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

.for all the fires i’ve put out
.for those i’ve failed to
.for the embers that i will never seek to extinguish


.for _

im the cold thing
no van full of legs
no passed skin
  . v unfortunate

Japanese beer in the snow

the back
of your neck
brings grace to the bus window.the
pink

clogged pores of bad conditioner not fully
rinsed out
do it


each turn
. each bump in the road
each heaving breath.teeming with

innocent life
radiating with static energy_like my fingers glowing against my jeans.your eyes ride the
node

of its wave as they search there.not wanting god
or
pity
not wasting a drop of
fluid
starving out the other animals in competition.blessing
the passing scenery with threats of
annihilation

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.]

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.

Basking in the dead neutrino glow
Like forgotten serpents in the pit of
Dawn’s feeble attempt at breaking

A
Perpetual crepuscular
Homogeneity
Tucked in too tight at the bed-corners

Asphyxiating the
Sleeping
Beauty of

Mankind ,

A quiet
Thrill,

A peace
Broken by
Kinetic frenzy
Slowing
Down .

And you,
The
(uncertain) Cloud /
Grinding to a
Haunted
h a u l t .
h a l t .

the wolf is wild
the coyote is wild again

you called me home
with an invitation
to
claw your body clean
apart .
“closer”, you smiled :
as i
came

normcore kid- head like a buzzcut on

other people. teeth inside his mouth.  moth heavy to the tongue like wings on wet windows.  we won't help him- not knowing he's cool.

i will be filled by the roadside. each passenger holding me steady- aiming at the next letdown.
fingers right around each other.feet together in dumb attention-

it's like seasons (changing)
only more worthlestheyre just here for the
****



around

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

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.

the call to action :
like prehistory’s most compelling protagonists howling out from the austere tar pits in which they are mercifully entombed

/free my fossilized flesh!/
the carbonized ghosts clamor-
and we will .
we will choke out the whole of our stupefied brood with the breath of their ancient bowels respirating, anew
in ash and motion .
in the name of each family’s future

Power
is a trade.

yet
lambs and other extant specimens do not participate in  this same barter.

their deals are shorter and more sincere:
/ at least leave me the sky - /

/no./ the reanimated ancestral cloud billows,
/all is a dome, beyond which, none may gaze/

/ be still and pose gracefully within the god-dome of our love./

Learn fitness
From the cyber goth cam girl yogis
With big dreams

[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.

we are that longrunning society of graverobbers
and with every stitch,we all amalgamate true horrors out of each other .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

in my brows, your words are horse legs
  [i get caught between them]&
the wrinkles around your mouth
are a vague fantasy of being happier on a long opposite coast.

out in the indie paradise
the ferns get wet.

and all i can
ever only do is let myself stay  
dry

the fog rolls off (of) the pacific,

asking,   what
twang
brought me here


i am lying
and it is fine

she will ***** new
rings on the
coffee-
table in honor of me.

for
i am reeking like a moonbeam
i am hitting the dead grass.
through
a hole
in the boards

&
tucked up in a jacket sleeve is all my     lovliness.☆
my arms are less beautiful than yours so i pin them to the
outside,     hoping the wind will **** them.

i give them away

too many sleeves have become dear to me
it is
overwhelming.
i don't know how to be human-like




and big sur

has an appetite

that keeps
the flow steady and the combing, hot
amidst the dark of it all.


as a splash
as sea spittle
as fingers on furniture

you are are finding me

laying down
for life

knowing you.


like a patter
like chimes

she is here again,
in agony

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

the paint on the door holds more history than the minds of the populace it seems

sitting here,
i know that look in your eyes
like culty mattress store fake zen music.
ambient as ****.
and you were waiting for the radiator to burst-
explode, **** everyone with
chunks of cast iron hurled through their heads
like nothing.
you,
listening to the hiss and whur - lazy and calm
like nothing was wrong.

unga bunga ,
and other short stories about everything that has ever contributed to what it means to be
Alive

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.

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

.


   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

pulling hair out of parted lips like charming serpents from
        wet reeds
  open. <laying>
hernecktwistsdown

and stains me       
         .
our hands
are

dropped bread_dog-natured
and slow.breath
i am dull hammerhead  to your
nail-edge.
i am smoothed out by time and
b l o w s.
the sea knows my
stone(s).like i know your wrist
though i fray at the end of
your
twine-lined teeth:

I am Dogma.
I am Poison.

I am "Please, Someone, tell me what to do!"

I am Newly Turned Earth.

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 scare me
in ways that
deserve our
wet fingers
finding each-
other in this

m u t u a l .
o b s e ssion

let them not
find ways to
fail  to  find
each - other
in the dark_













.

