The scraggley mountains in the distance
look like soft sleeping boddies
made round and soft
covered and swaddled
in an icy blanket of aproaching fog.

An emerald and ruby star hangs in the distance
reminicent of some **** covered nativity scene
with mules kicking
and a woman screaming
and piles of hay rotting into the shape of beds
and a fool man welcoming an immaculate carpenter
and a woman smug in deciet
as she pushes out into a pile of muddy grain
and rat ****.

A sheet of rain falls sidesways in the distance
storm front drawing a visible line in the sky
the rain sounds like a waterfall
eating away at the concrete slowly over time
with icy crystal gums
as soft and deadly
as a sleeping bear
or a politicians words.

These things form the viege memories of a season.
Along with wood stoves,
the sticky smell of pitch,
hearty soup,
old musty books,
warm muddy boots,
and hot strong drinks.
Warming pioson to the core.
Winter sickness in the town where rain makes a grey christmas.
Every.
*******.
Year.

The question if the felt or the feeling hand feels more
is the only worth asking.
As if to say if you asked if lately I’ve felt more open
or hot as the eggs I eat in the mornings where I think
about the things above I write about
I’d say if I were to taste you it’d be by the gallon by a cup
at a time to time to that song you’ve always said
you’ve liked candle light writing by it’s
what’s made all the good men go mad.
It’s dancing’s what’s not getting laid on prom night.
Candle’s light or otherwise kills what’s a lack of
it, is it now made suicide or just loneliness,
is it now mean loneliness or just vaticide
now eyes not opening for the first time.
Bordering on morose now we look for
other words: this is where I live.
Deader words: there was once where I lived.

The goal’s in words to make things ****
even houselights like being you as temptation.

It began cumbersomely,
as all things like that do.
They stumbled through the dark of her halls,
and rooms,
and doors,
only to find themselves
engulfed in identical darkness.
Until,
at last,
with a single click,
the brilliance of her face was illuminated.
But the pure passion they found themselves in
wasn't enough alone
to disguise the scenes strangeness.
She looked into his eyes.
She said she wanted it to be dark.
She said she wanted him to speak to her.
Like an angel,
comforting a forsaken soul.
Like the devil,
trying to buy a pure spirit.
Like the wind through the trees,
Whispering seasons,
Whispering Tastes of snow;
Whispering of dying leaves;
Whispering of bright sun and a lack of rain.
She said she wanted to taste his breathe,
close,
a days memories breathed in.
Seconds and centimeters from touching
whispering truths
or lies
or whatever was most wonderful
it didn't matter anymore.
She said she wanted to be immersed;
in only the purest;
and most easily remembered senses.
She said she wanted this to prove as some vigil to innocence when she looked back on it.
As some point of turning or transformation.
As a moment of clarity,
shrouded in an indescribable darkness.
She said she wanted it to start,
and so with another click
they began.

This Is How To Be Cool:

Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery  most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.

Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.


Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****.
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.  






Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
 Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
   with a bag of **** in his hand.
  (4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
   about why the man has ****
   in his hand/s.
 (4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write  them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.

(4ci)The man needs   to theoq **** at someone nearby.
 (4cii)The man has  a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.


Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace  you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.


Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but  the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.

Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.

You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.

You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.

You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.


Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.

I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.

I want to invent a religion.
It can't be that hard,
seeing that
All religions serve to answer
only four questions:

1) How was the world made.
{possibly when}

2) What is the human purpose ie.
Why are we here ie.
What makes us better than,
and able to **** everything else.

