.  []
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_











.

some call megod.          
my fingers are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling

like gems.

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

reshaping, sisyphusly
and
waiting for the

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

The spermicide in your voice
The sink drain spinning
     .After much coaxing


The hair clumps climbing in bromine drips

As the acid burnt label’s yellowing edge
Waits for  further  corrosion  in the cabinet

As we seek to photosynthesize.  Into greater     limbs reaching

We shed the jitters

Humble before the promise of our own smallness

We feel the growth in our bones.

Thin.

Not yet as a door.

Not as an ear.

Not yet as a scar.

Not yet as a shadow.

Not yet as a self.

Yet.

Yet.

The ebbing

Of your eager look

As we roll our eyes,

And are no longer noticed.

twist, root-******
beneath the
warm soil of
the summertime

their teeth
scatter
like hopeless seedbeds for
a
fruitless, early harvest -
it's not summertime .

it's the heat-death of the
universe .

it's my\
ears

red and screaming
to be
hit with something

real.

I will protect your rights to do so,

While you seek to diminish all others

keep pushing on ropes .   instead of untying our tongues
keep touching .   our sleeves to the table
like accidents in waiting
like breath on a bad neck  .i fight to remember     the touch of grass
i keep down
it's dust. it's talking behind the school yard
it is.
sunn beating down

my long belly fills   with air and moisture as the door closes
.pushing currents into the hallway_ disrupting dust and heat

     the hair on my limbs is matted and hidden
behind layers of world proofing,
about to be shed

Home.dead

the windows shake as I look through their ghost bodies
     the floor is silty and
     cold  t o  freshly shoeless feet

the lights come on and all is shown
and that’s it.

     the furniture will be rearranged tonight  .

Long dying tubes of fluorescent light
Read like far away stars against the blackened concrete roof .

If I try, I can put my self outside - swimming in it
As we make blurred afterimages through other peoples’ windows

Jostling in our carpeted seats, inside the traffic’s galactic hum

We are
Left-overs
From the
big dig

To traveling pilgrims

And the exit

and the whole of the world
shook
like a box of
vipers

it’s enough
to cut gemstones out of that look
in
your
broken eyes,

string a string of beads to prey
upon our
Hearts

a perilous mess in
matter-land

a clock to make you
mad

a time to enjoy the
art

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.

We imagine ourselves among the dead, the dying, and the monsters that inhabit those spaces
As a way to feign immortality
In that we are comforted in the temporary untouchability of our placement, just off screen.
Or
Rather
In the shrinking down, to the screen, itself.

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.

The secret is
Active rest

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

Another
Hangs like the
Increasingly average protests of
Virtue in man’s sick pantheon

Just east of
Dawn’s gurgling last breath,
Choking in
The steaming *** load of
God_

Staining white,  these
Vast
Echo chambers of the cyber cathedral


No greater
Panopticon.

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
.

Deranged reflection in the pantheon of
Spoons
Dripping dry by the kitchen
Sink
Flashes across the unknowable
World that wraps around every tiny surface that has ever
Been.

Buzz buzz.
Come the particles ,
Like electric.sand into our
Squinting
Gaze

[]
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

//
The ladder of ribs
Up along the skeleton, there.
Bones made of shame (and milk-myth),bleaching under
Sun and
Moon.
//
Tanned
Leather pouch softens to the morning,
Fallen from where a neck used to
Bundle sinew and rumble out
Something made of air
//
Still stuck-frozen to the hard soil and leaf-
Litter .


Ah oom, ah oom .

mitochondrial moves
make out . dance steps
by the stairs

i push past your cell walls
grinding on something sticky ,
that
in that
basement brain
is
storing stories .

like
a promised need for later;
like a cupboard full of (china glass)
:lipids in love


performance .
red shoelaces .

concert for a clawfoot tub .
*** in the hair .

bath, breakfast, breaking ******* .

putting the symbol before the sentiment

Is to be life

To hold fire
Is to be human

First
Keeper

Of the flame : first human

Ancestor of all devils

There are only ways
And the time we spend
Together.

