You’re in my guts
Pictures and all
Until I rush to the toile
And adhere your redolence
To my nose

Outside I’m in another state
Another time another place
My fingers sampling your abs
Your lips, the cool air outside
The Jaguar. The way your father spoke
To me. Until, until, until.
You tease me back to sleep. Please
How were they introduced to themselves within a flash of light? Enormous shots of humanness flying across the universe- only still inside the shapes of two blue eyes staring back at this vessel. Just molecules of flesh colliding into one another in a heap of colors and sounds we’d sometimes prefer to force ourselves not to hear. How do you keep yourself from exploding? Into a masterpiece of delightfulness pushed forward into the mouth, and sometimes only to be a breath, or a story dressed as a pink pillowcase on a childhood bedroom.

Sometimes it’s just as if there was never ending cold and never ending warmth, and between each other there we were with our noses pressed up against the glass.

People are only sometimes not shaped like beasts, are sometimes only chiseled into neatly marble statuesque ephemeral deities, and then into the tombs the book keepers go, into the ruins the shapes and sounds and colors disappear. Shattered into the vast expanse of vitrifying light, bouncing against your head my head, landing on the bedside table, the corner of your knee, into the knapsack with the broken zipper, far off into the jungle, or into the pantry next to the agave syrup, adjacent the espresso maker.

There I am loving you more and more, quietly raking my hooves against the dirt, reigning midnight shining orders of dusty moonlight plashed on the time of winter lake, courtiers in your centrifuge of melancholy, balancing the toes just inches below the surface of the water, where the skin shuffled into the brief sentimentality of being thrusted into the infinite transdimensionality of the human escape-

hands feet legs being thrust and pressed upon the glass. Infinite planes of man hurdling with fastidious dreamscape prejudice into the quakes and trembling, the  indivisible and unquantifiable desires of yore crushed as the envelopes bars break against the seams, then come the staples and the body’s tries at reattaching itself to this the trying table of familiar names, this the tepid jocular playing field. While the undulates are thrown into the academies. While the infrastructures topple over, and the sunlight froths upon the celestial satellites nearing and nearing to us, folded over until we wake up from our necks and into our heads and inside of our brains, until we pull the thread from our gems and count back through the catalog pages trying to find letters of words in other languages piecing together the wanton madness of yearning for you and sharing the sounds of a voice that’s forgotten its own triumph of revealing or speaking its name.

There is the room with the panels and the drawers. These are the wildernesses humming with the poison and quaffing the spit and drugs at the heady realm of human-like lightness, pals or even matter gives pause to answering you with what no understanding beeps or carries on forward, but rather bleeds, tormented, reaches forcefully, it has been nearly a quarter-millennia. Here is the start, the finish, here are the minutes, the hours, here are the streets, the beach, the bench, and all of life is ours, from the dawn to the crepuscular night. Here in a stone room where in black and white photographs spin their sex drives like mercurial thermoses bouncing of each other, dancing into the next world, or just fishing for alphabet soup with a wooden spoon.

Here it is. The short-sheeted bedroom linen collection, folded comforter in the closet. The bath water is still and hot. The sky is clouding up soon, but not quite yet. In a ball of light rounding bloom, comes the silent fans that’ve carried you. While of a breath the trembles sway, and take us far away from here.
Brief Yet Common Encounters Pt. II

Stage rose to the coach,
Trouble with flies is they
Never know when to keep still-
Pumped full up of automobile dust and Neon lights and blank stares and

There goes the inaudible tick
The wings of minutia passing us by.

There goes the dusk spattering,
Feral men cordoned by beasts-
The great epée of thorn branding
The early light summoned,

Wounded obelisks of strength and Immortality brandishing the dagger
That built Her Earth. Before the sirens
Rang beyond the crepuscular fortnight,

Deep valleys of arid central hills
Attempting to rise to the day
And show compassion to the Underprivileged.
Earth dawn corpuscular before after during period evolution life love universe people poor impoverish underprivileged arid central hills desert vast expanse desolate dagger native Americans America Americans USA Indians nativeamericans deep valley dust compassion ancient language poetry Arizona Phoenix beasts throbs the bible biblical Jesus jesuschrist men light sun moon stars flies fly levels tick sound sounds keep still never always
Martin Narrod May 25
this goes out to all little sisters, big, little or tall, small too. She crunches ice cubes in her mouth, wondering if it's bad for her teeth, she bought another ice cube tray just to get more retreat from underneath the heavy petting that's only fifteen years past early bed wetting, it seems, oh my sister, don't give up so easily. Boys are 1 out of 10 decently pleasing. I can only name two or three that practice chivalry in a blizzard, suffering for you quietly, waking up early to turn the water on so it's hot when you wake up early to go to work and you'll be showering. Don't let the things he buys full or fuel you, too much money means he'll be expecting things from you that you work harder for yourself.

