it's the aftermath of a change and the street is
quiet.
you look at your old favorite shoes and in the
last minute_pull them out of the trash and into
the trunk of the car.

the basement is full of jackets you don't
  remember.and some you do.

morning is a cotton sheet over
itself.

diffused, you notice storefronts
that  
you never felt like going in

offered
with
this
legal tender love

chains in the name of
it

flattened planes in the name of
it

it’s all the same in the name of
this




if it looks pretty through the fashionably-branded 3rd eye in your hand
it must be _

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

i am waking up later
and the trash trucks are coming earlier
on trashday

and
it adds insult to injury to watch them roll away slowly
to the house nextdoor

7:20am on a tuesday,
knowing that it'sstarting again

pure living
is cereal for lunch.
one bowl
one spoon
in the sink,
and thats 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

8 mouses high
i jump

you let it go to my head. like
hunger.
beside alligator jaws
[and just
          as
   simple]

beneath the weight of imaginary *******

mouth
dumb

filter sponge

you,
exposed gums.
tooth picker.
saline rinse.

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]

is

pay me only in these small, barricaded places_

as we glint like
discarded
             bottle-corpses
along the woody
edge.

pad-traps
      for
perimeter-pointing
   hounds ,
  let loose
  under the

dark-foot gauze of the
     equinox night.


vessel-hearted :
     known to have contained

beloved ghost of
       a land
       before
       fence-land .


yet solid as
              the
          moon .

There are things crawling on the ceiling in August
There are bellies heaving in and out

There are faces  pinker than fingernails in August
There are gods and the dying

I am standing in the hallway in August
I am not a god


You liken me to the inside of drawers in August
You shut me and
You line me with  plastic  fabrics

You fill me with silverware and
You disarrange
[.     With courage. ]

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 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

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.

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
*****

.bare ankles whurring deep inside the forest of night. in dark vale of
cambridge apartment.the window is stuck open; the handle is torn off. they are blowing smoke outside. the floor is wet.and churning below shadowy dionysian heads. muses: finger-laden in the gloaming caverns- are dying. there is a shout. there is a stringing out of things. there is a relative stillness.
happy in the cult of youth. ankles deep in the wastey-water

their breath is pop music you can't have.
we know about it

the art is in the attitude. it's what's giving us away

where did these virtues come from?


peace beside your thought, nation
god is a Gun.
so what is Man?

shame to isolate them
fear to motivate them
love to move them as necessary .



power likes
predictability .

and big prediction breeds power.

up to
a mouthy gauze-
a minnow's fate-
a dawnless gurgling-
Minoa-
skin caught in the zipper-
someone else's house-
melatonin-
outdated documentaries-
spilled -
actual bronze-
plexiglass tables-
vocaloid

where morgoths and mongrels
i misss my monsters
thrown lead (sculptures)in the shape of you
scripture breaking off where you
ransomed
beggars cant be choosers but killers can get you
if they want

caught top



World holder!

the lenths at wich pragmatist go to **** eachother
you make getting offended an art form, all the while calling out others as you please

what are you about that I'm that I'm that the only jacket at the way you are continuing. want me to advocate in the bathroom window while I'm about to for a for a I'm not sure not sure going to be able.  

buy.
  have not talked values and the typos became more than my blastoise

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

if you die - gilt bronze colossus :
                chinese take-out
                  chicken fingers
                  box open
right in the middle of town.


everyone will know, what
you knew

offered
with
this
legal tender love

You must know the discomfort inside and out.

You must be a self-smith ,
And harness the immense power of knowing yourself in a mostly honest way.

self preservation
is an afterthought.
,talk about faces like you talk about an unexpected weather pattern.
it's really clearing up (now)

i would be okay if you stained my teeth
with anything
you
had
to offer

horse-whole in the water-
milky for you-
white as cuticles.

like the /**** me/ hum of the A/V cart
hooked up and left running
nothing.
stuffy
in the boxed we built (there)

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 .

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
****

my belief in you is a bar of soap
shrinking .   each time it gets wet

Yeah oh yah, but at least we stay clean

they are folded up like my gut,
the papers on the shelf
he reaches to pull them down, and i can feel them fluttering.

[my legs are together]
[my head is soft]
[i am a stain on the chair]

artificial doesn’t mean not Real .
passions are self-crafted.
we are self-drafted_

1’ve been searching
In thrift stores and on eBay
For the kinds of windbreakers that were cool when I was
Little

I get to wear them now
And I know how

I pierced my ear a few years ago.
I did it myself with a hollow point needle
Slowly
But deliberately

And it was good.

I wear an earring everyday
To remind myself that I’m not
Dead
Yet. And it was something I wanted to do but never got around to it.

I’ve been
Making sure that I never stop
Growing.

I wilt like nothing  you’ve ever seen
In stagnation.

But I think the dog spit out her medicine tonight

I found it on the old hardwood
With tongue worn uncertainty

No dose must be better
Than double dose

With a custody so
Precious.

So I will hope she rests safely
Through the
Soft
Night.