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.

It’s eat or be eaten. Beat or be beaten. And I’m not on to lose
And I came out with a buzz/cut and a badge

Lookin to bash in some soft heads.
And later in bed, I look to the ceiling and think
how lucky I am to be good.

the split door
glazy
doe-eyed
as a []



standing on the train, no hand holds

zip ofthe doorline oppening like leggy
flow like salt and diamonds chiming intercom
chinese bell

hangs rigid on its chain from the unstrained hand of the cam girl.
her
pose places iron
before
reality;

her teeth are white veneers over a sugar-ruined core.


she is the tortured priestess, hiding
in plain sight as
           a
           demon :


she, the healer shaman -
but her bones have been
    scattered                too                       far


for psychic-cartography
to reach




i, the last king of the
dead :


my lungs, full of
spit and
deadlocked breaths between these quiet actions in a
still quieter
  war


/fallen
  into the hive heart-center,
caught and drowning
in the



cistern of discontent  .

Everyday we trade away
Our
Memories for new ones
At the hands
Of unseen multitude devil moments :
Time .


In strong pursuits, we ask :
What is more valuable than gold ?

If
Lead is the alchemic force of rage,
It was used as an ingredient
In the making of the world

And
What do alchemists seek , if not the greatest treasure?
Not gold - a ready answer perhaps, for the convenient dismissal of
Fools who ask un-earned secrets of their
Masters .

No.
What do we seek, if not :
Tomorrow, itself?

And in doing so,
Become gods // spoken, these golden threads spun through like serpents along and
Down the tapestry of
The truest
Creation
      Myth .

We want only
Tomorrow.and a way to make it
Our
Own .

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 ]

rather than wait for the worms to spit out our formaldehyde soaked flesh /
when you hear the
Hum,
make the new jazz interval
//


thought monger.
steeped in the sabbatical

eroded
love ///


a
roundtable :
without the
mirrored
orb

a
pantheon of
thinly veiled
veils


a
waking need.

The loves and fears of
Mankind
Make small mood-rooms
To bathe inside .

Like an egg w/o a chicken-road
Like a path w/o a pacer .back-and-4th
A ghost-mouth  mother of _memberships

Dogfolded maps of exotic lands,where
Its people still have
Hands

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.

where your figure of a lotus is a crumpled up papertowel on the coffee
table
.last night’s dinner still evidenced across the smeared
glass
and all of the pencil marks of time
upon the marginalia of my
skin

the hydrogen peroxide heart
denatures to simple, harmless water
in the light_
failing to
challenge
the evil army of living filth assembling attack ranks by the back-edge of the bathroom sink .

it’s a fake creation myth
for
fake inhabitants of a
real
Land .

it’s a
promise, undelivered
by
cells, dividing into oblivion, breaking oaths like
bread  
in a story about
  outlaws and
the
murderous state .

it’s
good - or
as good
as it’s gunna
get .

  as
mold minds
inherit
Us all : We, the spoils of an un-fought
War.

Loose teeth rattle like fireflies shaken up in the jar - concussed against the side of the glass

We drip juniper boughs into the river
like
Pastries in
Warm churning
Brew

Of passing down the most important things you need to stay alive

It is the easy communication of cultural knowledge

It prepares us to live in that world.
Our world, the one around US!

It is folklore and fable
It is all the moral lessons
The anecdotes, the advise and stories of failure
It is core and integral to the dna of humans

It is knowledge transfer down
Through generations

Telling our tale
Our histories- even when they are interrupted.

Music is the human tapestry itself
It is the first form of writing, the first language.
The reason for language

Each thread is woven of all our families together

Always mixing lineage forward
Always remembering its past

Welcome.learn. Speak back to me
Speak back to me.
Speak back to me
Speak back to Speak back to me
Speak back Speak back to me
Speak back to me

Speak back to me
Speak to me

Speak
To

Me  .


