A CONFUSING DAY FOR CUCUMBER FISH

I’m not being able to escape this, in parts, either on the slip where the drifters weigh themselves against daily chores, or to the perch, where against the millions of suns striking into the cabinets where devoted criminal ****** *** offenders aid and abet their children:

flying kites, tossing bread crumbs to water fowl, playing tag, hide and go seek, or

Cooking food, drinking cold alcoholic beverage, and listening as a friend with a guitar sings about the child born in the mountains as a man, only to find the world as a legend.

Still there is no escape. There is only the peril of night stretching 99% of our brains across the tepid sky, only to wait for the light of those suns to fade, and then only have to worry about the dross and muck on every fingerprint of every man from this place or the next. These are fingerprints that ooze the familiar green devil whose face familiar ages our futures before they can even happen. Then we succumb to the bitterness of these years on the perch, the stoop, the step, wandering around the chollas in nothing but a pair of aquamarine boy’s briefs. This is not insanity. This is the product of insanity. This is not losing, this is the product of living under a government that has been taking what it could not afford, and who trades in what hurts rather than helps what ails rather than aids.

This is the ratcheting heard inside the bruised and frail hearts of many. The pain inside their backs and legs and arms and heads is real. It smells real. It sounds real. It feels real, but no one here has ever known what it is that is happening, therefore they do not understand the great costs being played with when these oozing poison-stricken fingertips start playing at the game of life, or they start playing at the game of their neighbor’s life. There is an outcome of sunset still yet to be seen, and that is the inescapability and uncertainty of millions of children being born today, tomorrow, and hereafter. The children tomorrow should not have to worry about washing someone’s fingerprints off of the skin they have yet to be born inside. Stretching across the dusty and quiet streets, if this Wild West is closing its wildness out and isn’t doing anything but wandering west, there isn’t a committee of sanity that will prevail. Especially as we choke through the gravely heavy metals meddling with the untold stories of tomorrow’s sons and daughters.

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.

Communication breakdown, it's always the shame, communication breakdown, these cons have got me insane! Free-range bottled catastrophe serf missiles? Long-target pre-coordinated nuclear crisis capsule complete with ****** thermometer. Caution precedes human condition, conditioning begets man, man never drops by to see what condition his condition is in. Turning into a walrus sized bunker for a cottontail, except for the 'Welcome Home' mat its a bunker much like a prison cell. Even the skiers are dry, the cities have gone dark, and everyone has stayed home from work. The conditions are more bearable on warmer days, perhaps in Half Moon Bay or closer to Dana Point. Whatever needs to be done to keep away from microwaves and fluorescent lights. The music they play is still playing a long ten years behind.

In a quiet place beyond the trammeling rays, on the precipice of yesterday, swimming in the crevasse  three or four of those giant salamanders from a docudrama in Japan. Maybe an amphibious subspecies underlooked by science and ignored by the sharks of Lake Michigan. Torrenting the minutia of their lair, ambulating with blind catfish eyes that ferocious and wet icy place someone must have mistakingly decided to call home. Not the winter of Chicago, but a place too cold to be home.

While tied to the brain, the typecast grew hot, the skin on the fingertips and wrists had all rotted. Two bruises shaped like feet, and gravity hurdling its' ugly veneer all down and back in a horseshoe of shimmering silver dust, sometimes blinding, but it was like being rained on by gray rain drops. First the frogs, then the fog, 8:21 marked at every turn. If you can't fly a plane you shouldn't be allowed in the pilot's seat. That means uncrossing your legs and keeping your calves pursed closely towards your feet. Maybe it means you broke Rule Sixty-Two, you wound yourself up more than you thought you had figured for the truth, but instead got more serious while you were losing.

Here is the tin can on an empty shelf labeled Planet #2 Earth, for $4.50 on sale, about the size of a coffee tin, but without that fresh coffee smell. Two triangles like the way pineapple juice comes.

Sharp resources are scarce when the meter drifts off to sleep, and the girl you crush on can't read any of your tweets. Then the nostrils get pierced, you get perched, on a rock, overlooking the dredging to get rid of all the dross. Sometimes I go back to sleep because I have a bed that's too soft, that even for someone who can fall asleep on concrete it's really too much. Two days, two nights, or four weeks, dozing with the hard rime collecting over my head.

When is your lavender infusion enough for serving to guests, combustible enough for the summer months, could it make us invincible to poverty? It made Jackson ******* paint the future with sticks, and made Mike Jackson fill a house with unofficially adopted toddlers and children, maybe it’ll make us go out on a limb, we could chill it with ice cubes and serve it with lemon. I’m not sure if it’s the lavender talking or the infusion you see, but it might take several hours until the simple syrup can be poured into our lemonade drink.

