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

Grass strains are a treasure
traded for dullness
For a long time

Shaking like dry spiders with the cellar door opened
Waking up without .


With the
Personality of a carpeted bathroom

.wet as

long-sound
footsteps on the scuff of downturned sidewalks

estranging.
distance
.from us

as wrought iron bridges
meeken,

aching.
like a saxophone

.the
pin-patter

Looking through a stack of old Nat Geo’s found in an art room cabinet is
probably
one of the most sublime and authentic human experiences .

It,being untouched for so many years.
I, being the fist to cut it up for picture projects .
I remember
The
Transience .

And the dusty ficus
By the window nearest the closet in the further-back, less used part of the
space.

The very aesthetic that I’ve been searching for
Since

Pieces of sparrow against the tourist trap window
The laminated pages of trifold maps yellow asymmetrically in the sun
There as the light dances

The plastic palm
Not growing
Leaves


Irresolute

The

Ac bolted above the front door making a lot of racket but doing **** all otherwise

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

In sharp
Contrast .
Photojournalist

More ******* adds than the weather ch. app

Spooky on your tongue
Like
Liking
Controversial historical figures

Vacation promise land
And a sunbaked balcony to **** on


The eggshell sneaker laces
Bleaching out in the open
Filth pant posture


Summercamp slab of concrete
Camo pattern t shirt

**** that you got to get
Done

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.

M.

Greendark vapor

Broken over
The body-of-Christ moon
In the sky above the soon-to-be old apartment .

I sit like dewless mornings amidst the
Eves
And the evening’s main event,

Disbelieving everything.


Thumb runway of the
Pit .
In your
Sunglasses
Smudge .a

Way of waking .up

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

i am the doe-eyed and
mop-hung. dripping dry in forests of dull pilgrims
the shirt rubs on the belly,
damaging the pale skin-scape for the 1/2 hour session.
we need the vigilance now
look away and i

grey-same to glass

you,
dulcet lung.
photo-smooth
laying down, pine-black
in my fluffy gun sights

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 .

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.

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

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.

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

I was one who thought he’d never let rust form on his nice pocket knife
But here I am- 30 lbs gained in a year and only use my leatherman for opening cans of chicken and tuna for the dog

Rust on blades for leaving in puddles by the kitchen sink

Forgetting to call friends

Being me-less and without laying hands on any thing real, these days


I used to spend all this time thinking about the things I would get, and take care of, and keep for the rest of my life.

Real permanent things.

Now I wonder

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.

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.

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.

It’s always trash day somewhere pt. 6

Like convection currents sitting atop pavement in July
Like white slices of paper dragging across the air between your words
You write me off like -
I think I can wash you from my fingernails but-

A new perspective on old music videos I always hated
Not that I like it now but just that I’m different.
I jot you down like
Growing up doesn’t stop
Like a fathers shirt in a picture

I bury my self in my head
Mouthshut and wanderlust wonderful
The wonder years
Are twisted


A couch in my mind
Plush and rough like old stuffed animals


The shore sheds me and sands me down to size
Like a frame on the side table I
Sit tilted to the sun of the window knowing only cool air from the vent while outside cooks the earth with grease and greasy hands
The diner fans push air but don’t let you breathe
Stuffy and heaving
Like
****

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

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 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

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. ]

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

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

i love you
egregiously.

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

what's my belly to you-
burning like the last look down a hallway.each bristle fighting the
skin to prove its toughness
each sunbeam sizzles another one to peachfuzz.
we are rocking back and forth all over it.
      my invitation is wasted on the waythe floorboards
creak
as the table gets leaned on- we feed on
  its knuckles are ruining it for me,            you are speechless.
i am speech
its tumbling       outside
                 there is a rumbling
the big shook daddy is coming down


life's a popularity contest and
its all about poptunes\

hey hey

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.

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

I was wrong then. and now condemned to rewriting the same small repertoire.over and again
until they feel legitimized by their own histories-
I caught you off guard the other day. I told you about my dead ex-friend that I never hated as much as she wanted me to.
you told me it was fine.

we need
we feed

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

1’ve been searching
In thrift stores and on eBay
For the kinds of windbreakers that were cool when I was
Little

I get to wear them now
And I know how

I pierced my ear a few years ago.
I did it myself with a hollow point needle
Slowly
But deliberately

And it was good.

I wear an earring everyday
To remind myself that I’m not
Dead
Yet. And it was something I wanted to do but never got around to it.

I’ve been
Making sure that I never stop
Growing.

I wilt like nothing  you’ve ever seen
In stagnation.

But I think the dog spit out her medicine tonight

I found it on the old hardwood
With tongue worn uncertainty

No dose must be better
Than double dose

With a custody so
Precious.

So I will hope she rests safely
Through the
Soft
Night.

And the late dinner can of minestrone in my
Grandmother’s last sauce ***
Smells like a lost thought of
Home

Home is
Something
I’ve been working very hard to
Dial-in.


My love
Is a pine-green toaster covered in
Crumbs.


And you
Are the bread I tried to bake from
Scratch
But I forgot to feed the wild yeast starter and landed with
Mold.

This time,
I will give
Thanks
To each pea and
Carrot
In my
Broth

God is an urban legend
More dangerous than a creepy pasta in the news

And youth is less corruptible than nations.
And the stories
The normies
tell each other are comfort and exclusion of fault and responsibility .
Sensation spreading
I play with my ribs
Thumb side pressed below shoulderblades
and skipping in and
Out
Of grooves

I move
Towards you
And in for the
****


If
******* can hurt it
Then do it.

Barcode sticker on the shower wall wet and dripping ink like one handle hairy bandaid from a leg

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