free.pop
picnic.punk
polish on a broken nail

hope is a checkered story of
homewardliness  - whatever that may come to mean

moves like
the dusty, irradiated world
between
Us

seven days a week.and
a quiet honor amidst the
loss

sad sisters
sad Sis  . /

the falling
is all too
easy

the sphere of the electron cloud
steps down

into

release .


this will fit into the corner of the basket of my words ,
but is not exhaustive
of

work

if you want to know what love feels like
then you know what love feels like .and if you find out that everyone feels the same way too_you will come to know how to love

up to
a mouthy gauze-
a minnow's fate-
a dawnless gurgling-
Minoa-
skin caught in the zipper-
someone else's house-
melatonin-
outdated documentaries-
spilled -
actual bronze-
plexiglass tables-
vocaloid

where morgoths and mongrels
i misss my monsters
thrown lead (sculptures)in the shape of you
scripture breaking off where you
ransomed
beggars cant be choosers but killers can get you
if they want

caught top



World holder!

the lenths at wich pragmatist go to **** eachother
you make getting offended an art form, all the while calling out others as you please

it's the aftermath of a change and the street is
quiet.
you look at your old favorite shoes and in the
last minute_pull them out of the trash and into
the trunk of the car.

the basement is full of jackets you don't
  remember.and some you do.

morning is a cotton sheet over
itself.

diffused, you notice storefronts
that  
you never felt like going in

i see the dull ingots upon your brow. they,
meant for melting down into
treasures

have               been
laid to rest in a casual pause
the master never returns.the
line has ended
the people, vanished
and the mountain claims them back

stepping soft by the pads of my feet
***** water pools around the ***** of my heels. as i dig into the moist earth
as i leave holes in the mud as i step away.
and
a bitter gurgling sound crept out of your mouth
your lips burnt open and split apart from the things bubbling there-
from the back of your throat

.

We walked up and down the driveway

Each pace, a page turn
Bringing distance : One dog-eared creasing, by one

Sharp stones skittering bird-like and brittle

We speak
My un-doctored photos

Hanging beside

We swing, as juniper
We shuffle

Caught in a barking fit
As the trucks roll by, rumbling up dog feelings.

Hands clasped together in mutual observation

As the moon swallower slithers legless    in its embryonic mess

Nothing more to addd

Of passing down the most important things you need to stay alive

It is the easy communication of cultural knowledge

It prepares us to live in that world.
Our world, the one around US!

It is folklore and fable
It is all the moral lessons
The anecdotes, the advise and stories of failure
It is core and integral to the dna of humans

It is knowledge transfer down
Through generations

Telling our tale
Our histories- even when they are interrupted.

Music is the human tapestry itself
It is the first form of writing, the first language.
The reason for language

Each thread is woven of all our families together

Always mixing lineage forward
Always remembering its past

Welcome.learn. Speak back to me
Speak back to me.
Speak back to me
Speak back to Speak back to me
Speak back Speak back to me
Speak back to me

Speak back to me
Speak to me

Speak
To

Me  .


Call and response.




The snow will be here soon.

25, feels like 16
[just as long as there ain't no wind.]
i could love you
but i'd need to. crush your head
it took my blood thumbs
it took my best smiles

left me home.

honestly, i would be there
                                  for you
                              if i
                 
,  miss you but my bad knee's
acting up again.
thought of you again,
saw you standing there.
daughters smoking on the front porch  
while mothers die of cancer. upstairs in their beds
breathy weeks went by,
saw your mother-
left a stone upon your grave.
it was 25. felt like 16
got my jacket

got my blood deep inside. my thumbs

on the street where this  summer's hippest martyrs rot away
the sidewalks question their sexualities as the sun burns them into
flat .  s l i c e s .   on phonescreens   
//words are my pocketknife in your hand-like a fool trying too hard at someone else's party.
[] as you slide across the polyurethane
holding brand-new hostages at your waist_ trimming them down to swimsuit-season size
                       and style.  
   the air quakes though the [youth like bent corners, ruining photos in ] old magazines .
shivering at the lakeside in full attire
i tank
,having enough of it.