I keep her clothing in the bed,
Fresh wet daggers of this concupiscent World. That is the standard. Don't you Hear it?
I watch the lamps and blankets singe
Cigarettes and Heineken
Nevermind, With the Lights Out
Everything is 'About A Girl',
And faking for no one.
'm too fuxked to know the difference
Stress is a knot that kills the young
I don't care about the other's wasting Their time isn't my business.

My sick is so short sighted. It carries a Black lighter inside its Gareth Pugh jeans.
Ann Demeulemeester top, Rick Owens Boots, an Obscur coat, Rad Hourani shirt
Henrik Vibskov socks, an MB999 tee.
Color is language for the body to read.
Inertia and energy protect me. I am the Opposite of a black hole. This vessel governs its own space, but I don't attempt To understand anything or any one thing.

This lizard brain keeps its ward and Wielding the almighty power of its Nightness, cosy's up near the Community of Death, Magic, and Numinous winter dirges, huffing Parfumes from her death-covered clothes.

I am drunk on your breath, while a slave to your sighs.
I live in your heart and sleep in your mind.
Keep me in your eyes, and lend me your hands.
I want to live next to you wherever you choose to land.
There's a time when we thrived near the cockerell plain
In the strawberry fields where we danced and we played.
It's so unbelievably ****** to be three thousand miles away,
We haven't seen we for three years, but we work towards it every day.
Nothing ***** as much as being in the wrong state.
Being in the worst way, and living in the wrong place.

[on the verge of a cry]

Darling penguin,

you've brought me here yet again. whether we writers are on the page of paper, Moleskin, notebook, website, or smartphone, here again you have brought me. Having just lit another cigarette, drinks and drugs and smoke and music are in this place you've brought me with these ***** fingers pounding away into a bluetooth keyboard as the long lonely nights I've taken to find you melted away the keys of my computer ash and burnt plastic have taken to so many letters: H, command, I, R, and D too. I have a fixe and it won't be cured alone. I've been on so many lines and numbers, and I keep trying, and I'll tell you some people might consider these women absolutely marvelous, but to me, they too often prove to be nothing more than the hollow engravings of tales told too often, and where am I with you?

I'm cracking my knuckles again, and it's so ******* hot in here. Morphs, subs, percs, and oxys, pain and agonizing pain. And I'm growing a beard and mustache, very soft hair for you to nestle into when we move into the house in Evanston. I've been touching my lips with these ash stained fingertips drafting your lips upon mine, while the piceous nexus of this cold untouched skin shifts restlessly in the drear and yellow light of another sad and melancholy hour away from my arms around you, abreast and grinning with excitement, contentment, contagious glee. i bring my clean soft fingerds through the strands of aurulent glistening gold hair of yours and press my mouth into the crown of your head, the temples of your face, and your face presses into mine, and it's 1:41am and these eyes wander endlessly around this room ******* down carcinogens and poison, holes in these jeans, black denim tapered cut, your black leather studded cuff around my right wrist and the peace beads a wandering monk granted to me with a gold card and a bow while amassing friends in the herds of people gathered in line to go into Lollapalooza. I am brimming over with excitement, even for the taste of dog feces in the cigarettes(I will brush of course), you are my event horizon, my vessel of light beams, lasers, and the most immense love for which of course more than a dozen different writings attempt to share with others and imbue the world to even come close to the extraordinary magnanimous love and adoration unto the both of us, but between ourselves especially.

Earlier this evening I was speaking to Elizabeth on the propensity of how valuable having a soulmate really is, not to say the words but to know the person, to know you in the full grace and integrity of what that means. I was saying how with you, there is no one or many or anything about you that disturbs me or that I could find gross or that could keep me from wanting to be close to you. That no matter how sick you could get or **** it- what I was saying is that I love you so much I want you to spit in my mouth, smear every part of your body against every inch of my body. I want to smell, taste, touch, and see all of you that there is, to sit again and stand again and stand up and sit down just ******* staring forever in the most beautiful enchanting, ethereal, and beloved face I have ever seen. And if I must I would carry you over molten lava, burning steel, broken glass, but instead I think we ought to go to Half Moon Bay, and while the chill is in the air, and it's just you and me my love, we can dance in the surf and kick the water at each other. Because the continental plates will always be moving, the water will move to grow and surge and swell and turn to clouds and back to raindrops and precipitate life and govern this planet, but I will always be governed by our amatory interconnectedness and how perfervidly passionate and over the top I am and always will be about you. I will give the world to you, so long as I can love you for as long as I live.

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

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.

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.

To balance inside this world and yours isn't the easiest feat, while I cling to the insides of the jungle gym where we used to play hide and seek. Should I say, "You don't call, you don't write. It's been 3 years since I've had my muse?" All the anger strewn across my elbows makes me feel like gulliver unable to do all my traveling. I've dared. I've crossed. I've taken where signs said, "Stay Away!" But all for the chance for just a minute with you, alone in Half Moon Bay.