3) What happens when you die.
{preferably a cheery conclusion, also one that disowns other religions or acts}

4) When, how, and why the world will end
{ its comforting to know when and why you'll be ******}

Once upon a time
in a land very close to home
a young girl sat and swayed low
in the old swing
on the street
its twisted rope gnarled and rubbed at her hands as she gripped it
swaying ever higher
higher towards were the tree had swallowed it up
growing all around and into the rope
so that is swung down like a golden necklace,
discolored and thinning
angel incarnate a breathing trinket at its helm
the wind blowing off the dead heat of the setting sun
made her whip her head
and look up into the shelter of the tree
for many years it had stood there
swaying and spreading and thriving
all for its own purpose
but today, it had given the last of its great strength
to the little rope swaying oh so gently
and to the little girl resting oh so peacefully
on that splintered board that snagged and bit at her legs
but the tree had grown weak
and the bugs and vines had leeched its strength long ago
and in the joyful peak of her swaying pivot
she reached level with the dieing branch
and with the last moaning crack of defeat
it was set free from the tortured life it had lived
as she went sailing blissfully ignorant
towards the magenta pink and violet purple streaks
of the sun setting over the hills in the distance,
the end

That special mix of,
too nice, shy, slow to catch on.
Now. Always. Alone.

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.

All my dreams are made of ice
tinted with gold by your memory.
Like ice
they turn to puddles
with the rising sun melting the moon in the morning minutes

Go as Follows:
1-Gentlemen never touch money.
2-Never run unless your being chased.
3-Lies are often more helpful, and always more entertaining, than the truth.
4-Never Lie unless your joking, never tell the truth unless you trust the person.
5-Nothing is for sure except taxes, death, and trouble.
6-Everything is absurd.
7-Be prepared to enjoy life.
8-Don't procrastinate, death never does.
9-Laugh when you can. Smile regardless.
10-Only frown when you need to.

Drinking you away is the most effective
and painful
way I can find.
The liqueur
that's supposed to make my lips loose
only looses lips on me.
I ******* hate myself.
Since when?
Since I can remember.
Since I passed past
that last bastion of childhood innocence.
And  then introspection
and truth set in
and I really looked at myself
and examined my skills
and my attributes
and I found my self disgusted.
She says she thinks I'll find a perfect someone, someday.
Some say.
Something.
Similar.
Everyday.
Every ******* time.
I've tried harder to be a good person than any one I know.
I'd gladly throw myself in front of a bus for any of these unknown acquaintances.
Sacrifice is the only way to please them
only way to be worthwhile.
Maybe I only hang around scumbags.
Maybe I should find something better to do.
Maybe I should go live in a cave and howl at the moon and cut myself performing ancient ceremonies with flint worked obsidian stones.
Maybe I've lost it.
Maybe I never had it in the first place.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe only leaves me guessing.
Irrelevant of situation or circumstance;
I can still look deep inside;
past others opinions,
past the world outside,
past my influences,
past insults,
and compliments.
I can look for the deepest truth I know;
the only one to remain constant
and it will look me in the face
and say
your a worthless *******
finish it already *****.

I don't sweat , I bleed.
I don't eat, I feed.
I don't want , I need.
I don't heed, just proceed.
I smoke tree's,
and now white fills my eyes slowly.

Despite my best efforts,
still i fail.
Despite careful planning,
despite long hours of contemplation,
despite endless nights awake in the heat of an inner debate,
despite all loss of faith and abandonment of previous principles
just to try to find some new way.
Still i am lost, and can not be redeemed.
My mind bashes itself to pieces on these questions,
and not only does the answer evade me
but the question itself
becomes fuzzy and unclear
a static saturated radio flying away
in the cab of a filthy car
Driven no doubt by some saggy eyed *******
a smoker who eats out alot
wrappers and ash stuck to grease stains
cover the interior.
Wait.
What am i trying to find out?
Why does it matter?
Who cares?
Do i?
Who am i?
Still, grasping blindly in the dark of human knowledge,
in the tainted waters of my own memory,
I can find nothing.
Nothing for myself.
Nothing for anyone else,
no purpose,
no inspiration.
Loss,
loss and desperation.
I spit in the face of your compensations
offered up like tasteless party favours
for my incompetence.
Pity, plead, or beg
these are not the actions I engage in.
I am too stupid,
too proud.
I wish only to be left alone
only to be untouched
twitching and broken
in the toxic and shard filled mental pool
of my own making.

