in stamen-shape to crown the tight halo around your breath.
monday's laundry becomes today's.

back into the tree-shade, where the pollen works its way down your throat-
you are wearing pink eyeliner (one way or another.)
as we take out our phones,
the green-
yellow film on everything shines against the backlit
paralyzer-
they are making artifacts:

like the inexpensive
pen> leaching into jeans pockets, down to the zipper.
somewhere they are creaking open, lunging at us with next decisions.
small,
between arm hairs pushed the wrong way-
hydrogen-peroxide teeth
take shallow indentations in an interrupted ring.


catching sight of this, someone relegates you to weird.

off-guard, you smiled-
thunder rang 3 towns over.
you fingered your palm where the pencil lead came through the translucent.

gooey paladin you in gun powder real.like bucket like helm.scooping into pieces i can be soup.i can loopdy-loop
lemme show you my favorite
piece
of
meat

there is something i knew once
but barely
and on my good days,
i spend the whole of my life trying to relive
or,
.
and in museums
and in thrift shops
in **** sites
in blogs-
strange charity exhales,
slender tendril figurines. come out licking the music about the edge of
your mouth.
so that it might be told
but barely

people don't take enough showers in the dark.
those that do- or have know that
one of two things will happen,
either you feel yourself fill up the space like some gaseous soul
or you shrink as the void consumes you.
it differs from time to time.

I have ancestors that I don’t know if I can even believe in

And I am told everyday that I don’t deserve to have a voice anymore because of the sins of my father
(How long must I reject myself?)

We are all, each one of us, directly from everything that has ever happened

We are all human family :

So why to we still punish through the generations.

Why do we not share our stories, in earnest.

Why can we not finally
Heal?

Man has his tools
Lion has his teeth
In the savanna
In the savanna

In the savanna of mankind

No one is stupid
And everyone knows just what
The other one
Has.

We are buried in their
Gardens .

We are wAnderers on the
Road.

the elixir of daylight crime is sweating off the skin behind your elbows.
squeezing it from the things in the produce section.staining your sheets.
it's pushing together the plastic tablecloth- the settings are abandoned
as they are.we let them sit long into the summer neglect.we are still

eating off

of them with our eyes.   i am slim.i am throwing open the peep-hole of the world.       the voyeurs go running and screaming /fingeringthemselvesastheyflee.
she remained:
pressing the webbing of her toes up against her ****-
one leg
pulled in tight, one ear up against the wall.

we are banned from certain channels.  we are throwing-up in our
mouths.we are winking at each other.  we
are just
resting.

i want my phone to die. i want to scrape my knee.

the fairies atop the streetlamps **** each other as the sun goes down
and the power lines jingle.
and we head for home
.
(while the bugs hum)
(while the mother lives)
(while the electric meter runs)
(while our fingers turn in unexpected ways.)
while
we lose faith in other things

i caught your
              glance
like soap between the toes
and the ugly hairs wrapt around them-
half-way
to the drain

we breathed a bit.
i thought that you looked a little better than from before

we
touched the floor grieving no one
while girls pushed down on their skin.
we kept our heads hidden inside of
gloveboxes
in the dry.mouth-feel of the night
we scraped it out:
the sound of eggs at breakfast-  early in the pink-eye morning.
with tar behind our lashes, we watched the ropes **** each other as they were tied down around your heels.
but better breeds better
and

as bitter as the backs of your teeth
and as fitful as the lips that you rest them on


tired as laundry maker's love,
and the darling dogs gnashing around in the cool-cut yard.
early in the slime-shine morning

25, feels like 16
[just as long as there ain't no wind.]
i could love you
but i'd need to. crush your head
it took my blood thumbs
it took my best smiles

left me home.

honestly, i would be there
                                  for you
                              if i
                 
,  miss you but my bad knee's
acting up again.
thought of you again,
saw you standing there.
daughters smoking on the front porch  
while mothers die of cancer. upstairs in their beds
breathy weeks went by,
saw your mother-
left a stone upon your grave.
it was 25. felt like 16
got my jacket

got my blood deep inside. my thumbs

.


