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,.

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

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

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

we want browner *******. set them back into the sun. the pink ones are still burning under the shirts.
nothing can stop the radiation
today
and the birds are resting awhile on the fence, with their mean, dinosaur eyes
-waiting to

scavenge our bodies.

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.

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 .

i'm swampy in your head like ancient fields (how you've forgotten)
the animal bones beneath it all
could tell me [more] about you_
foggy, my feet
roll bashfully        past them.
it's been
like
this              for
at least three breaths
as the grass drys into mammal.hair
as the dirt becomes hallowed by your  cheeks
it's all badly
lit
in a diorama of you.

the photographs won't do enough to
hold you here

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

i love you
egregiously.

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.

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

the difference between an act of friendliness and an act of friendship.

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

reshaping, sisyphusly
and
waiting for the

clad in wonder
beside those iron lidded eyes :
blinking open like shifting tectonics
or
rusted gears
rumbling
below us

as we ready for the
p
l
u
n
g
e
.

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

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

my poor apple tree
precipitates into my red right-eye
as my saw carves tough love
out of the torn branches of
sabbath’s
storm burst

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 .

The
New
Entitlement

Is to suffer no less than
Omniscience on
Demand


As wisdom
Wilts
At the
Root

rot-gut mornings and the exiled king of []
digging through grave-heaps
like
searching through
drawers
seeking:
seeking:


trading
  manacles
           for
madman's
  manacles

the sea needs the stone face of the shoreline to dash upon, else it won’t know how big it is

Feelings
Are shapes that we are squeezed inside
From which, we can’t imagine what the outside
Looks
Like




Hooked ear pods
Are the new
Security
Blanket.








Guess,
I wanted to be
admired for something I did on purpose.

Honest animal
Lying man.

i want to skin the wilderness off the rasp in your voice

our legs are good.
but we are going nowhere.


the curve of your forehead is sloping away from us,
the ugly gems of sweat are suiciding off of it_
and
the sun is beating down.

through a carpet of skintight stares : shoes untied and slipping.
combing though it all
cowboyly

it's time to go home,
she says.




*ok,

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

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.

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

you take the damp papertowel from your fist and spread it out on the table as if to undo the creases  
it will pull back to itself.
i notice you     finding the small scar beside my left eye
you will search for others(and find none)

it can be said: that we will forget about it tomorrow.
it won't be_
there are bigger things growling from underneath the chairlegs

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?

but remember
every hero is somebody else's scumbag
and if that were good enough. we'd be home
and yet
twisting me,
greedy-
bleeding like a baritone.

still,
beggars can't be choosers but killers can get you
if they want.

the space between your eyes is a river of spoiled milk.
we check on it and promptly put it back in the fridge. we find it later, little
changed.
it is summer time in the dystopia.
lovers coddle each other inside the meniscus that grows tight around the dishes in the sink.
the trash doesn't get taken out for
days.

daddy loves you.

our antebellum is
ending.
go and repent to a human being instead

my
name
for you makes you real.
and breath puts your pieces together across the roof of my
mouth.
i could heave you
through another age of men if you were spent-
you fall apart where the tongue stops.

i can't.

so watch us through your bedroom windows,
cuff down the tops of your socks at the sound of our coming.
clamor to us.
weave
your wars.

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

HANK YOU*. the bag folded over on itself dangling from her arms
as she strut the sidewalk,
each ant below her: unaware of the things she's done and been through.
the two little boys she had killed only a few hours earlier-
found something to do with her time.

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
.

Gun-breath kid .
Petal heart to the wild expanse
Resting stone shoulders upon the axis of the earth

We dig deeper here ,
In search of the birthplace of cold rivers

Finding only veins of gold
And nothing flowing in those of the living

Miner for their last   exhalations

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

i
feel your heart in mine
which is    a stupid thing to say
but
an important   thing to
           mean

/


no hotter pocket dimension
this side of
inferno

chatachakhkhla.ahtth* came the air from the throat you stepped on
and.both of
you.stayed in that place eternally.

like lightning in the pines   ,
the scales shaved off of each seed-head
by the threat of my
booming  _  voice

like headlights in the road
near misses and
dogs running free

like finger hairs
*****

and everyone here wants to be a victim, wants to ****** themselves,
glorify their struggles- feel a hero in their own stories.
                                          but we are better off than that.
we give, take, ****, breathe life back into little girls drowned in the undertow of public pool drains.
we install washing machines into the room
with hoses 12" too short for a rational person to justify.
it is the art of necessity
not pride. or glimpses at judgement or relief
for which we do heroic things.

and so as the girl grows (to 16 or so), she murders her family on any tuesday night.
as the spin-cycle comes on,
as it rinses out the best artifacts of last sunday's diner from your best shirt.

start the morning, glowing
that's a **** good cereal. don't ******* say suicide. because i know you don't mean it.
or you do.
i know you like this for all the wrong reasons i know i hate you more than you will get.i want you to get it- but you won't. it's a very narrow market,
it's a thin slippery window
and don't ******* center format
because it's time to grow up. you're not losing anything.children aren't
innocent.
just powerless.
the killing comes with experience.
*****-deep in the way you drown in it. it's better for both of us if you
figure it out.

modesty
is the ****-bait of the world.industry is booming. it's been a long day,
binders
break their spines for lovers.bent-
up. gas in the lawnmower. don't care about television. shredded antibiotics- fist full of antacids.  get
god
the **** out of here.
it's all we can do, to stay grounded.
it's
not meant to save anyone.it's not about moral superiority. its's not about being an ***.
immorality is an applied concept. amorality
is more like it.
because mother teresa was a *******.
if i had more time i'd write you a ******* song.
and the kid next to you in class was a *******.
and the killer was a *******.
and
it's all we can do, to get the hell out of here and
slide
into something a bit more comfortable.you
like
different music than i do.we
drown
in it together. like everyone else_let's hate things while i hate you.let's
plow through it all, willfully
and sensitive.

we ate the years.

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

Dawn gurgles past the horizon somewhere
As the sparrow lays dying on the sidewalk
Waiting for the

Neighborhood stray to to find her.

I have seen their eyes :
Dying birds

They watch you

I don’t think it is quite “fear” there .
As death comes, their is a quiet acceptance to the light of dawn
And the promise of warmer pavement on the chilled and broken body
Before
Nothing

[the eyes watch with the same energy
As the sleepy dog curled up in the corner chair when you enter the room.
The eyes open to watch the rusting of bags while you search for lost keys
. But the dog does not stir much. Trusting
you. And being too tired to play
]

It is a casual thing
And nothing much else

That’s how it is with mornings.
The sun warms the pavement
And
Sometimes that’s
    Enough

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.

my mind is an  a c c i d e n t

dna is disgusting.
my tasks are the  hand-me-downs of killers
the living are bandits for the lives of others_
i antiquate myself, stepping out into the dying light of moral argument.
we obsolesce against the lampshade of its horizon
nature is meant to be broken
and we are the breakers [as usual].


i am i
and you are youless.
springtime is stepping down

oh ryoko,
where did you go

novelty is a messy buisness

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 by each other’s fingertips.