A rolling coaster pitched onto the lawn of life. Echoing promises we ****** up on a Friday night. Each and everyone is a little child, even if they've won the lottery it still takes forever before they change their style.

Keep forever in the headband wrapped around your brow, leave your acid tablets there with some mistletoe. Under everything, there's just something they all seem to leave behind. Even if the stitches are out, it's the seams that'll leave you blind.

(I) Could use an apostrophe, or an apotropaic and a glass of whiskey. I could use the color of the war, all the drugs on the west coast, and it still wouldn't erase my memories. There should be a couple of things they sell at the corner market in the middle of town. Maybe one day all the ails will go away from the things that've ailed me all today. Maybe the rain will stop coming, and you will stop judging, how I chose to run away from every thing that ever scared me to an early step into the grave. I'm not going to write, I'm not going to bed, I want to smoke my cigarettes and light a fire between your legs, let's make falafel, you can tell me stories about your father, and the apostles you made a point to disobey when you gave away ******* to everyone in the 6th & 7th grade.

Tell me, where was I? I was eating crow and yelling in the street. Where was I? I was turning 17. Where was I? I was reading E.E. Cummings, trying to learn about loving, jerking off my eyes to Derrida about nothing, I had to teach myself something. Where was I? When you were auto-asphyxiating and choosing who would get you to come to, who would bring you to come too, I was in the next room with the t.v. on mute, pretending I couldn't hear you, but I wanted to tear you apart from the start. You've been the smartest girl that I'd always wandered apart from, until I turned into the guy that you fell through my arms, and I turned your pilot light on, and I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I just hope I can choke you too.

Snake Bite

And let me down easy but do break my heart
Otherwise I'll never know if I should chase after y'all. And the longing comes nightly, the bourbon rings twice, every time I'm out living, y'all stop me from dying. But a man is worth pennies when his work is the dirt, and I've never known forgiveness I've only ever known hurt.

With my skin on the desert, my hands cut from the piste. If a man's responsible for fire, does woman make the stream. Everything is an eyesore when plague cuts at your flock, and the shepherd is aching to be rid of his cloth, the end of evil corrupts it, the sheriff he breaks his own laws. They take all that they want, leave you to look up to the crop, you can't sustain the pains of heartache, your words shorter while you talk. So please take it away, the flat and the plains. And only fires concern them, water drowns for them and cries. I don't need no one to listen, no one to soften my eyes. I've been bit by the river, it's taken my breaths. Filled my chest full of water, brought my time to new depths. I saw the valley, and I saw the moors. I saw the valley, just tell me, will she be here tomorrow? I've seen the valley, and I've seen the moors, just please won't you tell me, will she be here tomorrow?

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

the maze

inside the rules of the car
you promise me that no matter what
insane or compromising thought might
have arisen from either our mouths,

there would always be the maze to keep us as friends- naked friends. ******* friends. hot, ****, blonde and brown haired beasts summoning our human equity to arouse and arraign each other, each's other:

say,
drowning in internacional shipping bombings, lost at terminals, aboard flights.

noting our beasts

the minimalist pianissimo of black and white keys, the growing spirits of a Richter violin filling us up
with anti-matter, inside this hours black tideless extremes. this place's mooring soporific tinders. You placed this cart of humanness too close to the life you live

even say,

rules i wanted to know but
never have to practise in your absence
nowness self-less and losing to the light, losing to the ocean, each ounce of life is now vastly different

inside of me
where dead worms
cannot crawl
i continue to die beside your sprawl
where heavy night brings memories of
your skin affixed n entwined
each of your twelve unspoken names
each of these hours that won't be mine

and as this box of earth resigns
its peace, i wish never to have known
this haunting sea, where quaffing like
the enigma of misery
my secret voice cannot be free
my eyes cannot bare their sight to see
if ever chance should be

glue n you
floods that water surmise
sheridan road isotope electro luxury
might we drink where homeless our
lives wore down the caked architecture
limits hold on city doors

in every position
redness n poison roses
photography biographies in hidden drawers, like your voice
wherever you have been that looking no treasure is there to spectate
no mountain is there
to mark explanations or x's

how so many of these skins and figures
how so many of these dances and shadow moon-like people in melancholic dismay, all overtake the massive sounds that eyes with intent earnestly scour the Earth through Time for even a sight at one decibel, one catalogue to read thoroughly with the membranes of fingertips once more,
again

May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.

Restless alphabet staggering in this mist, mischief and debauchery, until it gets closer to midnight, I'll keep my fingers flirting with the skirt sitting on my knees.

Lonely invaders, they've been, searching for the words inside of me, in my heart I've got my dictionary guarded with the strongest adjectives from my unspoken vocabulary. I'll keep my fingers flirting, it's about time to eat dessert, I'll have two servings of the girl sitting on my knees

And about this time of night, I try and survive, is this oblivion that I'm supposed to achieve? I smoke, drink, and trip until my spaceship begins to lift, then I set my transmission up to hyper-speed. There's lust in the air, and I've got dessert I won't share, a **** girl in a skirt, my fingers climbing towards the heaven between her knees.

Backwards ways, today is the last time. I can't begin to let my heart beat or else I'll lose control. I don't want to feel anything I've never known, I'd rather dream up reality than live something familiar my mind had once been exposed.

Loose leaf royalty, she might only be a princess on paper, but she rolls my joints while she takes turns at high speeds driving my Rolls-Royce Phantom stopping where my sidewalk ends.

Restless alphabet staggering in the mist, mischief and debauchery, until it gets closer to midnight, I'll keep my fingers flirting with the girl sitting on my knees.

She is weaponized, pre-exposed to the lurid and fantastic, she's fancy, fueled, and ready for sin. I've got the music blearing, something vampirical and scary, but it works when you'd rather avoid candy and just eat the living.

Today has been grave, I woke up sweating from a life-mare, heavy-petting last night, every time we go to bed. We unmade the sheets, she wrapped her tentacles around me, then she told me I'm her number one squeeze. I said, "Please bring me to pain, I promise I won't complain, don't untie me, but please leave me in one piece." I twisted and I shouted, as I climbed back up the water spout, to find the wetness hadn't come from the rain.

This tremendous magic had procured from such a habit, my fingers had turned into legs. I tried my hardest to keep my steps, but found I'd lost my grip, then she turned round me, smiled, and tore off my head.

I've kept my fingers flirting with her disasters, afterwards nothing happened at all, but I'm still hungry, I still might go dancing tonight, I love the eight step arachnid twist. Venomous squeeze, I know she'll come back for the rest of me, the body's even better than the head. But now I've woken up again, her legs wrapped tightly around my head, my eyes open enough to spot a spider crawling up my legs.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

I want to make room inside me for you
A piano solo misses you softly
No stranger could closely close unto
It's a strain of the fortune never closing never folding. Events unfold me, a hostel membership where I can never go. A brief reminder from that stranger to never leave my house in just a robe.

I want to make a space inside you,
A place for me and all the things that never grow. My cement stains the grace within you, then falls against your legs beside that home you've never known. Instead of pain my paint is thinning, while parents shake their heads while you've spent so many years alone.