I am riddled with 30. The strike of midnight, it eats me, starting at the toes, bare and lively and barely alive, I struggle along a seam. My thoughts hang on the graveside. I wonder if anyone can see this? Thirty has me, she's a cruel contender made up of sinew and string, red rope licorice and DNA, blinds me when I walk with my face in the wind, steps over me like a Chicago pothole; the entire size of an apartment, 30 lives in the laundry room, tumbling over and over until its dry, desiccate and dry.

30 sends mail from Washington State too, it don't leave no line for greetings, it don't whoopdy-whoop the white-prentenders. No flowers for Kristine, no merriness of mirth, or dog on tin roof or nothing. Absolutely nothing. Thirty is the wickedest weapon of the new millenium, nothing so fiercely glum as this- boots won't even fit me, my hands' knuckles is swollen. My socks have finished their last **** verse too. ****, man. 30 is the poison drug. Gator, 30 is Gator with speed and disease. Harmful tremors, shakes, phone                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000­00000000000000000000000000

Sensational curiosities of quarter-sized universes of human love and human flesh.
Gentle insane thoughtless violence cured in time's long sluice of betrayal,
Rancor, then betrayal, and then the frost. Never did I hear the twigget of the synthesizer max its flare.

Every mouth was a warship, the plumes coming up over the top of the spigot, sampler of the Neverspoke. Worships them, in the Hectares through the dross, the incumbent conflagration

Envelops life from venom thru a stra.  Into the hutch the creeper shakes, like the

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.

See the mountains
Shedding arsenic and snow
Catapulting and shaking.
Pacing before they know what's to come.  

These are the trees I mentioned.
They don't have them from where I'm from, but
All over the world it's the same:

It's fun to do drus
When you know that you're gonna die young.

Origins of these golden hairs
My confidence hasn't died with you
Picture frames, store bought frames
With families already inside of them.

Glowing lights, described
Inside a children's book.
Riddled with sexuality and cruelty-
Golden lions abate them.
The standard has now been risen, keep up while you can

Short legs dragging through airport
Corridors so many businessmen
Envy-driven and greed-streaked
Cannibals in arm's reach.

My furry caterpillar claws
Your bite-sized lips, bright red
From kisses past tense. Storm fires Pouring igneous dark matter and gold
Into a deep mystery, well mostly just a mystery to me.

Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.

Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-

little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.

Let me know your name
You can ******* skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.

Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes

This cough never goes.  It's the same cough my grandfather had in Auschwitz. We both don't have shoes that fit, but nobody cares. Somebody could be a famous keyboard player, a violinist, she may have been good with a pen- all of us our apes now and frozen. Maybe it's you who eats the intestines, heart, and eyeballs. Some say the taste is great, but it won't be I who eats the sight out of anything I've sent into the afterlife. A world of people who send the ****** carcasses blind, dead, and mute bumping into the brimstone walls in the middle Earth. It could be a hollow sounding hell or the sweet sounds of the Elysian fields, but now they are deaf, mute, and blind. These aren't the same persons using all of the hot water when they take their once a week shower. Even she could have showered every day. Even if there was a fire, a shower is safe from a fire. Steam is great for the lungs. Every creak is haunting, every peep is a beast living in the walls. I've been so scared I might never have an ******* again. This past week I got dust for nostalgia two for one.

You should remember this: people who aren't ***** don't wonder if they are or not. Your mom isn't right but everything you've been up to is off-putting, makes us all uneasy, what you're after is very, very wrong for you. You won't know you're wrong until you're tortured watching someone you love going through it. It is so ******* dry in here. This morning I must've blown my nose and coughed out an ounce of grossness. Dried throat problems, soot, ashy soot, not enough water or miracles, or simple answers to the questions racing through my head over and over. I ask you for an answer and all you can say is you're sleeping. Liars are weak at producing results. He is a liar that you are okay with somehow. I thought you might even fake or pretend something to give us assurance. We don't know what to do or what we're doing, but at least we admit we don't have a clue.

The first problem was stealing those sunglasses. $600 for another pair; that's not happening. I paid for dinner for you because you forgot to eat, then when they got it wrong you tried to take it out on me, and when they refunded the money, you kept it. That hardly makes any sense, and it's not the first time you've robbed me when you thought I didn't notice. I just haven't mentioned it because it gives me a bit of a smile watching you glide around your life thinking you're the ****- but really you are the ****. The coolest girl ever, I just wish you saw you the way I do; you deserve more than I think you'll give yourself. Maybe your **** is painted gold, since you still managed to squeeze your hips and lips and smile at the right time. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. When people have tried to fool me, it never happens the way they think it would. I tried to let you know you were worthy of me and that you're worthy of your own happiness and self-worth.  You have always impressed me one way or another. Nelson Mandela may have been a great musician. I've watched women and angels morph into biting flies and fish with ick, I've watched my wife lose her mind, second to that and I thought that was the worst....but second to that was watching you sabotage our trending beauty within one another. To take on someone else's child is like getting The Gift, but more expensive and depressing. I will never respect the way you've come to know him, and I cannot tell you how ridiculous it is to hear you talk about commitment. You're not even committed to yourself yet. But I'm here for you. I'm just going to tell the truth...

