you're my body
sticky with
tar like black rust-oleum
that won't dry in the cold sea air-
the pitch that the gulls drown in,
the way you part your hair.

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

chybby
chxbby
chvbby
    >

.
.
in defense of somethinghood

and then i realized that i was from the future.
and then i realized that we are all from the future.
and we all know whats about to happen next. but we think we are the only ones

so we keep it a secret from each other
and play along




-
and on the busride, an entire lifetimes worth of existence-  the rain hitting the window and actively listening to the screech of rubber against highway. dissecting the beautiful low rumble of different hums. falling asleep in the carpet covered seat with my hat puled down over my eyes. waiting to reach destination. waiting to be halfway home,

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

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_

shaving w/ cold water a brittle lick rings off a 12" celestion     perspiration.ocean sounds are spitting on me Seattle is a nominal love .some kind of bounce  (they say) a blue zip cripples the skyline little armling lost tumbling errands away like missed alarms
a
flyboy jacket
raking dry lines away from wht you can stuff in your arms like a
jazz beat
wind spins complexcurrents around her wraparounds polarized to the smoke rings huffing from her nostrils  on cold bright
morning

breath is a glitch receiving old information incompatible with the peachfuzz burning  up with the o-zone
my skinny rocksalt eyes tire of eachother scraping in
the skin tightening over her forehead like a hide drum shrinking in the sun around it's ring
out of place.i stand cocked on the deck of the carrier wanting to  
annihilate  nations

.******-saurus

words fail
where only touch shall suffice

my legs crumple against your
belly.ending all
the hair on mine_pin each other
to the hairlessness
and dark
of
your sil t
.
as i break stoney voices against
yourlips like archival spaceshuttle  
recordings
each part _in the
answering hiss

my path,
dividing
outside your body


fingers are finding nothing left to
finger .
it's been
treason   in these years

the plexiglass is yellowing up
betraying it's artifice

the cold has left my feet alone.but
my head is layered with fossils of swimming
lessons and
purple shorts


you.glance at your scarred belly-
marring you with wisdom
.i hold my breath
you flash your ****.
we careen off of eachother's cliffs,
holding harmless in
the
moondampened.

each other’s wrists
and the pull towards something.

wrists
will remain
where placed
despite any attempts to the contrary .

not the first wish
for finding each other in the dark

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.

you're my solid sunshine,
you're my only pair of shoes,
you're my science-fair volcano,
my big, fold-out topographical map of the moon.

today i sliced my thumb open
doing something stupid

i

try to remember
to never

push against broken glass with bare hands

or slide my fingers into sharp places



but

today i sliced my face open

and

pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb
holding the flesh open

i felt the bony ridge browline, with the pads of my fingertips

were the contours were not smooth as they should have been but
mountainous and irregular from

old

injury

you wouldn't know it to look at me but my
skull is irregular

and asymmetrical.

and
just a little bit jagged.




feel it and you can tell.



i could tell. i





sliced.
my face


open.



to tell. i




opened up my
skin

just to catch a glimpse.

at my

crooked eyesockets
and


they were hideous.




and





but you wouldn't know it just by my face.




or by the small scar beside my left eye that falls directly in the valley made by a crow's foot talon

i wonder

if
the wrinkles
are
from the scars or
if
the scars are just
conveniently

placed- today i sliced my face open


and
pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb


with all the
viscera

of a madman

i've heard

the difference between medicine
and poison

is

in the dose.



but



i
never
stopped

breathing.

sometimes
breathing
­is all

you
can

do. and

i
sliced my

face




open
to
catch

a vision


i
guess

that
was
a pretty crazy thing
to do.





and
i wonder what

what’s offered is gladly taken, but first
must be kissed numb

human devotion
is
the act of being nice to the one big mean guy
in hopes that
he
will keep the lots of little mean
guys
away from you


and we are as ever we have been,
each our own gods
  each our own
devils


as we simple works in
progress seek always to
shed responsibilities and
point the
finger
elsewhere

and there are no
jokes :

only the strangled words of
what
we really mean to
say .

i saw one little blip

on the  

sawtooth wave




it must be me

;


.
that which shall be given to collect in pools into the recesses of your topography

is not allowed on television

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

Sundering chorus pulled apart
Into stances//
Fanning out into a cacophonous god-Heart
And me.