Hold my face like the beginning. A devil doll, white skin, blue eyes and little legs and quiet moans. On a park bench where we went living, no words, no places hands would never go. Inside the rehab where I found you, the splinters and the quill we wrote each other letters late into the night. Until the space inside us melted, I snuck you out, I hid you in my scars and wrote you into bedroom. Bestowing me your skin and miranda, your record player gave plus ones for parties we never threw. My odometer met the sidewalk's end, my blackened threads. Where I woke alone in my robe.

I want to save the space inside us.
I want to keep the room where we used to often go.
And if I could keep you,
I'd keep my mouth shut instead of breaking up our home.
Little death spread onto silence, the ails of *** and flesh, where hands and eyes could lull. I've lit a million little matches, I've set a dozen fires to guide me, but everywhere it seems there's nothing left to glow.

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

Apple Jacks

Up into the sky, the girl with velvet pants, a hip and tender blue, she loves me too, she loves me too.

Feet upon the dash, sun rays on our face, our ashtray filling fast as I push harder on the gas, I'd drive a thousand miles to see her, I'd drive anywhere to be near to her, I want to be there when she smiles, even for a little while. I will be there. I will be there.

Mountain tops are wrapped in white, the highway pass stops being plowed at night, we've seen the sun it set, we've seen the sun it rise, and set again today, we're heading far away, because I will be there, I will be there.

A notebook filled with scribbled ink and our ashtray's full with inspiration but out of energy. There's a song stuck in my head, but only the two lines that she's said, I sing them over and over, and over and over, she wrote, "I will be there. I will be there"

I'm nearly running out of stamps, but I've got many more postcards I want to send, we haven't passed a town with enough people to have a mailbox, and America is getting thin, skinny kids with their line tattoos, girls dress down and never look as good as you. I'd rather go nowhere with you than everywhere with somebody who won't ever be there. You can be here, but you can be so ******* **** unclear.

We just ate two hits a piece, of 350 micrograms of lsd, we've still got more than half a pound of some Gorilla Glue  Hybrid Blueberry strand, I'd like falafel wrap and a red stripe too, we have enough to buy food for you.

I've never been sad or lonely since we started to go on our road journey. But I'm in love with your elbows, I'm having an affair with your elbows. Sometimes they don't return my calls, sometimes they don't even call at all, I will be there if you cry, and I'll be there to say goodnight. I will be here to make you come, so long as you'll be here to *******. So let's drive around and have some fun, while we drive around in the sun. Will or won't, yes or no, to and fro, we've counted twice to just be sure, we have 10 toes and 10 fingers. I've counted yours, you've counted mine, i need to see your elbows one more time. I need to find your funny bone so it can crack me up, and we can race through states in this cardboard box. Can we put plastic wrap instead of using tempered glass, on this rocket ship Jimi's Blues, it's the only thing I want to do. To see backward into the fading sun, we can eat dinner or have Twix instead. I won't forget if you still put in. Just let me lick the numbers off your mouth. Just let me lick the numbers off your mouth. We haven't gone anywhere, so we can just stay here, I will just stay here. But please can you go to the store, I need new skateboard bearings and a kid-size box of Apple Jacks.

Me, up on the snow-rock white glacial cliff hedges mountaineering my way in the moments-after-twilight-sweeping-black. Execrable cold, a death-making quiet, Not a seal, not a hare - this Earth of gelid death. I climbed out above the snow Where my expiration left sinuous brandings in the copper light. But the Weddell was siphoning the darkness to the katabatic deep valleys - piceous lees of the brightening umber - cleaving the moon in two like the split eye of a winter lynx. And I saw the penguins: Little specks of black in the limitless white - fifty together - obelisk-still. Their inaudible coo, they sat motionless, nearly mute, With creamsicle feet and amber-eyes, incomparably mum. I proceeded: not one chirped or swiveled its little fur cap. Black silent fragments of a black silent world. I hearkened in the barrens of the desiccate plains. While the wooly bears came from the sea to see of the silence. Slowly edges oozed out of the darkness. Then the moon ivory, porcelain, azure erupted Quietly, and halving to its heart and shot mist, shaking and the ocean opened, crying blue, And the giant mountains lunged-. I stopped Scrambling, as if up from my voice at the mouth of a nightmare, down towards the snow-rock, from their glacial sheaths, And came the penguins. There stood they, still-, silent, in the river of blue light: Creamsicle feet and amber-eyed Thwacking the ice in a grand fête While everywhere was gray and rimy. And still they did not speak above a breath, Not one squeeked or cawed, Their nestled shining beaks dug into the polar rim, Low into the valleys, in the blue shimmering rays - In throngs of the congested cities, living among the years, the faces, May I some day greet my memory in such solemn a world Into the estuaries and the azure-skies, curious wooly bears, Listening as the ice tholes.

Me, up on the snow-rock white glacial cliff hedges mountaineering my way in the moments-after-twilight-sweeping-black. Execrable cold, a death-making quiet, Not a seal, not a hare - this Earth of gelid death. I climbed out above the snow Where my expiration left sinuous brandings in the copper light. But the Weddell was siphoning the darkness to the katabatic deep valleys - piceous lees of the brightening umber - cleaving the moon in two like the split eye of a winter lynx. And I saw the penguins: Little specks of black in the limitless white - fifty together - obelisk-still. Their inaudible coo, they sat motionless, nearly mute, With creamsicle feet and amber-eyes, incomparably mum. I proceeded: not one chirped or swiveled its little fur cap. Black silent fragments of a black silent world. I hearkened in the barrens of the desiccate plains. While the wooly bears came from the sea to see of the silence. Slowly edges oozed out of the darkness. Then the moon ivory, porcelain, azure erupted Quietly, and halving to its heart and shot mist, shaking and the ocean opened, crying blue, And the giant mountains lunged-. I stopped Scrambling, as if up from my voice at the mouth of a nightmare, down towards the snow-rock, from their glacial sheaths, And came the penguins. There stood they, still-, silent, in the river of blue light: Creamsicle feet and amber-eyed Thwacking the ice in a grand fête While everywhere was gray and rimy. And still they did not speak above a breath, Not one squeeked or cawed, Their nestled shining beaks dug into the polar rim, Low into the valleys, in the blue shimmering rays - In throngs of the congested cities, living among the years, the faces, May I some day greet my memory in such solemn a world Into the estuaries and the azure-skies, curious wooly bears, Listening as the ice tholes.