So maybe that makes him *** then. Idk i don't care

February 8th, 2018 - 11:06pm. In. An. The. How much deeper will this go? This desert. This baron land and escape from the moonlit evenings’ effervescent engineering of short-lived Neanderthals. These voices are enough to split our hides through and through like an cheese grater, that pants-boots combo chases us into the early morning forecast. I need to get out with her. We need to get out from here. We need to go out from this place. There are hexes and hieroglyphs places matte with ill-defined Finnish designs. There is the yolk and that which copies it. There is the phone and the web of tangling eyes whose corpus is mimicry. I am the notes and the music is taking me down, down, down. Whether it’s our dreams or the sweats that keep us ratcheting our bodies beaten eyes hooked to the cadavers we once chose. Now it’s up to you to choose. This is the fuse that we’ve let loose, maybe your furnace can curtsy and observe these sad blackened buffoons while they make us shrivel up and go hide back in our bed cocoons. This is a zoo I tell you and you tell me. This is a zoo of mayhem, hedonists, and 400° degrees. These are the tiny beds we hide in until they melt us down, into the heirs of our highness, our luxuries quick to abscond.

the bridge you passed has bodies under it, get over your fear of lying and get on your tummy and let's play wheelbarrow with those stems I scooped up from CVS and pre-cut for you before I got to the front door. Not only do I like that your mom likes that I like to get you them; you wear how content you are with we based on how you meet the needs of a poppy or a daffodil. Nothing does buckets of flowers good like a little bit of teenage romance. But we're not still digging the crotch out of our fingers or filing down or ****** cards anymore, now are we? We have multimedia, social networking, label, after ******* label and acquaintance both tertiary and intimate to reconcile differences, the advice we've never asked for but always been given. No one will ever tell me what I deem tolerable, especially you. I know that after saying how you've never disappointed me you must have felt some guilt, an unintentional result of once again attempting my position in thwarting any emotional pain that continues to be unresolved. We spoke of being funny and pushing boundaries but not breaking our circle of contentedness. But instead by sleeping in our arms until the side on which you lay molds my arm inside of it, and we are made one.

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.

I'm a ***** for your lips and drunk off your touch
I'm the biggest dork when I'm wet with your love
I just want to drink you, I've never had enough
The poison's in me thick and I know soon death will come

Me, I'm a raving lunatic, I'm mad
Crazier than Carroll's hatter and his Cheshire Cat
I'd put three red hotels on the top of your head
Collect all of Free Parking then crawl into our bed

I am the venom if you are the pain
I just want a thousand years to revel in your name
I can count my true loves on one single hand,
But you I can only count one of because that's all that I've had.

I'm a cylinder of evil, wrought with torturous pain
Dizzied by the spinning of my circuitous brain
I'm needy for your antidote before blackness courses through my veins
And the moon hits its fifth phase and I turn into a werewolf again

I've never wanted to **** around or catch a second look
Now I've been on a carousel of women, full of hookers and crooks
My wheels are thrown sideways, my skin's full of threat
I'm sick with the tantrum, The Fever that missing you gives

I'm weaponized and viral, cursing but still in command
My flags in the ground and I'm taking over this land
I've written a new bible about blood and rock 'n roll
Surrender your body, because I've eaten your soul
I am the poison if you are the watch
I just want to be drunk off your breath and live inside your touch

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.

She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.

Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.

That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.

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.

acknowledge me. seething with tumultuous needs, the crispness in your cocktail dress sways fingertips, interstices of unscrupulous overuse, the deep accreditations you accreditted to our use. The oral collages of fogs synthesized sacrilege. Organics and the ultramodern. Speak ballet with me, turn your head sideways while I look at you a new amazing way. Write your future in the dna of my hands, I read the secrets off yours.

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

We keep on cutting, edges off the blind parts of our hands.
Everyone you don't trust is getting, a little too close, and
Soon you'll be so loud that all of your fears come out.
Each ounce of you, that I packed into sandwich bags
And shoved down my throat, that now while you try
To back out, your bloodied olive-sized organs
Get jammed in my lungs and my ribs. You pretend
That your heart is a bouncy beach ball filled with helium,
But with even the practice you had at lying, I can smell
How new at this you are. Some part of me, childish still
I presume, brushes my fingers through your hair and
Over your ears, then touches this face stuck with splinters
That you've tried to use scissors to combat every thing
Making you feel differently about us now. Now.

Using the contraption from when we started out,
The Jaguar convertible with the top brought down,
Cruising up to San Fran when we thought the sun was out,
But we managed to make it the only Summer where it snowed downtown.
Even with the hummer, you were on my right, looking backwards out
Of your eyes. Glass crystals cut the corners of your mouth, looking back,
I centered my turn-ons by the bruises I bit into your calves.