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

he said closing his eyes,
         i feel like a tree clutching the rocks on some high place,
        weary of wind and winter
        and grey of wood.
        my tired fingers in the tired ground.
        heavy of lid and brow,
        remembering too many passings and partings in the dim of
        mornings.  
        and you will think if foolish but for the shrubbery fading
        and the bees not returning in the summer

**** the cool kids **** the losers **** the bus-rides, the train tracks
the way the ambulance swerves.
**** the gooey middle that   spills.as we bite
the chances to do the right thing
**** the black sweater hanging off your shoulder-bladed back

the lawn chairs on the sidewalk
the hair in your mouth

my lashes closing on your
instant
sticking together like
sleepiness.
in the blood of it
's hammered thumb-nails
beading like
bad trends

getting hot like a battery against our thigh(s).
choking.charging  
getting tangled in the wire    overnight


all woke atthe sound of [it]
[they are learning to be proud of it]
we are getting better and better every year

b ronze  a ge

gone alchemic .
plasma fiat .
foundries of blue-white light .

the new milk stains her blouse. ruining it for the evening
we push legitimacy at it like a warm bath

the wires outside dangling from dead trees
and under the ground, are
    bringing
    things
    places


we make a pact to explore the transhumanist desire of language to escape    now-space
our
less than opaque skin will hurt itself trying to be                                                    more

unu­sed, falling from what passes for grace,
it will be expectable but idiosyncratic to the
                                  genre.

she is a force of nature
you mistake her for ****-doll. but you will be corrected

her lips are shining like rug burn☆
and the typos become art.

the favors search, inching upwards, laughing as we find the best parts

the whites of her eyes are old masking tape yet
my
teeth are grinding like wet bark on the car door.
leaving paint behind to mark off where we have been_
in a gesture that says
we existed.

thunder at the lake house (that never was)
and when you celebrate
self-harm
i throw-up.
but
i will ******* again tomorrow.

Behold, the aspect :
As the permafrost thaws
And ancient wings
Take to the air, once more.

And while their prey
Squabble over the distinction between
Wise
And wizened,

Feasts
Are
Prepared .

they mightlike you but they don't understand
your

violence.they don't  get: you got to curate it a little.
i know- it's worth it in the end












































/

I killed you on a Tuesday.
under the least spectacular moonlight-

and in the instant you called to me,
I found the edges of my fingers at your cheek
and my wound above your hip.
I took hold of you now
searching for a way to fold you down to my size.
my head hits the ceiling when I turn down the stairs but

you muttered something-
I looked down,
“I feel smaller than a thumbnail”

sharing a subway car with neonazis
i hesitate-
having gotten out of work early for the first time
in a long time;
one ear left uncovered by the wireless headphones. on
the opposite side
the old man in the body cast and crutches
the young man., ,fat and bald.
talking about sin.
and what its like to be irish-catholic
in a boston that doesn't recognize them as god any more.

,covers the other ear after a few minutes to hear the full sound profile of my song/
i have decided that they have forfeit
their privilege to live

somewhere in the universe (read:back
hallway) she covers her ****** and
pretends to be a brunette

yourfingers brush my arm softly, w/o reason. like
an act of war
my coat stumbles onto your presence
as a drunkard finds peace and
god behind the
   wheel
_the young trees, hemming us in like [the]cold wool against our ankles.
it's been waiting
         to waterlog us.now.for quite some time
//
    i will look no further than your aluminum eyebrows.against
the windows
       here i'll be.    
featureless as
  ever
fearless as the morning.


as we become fauna for future ages to name

and every **** is a good thing because it means
something
is still going on in there. some might say: the works, are still working
to some degree.
it's good
to be hot and wet inside.
it's like those hideous rain boots that didn't quite bend at the ankles - the
ones you hate until you don't have them ten years later.
it's like that haircut you had in middle school,
-the face of an ugly friend
-a sunflower pattern
-a blister you like to pick.
it's wonderful out there.
(i can't believe all the things that are still waiting to be wonderful.)

moves like
the dusty, irradiated world
between
Us

seven days a week.and
a quiet honor amidst the
loss

sad sisters
sad Sis  . /

dismember me (here) in a crown of freckles. where the sunshine warms both of us. with all the world wanting more. falling down. lapping up tongue-lung.you were oozing back into my arms.       the hum was hot

and from your fingers.all the way down to your fingertips-
all was good

with a haze that crosses me out like a lie on a check list
dawn walks into the room in post-rough-*******-aesthetic ,

packaged in japanese newspapers
that de-ray the windowbeams-
telescoping out into my space
and that of other hypnotees.  
dulcet to the sound of missile-fire
disperfection is her pose

and yet,
springtime is a shedable love

With triplets
Drinks water from the
Faucet

There are things to care about
Left.

the flame of your form amidst the
/unmapped_a
.       gemflash index in the walled-chamber-of-the-world

.cutting lime-slush pathways through
[my]
granite-lashes//thus far, unfluttered


makeshift:enduring

glowbird knows ∆ he can make it, but
the sun drips warnings in front of
our reticle eyes   ø
           in the dusking smile
           you throw
it                                                   feels

Is to look inside one’s self
And contemplate our honest desires that we dare not say aloud.

And even if there is no god listening,

It is still beautiful look upon one’s own
Mind,
In quiet admiration and
Respect .