The postulate of this grief is ours. Every night in my wiry chain-mail suit, in my bed, where you have been crying for your lost hours. For a moment they came, in calamity and drudgery, to every travailing effect that pushed you down. Half of one day, you had it. You plucked your eyebrows, applied vigorously baby oil, lotion, to your pallid skin, and in two bats of your eyes, it had disappeared again. So sad you are. So sad you have been. They were only minor hours, wrapped in crimson bows, gentle happenings that you had barely grazed the tips of your fingernails into, and their symbolical sense, their nuance, wasn't perfected as you had wished just yet. And you tried so hard and it wasn't right yet. In the bed, with your fore-paws tucked neatly under the pillow, the bottom of your legs tucking their way up into your gut, tight as tight could be; I watched you sob in your maudlin ball, your sudorific tears, just peeling out of your eyes. I changed the pillow. I swapped it out. If only we could find your hours and give them back to you.But you cowered into a half-lump ball, your spirit curdling under your night-wept tears. And I too wanted your hours, for they were mine also. Our amatory hours, the fervid hours, our hours of luxe developing bliss. I felt the same urgency to recall them as you, but it was I who held to them, and clang to them that was losing my fingertip grasp on their minutes, and that is what frightened the both of us.

your skin. the tapestry of your body. that guiding force between us, the forces. Our interdigitated hands, our sudorous hands, our midnight hands, and the hands of the hallway. Our amatory tryst, left palm on your cheek, right palm on your cheek- my lips wrapped around your forehead, coming up to the top of your hair-line. Deep, dark brown hair, thick locks of brunette strands. Yesterday, the perfervid and igneous morning hours spent drinking from your hot caldera. And I kowtowed my forehead against your pale soft skin, kissing circles around your naval, and reaching with extreme delicacy the nibs of my fingers up the sides of your rib cage, carefully avoiding your *******. When I came to your shoulders, I filled my hands with them and pulled us closer towards each other. I turned my head to face you and you strained to raise your head from the bed, your supine state, our sprawled bodies turned to neatly intertwine our appendages, to make a ball of skins. You reached forward to hold my cheeks in your hands, and bring the edges of your hands alongside the inches of my ears to bring me down on top of your lips, where you pursed them and sang to me, softly, your voice barely above a whisper, talking into my ear.

your skin. the tapestry of your body. that guiding force between us, the forces. Our interdigitated hands, our sudorous hands, our midnight hands, and the hands of the hallway. Our amatory tryst, left palm on your cheek, right palm on your cheek- my lips wrapped around your forehead, coming up to the top of your hair-line. Deep, dark brown hair, thick locks of brunette strands. Yesterday, the perfervid and igneous morning hours spent drinking from your hot caldera. And I kowtowed my forehead against your pale soft skin, kissing circles around your naval, and reaching with extreme delicacy the nibs of my fingers up the sides of your rib cage, carefully avoiding your *******. When I came to your shoulders, I filled my hands with them and pulled us closer towards each other. I turned my head to face you and you strained to raise your head from the bed, your supine state, our sprawled bodies turned to neatly intertwine our appendages, to make a ball of skins. You reached forward to hold my cheeks in your hands, and bring the edges of your hands alongside the inches of my ears to bring me down on top of your lips, where you pursed them and sang to me, softly, your voice barely above a whisper, talking into my ear.

Laurel Street. the beginning of a magic chant. Letter B, for best, great for the pride. Home of the native Chicago lions. Two years of secrets and we moved in just underneath the last sigh of worry. Surrounded by banks. Red-lettered banks, banks with trapezoidal vaults, banks with free drip coffee and lollies, banks with no lines but everybody's money; bank at the corner with the chimney from the world war, the one mom's dad came back and went to the basement to put his money in a copper box in the trapezoidal vault, a bank of the copper boxes. Freed from all the unions of our caretakers this was our first chance for flight- or free fall. One trip to the stone streets of the far East, and one weekend to see the vineyards during the off season in Napa. Then we lived in a stilted house on a steep hill surrounded by bare fruited palms; the deck we agreed that you wanted. The home that I needed you to have. Above my chair I wrapped black electric-tape to all the windows; no stray Cessna banner would lay an unwanted word on my eyes. We slapped ourselves to the California King and tuned out for a day and a half to The Smiths. In your walk-in you stripped off the robin's egg wallpaper and hung up your Dior, your cold feet trying on every **** pair you had while I sipped guava nectar in my other room chrysalis- eventually I bribed you away with my sticky bun. Two nights passed before you let me sit you in the Jaguar, I wanted to go to the landing at Half Moon Bay. We danced and waded in the high tide. Then you collected smoothed sea glass while I buried myself in Hughes trying to find the meaning of striding at the beach. You were in such a paralysis of anxious dizziness I barely understood. I wrapped you up with great giant arms, the arms that let us win the war, that brought me to you, the arms I found you with, and mixed me with you. And your lips lept at mine, you clang to me for life, for my life inside you, and enveloped my face in your hands, nursing you back to life with my breaths. For heaps of existence- anything to feel that awesome aliveness between us. Your heavy black heart turning hot white coal inside my arms. I made myself the popular Boeing engines, throttled my legs upwards, though slightly unbalanced, I shot us up, towards the nimbus in the sky. Then I watched you reassemble your loose parts, your parents, the nut-house, high school weighed your legs down. You were twenty one hands of horse, working so hard, shaking your new foal feet sturdy. When krrrbaang, our albumineous hare was swallowed up by dark and bursting storm thunder. It startled you, but also me. I saw how your swirls and your sea glass, your heavy gasping lever for pulling in love was struck out of you in one bang of thunderous sound. What clanging hell was this!

We escaped to our tiny two door, but once inside it was our fearsome lair, that place of us safe from thunder or lightning, hephalumps and woozels. The sky melted its tepid Summer day beneath, through all of its pillars of thunder and fistfuls of electricity. It lasted from Bay to Belmont, up the steps and until we were safe in our king bed. Each of us wrestled our wet clothes off our cooled hides, and fought for our share of the pull cover. Impaling each other, we collided until we found the perfect place of entwinement; quietly affirming with each other that we would never leave the mattress again. Dream maimed and anxious you only lasted so long supine.

The laundry. The kitchen dishes, our wet sheets, they all haunted you. A crisp agony befell you half of every day, daily afresh. Every morning a new trail of broken glass to carry you over, fear hung to your ears, dripped from your eyes and the limped down your nose. Weeks and weeks of you trying to convince us that you were always the poison. Like a ranting katydid sipping dark matter through a scotch glass you tried at every thing to quell your ticking nerves. But you continued to spin, like a mad sparrow always falling on itself in the sky. I tried every day to gather you up, but eventually you tore off your wings. And what good was I, I only made good of our arms, climbing up and down, bringing flesh flowers to nourish the nest, through the branches. What a waste I was! What did our rain dancing tide-bearing sea searches leave us with? Happiness for me, always. It sat staring at you through your window like a vagrant black dove, a crow, a penguin.---- I laid down beside you. I trembled over in my head, why you eventually sealed your veins. It puzzled me to my core. I wandered through many cities and sat through many lectures with my head bowed. Once I was two blocks from peeling back your mahogany box and screaming at you; but too close the tears obscured my sight from finding my way. If I had had to face our scenario again, to sit in that vanishing supernatural faded light that emanated from us, what I could come up with, all that I could make out, was you, there was and will always be you.