The number of times I've let you rattle my cage,
******* up my brain. The slave wage you paid,
Main-stage, 'The Rage', for a hand-me-down
Chance to get laid.

****** and God, a forty-hour a week job,
Benchmark No. 1, 'The Saw.'

Tailored into the skins, needle pins and numbness
Attached to the dumbest excuses to run with.
For the ***, the anticipation was sinning enough,
That every once in a while I could afford to be turned off.

The next three days and Maisie,
Your teenage head went crazy,
Every ten minutes you paged me.
The price of admission, I wished,
Would've been the attention I'd give,
A cannibal habit, you kicked. I quit
Bothering you about what your *** size is.

After eight months, of which I said they were probably closer to nine,
Was the beginning of when I could convince you to drive yourself
Into my house. While the closet I could afford ensnared you,
I wore washed up Air Jordan's with skinny black Levi's,
You dyed your hair to gray before going blonde, it went to your hips
But you kept a ponytail or bob.

I'm remembering now, nearly every other day at age twenty-two,
Going to Clark's and ordering hashbrowns with green peppers on Sherman Avenue.
Every resistant bone in my body bothers me, I sit with the transistor between
My first finger and index, tuning the ****, while rehearsing violent seminars
Between you and I that resembled closely The Bay of Pigs. Your fingernails never
Had time to grow long enough to paint. You also never wanted to wear high heels.

This is the first chance without plastic lunch-bags in my throat, that I can chew up my food, without choking on olive pits that have been Getting stuck in my esophagus for the last thirteen years.

Don't hate me.
I know you saw me, you're sawing at me.
But when I see you, I say, "Marry me."
We only have seconds left,
Give me your shallow breaths,
I'll cup my hands and catch the water while you drink from me.
Drink from me, every flavor that you can grip between your teeth.
There are only seconds now, I'm counting 23.
Why won't you love me? Why won't you love me? Why won't you love me?
I choke. I ache. I scream.
Kristine.

3 seconds left.

You know me better than I, better than I know myself; you know me like I want to, like I was my own world's father. A famous goddess, parishioners won't say her name, I wrote letters to her personally, but was never brave enough to greet face to face. There's a type of prose, only intimate partners dare to go, where adjectives take verbs in rounds, and lovers sing each other songs. I've you and you have me, I'm captured by you so lovely, there's nothing I wouldn't do, good or bad, I'd ****** for you- a great vegan harvest, all of everything for my love the goddess.

In a world worshiped by false idols,
Where musicians and actors are modern day deities and neon signs flourese divine promises in magazines and the televangelist newscasters inject the masses with fear and false promises.
Opiated zombies take to the streets and go about their lives sleeping with eyes wide open at screens that have more meaning than their banal lives. But I woke-up long ago looking at the photo of your limitless azure eyes through a photograph. Long before I met you, I knew that one day our paths would cross and we would drive through the desert, deserted towns listening to Townes van Zandt and other musicians that most have only heard of through top 40 covers of their soulful songs.

The cacophony of coyotes, pumas, rattlesnakes and rabbits darting to and fro, in front of our headlights as quartz crystals reflect the full moon light, and Joshua Trees dance beneath the stars while we talk about Morrison, Harrison, Hendrix and the impact they have had on our lives. While most are drunk or dreaming, we are living the ultimate dream. I cannot wake-up to a world without you there-

Beside me and a space pig curled up asleep on the backseat as we trek across the Milky Way.

I smell the fires, their noisome stench fills my nose with the harsh turpentine and piceous smoke, but in the night we cannot see the trees. This fire could be right off our balcony. It could just be a neighbor's barbecue. How can people enjoy eating burnt and coal-battered meat? Your Uncle's neighbor apparently enjoys street meat. He killed a tick-covered deer, while he rode his scooter over the pass at night, and lied, he said he hunted it with his bare hands. Why must men and women and people lie, as if their stories capture more attention if they don't share what actually happened.

Dear you, I love you so. More and more with each passing day, I just hope one day we'll both leave this place, and share our final breaths in the same Earthen place. I promise you I'll share my final resting place so long as it's in a grave. I worry you'll want someone to spread your ashes, on a ski run in Aspen. Can we pretend small creatures live inside our walls, and rule a kingdom somewhere on our second floor, where Fraggles scramble to complete construction, on a network of tunnels.

I told you I would re-propose to you every day, I love you more than words can say. It's unquantifiable, just look beneath my eyelids. There's a man who used to share the hash he smoked, in a cove, somewhere in Venice, where the locals met us.

I'd drink and quaff your humanness, the pulchritude I cannot resist. The splendor you exude in all the passions you choose to do.