If I could write the perfect letter that could set the trend for every boy you'd ever meet, or who'd greet you on the street, I'd probably be better leaving this letter alone. But lonely we, we're not just two he and she, we're you and me, and when he brings you home past the time you set for yourself, speak up and tell him how disappointed you are. You can't let boys set expectations on the things no one else gets for free. You earn being trustworthy, your curves are not just a place for his hands to go, make him sit on his hands and watch you flip your hair into curls without mentioning how physically beautiful you are. Your beauty starts with the passion you take with you to the ungrateful students you teach day in day out that you never tell them how much you're disappointed, it carries itself around the brown paper lunch you bring so you can save $7 dollars a day to take a trip to California like you've been promising yourself you'll take since before our family was bringing us back and forth to the OC. I bequeath you your sheath, now use it wisely.

Sister remember that boys will say anything and everything when they want to be physical, but nothing they say is emotional. Don't let anyone convince you to do something you wouldn't even do to yourself, don't let yourself be treated any less than what your fantasy brings your eyes to sleep like when you were too young to count and I sang you to sleep with the numbered keep of sheep.

Remember it's better to complain about not having the boy of your dreams, than regretting you let the wrong boy into your jeans. Beautiful is the way you were born, and it's easy to point out what's obvious, so invest in a boy that's interested in more than whether you keep piercings under your clothes, or whether you let your sexuality be too undercover that you can't even e
Martin Narrod May 25
at first when we meet, I am only a tiny closet.
all the clothes I wear I made myself, they are dog-eared
but have finger pockets hidden everywhere.
I hide under an enormous hood, inside an elephant's trunk,
Sharp silver-splinters drag behind me. Gigantic black boot feet
that sway across twice the size of my stride.

Beautiful angel-shaped woman-being.
I hustle your form and posture, crossing your T's and blinking my eyes,  I stir and twist, anxiously wriggling out   and passion, your sleep performs prolific dreams arousing large smiles upon your face. I free climb up your chin, intervals I pause and pause again, nestling  in the bow of your dimple, the arc of your lip. You rocket me into erupting euphoric bliss- our skin suits harmonizing outside of our heavy breaths and deeply entransive pantomime. I fly from a classroom naked to rescue you from Grecian alligators barking like feral dogs pushing you into the white picket fence you are still afraid of into your twenties.

you are my sixth star above mourning, right on until neverland. For better or for worse, we team the enigmas of life's endless bounties in erupting landscape, while I have only begun to tame the teeming populations of the Middle West.

every turn produces an inquisitive moan, except it is difficult to breathe as you are able at eighteen thousand feet. I am further and perfervidly mesmerized.
Martin Narrod May 25

Little bits of paper set little boys and girls awake. Paper is the voice, it is the rush, and it plays against the spirit of the rough. Some had hands in favor, some made famous from their toils. Across the bridges, into harm, extreme liking finds a way to plant their dreams. A courageous haunt for storytellers fashioning fictitious love in the vocals of these pleasure scenes.

A gasp at poison sells us. Two legs is all it took- the fanciest of the 399 lives, stitched across the faces of all his slaves. Some hide behind the moon, in the shadow of its glow. Some depart him, only to remark, and take up the King James Bible in a fight to eradicate some half-lie half-truth tale. Some take up their histories. Some track down their accusers. Some just watch the show.

If ever was a prophet, material or fake. A flip of the light switch rewinds the days, while a new trial of words ghastly fails. If ever was a wind to whip the rocking torments of joy into a smooth flowing dressage of subtle paper cuts and clues, lusts on paper and booze, petite memes cloaked in the vast inertia of the West. Rags piled high as riches, short denim shorts worn publicly before each and every oval and square, curious domain names gang bang the brain to forget the old complaints, renege on values once comparable or the same.

Only in this world, today, strangers bed each other and misspell the chants beaten into their acute proclivities for breaking the law, while purposely opening their mouths on soap boxes, and orchestrating the papers’ coolness through the grid and onto the plane. The work of the slaves is the accord to which forewords tune gravity.

This is the paper taking down cities. This is the worship building anarchy in its own members. This is the end of the call and the beginning of the caste. These are the mute and colorless stains on the walls, and the childhood loves of an adult that colorfully decorate the dormitory in his past with the clutter and occupancy that curtails to no complaint. There is the paper and there is the gain. Will any of them ever be human again?
Clutter boys girls boy and girl taking keeping god Jesuit anarchy human being accord fragrances scents stitches earn threads needles gravity awake sleep tire tiredness acute oval obtuse inertia West Kelsey paper papercuts utes travel wonder wander pleasing booze fake real prophet world America dream poems poem poet 399 slaves master sex sexual grasp gasp sell sales earthly boredom experience sexuality
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