Laurel Street. the beginning of a magic chant. Letter B, for best, great for the pride. Home of the native Chicago lions. Two years of secrets and we moved in just underneath the last sigh of worry. Surrounded by banks. Red-lettered banks, banks with trapezoidal vaults, banks with free drip coffee and lollies, banks with no lines but everybody's money; bank at the corner with the chimney from the world war, the one mom's dad came back and went to the basement to put his money in a copper box in the trapezoidal vault, a bank of the copper boxes. Freed from all the unions of our caretakers this was our first chance for flight- or free fall. One trip to the stone streets of the far East, and one weekend to see the vineyards during the off season in Napa. Then we lived in a stilted house on a steep hill surrounded by bare fruited palms; the deck we agreed that you wanted. The home that I needed you to have. Above my chair I wrapped black electric-tape to all the windows; no stray Cessna banner would lay an unwanted word on my eyes. We slapped ourselves to the California King and tuned out for a day and a half to The Smiths. In your walk-in you stripped off the robin's egg wallpaper and hung up your Dior, your cold feet trying on every **** pair you had while I sipped guava nectar in my other room chrysalis- eventually I bribed you away with my sticky bun. Two nights passed before you let me sit you in the Jaguar, I wanted to go to the landing at Half Moon Bay. We danced and waded in the high tide. Then you collected smoothed sea glass while I buried myself in Hughes trying to find the meaning of striding at the beach. You were in such a paralysis of anxious dizziness I barely understood. I wrapped you up with great giant arms, the arms that let us win the war, that brought me to you, the arms I found you with, and mixed me with you. And your lips lept at mine, you clang to me for life, for my life inside you, and enveloped my face in your hands, nursing you back to life with my breaths. For heaps of existence- anything to feel that awesome aliveness between us. Your heavy black heart turning hot white coal inside my arms. I made myself the popular Boeing engines, throttled my legs upwards, though slightly unbalanced, I shot us up, towards the nimbus in the sky. Then I watched you reassemble your loose parts, your parents, the nut-house, high school weighed your legs down. You were twenty one hands of horse, working so hard, shaking your new foal feet sturdy. When krrrbaang, our albumineous hare was swallowed up by dark and bursting storm thunder. It startled you, but also me. I saw how your swirls and your sea glass, your heavy gasping lever for pulling in love was struck out of you in one bang of thunderous sound. What clanging hell was this!

We escaped to our tiny two door, but once inside it was our fearsome lair, that place of us safe from thunder or lightning, hephalumps and woozels. The sky melted its tepid Summer day beneath, through all of its pillars of thunder and fistfuls of electricity. It lasted from Bay to Belmont, up the steps and until we were safe in our king bed. Each of us wrestled our wet clothes off our cooled hides, and fought for our share of the pull cover. Impaling each other, we collided until we found the perfect place of entwinement; quietly affirming with each other that we would never leave the mattress again. Dream maimed and anxious you only lasted so long supine.

The laundry. The kitchen dishes, our wet sheets, they all haunted you. A crisp agony befell you half of every day, daily afresh. Every morning a new trail of broken glass to carry you over, fear hung to your ears, dripped from your eyes and the limped down your nose. Weeks and weeks of you trying to convince us that you were always the poison. Like a ranting katydid sipping dark matter through a scotch glass you tried at every thing to quell your ticking nerves. But you continued to spin, like a mad sparrow always falling on itself in the sky. I tried every day to gather you up, but eventually you tore off your wings. And what good was I, I only made good of our arms, climbing up and down, bringing flesh flowers to nourish the nest, through the branches. What a waste I was! What did our rain dancing tide-bearing sea searches leave us with? Happiness for me, always. It sat staring at you through your window like a vagrant black dove, a crow, a penguin.---- I laid down beside you. I trembled over in my head, why you eventually sealed your veins. It puzzled me to my core. I wandered through many cities and sat through many lectures with my head bowed. Once I was two blocks from peeling back your mahogany box and screaming at you; but too close the tears obscured my sight from finding my way. If I had had to face our scenario again, to sit in that vanishing supernatural faded light that emanated from us, what I could come up with, all that I could make out, was you, there was and will always be you.

Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium. Pick a pepper. Cow Palace. Moth ***** and mouth *****. Tea bags and sore throats. Presumptuous candid story-telling anomalies, trite masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling. Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic. Sand gathers boulders. Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine and aesthete. Curious. Before clause. The story god. The kick to the Achilles and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze. Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood. Wears gloves. Has colds. Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies. Limps lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It makes meals and carries them through broken towns, over smokey ridges, helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it. One traffic light. Three thousand three hundred lakes. Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest. Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog. Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless. Hours go by. Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over. The bejeweled mid-rim equator providence. King and queen. Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing? The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

No one eats, anymore. The pleasure is moved. The happy have landed. The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner. All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air. Something cumin in the water. I love in French. In English. In Germanic. I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows. The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows. I run around and move back. I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A neige built snow home. An igloo. A tale of curiosity, of interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo. We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing? Makes the men to swine, to amuse muses. To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays but the women never come with the water.-

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it. I smell you on socks. On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. The none-ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawaling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau, a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's nobody home. And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you. And I seam you, to me. I seam you to me.

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

brown-outs and in and out from blacking out
this kingdom of cloth, yachts, canvas dogs baring oil and a glass full of scotch, yonder the dogma of breaking out. This is a bank robbery, a fight so let's break it up. Baking club. Two cups of brown sugar, four cups of flour, two packets of apple sauce, vanilla extract, chocolate chips, two sticks of butter, come on now and stir it up. Things are stirring up. Flower petals and Hawaiian Punch, gardenias, orchids, a yellow top, blue jeans, and a green house walk.

California. Top-less, top-down convertible, brief rain on sunny days, and Urth Cafe for lunch. Valet parking on Melrose and window shopping with Snoop Dog at Rick Owens just to stir it up. While some things blur, all the best and brightest with their young supple ******* get together, eat lsd, just to sieve our cells so we can watch as the day is slurring us. Our words and our dance cards are hurting much. The drive to the desert while the beat brings us together and the Santa Ana's blow the pollen from the coast towards the Getty and it seems that our allergies aren't cured enough.

Two homemade lemonades in mason jars seem to me too ****, but to the youth it's the heat that packs the punch. An ounce for three hundred is way too much, on and on like an Indie song goes, Hot Chip and our Captain, we ride the Pacific Ocean while our skins tan under the heavy sun. One woman for me if it's you, is the best, and quite enough. So write your book about sailing a 12' Sunfish through the archipelago when you were four years old, and I'll edit myself into our narrative, use a paddle if the wind won't lift the main sail, and we can try to get home before the water swallows us. Blend the tropics with the fruit, and sneeze while facing the sun, if it's too much we can use Jet Skis and let the current bring us back to the coast one by one. Don't stop or drop the beat, don't worry because we've parked for free, so long as our batteries don't die, our flashlights will lead us home, it's a miracle to you, but just a number and a ticket to me, this is where the fun has just begun. Stirring it upside down, like a glass sailboat in a bottle and a love letter bleeding in salt water, have your romance but keep the sand out of our sheets, it's not like it's our bed, so we can't just have our fun.

I've taken a photograph. Way down in Alabama. Far into the delta where there's no cell signal, and the blues plays through our guitar, if you can do the harmony, I can sing for fun. It's not easy, the sound of our friends dying, drowning, in the despair their disease has overrun. But if we double our dreams, tear our skins and skip the streamers, blow up the balloons and catch the murderers that killed our son.