Hey you, if you find me here. Let me know if I'm still alive. I've made a wish to live, and be the father of your kids. We sing and laugh and sway, we eat apples and honey and pray, to an invisible god that could disperse all our flaws. And this moon, the one that has shone itself on empty roads, ignites the stars and stares at us shattering this cold. You were made in the image of life, I've been incommunicado but connected your dots. I wish I could color you by numbers, and count the hours we've slumbered.

There's cold-weather dripping from my nose. Where howling wolves and coyotes go. Where elk canter and mule deer pass, and a small boy moose named Bullwinkle waits for his mother to come back. Here is where the spotted marten eats from a rotting corpse, maybe it's a small naked shrew, it's map lines strewn across this town, where tourists think they know us, but they don't know my goddess.

Hey love, I'll never leave you alone. I'll never go to bed before you arrive home. I try and try not to yell, or even raise my voice above the evenings sounds. Do you hear the moose stepping on the frost-laden grass? It must have been starving for it to come this far. I'm learning now I know more about nothing, which I prefer to knowing something.

My hands won't put on the show, I told you I thought I knew. I prefer to be going down, so long as you'll always be around. I could count ten seconds until I realize my sentence. Poor birds fall out of the trees, there wings must have been freezing. I wait for you and I wait for your words. Your heart is made from all the things, I've only recently realized I've seen. Together, forever more. I take my hat off and hold open the door, I kiss your neck and eyelids and enjoy our shared silence. Keep me and never go away, you're worth more than the sky may lead, or the oceans breathe. I won't step, I won't speak, or breathe. Dear goddess, you're the only one I need. I need no one but you. I only need to know that you need me too. And one hour our shadows will meld together, while we wait outside freezing as we wait for summer.

But each season holds its own magic,
A seasonal  zeitgeist where we create our own traditions that supersede the Hallmark holidays that our oligarchies have created to lead people astray from the cohesive love and communal celebrations that our predecessors revered.
Yet each moment is a cause for celebration for you are a part of my life. I cannot wait to call you my wife.

From the moment I awake and feel your warm morning breath on my chest,
I breathe in the perfume of you and kiss you gently on the forehead as you hug me closer and face nuzzle me more deeply.
Each day, more perfect than the last.
I fight sleep because life with you is more splendorous than the culmination of all of my dreams. A symphony and an endless sonnet, fairy tales cannot come close to telling the story of our love.

You show my fingers where to go on the electric guitar strings of the mahogany fretboard of the guitar you gave me for my birthday.
My hands are slowly learning how to the play the notes and lyrics that I conjure in my mind. I cannot wait to play the songs that you inspire my soul to play. We shall sing together - a melodic harmony of a quixotic ambrosia that accompanies the vibrations of my guitar strings filtered through guitar pedals and amplified in warm undertones by the Fender tube amp.
Your bass line keeps pace with the heartbeat of the song as our voices go on
Singing the songs of our adventures
As leather wearing vegans and expedition smokers.

We smoke Marlboro Red Labels to pay homage to our Americana heritage,
As we drive the Prince of Darkness to foreign lands in search of crystalline moments to write, paint, create and sing about the dream we live everyday.
The dream I live with you my dear
,is the one I never want to awake from.

Inside of the room where we smoke and draw pretty things in ink
I wrap my arm under your arm, and call our bodies into hug
I put my neck over your neck, you are the cheetah cub I am the fawn
How many rains old are you? No, how many droughts old are you?
I carry spirit sharks I've never seen inside my skinny legs. My hide is
Built of rhinoceros hearts and truth.

I have lived in webs, lived in dens, lived in bars and you. Your hair smells
Like freedom, marriage, and youth. I want to be osmosis where the cells Collide and contribute, even the physicist's are confused. What kind of Bird are you? I said what kind of bird are you?

I've been in the room with the garbage bags for a roof, dried berry bushes That Ed has eaten bare of fruit.
I want to hear you sing, the stories you carry with you from your youth. My trauma card is punched now, are you carrying the blues.

I have shuffled up, inside the Hebrew dragon gods I have never Understood, how the corduroy grows weary from the use, the cotton Threads they made are sewn and stitched well, so why do they tear on The legs I put them on, my legs are skinless, my pockets worn from Carrying things like a child whose curiosity is overused. I'm free for use, I'm yours for use.

You are the devil in the face of my broken watch- your eyes reveal a shear glint of the moon's light. Your tear ducts make mine heavy. It's been 7 years since I felt you. You feel wonderful. I kept my promise. To you I keep all my promises. I fought the demons you protected me from, but I had to fight them on my own terms. Talk about rotten boyfriend material. I wish I could have been able to move to you, into you, closer to you, maybe even do some of that weird parkour jumping dancing Magic Mike Jordan twisting dancing type things. You after all are our Pieta.

You are the brilliant amulets of mirth and unbroken pathways. I feel the fur of your carpet between my toes. And I still haven't reapplied your nose. Please don't drown without me.