To see the ears perk up
alive with instinct.
The eyes dilate
and glaze red with night vision.
The hindquarters raise and rattle
the tail bobs with anticipation
as the birds chirp,
and hop from limb to limb.
Soon it fades
and he settles again to clean himself.
He's old
and caught enough mice to satisfy his masters.
The birds are safe
for another day.

Turn signals of cars looking about
to turn to here but don’t
blink at about similar pace
to a heart doesn’t leave
any metaphor worthwhile though the
fact melted ice cream on the counter
next to food served to people I don’t
know reminds me of the first time
I masturbated successfully does though.
Me touching something that goes into you
about the opposite I want both
closeness and indifference a balance hard
to maintain as kindness and the pace
needed to get things served so
kindness isn’t needed like
by archetypal male figures who can
slap a person they love to mean it.
Saying I love you doesn’t mean I believe
it under different circumstances I don’t
mean I’m lying either. Either it’s really
that difficult to explain or it’s just
difficult in all either way here
I’m still having difficulties
with the way your lips open or
when we’re talking how I’m
hoping they’ll be licked for
decent or my own reasons.

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?

I sit
and smoke
and read
and write
huddled in wool
and adorned
with shiny trinkets
my appearance
makes men tell themselves
lies about me.
Deceptive
                in
           description.

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.

It was as dark and warm
as the womb
when i stepped in from the cold chill
of my cigarette.

Movies and images
flashed on endlessly
in the abyss
of the darkened room.

I knew better than most
that soon sleep
and dreams
would set in refreshing
and familiar
as the face of a mother
to a wounded child.

I could see these patterns
repeated behaviors
forming themselves in the dark
and so I too
lay down my weary head
and my heavy bones
and slipped oil like
into the rough embrace of the sheets
and the unknown
and the loved
and the eternally forgotten world of dreams.

I only have as
many regrets as I have
committed actions.

How soon words become their sounds saying themselves,
a muffled echo of a canyon packed
full with abandoned spaces.
I intend to fall over
you like the best part of a disaster,
like the thousands of things I have,
will have said to you,
only two will have been true.

Sometimes.
Just,
sometimes.
Darkness and music is all you need
as thoughts run aimlessly in a hurried line through your head
just let them pass
          e
    v             r
o        you            

one
     by
        one.
Feel,
       hear,
              smell,
                        taste,
    see
            
but don't try to grasp these things.
Don't try to breed
              s
           h   a
        p         e
             s
from the darkness around you
or pick meaning from the sounds that play songs
on your tired ringing ears.
Do not define your touch, taste, or smell by your broken memories
and associations.
These are not the
f           r
      a
g  m  e  
              n
    ted  
past you grasp to experience.
This is
now
and living.
This darkness,
absence of light.
This music,
m     l      d
     e    o       y.
It will all soon fade to forgotten dreams as well.

“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.

It will be on that golden day,
with your still flesh milky, marble, majesty, white
skin streaked , saturated, almost blue with lines and pathways
like the picture perfect chizzlings
of mineral vein riddled
gratuitous Greek gods.
It will be on that golden day,
that i kiss the solemn serenade of your soul goodbye
and shuffling sickly, sadly, sorrowfully away from your festive wake ill finally be ready to make
the meat of my downtrodden face shine full
free from that sickening limitless lull
that finally ends
on that golden day. It will be,
truth, light, love, life, celebration bursting free
from the cold darkened shell it inhabited so many years
like a plant sprouting from the sad seed it called home.
These dreams,
this vision,
i have found my purpose.
Like words slipping wild and violent from pursed lips,
there sounds the only truth.
I wish to see,

That golden day.

I have few questions,
less answers.
I have opinions,
few facts.
I know few things for sure,
few things about myself or others,
few things about reality.
I compose and orchestrate myself to be a simple man,
and yet,
I cannot figure myself out.
May be I am a simple man.
May be i am too simple.
Too simple for contemplation
or introspection
or any serious level
of revelation.

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.