We can watch from the coast, stand at the top of the plateau, throw rocks into the cove, and free ourselves from a funeral that halves each other thru the mid-life synthesis we've been putting ourselves through, we can count, use the buddy-system and whistle loudly, fuse our genitals and flirt in a party that's just me and you, you might find that there's still fun for us, and this insanity isn't real, it's just a surrealist manifesto that in this earthquake we've just been painting our paths into. We've just begun to believe what isn't really grief but ought to be an afternoon or hunting and traveling at a grueling pace, with meager rations, there's not a snake bite I wouldn't be willing to **** the venom out of you, I'm just hoping you'd be willing to **** the venom out of me in time before I'd have to ask you to.

This is my body.
You know it. You touch my teeth with your fingers, my imperfect teeth. The teeth I brought home from the Czech Republic after pulling off my braces with pliers, after not having a toothbrush or fluoridated water for half of a year, you tell me that you love me and my teeth. You know they make me so uncomfortable.

You lay beside me in bed. You put your right hand in my left hand, your right leg over my left leg, and you tell me that your boyfriend is only your boyfriend because he was the opposite of your ex. He's not the one you want to be with, he's the one you just happen to be with.

I tell you we shouldn't kiss until it's over between the two of you.

This is my body, it's driving the car you're in. I fill up the gas tank and ask you where you'd like to go. You say you'd like to go anywhere. I drive us through Chicago, we go up one street and then down the next. I drive us downtown on Lake Shore Drive, across the city on Grand Avenue and over to Ohio, then I put us on the highway and then I take us off. We take North Avenue from I-94 to Wells to Lincoln and then North again until the car runs out of gas again. I fill up the car with gas, again.

I look at your face, your hair, your hands and your legs, I love your legs, your face, your lips, and the words coming out of your mouth.

I didn't know I could be happy like this again. I didn't know I could be so attracted to someone's body and so attracted to someone's mind- at the same time. I tell you that you should break up with him before we kiss, even though I just want to kiss you now. I want to kiss you now and now and now and now, and we start making promises, we start telling each other that there are rules for how to live life by understanding it. You understand your life and you understand me in it. I understand you and trust everything you say. You're right, brave, brilliant, and beautiful. I love the sound of your voice and the words you choose to use.

I'm sure we've known each other for over a decade. This is my body. This is your body. We are perfect and animated towards one another, and I like it, I love it. And I'm so ******* lucky.

I never have been as brave nor as bold as you've shown me I can be. I could be so brave and full of grace and excitement, and enchanted immensely by every gesture and breath that comes from you. I had previously been riddled with immense insanity before we met. I was sworn towards unmistakeable insanity, and doomed to a life of solitude and sadness, I had lived in a wash of thick melancholy, and I knew, and my friends agreed that my body and I would  never know happiness, pleasure, or awesomeness anymore.

You're driving me happily crazy. Fueled by unmistakeable excitement, and on the way towards a future of wildly enticing momentus togetherness.

You and your little dog too.

Drink dead moths darling, in smushy twilight. There's its grave in our closet against the milky Red sky. Dreams of a young man in a splinter of Night, submits his shadows for reasons, some Sell their dues for new lives. Incredible yawns Child- is your hero a leaf or the tree? Is it a Haunting First Nation People omitted by Sulking owls for breezes. Yore the mountains Can't long now, helter skelter near or afar, some Sell their poisons, others chisel their bark. And the hide is entrenched now, it's nearly six in the dawn, where the white women wake to the Weeping hearts read in palms. If the desert Should call us, back to roots that won't grow, Take your devils and walk with me in a plastic Flower grove. Wolves and a memory, calls for Many too late, sorrow switches the time stamp Where forever we played, and tonight no one Watches, tonight we the buffalo cry, and some Chase silver-dollars for the truth in their time. In their time, in their time. Someone far far away. Lest our treasures grow weary, as we forget how we played, some sunny day. Some winter day, far far away. Farther and farther from the things we once slayed.

Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.

Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a *****, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her ***** line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.

There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the **** plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.

While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.

That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.

Being a poet, a heavy handed right-hand writer, is to me, being a sociopathic killer of language. Hands that worship sometimes the least popular fruit, the myrrh or the mana, the young woman or the homeless man-animal, prostitutes and the dregs of civilization.

Here I am, shuffling through my cabinets, searching out that precise instrument, for this precise moment. My repertoire of blades, bludgeoning objects, handyman's tools: the hammer, axe, screwdriver, sieve, staple gun, nail gun, jigsaw, bandsaw, handsaw, and wrench, also too there are wood chippers, snippers, clippers, scissors, tapes, shanks, cords, ropes, and wires. I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the incredibly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal poisons, toxic chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments I've listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desired pleasure or response from he or she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer the Uniball .7mm with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the intensity and seriousness that must be conveyed or omitted. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the necessary temperament and intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique unto itself. No ****** is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.

It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and only me, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and I. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, and unbalanced, nearly schizophrenic performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead draws heavy sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each movement of the hand readies this god-sized control to the pen, exercising its tumultuous rein of might, choosing to exact its motive on this word, while ignoring and sometimes even skipping over whole sets of words, sentences in some instances, while in others it chooses to exhaust itself in wholly unbelievable performances of carnage, destroying speech, and slaying, splicing, and splitting-up complete sections of the English language.

In some cases neglecting those words that might seem noisome or rank to some folks, only to select and offer penalty to others, it chooses on occasion to ostracize other more sweetly and eloquent pieces of speech, it chooses which parts of our alphabet to select and which words or letters it ought to omit.

****** after ******, the writer counts each ****, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts he or she might even bring home a treasure or trinket, something small though, not bigger than that of a pomegranate though often not smaller than the wick of a candle. The writer takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie his or her method to his or her execution. Until, at last amid the company of themselves, they can revel in their vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts they've chosen to commit and the acts they've chosen to omit.

It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is called to rest, there can be found an easing and peaceful contentment. Each room slowly ushers out any of the unwanted sounds of the day. Finally, he or she may sit or stand, lay or play, undisturbed by agonizing wants or needs, and happily, having chosen to keep many cupfuls of pens, not only on their work-bench and writing desk, but in the kitchen, in the living room, and in every room.

In recent years, I've begun to notice that nearly every home and establishment, business, and institution keeps at least one pen on hand. If only for those special moments of social awkwardness when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells and vespers, free-verse, stream-of-consciousness, or prose that quickly by taking up the pen can offer to its bearer in short time steadfast relief or certain resolve. For the heart certainly pumps more ink than it does blood.

If it waits it tumbles him do so.
In the heif of the number of his woe.
And so blood splatters by the thousands
As if a thud heaves his cycle forward.

It was the grotto that before him,
Undertook the incline or the thrill.
And if the rider should go outside again,
Blood ****** and splatter may be his role.

I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.

Maybe you consider yourself a god.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried

Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.

An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.