As men, we respond. With sticks, in garments wet with black anthologies of life
Which whistles out of us as thorns, and sticky eyes that point that way. Exact hours.
Despite lust, from what has taken us before- to that androgynous triumph that brings
Us tears as we undo our buttons. That rakes time over our backs with the needles of small
Trumpets the teeth of ghosts, blood on the stems, awarded to brass ballerinas dancing on
Wounds each quotient inside our breaths, terrified strips the branches from the everywhereness
In front of what we can't see. Or open our eyes. Or follow our hands. The legs that we used to know.
The pallid girl I called home, dusty eyelids with energies sharpened with the sweet water and gold Threads atop a haystack I burned in pyres of all the yesterdays.

Once I was human, but not for my breaths or my volume or my sullied attitudes. Not for the denature of
My rotten mood, or the noxious smells from some evil words, or noisome meat, or grueling and expired
Thoughts. Unrolled canvases cauterized with the silks shreds in a suitcase beyond. A caption unread Intwined at the bow of her hip, or the hems that dotted her skin. Black and blue staled songs a father Sung so long ago. The hill rolled on as our bodies clung to satchels we hid, each watery step we steeped In the mud, culms fell and I didn't think, I haven't thought; everything I forgot approaches the tines of my Nose once aching thews overcame the moors I'd undone, there acarpous hues were pried into me.

Everything I've seen, is a muse that disperses my lungs.
Is the incantation of the thoughts I don't spake. Intwined in the fingers I shook, at the people that I
Wanted to hate, I am steal the weight of their steps. This urgency, penury hides. The silt hasn't moved
From the cenacle place. While cloffined the ashes stuck to my face. An eroteme I still uphold
As if this rock inside of my chest, only wanes when I lay on her breast.

Martin Narrod [Chicago] to Adam Holzrichter [San Francisco, via NYC]*
June 26 2005
Guild Printers Press
122 Bedford
Brooklyn NY, 11211*

I peeled back the polyurethane bandage that wrapped together my two toes where I had dug them into the armoire once again last night. It's a raggedy old mess of green goop like your brother had when he returned from Sicily. Those posters and solipsisms of war, how could we forget, right?

The scene here is really frantic. There's a whole room knotted up with tea heads, loaded up on benzos, looking for green doves or any of the MDMA that came through Fulton Market last week. Mr. Popular is revealing any details, though I expect he'll want more than his own hands throwing around his dining room furniture. I count three days since I heard them through the wall, but I did go out yesterday for a brief walk to buy an 18-pack of ******, just in case I decide to come off the drink for a bit, I do have a blood disease you know that right?

Noon

It was about a month ago, I was at April's house, and I had woken up on the couch, standing up I felt a bit dizzy and realizing I hadn't had a drink of anything for about 12 hours I pulled a Red Stripe from the fridge. I shucked the cap off and put down nearly half of it, it was that cool Jamaica that rocked me man. As I was headed back to the couch I could tell something wasn't right, and that's when it all goes blank- they told me I had suffered a grand mal seizure, sister, brother, and April standing over me with Ouakimbo there too. He gave me those sterile gray straight eyes and a thousand yard stare. Then he popped right up and grabbed my wrist and held it. They put me on a cornucopia of blood thinners and muscle relaxers, it's grand, just ******* grand. I make a fist and my toes wiggle, blink my eyes and my tongue comes out. There is nothing truer than this humanness I now am enjoying. 2 days more they say it'll be before I can go back to the pen and our flat. Geoff just had a baby I read in a post I saw today that Ashley brought in, but i tell you. If you don't bring me a dollar slice from Jack's on Metropolitan you ain't gonna have any of this.

9:00p.m.

First it's cool down the back of the spine, like my bones have unhinged themselves and are resorting their positions to suit a more comfortable order of things. But I repeat, I REPEAT with all SERIOUSNESS. DO NOT TAKE ANY HALLUCINAGINS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - Perhaps I have not explained myself too clearly - Guy is at the ice- the onlyu hope now is some morphine. In dealing with these underwear midettttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­tttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiotttt       vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vcccccccccccccc.

I miss the colors of your hair,
The orange light above your bed.
Tightly nestled to your breast
I sleep the years away.

The three weeks led by Sweetest Day,
Your lips, our legs, the mood,
Every inch of skin we trysted
So delectable and smooth.

We ordered in, you dined, I ate;
My teeth nibbling on your hips.
Nothing's  more my favorite than
When you're throttling the head.

Three weeks we laid supine all day,
Often rearranging the load.
You watched Chicago Real World,
While I suckled on your toes.

That famous beast, they call desire,
Rippled through your veins.
You let out a little squeak
And a drop of blood when you came.

I can't forgo you for this long.
I miss my beautiful little lamb
I never would have guessed,
That a ****** would want a one night stand.