Seeking council of the
Shoreline

Whitehead breaker
Drowning in the.wet
Air


You are what you search for :

as the thighs above the knees burn through tears in the jeans. as the
belly
burns. as we think of something nice.
as jet trails droop like wet knives in a daylight shooting
.
we don't make wishes on them.
we just wish that the a/c will kick in when we
step through the door.

summer like chapters of mangled honey.
fingers like attitude problems.          she lept in front of the bus [and broke her
legs.]
i stutter for you.
here comes my:
fur lips.   storage bins.facilities.knuckle dragging. shouting lisp_
it's rough like
tweed-belly-hairs pushing up against soft earlobes resting on them

in the afternoon.

Hanna Montana is dead and we are happy now.

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

she watches the news-
gets off to it.
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.

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.

a quiet kind of clean soon followed
away in the crematorium
kings and cool lovers danced slowly
a quiet kind of clean came suddenly
we followed it closely
but it got away

when i saw the plastic
solar light on the fencepost, i knew i was flickering.

and if someone were to ask me how i feel
i would say that i am flickering.

did you watch me tremble in the
airlock?
how i fidgited as the
moth that jumped out_when you touched your damp clothes hanging on the line.
whereas there is no moon
for the clouds that choke us out in this
age of
rats
scurrying about the yard.
i
remember
the way you twisted your lips down to me in the pause before
rain.

you offered it to me.

Oh, how you tasted like fibers.

makes people feel safe.

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

the knowledge in the world is meaningless
if not paired with action .
words suffice for action only insofar as they catalyze the words and actions of others .
that is the lesson : learned the hard way
as all lessons must be,if they are to be learned at all

lest lessons be lost to regurgitated.immolation

.     humans
describing
      humans

that
the only way to love
is to hate the other side with
p e r f e c t i o n


.

the people are going crazy because they are afraid
/bring the axe, you stupid *****/

the thing that’s feasting upon the things that are feasting_
the gut cauldron .
the soup of you .

**** 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

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  .

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



—

putting the symbol before the sentiment

i am not that kite

on my t-shirt , cropped in
set against a text explanation
lit by the sun
and
singing through the air like electric
                arrows

come and kiss me wild.
wild like jaguars perched in the stocky boughs of trees.
wild like the minutes that wash away.
free as time's possessions,
small pockets of instant passions,
wild like the moment-
I ran my fingers through your hair

for the very first time.

,smile like a jar full of recycled screws.his
lips are the sound of it being shaken
teeth flashing like rust against glass and tin
the chime (of it) cuts through the room like a textbook dropped behind you
suddenly
he dips his hat and stands there dumbly- smiling, smiling, smiling.


my fists are clenched
your dress is unfurled in a bedroom somewhere else
          your hair is dirtied by curls
i stomp impatiently outside.

it's raining       [way off, in a short story about corrugated roofs]

//



_thought   that i was  m o u n t a i n
but
i have been
       the zag of air
screaming pinholes into stone


thin, raking gust-prints.across the impervious, disappearing
    w o r l d. .

oh, to be young

she kissed me with the entirety of art contained within an unpopular pop-song
utterly graceless in the afternoon.
there was something.
it was not necessarily good

the soft of your father's breath decaying inside you has suffered through us
staying up at night-
trying to

long enough.

yet somewhere
in
the meat between your marrows and tomorrow: we were not good enough to
get it.
and all the vulgarity of every single tear shed in your name
failed to be censored.

you cared more for the ****** little
soccermoms
murmuring in the background to cement the violence of
their mediocrity. i stopped it there-
no one left to call me out, they found me.
but
i have eyelashes that walk across the sides of your face, better than anyone.
and
we held if off for just
one more
but- there will be other times
and they are waiting for you to drop your guard
and sail into them
with lids closed and
fluttering.

as i cast a spell into the gap between the
knucklebones of your toes.we
dangle before

fetishists like raptors

a little too costumey for you to hold me
well

******* ****** toothbrushes to encourage
their
*** of pink
foam into the basin of the sink.reaching
down
the gullet of the drain.my

eyes rinse  past you

in hopes that my blasphemy
will be
as beautiful as yours

though i sort each hair on your head one-
by-one.across my
satyr
lips

in
crepuscular finality


.

it mattered.