No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected

Into the crash, imploded. Escape from light, I've known it was, the righteous and right thing to do. Where is the name? I'm listening. I hear the storm, it's growing for me, an old familiar know-it-all, with a glowing knack for mediums in the park each seventh Sunday, it takes a demon to splice my hearing, I'm in a covert closed-box first-class second-rate fairy-tale, and it is my time to start going for something transfixed, something the locals bare their graves and lapse over the journey the girls take heavily with their ****** and their men are swaying with the light. Taking their time to get to know them, until the lye takes off their fingertips and their lips cool an echo that I've cured my ears to listen closely towards.

There isn't a god. A h or even a sophomoric after-thought. This is the bed and our sheets don't know us. Is it her blood or is it the withdrawals showing, I'll sew the girls to their cotton, and make them toss their batons up, wear green and green and raise their lacrosse sticks. I've liked wearing lipstick, crossing my legs, and telling them, "you can't touch this." I take the mescaline and disrupt the contest. I carry the heads in a duffel bag, even though the lawyers don't recommend it, I carry the duffel bag in the restroom. I race 100 yards around the lunchroom, I play tag and go, I taste the subjects. Sweet, sugary, and coming onto me. She's aging denim and platinum rings.

I stop the door. I count for hours. I take all the dead-ends, all these lover's cross-eyed, pouring their pants down for supper and ecstasy, they'll take the anodyne and enter where their hearts spread disease on a dark submariner spring, where the clothes can start coming off. Lift your wings and your mantra will start rising. All of your different voices, that realize the different voices of your name, pour your light out, fill my hands with your love, and take the hour into the coastline- I'll be the one to call it enough. Even the voices can be the drug. Even her voice it could be enough.

It's the touch that knows your name. It's the governement that shears it down. It's the fibers that haunt you, while your fingertips reach slightly down along the edge of your mattress, where your sheets meet the ground. Let her be your goddess and arrange your services and coffin, the guests all wear black, and your mother raises the sun on the telephone. It might feel scripted, it might feel nostalgic, but don't let your mind turn blank. This is a stark horizon, your hands aren't here to supervise you. Your eyes can't join the rush. These are the skins that know you, they see you more than once, they call you in for the night, they tell all the people of your fame. There is really nothing to hide from, here where the desert can call you, up from the floor where they've found you, is it your face on the demons that reared you from the drug?

This is the sound and it haunts me, it takes its overture to the half-life. It takes the horror and reveals its torture to the public, where the joy-filled guitar chords pleasured me with so many gifts I always told myself they weren't enough.

Primes are around us, the people are march now. They can't keep their eyes off the madness, it's more than an hour now, they race towards their coastline, the twilight stretched mischievously passed their sons. They dig for tomorrow, the chisel at marble, until their hands undo the prisons their art dissolves. The primes are around us, it's unnerving and lifeless. New weekenders unearth these plasticine mannequin statues that ride Western through the values up the arms.

Here is a hero, no mother or father, at least not the name that they gave them, he took them out West, towards the yucca and cactus, towards the orange and stark calmness that only history could resolve the aching pains that our parents took with us through the thaw. This ice-world is melting, the seasons are ending, the shades of our evils take all of us, alone, threaded together, but stitched on the embers of some soul-less, tailored, empty null.

Here is the room, here are the stacks of dried lumber that we never thought could take us through the thaw. These are the bookends, Minnie and Mickey, white furry bonanza lost on the albicant sinews of bakelite slippers mixed into the dance routines of temporally observant minds that wouldn't dare feed themselves on the breaths of time. Here he is, like he was, not with his name tomorrow, not with her name for morning, they arc themselves inadequately, and even the doctors recommend that some soft-drinking orange-flavored omen takes their luggage and their fears, and drag them through an ocean, where no one could ever see them coming, into an aluminum jungle of preservatives where natives and islanders can sacrifice through them their judgements of a failed family history on the surplus of cities and their truths.

Here is the sound, here it strikes. Here is the room, cold and white. These are the books, here are the horrors. Here is the fashion but there's no rhythm there's no order. This is the rug, it's shaggy, it's a mess, it's distressed, it's unfolding, and it carries it's path of swine. It's a nuisance, it is caustic, it observes the unfortunate and reserves a placement for the matte sublimation of time.

And through the dirt-patterned bone-white skeleton keys basking on the rocks in some slumber of a 31st century pond, the people dancing punch their dance-cards, show their tattooes, and frollick in the great beyond. Here and in mourning, waxing on the miens of their corruption, whistling against the steel television sets from off of their 1982 television sets where they drink ***** and orange juice and laugh at Sylvester and Reboot on their regular Saturday morning routine watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Youth. In between a doctorate and mastery of language, there is nothing left to undo. A familiar feeling arriving to the airport, a tremendous evil summons the Zeppelin pilots to their terminals too. There is a horse that keeps on all of its riders, but still there's no pleasure that can keep us two.

As high as the wind and the rye, they search for the blight in our eyes, they summon our lips to a lie, tumbling and showing the time. These are the stars that we promised to give away. The legs on this pavement are slaves, half of this bad, shapes of her heaven and neverland, muffled like the secret that we have promised to tow, and the music is ahead of the shoal, out where our ocean wrote the seashore in, and the coastline carries our words on the wind. And the basement hoards our fears so we can move, away from the televisions where our parents keep their eyes' glued. Something that we promised to do, regardless of how familiarity thwarted to do, so don't break mine, don't take mine. I am the start of your pain, I wear the crown of your king, I make your bed and obey to keep the door open to our fray, where it gets us through the night. As I was told, you were supposed to know. I was tonight, I had the rights to you tonight. Your lips, their fire, the weapons for your fight, I caught myself in a lie, somewhere beyond the tremendousness of your see-through past, beyond this sea of glass where the sea creatures swim in the tales we had. Suffering past, the sea of glass, we once had.

I can see tonight, the foreman, he has told me where to go. Listen to the... I am here to help. I am going through the going, if I'm going to last, help me last, here in the thicket of the summer or the winter, this wild where we listened to the sound of snow crashing on these winter shoals where the penguins passed, and the lips froze against the icicles these icebergs flashed. The camera, suffering back, took me back, the sounds of the crash haunting back, to the weekend last summer we never had. The sleeping lasts, the winter grasps, our words have past, you're sleeping fast, eating glass, shining black. I'm suspended in liquid gas, shivering at the wicked words the women packed, the sharp synonyms that women had. I'm half of the man I was dreaming of, in the winter passed the winter doves, their heads hiding under glass. I'm just a splinter of my past, lilting as a tumbling black, simple jack, here on a card spliced I'm never to once again see my little world.

This is the sound of enough, the sound of people as they fall away. Through the windows of time, the ladder falls down inside of my mind. It's hard to live where the stars survived. In a library of dreams I once lived each day. Each of the curtains had dropped, and each of the women had left. The god of me took every need I thought I'd keep, for half of my past, was only the start of a bell I craved. Even if nothing was the sound for today. Nothing can be the sound that I gave. My muscles down, my bones breaking down, the sound of the humans buried alive underground. The choice he gave as the music played for all of these muffled thugs circling this parade on the hill.