And the late dinner can of minestrone in my
Grandmother’s last sauce ***
Smells like a lost thought of
Home

Home is
Something
I’ve been working very hard to
Dial-in.


My love
Is a pine-green toaster covered in
Crumbs.


And you
Are the bread I tried to bake from
Scratch
But I forgot to feed the wild yeast starter and landed with
Mold.

This time,
I will give
Thanks
To each pea and
Carrot
In my
Broth

Do you consider us family?
We are together, as humans.

We carry immense burden and responsibility.

Do you respect living things?
Have you ever looked at the Earth and seen it?

In the game of life and death, which side are you really on?



Think hard before you answer
                                                       .

he was hit by a tour bus
dragged for a few dozen yards i think
then it rounded the corner and left
him there

thedriver didn't notice.
how could she, so high up there
hand on the PA
eyes on her passengers in the rearview :


•30 or so chinese students in some sort of program
•one fat and badly sunburnt family, the mother with a sloppy drawl
•two older russian men - beards both of them
• a reasonably well-adjusted looking couple with matching hats


meanwhile he there in the road, no longer wore a hat

the other pedestrians were not happy.
less grieved- but more just angry in that generic urban way
cursing and imagining that it could have been them
(no body uses the walk signal anymore)

there's sentient life in the bottom of your glass
you **** civilizations with [the swipe of] a sponge and look up as if nothing at all.

placing the demise of new taxonomic kingdoms onto the counter, you turn to me and repeat the question:

The difference between not having access
And not currently accessing :

We exist in the motion blur between moments

We bridge that gap every instant

Rather than be fused into paralysis within a caged world
We flutter through it all like
Glass breaking quietly


The machines do not have time.
Only a map of each moment .

We are
Striders between.

the greedy void hurries away precious, hoarded vapors into a quietly latched  chest    

     full of hours. days. weak-knee, stormfront months and whispered lore of the return of canopy cover to the pewter forest .

the same paths traced out with each rut in the road lines
a cycle of scars in the world like the thirsty, reaching tendrils of a dry riverbed

the skin bunched across my finger bones
splits open.in pious sacrifice to the nascent frost



pebbled gully,
shambled stone hands trying to hold up the
wholething

how do right things get
done_



a  calling card
comes
home.  the mouth of a dollhouse.

a department store with all the lights turned
off.  

the sound of splashing without
source .oh, what  
mud
we
    might     have
       been.

Was what this nation is told to have been founded upon

The Secular pursuit of reason, self determination,
And the triumph of the human mind
Over dogma and the disparities of false witness

Your god died long ago
You seek only to resurrect
Suffering  

Don’t misdirect my words
Just because to lie to yourself, unable to see yourself as you are-

You are blind to the obvious consequences of your actions

And for that you have my pity and hate.

Yet, the pity grows ever weaker

.


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


.

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.

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

.


   the ripples in purple fabric wrapped loosely around your crumpled
Frame  :

The
small ghosts seeking refugee between each automated
Stitch  ,
Which
Creates basket-hole //
Blanket-sof,t cubby-units
For
Respite after wandering

Store me away there for
Later.    
   alligator .


Radiate
Out
From

The film under your
Eyelids / it’s
Unbroken meniscus
World ,

Hiding
Big creatures
There From the.   interruptive
  view of
Mankind  .




Prism  .
Gun.
You





   /and
other short stories about the
  making of the.universe

i'm swampy in your head like ancient fields (how you've forgotten)
the animal bones beneath it all
could tell me [more] about you_
foggy, my feet
roll bashfully        past them.
it's been
like
this              for
at least three breaths
as the grass drys into mammal.hair
as the dirt becomes hallowed by your  cheeks
it's all badly
lit
in a diorama of you.

the photographs won't do enough to
hold you here

said Odysseus, “i was meant to be a
sailor.”

.  []
in closed catacomb,

shunga-folds leaf into a starving candle
like offeringsas
officiates treacher towards the door


    ( )
    pooled-up thing at the lanky doorstep of
wildflowers;

   fern-moist breath through the hole in the
world.

   strangled gasp in the name of
historicity_











.

you pose your head like offering a nat-geo ****
aroundthe table
as something valuable
to be
venerated
the sliding screen lights up
offering a piece
of your brown skin

the leaflets are caught in folds that wont  
find any other place to open.

Can your mind conceive of it
Can your heart yearn for it
Can your hands make it
Real.

with dog mouth
with nylon tongue_
like seatbelts
riding up on your stomach.peeling off skin
like a dead favorite jacket just out of
6


unodysseus    a n t i t h e t i c a l .   to hero
grabby and
into serpentine arms.each  with it's
own
fake religion
like a ribcage.putting pressure on the insides-
holding
it
in
-
all

clinging to stonework like a chimney clings to relevancy,
fell asleep before you could send nudes

it's another perfect day out there
and all is
happening .to and around us

it's another perfect day out there
and

i haul
stones from the castle to the wall
and back again

reshaping, sisyphusly
and
waiting for the