eyelids feel like wet aluminum
gut stitches shut
bad knee re-bads.after years of ok-ing
spasm of the foot


poison
Poison

path in the world.


/

skull face under face face
face face, facing the truth

we are that longrunning society of graverobbers
and with every stitch,we all amalgamate true horrors out of eachother .emboldening the regurgitated fears of the dead and thedying.the salted roads,crisp up the cold and crystalline paths forward .beside your dehydrated, astronaut-food smile_and (never)dog-mother eyes
.i am the patina over all creased things
.i am the creases

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 .

eating over the chipped plates reserved for
only /truly// honored guests
we don’t care what we think about eachother
because it’s
             like
f e a s t i n g.

special boy
worst messiah
greed beyond sacrifice

these tired seasons
of rot-gut mornings / swallowing sore.belly_fulls of pride and other
virtues//
but all that’s swallowed turns to **** in the
end.
and
a call to chivalry is broken tenfold
and rained down
upon
a
thin tarp, hastily strung up over the collective human campground🚯

There will always be days where you are swimming in it. The air presses up against the undercooked  pancake of your ear with a pressure greater than air. Any of that ugly light that gets to your eyes is suspended in it
Like moths in cobwebs, and just as
happy
about it.

you cover your head in dark laurels   pretending not to notice me.
hoarding gems between your fingertips like a dying rosary
unwinding the threads of it with malice
playing
neck twisting to the rhythm of a steady stalactite drip
caustic to the slow breath leaking from the vents. filling the room with dispassion.
masturbatory towards life
looking cool
in
a
pink sweatshirt

there were uncounted, beautiful things
housed in scuffed plastic bins, clicked shut tenuously
in a perfectly harmonized disarray of
                       continuation

and i’ll never forget going through those treasure boxes
with a wonder

both somber and
rapturous

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.

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’s like marrow, but older
here.
carrion don’t reach it, even in  flaunting
  it’s most disemboweled humiliation-walk





heeding.blacksoilmemorymothermoist.promisesstill
         gemming
         away structures for later-
      realization.beneaththeforced
chastity:
of:::::::::::­
:::::::frost


gleaming hot
carcass.,:://:/:/:/:., ,.teasing a thawed word,
if only to satisfy the
aching, fetishized spit
of our.snarling.smiles”:;::;:”
inside.the                        enc­ircled
p l a t t e r.  world
bending, wordless giants_earnest to the
will of
windandicybondage

creak away in the night

lap
lap
.lap
.lap

lap.
      ;

Faster than  the  speed of bad decision
The light bounces   off the hand and into eye s
When, the
Hand moves / it
Shutters all around
And encroaches.       Into

Billowing stacks of molecules , roaring up
With a  purposeless ,and burning
Desire.


Feed, heart. feed

humanity
belongs to the mad.
only
the sane may die
         unlived

.


   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

we wanted to become that symbol
any symbol -
to mean something.
and when we failed,
we became real

[she turned and whispered to me,
“hey.”
i shrugged back at her and became
whole again forever.]

middle management
for a cruel and misguided cosmology

with a fetish for the poorly-struck pose of kindness
while seeking to eliminate undesirables between
breaths

these are the stewards
where are the kings

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

the wind is doing it’s wind thing again
you know - whipping hard
howlin out there

lights flickering .
trash bins groaning out back with their baritone wheels .
windows rattling like kneecaps in a traditional story about skeletons .
the legacy of human detritus at various points in history careening down the road with projectile malice [hunting car mirrors to knock right the ******* .]



the bathroom door slams shut,
like a war-drum

doom-a-room-pa-toom-doom-doom-doom




all the good stuff

very on brand

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.

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

the world
doesn’t like bukowski now.
they didn’t then either, but now they really
don’t.
it must be
all
pretty now

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 ]

hope for the future
respect for the past
but not to the point of disservice towards the  
now

like escape artists finding bigger cages each time we get out.
like new backpacks
full of the yearning for
places to take them.

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 ?

two ash-trays
in love
pull out of the 7/11 parking lot
happy;
  and with the
     world at
        their
        heels .

unodysseus,      i had
               known
               t h e n .

As we sway
Like stone statutes
Under the tideless
Moon

As
We
/Cold marble/
The night
Away .