It can be as hard to be a star. It's the cost of the heart that beats, on the coastline your readied float brings your corpse to the flood. Often lilting, often swaying, these things you pictured would be your life under this sun. If your buttons move, and you want to live free? And you claw your eyes out, just to call it off, every world you kept your lessons furtively aimed, in a match held with love, against some chanceless hope of taking the game. Each of these ends, keeping your pictures to the heavens, if his name should take your heart in need? One of these wombs where music had begun, the gnarly garden of space unkempt and calling her grave, where your name costs your fame, and the poison lifts this track up, and your train comes, it moves you backwards, even if you weren't the one, this could be the ghost you call and say, this is enough. This is the world where your friends can't go alone. Sounds and chimes and groans. Soundtracks scored into the chalk of your bones. Another, another, another, a mother.

Until this lover you chose by name, can't see. Until this lover you saw inside, can't see you very clearly tonight, you can't get by. You only just realized you're not the kindest mind, in fact yours is the weakest light.

She's a witch, stripper and succubus
She's had a house drop on her legs
But she's back at work again

She's out tonight
She's not the joking kind
She's not the joking kind
She'll turn the water into wine
And lick the acid off your spine

She's a *****
If it's beauty she wants it more
If you've wanted she's wanted more
You better give her all control
Or prepare to sign away your soul.

Death cadence and a touch of darkness
Burning dance the chimera shakes
Electric funeral in morning
Circus demons celebrate, she has no answer for it
Something overly personal again.
This is it, she's after the smell the wind.

Sanguinated faces peer out
Through the aching inches of suspended skin
A human being lacks the fortune, to supply the drugs that let the monsters live, she's close to death, it's something that the men can't resist.
Into the night, growing gruesomely, growing without knowing she writhed, she's suspended by evil and time

(Chorus)

Last Thursday of December
Through the  foggy mist we ride
It's a birthday to remember
Come out and have a time tonight!

(Verse 1)

Fighting for my namesake
I've got to make my sons
No brothers and no sister
Have a name that could belong.

(Verse 2)

Strike up a conversation
Until she hears her laugh
She'll **** half the species just to make sure you aren't distracted, she's your one
She's your one and only one.

(Chorus)

Last Thursday of December
Through the foggy mist we ride
It's a birthday to remember
Come out and have a time tonight.
He's out to live, going after his flavor for sin.
He's at it again, after something unbelievable again.

(Verse 3)

Toxic innovations, get them to their birth on time
You've got a doctor and a devil
Just to set this party right,
She's the one and only one,
Out for blood, one is really never enough

I have mistaken you, for the great wielder of language, that in the times of Caesar my father, my hero, the castle builder in mid-century medieval Spain, he was not. Painting mustard seeds and his mistake, bulbs of garlic for warding off the blood-suckers, I don't think it was his intention, but he could paint potatoes the flavor of want my sister and I so craved when she and I and him, revering in our trident throng forged language before a fading Tuesday night.

A painter is great rarely, but occurs in small, adequate attic-like spaces, empty squares upon squares, readied for the taking of language. Art might be the purveyor of its own bright useless entity, bright ripened similes squeezed out of the Dutch into the Latin vernacular our father failed to remember while poking him at midnight to rile him up to bed.

It was a mistake, the one my Godfather made when he started studying French with himself. No ranking professor can rank himself into his own pedagogy. Language might have lost its roots, maybe it even lost its qualities of being official.

"This is the office of the president."
"The President of the United States?"
"No, the president of the DISH Network."

This is for me, not any president I serve. You could have learnedly observed the words my father would spell to me, each individual vowel and consonant given their own power. However, not my mother or sister could undertake with adequate prowess the tenant of speaking as such, and their tongues suffered as their palates poorly undertook their flustered attempts to enter our philocalist resolve for Caesarian language.

Sadly now, as I think of reading. I think of your fingers and what you must certainly claim to be such grandiose proficiency, your digits and dactyls bring a melancholy hoop of unpleasantries to my eyes. Your mistake has been writing as you speak, and speaking as the free-style spoken-word "artists" attempt to do, in a horrifically insufficient and inarticulate way. I know your mistake when I open myself to read the Associated Press, listen to what Capitol Hill has to say, even coming down from the end of the bar it is a sick knot of undoing that I so wish any children we have will never be privy to.

Except on this Monday night where we can still commit our lives to one another without becoming the indigestible alphabet that has evolved into a toxin around us. What chance does poetry have if sentences collapse in short-dialogues? What will become of our hands? Will they forget the feeling of a pen or pencil in their grip? Certainly, those short notes and scribbles of cursive my mother left for my father, sister, and I will take themselves into antiquity with cuneiform and chalk, whether in Spain, The States, or another place, they have stormed out world with writing and grammar mistakes. He who must pretend to be understood by taking up the thesaurus to talk, will never have the qualities necessary to write without totally ******* it up.

the world is a world it is a word and it spins spinning, spinning, spinning, around and around, and this is the world and it spins, spinning around and around and we are here to see it, to see it and watch it spinning spinning around, here we are watching the spinning, the world, it goes around and around and around, spinning

Let me touch your skin, your skin your skin, your skin is so white, the whitest I have ever seen the whitest I have ever seen, white like the snow in the mountains, the mountain snow, so white, so clear, so snowy white like in the mountains, and I want to touch it, I want to touch it, let me touch it. You are like a *****, your skin is filthy and you are disgusting, so disgusting, let me touch you.

How I love your hair, your hair is amazing, it is so long, it is so incredible and so amazing and beautiful, it is like great big rounds of silk and satin in a great round, let me touch your hair, let me touch your hair, let me put my nose to it, let me put my mouth and lips to it, and my face to it, I want to breathe the same heavy awesome air that you breathe, I want to taste the same air that you have found. Your hair is like an old carpet with stains, let me touch it.

This is the world, here we are, watching it, we watch it, we watch it spinning, it spins around and around, and it will go forever, it or we or it will go around and around and around and around, spinning, and we will be here to watch it, spinning, spinning, spinning, around. You are like the end to the day that lasted forever and forever, never ending, but now it is ending, and the day was never ending, but no more. And the earth will spin around and around.

Make me *** and I'll come for you, until they pull me down and make me cough out loud. I'm a street named Chance and I'm awful loud, I read right to left. I hear colors not sounds. I'm a maniac, maniac, for Empire Carpet. I've been hospitalized for being honest, and condescended to for living life on the edge, with a knife in my bed, a pillow under my head. Where I've pollinated my sheets with the easements of sleep, and circumvented my best friends just to shake up the news. I've been used, I've been lied to, I've been amused, I've survived abuse, I've been bruised, I've leaned toward the obtuse, I've leant forward for truth, and I've written down my upsides and foretold my mishaps, I'm a backwards commando for import and export of hazmat, and especially bath mats, CB2 or IKEA, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or just farther beyond. I remain calm, while the adverbs stack in my palms, it's the trick of word pimping to work verbs into adjectives, articles attached to their nouns, an ellipsis or eroteme, a period or comma. I said I am *******, so now won't you come. I've evolved what I've said into parts of a song. So push back on me and I'll push back in you, I'll take your words and re-dedicate them into consonants and vowels. Hang up your heraldry, and never put down your ***. Keep your habits to bedrooms, and your words to never forget.