we are seizing_
a
day
    other than this
//

I have only the touch of my hands
Left -
And the muscle memory of
Something  
That almost became
What it was
Supposed
To be.

gravity found me inside you,
owning up to decisions.and outliving bad ones,
playing down my own involvement in the desecration
of your religions  
we fell through each other’s cuticles like grass-clippings torn from the earth while sitting-
so with one bad earbud you pinned me down to time and place,

we made drawings again.
we pined by windows.
we pinned up our papers in the kitchen
made islands out of our voices-
let go with soft vigor.
tried less than as hard as we should have

It seems we often find ourselves,
entering
into animated conversation
at inconvenient hours.

And this is best.

That
which compels things to happen.
which lets all of their motives and passions slip through.

There are subtle diamonds
woven into the patch-work mystery of the nighttime,
the stitches of which,
we unravel
and
let
drip
into our open mouths
in eager anticipation,            
of sedated


excitation.

She shook like a leaf
And she rolled and she slid.

Now we woke up to the sound of that
Now we cool to go around like that.

Now we laying down peace bricks one-by-one,
Red
Clay of the earth
Well-nourished .

each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets.
onto the pristine snow.

the galleries of independent machines
are put onto display in the gilded halls of long corridors
bleached away by
anti-
bacterial soap.
and we say that we are the universe.
and we are the ones that tell you what to do.
preachers of mephistopheles,
creatures of indetermination.
and indeterminate
origin,
the goat-footed gargoyles treat us as play-things.
and the winged seraphs as day-things.
but we know that we are night-things.
and night-things fly away.
she wrote her number in red-lipstick, hit the high-notes like a whisper,
and whispered.
she got under my skin
and she crawled around while she was in.
she bat her lashes
and bit her lip,
she tasted her painted
fingernails
as if licking her claws clean
and threatened -
to swallow me whole.

give me this and no other,
slender golden instants of splendid earth's living,

i shall return,
not to take the mystery out of loving,
nor the mastery of perfection,

but to bask in their
Unsubdued.

what have you done

with your world in one hand and the worlds of others in the other
teach us something before the summer
drys up the river
and delivers us from our hearts

Another
Hangs like the
Increasingly average protests of
Virtue in man’s sick pantheon

Just east of
Dawn’s gurgling last breath,
Choking in
The steaming *** load of
God_

Staining white,  these
Vast
Echo chambers of the cyber cathedral


No greater
Panopticon.

What is satan,
If not the very concept of accountability, itself?
It would seem that those who are opposed to satan are opposed to accountability - seeking to claim the mind of god as their own.
In essence, they systematically claim godmind in all of their dealings, while supporting the veracity (and therefore, the justice) of these claims on the presupposition of a necessarily true external force.

It is the same circular definition which serves as the root to all of mankind’s greatest failures.

It is to say :

“I must be good because I invoke the name of god, which, by definition, is the very concept of a necessary, predefined good”

“Therefore my will and subsequently willed agency must also be good”

“As such, I should (and should be allowed to) do what I want, because I am good and my will is the will of ultimate, predefined good”


On satan, they say :

“My sins and failures are not my own, but rather the result of an external rogue agent who has influence over me and others via an unjust extension”

Going one step further, we may say that those who then rally against works of satan in this world will fundamentally make the following statements by doing so :

“I will seek to punish the punisher, as I myself am an extension of the agency of god”

“As I enforce the will of god, so too, must I become punisher of all sin-source”

Thus, in a uniquely poetic way,
These minds take on the supposed role of
Satan, himself -
In the name of god and in direct opposition to their own self appointed roles :
  


A true work of
Art.

on the authority of an open window to the driving rain .
dog heads stuck out and
biting at the
drops .

still _courses
//through we,the wet.
[though dry curses be cast upon us now]

i have put up facades
and feigned a greater confidence than i could ever possess,
i have touched the poverty in lines of poetry
and tasted the ******* of lame stanzas.

