The assumption’s success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
that that again for you
there are too many of these words for suspense.

Assumptiosly,
I’m picking thorns from the lips the years
used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
Probably I’m a fishbone’s softened point
as red as roses aren’t without the ******
that made the same red as half the red
on your hands already.

It’s time and
again to tell you in as many and as broken
as entire houses hand blown and probably painted
like goose egg words that
I add Salt to things I like and need to keep
longer than this no understatement
I’ve made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.

I ate oceans feeling fishbones breaking;
                                      breaking;
                        breaking;
          breaking
me, talking to you like chopping a tree onto myself.

Even if words or not are in the right order
do or don’t you understand *do or don’t you?

It’s the first time and
again to tell you
I’m as broken as an entire house hand blown and probably painted
like goose eggs.
And again, Salt’s all I add
to things I already like, it’s
no understatement I’ve
made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.
I assume success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
again that for you
there are too many words.
Peach,
bear,
broken,
syrup,
or-terse,
are not enough to get life to work like you but
are enough to get life to work for you.
When or not in the right order
you do or don’t understand don’t or do you?
Necessarily,
I’m picking thorns from the years
andagain lips used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
In essence and again I’m a fishbone hut
in a **** storm and again
roses aren’t as red without the ****** that
may or may not have made the same red as
half the red on your hands already, and again,
I eat/ate oceans and am fishbones
breaking me brings no wishes or good luck
or and again I’ve choked children and
again talking to you is like chopping a tree onto myself.

If I wake up,
I make sure I
write
down my dreams I
write in perfect detail
and my not dreams I
write in perfect detial
too. A dream life is as valid as
a waking one is as valid as
an undreamed life too
every non-second
         every dream-second
                 every now-second
is life matter in every listed nonexistent perfect detail:
polar bears,
a bug eating me from the inside out,
a blue mustard bleached rotted bone,
a sword made of cotton
that grows legs and calls itself summer wear,
and all the things
that aren't those things
either too.

“I’m   sick    of     you


always
trying tobe a poeton
a balcny in the moorning
at


4
with-nough
whhiskey in your gut to **** a mule the size of a man twice yours”

Metal tastes the way beer does when your can is filling in the cut it opened in your mouth.
The same way words do with meaning.

“You don’t like
it?twhat’s         the matter?”
“It’s the word
mainly, listen to the sound,
ppuuuuudiinngg.
It sounds like the sop
from an unkempt venereal disease.”
“You ,
your fuckinwords.”

PlllaaassstiUc,
sounds like rain on a bucket with holes below the line you need it to be whole for, to work for collecting water
when you slap the bottle from my hand.

“Plastixs
cheeprthn
glash you devil
bitsh”

Off again into another night on may be the same bench till may be rain or rumble or a lack of water find me in the morning.

You ever want to **** someone so bad your stomach hurts? I counted to seventy eight in between when the shuttle took off and arrived and I got off to get distracted by hunger. Maybe I’m a ***** but it’s hard not to want. I smoke my cigarettes so fast I get light headed. It’s the only way to know I’m killing myself.

                                             **** yourself with
                  your last cigarette only almost broken but crumpled
                               it’s more comforting than love.
              Always call your last match false hope when you’re alone.

                                                                                    The days are gruesome.
                                                                       The trees get green then naked.
                                                       The women in pulp paper backed books.
                                               The woman in my pulp paper backed book is
                                a portrait of you, with your mouth open that felt *****.
                         I licked my fingers to smudge the shading on your tongue.
                                   I licked my finger to smudge a poem on the ground.
                                        A poem is a tree punching through the pavement
                                                                                    into the toothy ground.

                   The ground is the trees that tried and died before.

          Before is the whiskey in my cup I have to drink to waste it.

Waste is whole and even. I feel best as an odd number, as a single or a third, as one of those unrelenting fractions always braying to be torn apart. Whole is useless, whole is having nothing to give away, whole is to be a hole you’ve filled with yourself and no part of you sees day or the flowers that pile up from the corpse of accomplishment.

I’m equally heart and
head and **** and their
all digging for clay.

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, ******.
what can we do with it, this Humanity?
nothing.
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can **** you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape.
it's up to you to figure a plan.
I have met nobody who has escaped.
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life.
from blank gun silencer - 1994

You’re less subtle than susceptible
to the sun rising
to hands softer than mine.
The smoke colors your fingertips
tarnished turmeric gold with
life passing through them
in waves and ripples
like Warsaw’s children
playing on the wharf.

That foam splashes up behind a sun
the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.

Brake,
break,
grab, slide, ball
like an infant safe in your ******* womb.
Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches.
I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth,
rats in relation to style.
Like writing,
your name
on an outstretched rubber band
watch yourself shrink
and fly away every time
I see you let go.

Your teeth like drywall looks
when you’re eyes’ve gone red.
I want you like a child’s first attempt
at perfume
too much alcohol
and pulling blush from a warm rose.