L'heure verte

The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine *******. Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.

At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.

Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.

Shoefly don't bother me
Shoefly don't bother me
Shoefly don't bother me
Or I'll begin to frighten thee

Laces on leather sneaks
Laces on leather sneaks
Laces on leather sneaks
Make a loop then round the tree.

Tall boots up to the knee
Tall boots up to the knee
Tall boots up to the knee
Come here and get in bed with me.

The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed ****, who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.

There's a place I have been
But it's a puzzle you see,
Nothing ornery and nothing certainly so.
The trouble ensues amidst the crackling air, It Inherits an anxiety that was born from youth.
Characters place a charge to pass between each Dimension unveiled in the quandaries exposed By each curious want. In wanness its decided, That each should mercifully idle, and pause Before it yields the gain. And an ampule of light Is pronounced by the right to take up pizza in The order of minds

Well they talk about the treatise,
They talk about the pigs from Lamar, they keep
Their furnace raw and kids on the move. Some wreak their havoc in swords, others burn their denim and gold. They've got their names in stone, and the sour-**** blues. Wrapped up in methodical and squared from an irregular obtuse. It helps sometimes to keep the furnace alive, the girl's red, raw, and juicy too. The night can keep the fury alive, but it pays to keep your sword sharpened too.

Dubious: charge
The deluxe program in. Obtuse angled and oblong animals. Mecca sexúal, discoverer pulling back the curtain tails in mimicry and peacockiness as the horizon shimmers itself out. Do not eschew unwieldy ostentation towards benign mid-weight colors in the sequel to Blahnik.

Offers in the hesitant, peak winds of Southern-Hemispherical Antarctic weather barometer losses. The ice is like a hive of nameless blue lily pad vessels, each a different magical shade of the water's blue.

She like the uncommon baroque grandeur in an hour of time, herself-

Summons the immense symmetry of her elaborate lavender macramès sheath and entomb her skin, exploding across her body like milk-white daffodils draped upon a morning  bow. Linseed and anise encompasses burnt sweet grass on the breadth of pine in a gentle pillow, anchored only by the veins of her red fruit nectar stitched at the grooves in her cool and unpunctuated lips. While anxiety numbing tufts of gentle satins wisp all the worry and turmoil away, pleasing every nerve, sensor, instinct, and exercise of glib humanity intertwined amid the pulse of our uncensored adultness. She glides amid the arcs of ebullient-molecules ribboned in winter synonyms, summoned up in her sensual and illustrious sublime, and the story of how like a horizon muted by organzas falling beneath her into that relationship she carries with her water God into something profound, immense, and totally ******* exquisite, yet beyond all imagining, she is always doing what has been the coolest **** ever to me. That becomes more magnificently indescribable like our amorous fire, incentivizing the luminous beauty of new stars to rush above us, and yet under us too, amidst the simple and perfected automany she so awesomely imbues.

Until the minutes are silenced in our heads and the days are warm with you.

For Sarah

The talisman bleeds. In the crevasse, he smokes rock. She inhales the stone. Freedom lies in the snow, tremendous blinding, in careful flight, she cannot hold the breaking of night, lifting higher and higher until her wings begin to explode. Some drinks take to fight, some beings take to highs, I advised her to maintain her flight- lilting on the dragonian see-saw ride. Freedom lies in the snow, dreams are blinding, in careful flight, she cannot hold the breaking of night, lifting higher and higher until her wings begin to explode. Freaks, grim, and zombies cry, while their echoes shade in the past of their lives. The freeze comes in quick, the ice drops its face, the claws and the white are more frightening in light.

He plays his game
He makes his cough
The girls go through his pockets fast.
He sees in blight.
He seeks his fire.
In nocturna, isles reveal their tries.

I hear the crash of the avalanche. Some keep time to its rhythm, there's a lot to do before it hits. I catch the swaying of snowflakes. I can hear the roar of the wind. Before they found benzene rings in the well, I could say who had broken a whole in the oil rig. Some found themselves staring at their faces, picking their destinies away, smoking themselves into a methamphetamine oblivion, until they cleaned the skin off of their faces. I hear the submarines starting in the South Fork, God's Riffle is under, so don't try to join them. Some speak until their lips are the color of bruises, some never speak because they're afraid of finding bruises trapped in their hair. America is spending in darkness. Knowing in foul tradition. Burning at the testicles, and calling in sick. Go home to Wyoming, drink your nuclear family into a white courtroom with a fickle jury of out-of-towners. Be on your best most calm behavior. The denim is up in the air, the snow is coming in shingles, the grizzlies and black bears are choosing which young they ought to hide.

I hear the cruelness of amphetamine users, through and through. You don't want to know them, I don't- I doctor up my circumstances so I don't drive ourselves crazy observing and swerving up and down and off the road. I am the Prince of Bell-Air. I keep my pockets oozing with four colors of black and nothing darker. Something is sharpening the beats of a generation, and no one is calling. Where are my friends in the darkness? I can hear their sides when they cough, but there is nothing like laughing in  glitter, aside from the wildness and toil of this dusk.

I feed you the bacon, that the Corporal made. He could pilot a falcon to the home of the brave.
Well his hands take no sinning,
Like your eyes stricken white.
You were born and forgotten
On a Saturday night.
I count the brandings, o'er the tower's achy call,
In this land of poor mothers, you could quiet your shrill.
If you're rustling and shaking, like a need for The blues.
You better flag down the night sky, for just a Taste of the moon.
Any one can take a gargoyle, as a treat, or a sin.
Until you step aside girl, you'd better not count
On a win.

In a state of confusion, you're the governor of Pain. So let down your hair child, or throw your  thoughts towards forgettin'. I could be weary, or I could be wrong. But tomorrow I'll be farther, farther than a telephone's call.

I'll take the whip, and the hammer, just to cross
Myself supine. I could wrestle up some supper. I could retake a swift sublime. Any outfit I'm donning, it's as black as could be. For the funerals off, do not count on your grief. Do not count on your nightmares, don't rely on your dreams. If you waste your time blinking, you could find your eyes lying. The world turns more quickly, when you're heart-break is live.

I've run and I've rambled. Like a soldier I was caught sporting a grin.
I can hear the wolves Howling,
It's the music that's playing.
Once I was a coward,
Now I'm a scout for the fear.
All that was in question,
All that was too heavy to bare.
You are the coin's flip, fueled by fashion and Law. Till the death comes to part you, and the Men come to call.

While your brother claims writing, over silence and grief.
Take your eyes for a peddling, a chance to take some relief.

And while you are writing, just come for a call. Quiet your longing, some folks were never meant to come at all.

I rob roadside grave markers
I rub my *** at the library
And I never wash my hands.
I carry a disease for my popularity,
I *** in beds and get **** in my boxer briefs.
I get by with flashbacks and I like to lick the Slime off of toads.
I deleted my birthday.
There is no reason to celebrate
Or ever allow ice cream, nor smiling.
There shall be no smiling.
I am a heathen and unforgettable
But I don't hate and I ain't racist.