i have put less thought
into greater things.

absorbing the warmth of smiling
through ****** osmosis
and
keening away carbon in short- and shallow breaths


but
i have never seen again what transpired  
when i watched
the paper girl
fold herself into pieces of origami-like lovers as cold sheets of fragile fibers
carefully bent around
waxy parchment
she sailed around the room like a paper airplane,
thin, creased skymachine with wings bent back and nose weighted with all the promise
of an old penny she might have found in her pants pocket

[balance the world with your heart]

I have ancestors that I don’t know if I can even believe in

And I am told everyday that I don’t deserve to have a voice anymore because of the sins of my father
(How long must I reject myself?)

We are all, each one of us, directly from everything that has ever happened

We are all human family :

So why to we still punish through the generations.

Why do we not share our stories, in earnest.

Why can we not finally
Heal?

the radio that sits in your belly

fills you with ****.
uncomfortable,
in the yard



like the last information
taken from flesh burnt into the backs of
wallets and anything still stuck to the building itself
home at last.

And as with all virtues,
The fanboys **** it up.


And as we come almost to the close of the
Show,
We see the moral of the story a bit clearer
Now :

It was just that they wanted
Love and protection
Love and protection, and that is all.

And if it were offered sooner,
It needn’t have been demanded, as the
Curtains fall.


Until next stage it set.
Until the next audience, met.

Until the work is made,
Anew.

where the self-contained creatures go to -
_
under the rug-shaped lash-lines blinking
dusty, with rashes made out of lifetimes in
fluctuation and
actuality.we sweep our history away in
little tidy circular brush
stokes
struck out against
the toothy
grin
of
these so-named

her voice is war
and i am the feet sweating in heavy combat boots
the cardoor slams outside the window
they leave without us

there are things in this room that can **** nations of artists

iloveyou.andgodisgoodandheavenisathing.allmydeadfriendsandfamilys­endmesignslikeflowersandbirds.andsoldiersarebraveandgood.weloveth­emtheymustallbegoodpeopleandimagoodpersonforsayingso.itssohardtod­otheressomeoneilove.andtheymademesadbutitsnotmyfaultatalloritsall­myfault.imaterriblepersonimagoodperson.imjustsosensitiveandmisund­erstoodandimsosmartandgood.andiwrotethisforyou.andiwrotethisinspi­teofyouiwrotethisforme.andimsogood.andtheresathingcalledinnocence­.childrenhaveitgodisgood.andthesun.andbirds.andloveisreal.fate.im­good.teacoffee.cigarettes.theocean.myfeelingsarebetterthanyours.w­eareallthesameeveryonedeservesachance.secondchancesnomoresecondch­ances.iloveyou.moonlightstardustwearethemilkyway.rhymescemesbutte­rfliesinmystomach.hishandonthecock.andgodisgood.andthereisanetern­alobjectivetruth.andsex.andshefeeltoearthwithahammerthroughherhea­dandhertitsoutpraisingnothingbutthesounditmade

you say to me that the stars
are out
tonight .
after years of
hiding

i watch and am
blinded by pure
glow

b ronze  a ge
morality

I feel like humanity is loosing a war that’s not even being
Fought

b ronze  a ge

gone alchemic .
plasma fiat .
foundries of blue-white light .

Taking stock
And making judgment calls,
All.

We are that chemical burn in the world .
Monster in the woods .
Sober-suited in the mad house .

Dream/drag

Middletide.Equinox

and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me

howling loveless yelps into the corner of her eye while she's away,
some ghost of a neck-thin pulse.runs a chill down to her toes-
fingernails scraping good red lines down her arms

we stay up all night just to read you
you wear down your whetstones.
we stay up all night to hurt our eyes with bright bedside-

i wish i had a better word for you

a finger for a dead piece of glass
heads drifting side to side for insects caring down the sheets.
and on the wall there's light

but
these tongues you've had taste like old neighborhoods,
stolen shopping-carts sent through puddles that fill up the side streets,

dressing down to the sound of rain.