Like brushing your teeth.

that which seeks to **** me
                                     is just,
and
those that live in the past,   die somewhere.
she cradled my head.

what's my belly to you-
burning like the last look down a hallway.each bristle fighting the
skin to prove its toughness
each sunbeam sizzles another one to peachfuzz.
we are rocking back and forth all over it.
      my invitation is wasted on the waythe floorboards
creak
as the table gets leaned on- we feed on
  its knuckles are ruining it for me,            you are speechless.
i am speech
its tumbling       outside
                 there is a rumbling
the big shook daddy is coming down


life's a popularity contest and
its all about poptunes\

hey hey

i have your
twin wrists
to graze upon.   like the thin blonde hairs teasing the air- waiting to be
burnt up
in
the
over-strong sun. i'd like to polish you off, the way the splinters on the
porch
find my heels.

i'd like to get some feedback
here.

you know i can't ride a bike.

you bleed on the sidewalks for me.

my hand rests on the place where your sock had rollen down to slack around the ankle.
i'll find out real quick, where the story ends.
you've got
mr. lonesome. and the resin that oxidizes into
glue
that yellows in the UV damage
of each freckle
that might have
been.
ya?
ya.

you take the damp papertowel from your fist and spread it out on the table as if to undo the creases  
it will pull back to itself.
i notice you     finding the small scar beside my left eye
you will search for others(and find none)

it can be said: that we will forget about it tomorrow.
it won't be_
there are bigger things growling from underneath the chairlegs

Turns in a wet hand
As the other holds the leatherman
Preparations for a dog’s breakfast
As the earth and sky
Also

.
is the thing that you
want back

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

on the street where this  summer's hippest martyrs rot away
the sidewalks question their sexualities as the sun burns them into
flat .  s l i c e s .   on phonescreens   
//words are my pocketknife in your hand-like a fool trying too hard at someone else's party.
[] as you slide across the polyurethane
holding brand-new hostages at your waist_ trimming them down to swimsuit-season size
                       and style.  
   the air quakes though the [youth like bent corners, ruining photos in ] old magazines .
shivering at the lakeside in full attire
i tank
,having enough of it.


we are seizing_
a
day
    other than this
//

you sunburn like antarctic summer.  eyesglazed inside

+plastic
+basins  

catch it like big pores casting texture from raking angles
you glacier
spark white against cobalt glass

silver ring
oil skin
metal pen
[dishes in the sink/everything]

somewhere in the distended belly
of
our longing:
you
were
scraping out the bowels. of
those that bound you here with.me

with each of your heads coming out.covered  
in
ugly slender mandorla:
floating atop like a flame of
mountains.slithering into the air, as ready to fight someone as to
forget it all
and
fall back into quiet loathing.

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.)
[.    ]

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

i crawl on my belly against the grain of your breath.fading into your occult
outpeopled
by that ******-axe-murderer stare

i watch you ponder trecherously through
the irregular curly hairs on the nape of my
breast. pilgrim to
this
thin dying forest.we crack shins and
bounce off of eachother
into a cool
madness

i take my socks off.
i see
on her dusk
a crown of young birches rises up like spindled lines of pencil.
they don't prove their permanence to the old soil>
missing the big trees that used to grow
here.


her body,
like wet leaves burning. the paper bark peeled back from
her forehead
reveals the colony within the soft wood.
down where the air is
as
still as the inside of a halloween
mask,
the fingers of her evening clam up likewise-
and all that it touches
is damp again.

and as i lay my dead smile in her's
,our teeth rest together in
bliss

home sick from work [with a bug]
the curtains look out further than the yard next door
fog hangs loose about its peak like breath
the dishes in the sink fume up to meet it

the house is dying.
things are dying in my gut.
                       yet fuji stands.

:


And all the fads function as the cyclic wheelings, more real than the lowest common denominators.
And that plain way serves only as an anchor to continuity, never as a true path for exclusive modeling.

There is only one truth
And it’s hard to
Remember

And the young
May dance
And sing

While [we] can.
  


This mean world makes
Meanies of us all

her lips curl
the way jungle leaves fold.
hungry for water

parted perfectly to dragg each drop.downwards towards the stems
and dark substrate.

you may think they get enough. the way the rains come
the way the soil gets soaked each time.
yet, glossy plastic sheets everready
for more, present to it.
putting the wet spoon back into the sugar, irreverent to anyone else.

at least. thats the way it looks in the old nat geo magazines i remember holding up to my face.a long time ago.

you'll get sock-lost (baby))

just as the dogwood blossoms  
pulse against the ground.         y o u
**** the **** of the RØDE microphone
as the quiet sets in.
each pixel is humming for you
as you
sip it out of the ISO 6400 night.

what is digital is done.
and all is remembered.  
for once

we have place