Belly hairs
Stiffened outwards

Inside the deep wash of dry baseboard-heatered air


It’s good.
To think back sometimes


With waxy cuticles     against the chapped    
    lip’s
open
    curl

odds are you getting these images they out so out so ready for bedbug burning scrubby shyness scruff of the same afterwardly word.  dismissingderby. they've regressed into serpentine shying. away . thumb shock.  don't shut up.  don't think.  don't front this.
I'm just now leaving the nursing home soon.

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

the sensation of the wires hanging loose from your headphones gently brushing up with the blonde hairs on your neck like little hairthin whispers- spiders crawling on you throat

leaflets
blankets


fleece summercamp sweatshirt

the a/c rumbling

crisp fallings
hatchlings
seeds
wax paper tracings-rubbings of leaves

downstairs
  pageling

Rough-scuffed finger-tips
Touch the worn metal
Disk
Of the walk signal.
As the mad man blows polyphonic descending runs into a double saxophone
And screams raspy do-*** into the
Musky spring time

Oh yeah

Oh yeah.

We are

Smuckle berry
Finished
Here and

There was
A
Way
To
Behave

fall-off-the-bone priestess
born under the pale grunge moon
offering up her (fingernails)
to the bitey flash of a laptop screen leaking into an unlit room
and the infinite bliss that is:
red electrical tape
over the blue indicator light at the tip of the power cord.
and she will **** us.
amen.

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. ]

A human’s religion
Is its most beautiful
Story

Itself,
The author.


It tells of
Us.

What
We are.



A
Seeker of
Truth .

Fooler of
All.



What are we doing?

Inverted hermit

Hole in time, like a well
Clay
Bricks swollen with memory
Diving deep into long churning oceans of night ink

And speak your peace
By standing softly
And letting time swill together in collected tidal pools - in the recessing draw of the ever-black


Bourne a-mast to the windly observance there

whereas ****** and hate are more palatable than ***
and art.  

and the music of the world- you ****** up with your ****** voice:
you felt things hard but not well
and so were not worth
anything.

(and it was as
just
as it might have been.)

morbid is the mouth that tamed you to this loveliness
where it's cool to be sick.
and watch our arms wither back to the
lips bounded by vulgarities unspoken:
all the while they deserve far worse.
best
friends long since ****** over
scream out for eternal homes that fail to exist.
sick enough to the soft stomach. folds over the belt and hangs there just
enough to feel
shame. hair caught in the buckle and
pulling. 
fare free-er than the other ones:
the violence of the stock photo.
and of the clip art.
and of the godfearing people.
their curation was
like a goodmorning to the legs that carried you, homeless,
out of my caring.
like the salt, kicked around
by
boots that don't get taken off at the door.
like the trimming of a fingernail.
like the moisture of a breath.


but all this you embroidered into
the murmuring

to escape the fat sickle of the crop that hung lowly to the warm air
-out of the shower, ready to destroy us all

all the while wanting to be knotted
by any beast big enough to devour you

and combing through it all
i heard you crying

and i might have wept too
save for the bitterness still kept between my brows

your greatest gift all.

and by the
sores and the soles of my
encroachment,
we might build cities to that

special boy
worst messiah
greed beyond sacrifice

resurrection



animal vegetation, visitation rights and eight days of blue sunshine

on a red.
window.


bird feeder world washes yellow sparrow birds sundial weather watch the water get so warm

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

blackened toe-nail lessons
found
at the bottom of the
door

thunder forecast;

mother of memory
living inside
the
globule-breath night

rail-gun
for
the cloudcover

you’re my handgrenade angel
and you’re close enough, baby
you’re close enough baby .

oh god, i hope it’s close enough_

//:and even after they fixed the boiler
you still turn the water to cold at the end of the shower

If ignorance is bliss,
Then omnipotence must be agony.

But the more I know about you,
The less, I can breathe .


I yet breathe

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.

Few understand the technique :
The way (that) I push the walk signal
so that the whole of everything disintegrates.with the touch of *******

On the smooth metal
The micro abrasions pressed into the

skin swirls

The indifference and calm
The static reliance on wires that go unseen until they are worthless

The firey sun dripping like egg yolk over the city





[It makes up for the ink stains on train seats
It makes up for the neighborhoods we don’t go to anymore
It makes up for the way I never learn.]




The train had come when I was nascent to the platform
New comer to the expectant (waiting) mob
Threw down my membership card and boarded, back turned towards the moon

There is an incredible somber
Poignancy in the phrase :
Don’t be a stranger

It is a plea upon the continual shaping world
And those who will remain within it
Bounds
For all time to
Come

my doki doki is

barking over like the skin of an ancient
creature dying.


and
i remove words from my keyboard's
autocompletion.
i feel decided upon (the worst possible
outcome)
i hold onto arrogance and we





[talk about how to get the real feelings that no one yet has managed to get out of their ******* heads and on to paper or phone screens or whatever.]

it's like understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding
understanding understanding