say no and your breath paints a line down the road like fireworks set off the wrongway
you laugh
and in the distance, trees catch and the town is blanketed in dust.

i am stitching it into hemlock.

i am feeling it.     our      
                     chairlegs hit each
other on the way out,
wearing the corners down to blonde
                                 ,screaming
  as the birds    
     swarm.


my hands

/




rays.thatbetray
the intentionality of
our days and all the tasks assigned therein

20 seconds of alarm.

it’s calling for the tepid disquiet of assimilation

it’s calling for pretenders to assemble in
the shadow of new thrones

it’s calling us by our names

in the language of it’s immeasurable, mylar breath

from within the serpent gut, have you seen the fangchain gnawed through -   as  
   if
they watched on, in [wolf-loose] wonder ?

rumbling down stone //
in radials.of cymatic displacement


how do we make it
right?

roaring now.

for
when it counts :

a
boy with one palm pressed up against the corner of each pew
kicking up into the
air,
flying for a fraction of a second _
looking down the aisle
and worrying
that he won’t know what to do with his hands when he gets to the
end

a
world made out of
itself ,
alone .

Loose teeth rattle like fireflies shaken up in the jar - concussed against the side of the glass

We drip juniper boughs into the river
like
Pastries in
Warm churning
Brew

Forever yester-ling, we will not
Bathe above the sea -
Nor where the light spreads its long fingers in first inquiry of future mornings

The mountain’s root
Will be hollowed out before
We are found

And we shall drown in still tomorrows
Before
News of us comes


Silent, somewhere
Between the front facing earth
And the
Peridot      stew.

slow
but worth it

Crust like machinegun fire
Sending tremors through the hot
Night

I release the grip
If such is the
Desire

i don't know that i've ever said i love you to my father in my adult life just as he had told me once or twice a long time ago:
that he had not, to his father, until the literal death bed.
i hold no hatred
wasn't mistreated overmuch as a child or anything
my childhood was happy. though that might have proven the worst thing for me in how late i've been able to break from the ignorance and comfort of many things.

i know i was an arrogant little ****.
but i might have deserved some of the pride, certainly not all of it
much of it i have abandoned, perhaps, by becoming less like him.
he has always provided well
tried to support many endeavors as full as he could
even if he did not understand fully

often, maybe lived vicariously in things like the guitars that he probably wished he had been able to play.
i know the music he liked.
he is a leader.
in many ways.
my father always had a need for clear, masculine objectivity.
i've found it hard to communicate things of nuance to him.
there has always got to be a bad guy.

often we have really got along.
we've done things together many times.
helped each other.
share interests.
skills.
abilities.
stature (in some ways).

he often told me he loved me
dropping me off somewhere: school, even into college
i didn't know how to say it back.
i can tell that he was actively trying to correct a greatest regret of his life.
i knew that.
but still repeat it.
his father died about a year before i was born.
i never knew him.
when my grandmother was alive, she had often said i looked like him.
i crossed my long legs in the same way.
my father is a broader man
of stronger limb.
he provided
better
than his father.

he has a kindness in him.
he feels responsibilities for things
done what he could:
boy scout leader, (troop functionally disbanded soon after i left as far as i know )
mentor of highschool robotics team (still there even many years after i left. he might be holding on to something in the way of a need to be that kind of guiding force- and besides, my brother still goes and helps out there too)
there have been times i can almost trust in him.
but then he will do or say something
a joke about self-harm-
about a ******.
i get pulled back somewhere.

he is outgoing.
i am not by nature.
but the more outgoing i get, the less i am like him
except in the type of confidence that comes with deep voice and a large frame.

he is certainly not the worst from the type of politics he adheres to.
far from.
he recoils at much of the things that pollute or replace science in the minds of those that vote like him.
but yet there is something of the
specificity.
the patriotism.
the need to protect most, those and that which are similar-
above others.

life
is but a collection of things around a one.

i, eldest son of eldest son,
care little for precedent as a marker of worth.
and i think i can do more good
if i ever do anything at all.

i don't much care for religion and sports.