The best laid plans of motorcycles and minivans
Fall to pieces in between the  long yellow lines

We zip like skeletons down the well
At sunrise
Returning to old versions of ourselves
And playing catch with bad intentions



By dry riverbed I bury future aliases
As offerings
Rivers will stay dry in my time
But someday
Rains will come down from mountains
And wipe the town away

Creature feature
In a Double sleeper
We wag our tails at weeping branches
Dragging feathered knuckles against the softened earth


Inside this house.
Beside me,
Head-like
And thoughtless ,

We
Dine.

To have lots of wants
But have your needs met

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.

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 secret is
Active rest

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

I let a few drops drip into my tea as i peel the fruit,
Separating each segment as an individual piece.
The fisherman painted on the inside of my cup looks out ahead
My green ripple, matching exactly to the location of his water’s edge.

The name of the thing
Is not the thing /
The measurement of the thing
Is not the thing /
Nor, the unit of measurement /

The costume of the idea is not the idea /


That is to say,
The house is not made of wallpaper, nor
Paint


The words we are using ,
Serve as only the lowest common denominator  -
Seeds
Carried between
Islands

By movement in the air.

Things are much
More
Thing-ful
Than that

The
Gods
Have come
Home
To die

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?

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

All paths lead to certain death
Do something good along the way

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

Animal skull mouth
Bride to loneliness
Upon cliff top watch
I return to you

From the sea
From the sea

From me, I see
I see.

If you brew the perfect cup of tea each time
By taking the exact temperature of the water,
And measuring out the powder,
It ceases to be perfect.
It ceases to be anything at all.

There is no true discipline :
Learn everything
And use the best of
Each

Good luck.

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

Kindness
Tolerates pain

.you are a slow burn at the bottom of an ancient crater_
a hole in the chain link fence.

i am the broken clasp of your necklace,
your
knees buckling at the sight of
the job.

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

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

humbaba-house
torn down
for ill-gotten cedar

and other spoils of
war

the undertow takes time to notice
as each washing pulse
whisks away
more [glamorous, radiating shoreline]



. h/e.


if we
shall remember
what has been robbed,
it may yet be        
     reclaimed

the world has spat itself inside-out
in the ******-flash of the
claim.

piercing thin tunnels of
flesh
through less-than-best-laid plans,
as if
laying itself were
virtue enough to ****
by






as the dishes
drip

in failed echo
of
the
windowsill


and
i,

glittering fangface
upon the instant spell
of


opportunistic .
encompassure .

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

The
New
Entitlement

Is to suffer no less than
Omniscience on
Demand


As wisdom
Wilts
At the
Root

everything  is
a trade
outside of love .

but we devils make
these deals only
to
inch that much closer
each
time .

shirtless shepherd, stormsail-hopeful
scumlove galaxies above to
sail
by

meadow mouth

lets the drips roll off
from
       desperation-clenched
       thighs         to
fall
upon each green blade born of these buried bits
of somethinghood


as a fatigue settles across
a languid sort of reward,


damp inside the lawful box

sweeping up my steps like
uncluttering any remnants
of a prisoner’s
prayer

at the adaptive obligation,wild after more

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

critter-lung .
critter-lung .
bouncing in the trashday sun
fill me
with.     something

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 .

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

leaving psychic breadcrumbs to follow back
home/out
again

shrine-headed maidens      
rotting in the sun  
catchers of sediment on their parched lips.
sad like riverstones over beyond the bank,
where the roots tried too hard to forget their fingers
and the air found them.
and breathed into them, new voices
saying,
i begin and end where the names laid upon you grow.
i have burdens borne away.
we have lost you.
and the entwives parting, sighed

the elixir of daylight crime is sweating off the skin behind your elbows.
squeezing it from the things in the produce section.staining your sheets.
it's pushing together the plastic tablecloth- the settings are abandoned
as they are.we let them sit long into the summer neglect.we are still

eating off

of them with our eyes.   i am slim.i am throwing open the peep-hole of the world.       the voyeurs go running and screaming /fingeringthemselvesastheyflee.
she remained:
pressing the webbing of her toes up against her ****-
one leg
pulled in tight, one ear up against the wall.

we are banned from certain channels.  we are throwing-up in our
mouths.we are winking at each other.  we
are just
resting.

i want my phone to die. i want to scrape my knee.

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

i'm falling asleep. here, at the wound of your eyes    
and if frailty were a promise: i would have you now- in actual bed of
flowers.
unburdened by metaphor
and symbolism.
on our own terms.
as the afternoon
tone rings
they chime on me.and bells slur their vowels as we
push around
the heavy air trembling behind our swollen tongues.speaking
out loud-                    in deliverables
you.breathing happily at me      as if that were
good enough-
for anyone

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.

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

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.

one of us is a kite .
and the other, is a pile of jackets on the bed
in a memory about a family gathering.
//the ultimate goal of recycling remains
black plastic clothes .

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.

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

in time my dear,
the soft,whining sound of

hours
slipping
past your open palms and through your moist fingers

will cease to amaze.
or even feel the need to take in a breath for your presence-

.you look like rain and slow burning cigarettes
blank check. ink wash. arson-ette.

shutting the door on another night of angels-
and other fiery things

meant to complicate
us,  
here in this city of
children.

have no heroes.
deceive your children.
teach dogma.
killing is okay if your cowboy hat is white

when i stepped on a dead mouse- or a crushed leaf- or something
and the milkweed was long gone
and my hands were wet. and fingers cold.
i stammered onto the edge of the opposite curb.

we all have a box of cigarettes stashed away somewhere
whether that's a metaphor or not.

but i was walking to the reservoir on another one of my nocturnal visits.
and i wish i could remember all the things that i've learned about the night sky
or at least see it better by the spotlights on the side of the d.p.w. building.  

and i forgive you like i forgive the mothers washing the last of the dishes in their kitchen windows
and i forgive the low, traffic-lit branches on the way back that cause me to crouch to the side
for fathers must scold their children.

and in 1955 there were black and white movies about madness and ******,
a man who comes back to find his father dead.
and at the end he discovers that he himself, had killed him.
four years ago.
forgot it all- fell to pieces

i could out you.
      in an instant
but.

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

there is passion and there is numbness
and there is something inbetween.
something that's alotabit a both-
that's all mixed up and frantic.its quiet on the outside
but unpredictable

there's the meanness in this world
and there's the not

and there the winter time

and an old LP of houses of the holy jammed up at the cardboard corners and worn down to the white  along the spine

her head wilted into the crook of his shoulder- waiting to be taken apart
for diagnostics.
the circuitry was buzzing quietly. only the blue lights
and one orange switch
were left blinking.
outside the window, things were trembling billions of years away.
outside the window- the vacuum drank slowly
from what was left inside.

they had arrived at destination.whatever that means.
she didn't look up.
he couldn't.

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  .

Belly-walker’s daughter

Blessed alter to dna.
Origin.   worship.

Beaded rosary ******* kiss the lips of
Holy men.   and their
Descendents
.
Hell is inside you (only)

The real thing
is       outside