Call and response.




The snow will be here soon.

Joyless
Path.

Path.

As time passes
It grows
You, too, must grow with it/
Or be left behind.
If left behind, you live in the past.
If living in the past, you cannot live in the present.
If not living in the present, you are lost to this world.

If you are lost, you can return,
Simply by wanting too.

The strongest spells we weave are cast on ourselves.
The Power is to walk through them, into the air of now.
Never forgetful, but always free.

Steering passage
Through the sand.

In a world of immense hurdles, you provide an actually good example of a strong roll-model.

You are strong minded, but not afraid to cry (it’s a joke by now, yes - but also, very much NOT!

You are brave.
And you care.

That’s all it takes to be a hero.
And we are in a world that desperately needs real, honest to goodness forces for good.
No *******.

I just turned 30.
But when I think of my life, and if I ever leave anything which might be called a “legacy”.

I can only hope it is a portion of what you already leave both behind an ahead of you.

You are a good person.
And you should be proud of yourself, always, for that.

frominside
  the heaving molecules
gargles,a new lament

for courage, they cry out
as electrons are forcibly
stripped_

leaving art-****
nuclei
in voyeuristic
[ display]
for hungry
magnetic mouths   to
                   s p li t

Doing nothing
Doing nothing
Doing nothing
Doing nothing doing nothing
Doing no
Thing like mantras to repeat in the
Cold of the open window, young
World leaking into the vapid room like
Smoke up the flue
Slime across the bottom of the old. Bedside cup
It’s the cloister up
It’s time.
It’s about to get very difficult
What lessons will be taught and
Learned.

inverted prism drops
shake loose
  from
   your
lens-curved glare//like
waylaid promises in an urban legendary
night

as
painted toes curl around their harpy-perch home.

as too, rests :
the
spit on your cheek and the
gun-metal.grey in my
hair


like cisterns without a
                           roof .

like the unnamed clouds
       behind constellations .


like a fool’s alchemic
                      love .

.

We walked up and down the driveway

Each pace, a page turn
Bringing distance : One dog-eared creasing, by one

Sharp stones skittering bird-like and brittle

We speak
My un-doctored photos

Hanging beside

We swing, as juniper
We shuffle

Caught in a barking fit
As the trucks roll by, rumbling up dog feelings.

Hands clasped together in mutual observation

As the moon swallower slithers legless    in its embryonic mess

A man in a mad world who refuses to go insane with rage
Does so unjustly,

As he sits on his hands
and waits to die.

I have been that man , seeking only sedation.

I come to find that I must face myself
And the injustices of the world

What arrogant beast in the history of all living evolution gestured the first false witness ?

Light footed across your thin carpet of storm clouds
Each toe-touch flashing lighting across the world-dark sky

In embers, you fall to me
Your hands, like watermelon seeds
caught in my throat

Your eyes, gloaming in that fractured world- without me.

We are walled-in peoples
We are isolated from each other’s history

We are lost to the timeliness of actions against our well-being
Now,
At the uneventful death of all human love

This lowgrade fever
Unfoldslikev.rareflowers
On a particular
Night

Deep brows are rustling
Through
Her

As
Microwaves scrape the panel-sides of the
House,
Even in the
Dark

is a flyswatter kind of love.and i am the unread newspaper pages wrung out before the casualty of your tightening/grasp.

pewter
clouds roll like the dark boiling
milk of
dead goddess *******//:
shimmering like
minnows.
like    Minoa .

across  the simmer-*** sky
tipping its lid
    to the
celestial
kitchen ;
stove-top, no longer watched.


as
the pulsing ergot castle looms
atop
its cliff face perch [it slumbers]

.to the captive dreamers
within its own
rotting
gate,

it
  stands
guard

against the blackened sea

     b e l o w .


AndSo