As we plummet,
Wet-winged to the
Sea .

And
Me ,
Gun-faced    as
Children .

Wolf-mouthed , as
Love .

Bring me your/cities
To
Wipe   spittle-edge  .lips

With something to
Grip

To grip
T0

  .grip



I



   grip.you

we are collecting
preventative measures
             like assembling
       an
anthology
of misplaced
               tiles
in mosaic
memorandum.

if           we have a year
left,
if we
continue to postpone
              the
destruction,


art may
yet
retain its
artists

as artifice transcends
artifice




.

i'm listening to the crickets outside the window tonightfor the first t ime in a long time

i receive the sticky bath of
new berlin.
its morning breath decays beside us in the black leather jackets
too small to do much warming

punkrock won't save us this
time

we
will be quaking
in our secondhand
boots

emissary
     solutions
dissolve like tea
into too much
      water .
tastes        folded down
    into the back
corners of your tongue ,
scraping
molars   in mild annoyance

;magazine page torn out
and stuffed into
your shirt

for warmth
at the end of the world//

you flash a  smile_ or
is it a threat ?
and reach your hands
    down into
           your
          pants

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

_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


.

The clock radio predates my birth by at
Least five years
It must .
Looking like that.
On Sunday morning
The alarm is still set :
And goes off before the sun . Before time
Deserves to exist

Smothered in heaps of (hopefully )clean
Laundry on top of the bureau

The Sunday morning art program slurs
Words between the tangles of sweatpant
Legs
And
Unpaired socks

(Socks I am not responsible for)

/

My mother used to have an old radio in
The bathroom that must have been of a
Similar vintage.
It was a beach radio:black with a brown
Grill - thin red line across the white strip of
The station numbers,

Pushing around the little plastic wheels on the
Side,the red line never lined up quite right .

It hung from a long black drywall *****
From its
Squared off handle on the wallpaper behind the toilet

I think it may have belonged to my
Grandfather
We never took it to the beach,
I’m not sure what he did with it.

He may of just sat out with it on the back fire escape in August.
By the spindly dogwood tree that I remember my nana picking white blossoms from in spring.

The blossoms still come each year , I’m
Sure.
(I don’t know who lives there now)

My radio wakes me up on Sunday
Mornings .
My mother’s radio would play softly at night around the corner from my room.
Sometimes she would shut it off in the early hours of the morning -
When she went to bed.
Other times it would just play



///

the greatest sickness remains
fear.
so much in the way of ill deeds cemented new realities while the whole world hid away in long hibernation

do not go quietly this time
do not go quietly.

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

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

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  .

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.

sake in the kitchen.
peace and control  .  
   my body decomposing over a slice of bread

learning to see people as objects
pinching together the corners of pages.with nails that need to be
trimmed

scrolling through  screen
girls skinny in their dresses

folding down
with
[waists that are really waisting]

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

i'm 7 1/2 inches  old. 8  by you.left. a film on me
like melatonin.leaking outside of it.vocaloid choaking. kawaii grunge in the  
waterlogged
meniscus.my genocide- your ears.ihate the way it ran
down the wall then.   better.if i crouch inside your cradleface18+ years
ago. like an inflammation.    you qualify for
recursion_  
like the newer- more appealing nightterrors.we escape      certain
allegories. by gutting them. filigree-
whipped outside.to punish the exhibitionist inside: your lanky breathing.i am tired of borrowing your guilt      i must be good.you
think.i break my wrist.
we.




anyways,.

soot-footed,we careen off the edge of our sea.scrying corrective endeavors     [seraph - lensed ;feather-wet]
     as the spire
becomes a
  d  
  r
  i
  l
  l

i find myself
again, in that plaster hallway
upon
those salt-beaten steps
and the home i’d lost, returns to me
not in molecules. but in fragmented lights.
she fills
me

all hungers, tempered
(the serpent slumbers after feasting upon the whole of the world)




[you’re wrong,
[i’m
[shivering   .

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

sink-water upon my bristlerough  brow ,like deeply unearthed lime
weathered  to indistinguishable faulty
globes
precipitating across a.goblet-edge .a
rim-locked  look,
now
wet hair patted down
into model
behavior
and

situational sensation