I couldn't see anyone
I couldn't touch anything. I tried to reach the bottom, but it just wasn't there. There wasn't a kelp forest, the Empire state building would have really only stood one and a half of what they said was going to be three or four times what it was. There weren't any smoke vents or even hot springs. It was like looking for Earth from space but looking the other way.
Saturday, December 27th we drove three blocks in your car, with a dummy in the backseat rocking ready-to-wear. You asked if we should put her back inside of your room, but after I taught you to fill your tires between 3.5-4 psi, $1.50 later we realized we didn't even want to begin to try.

Shocked

that I took the Blue Line and even
transferred to a bus.
All along I would have taken any L
if I thought it would have
brought us more love.

Two hours later the devil is riding me, and I'm carrying a sickle blade at my hip. A simple gift for a single father who unexpectedly remodeled where I live.

Deep black and blue. Descending into the bathykolpian abyss. Five small black plastic garbage bags filled with 8-year old kid.

Almost wrote that I'd died,
But I'm no kinda man to lie, just feel like nothing.

Questions batten down our doors, the weather some women bring, suffering and solitude, nothing changes anything, can't tell anymore- from nothing.

She takes and gives me pain inside, drives us all to go. We're just meant to be alone.

Hurt on all my days, can't sleep, just sit, stare, and stay. I've been born but won nothing. There isn't anyone that can make me feel like something. She made me into no one. I feel worse than nothing. Sick, tired, and frozen. My reach keeps me out, away from evils that I keep to chasing.

Sometimes I can't keep from calling,
Won't you come back to my knee,
Some Tuesday in 2003, when we were something on the edge of nothing.

The skies keep my shadows black
Everything Wyoming has, and I love you
Something more than I've ever had. Don't leave me here, I don't want to be anywhere.

Hey Sarah when you go
Please leave on my evening shows
You can take everything you own
I never expected nothing, now I've got nothing.
Not even me, not even you, I'm no one
Speaking to myself and only talking back half the time. Sitting on my own, wishes worth less now, feet sagging into the dirt. I was never promised hurt, but it's something I've grown to need.

Now I'm stuck inside the mountains with the snow sewn to my legs. At least you let me believe you once when you said I'd be free and out from here. Just now there's nothing, my feet are graves to ears of yours that heard the only songs I've never wrote.

Instead of burying us away, I'll just take a stick and handkerchief and take me to a country where men like me can stay. And now I know the stories the both of us have had, and in the days leading up to we, you started with a punchline which ended as a lie. I'm just 6 ft, 160 pounds of nothing you're waiting on me to die.
But Sarah I have not forgot we promised to stay alive, so long as nothing never came back at us, and we could have something for ourselves to call a life.

Take my fetus and go
Through and through the mighty seas,
Cleft of stubborn knocks and the bayonets
Rocking through and through the eves. Whose pirouettes and epilepsy crooked, Asunder, blessing the attenuated biology of Say, a field mouse or the hummingbird. What nuisance it transcends itself into. How It has marred even the plight to lock oneself In that windowless box of time. The Atemporal box featuring those curious amaranthine engravings about its sides, upon its top. Though the blood may not spill from side to side, and while the nellypot may collywaddle, there is an immense sincerity akin, fused afore to the intimacy of an authenticated orphic boketto.

I'm the moon, one that shines
I breathe the seams on the Earth's faulty lines.
I'm not crossed, I'm alright
I met a girl that makes summer seem trite.

There were none so divine, it could take midnight
And turn the world daylight. I'm the moon, one that shines
She is the black queen in the checkmate that's mine.

I reap the hours
And the sleep is still coming.
I count the days down until the minutes stop running.
I am the king, she's my bride, I conquer worlds while
We we conquer all time.

She is the night, I'm to come, we climb the wind
On the hurricane's lungs, count of 3, piggies hide
These bad wolves have come to eat you alive.

There are some so divine, that hours laugh
And the sun forgets to rise.
That is her, so alive. I am the moon
That brings the oceans to life.

I want to see your blue hole
That little spot of misery that you process alone. I jump out of my bed and come after you, you turn your head, this isn't something new, when I shuck off your clothes, just to get at your little blue hole. Some times we can't escape our peace, we can't find relief, I reopen my eyes just to see your face, my mouth works so hard, my hands beating against your legs, while we clamber back into your bed, and like the graves kept my monsters and thieves, there's not an acronym of you I'm not chasing after hedonistically. I'm that heathen for you that you've been grieving for me. And I'll take you down, to a little place outside of town. Where no one we know has been. Don't forget me. Don't forget please.

Tuesday at sundown we awoke by the beach, on a colorful blanket I'd stole from Walgreens. "I might throw up! I've got bubble gut, and period pains. These mosquito bites are driving me insane! Won't somebody shoot me?! Shoot me in the head?! Make the itching stop?! Take this nausea away?! Just don't forget me....don't forget me!" If it's been twelve hours I'll take my sublingual please. Can we look for rocks? Agates, Jaspers, and things? Maybe some green sea glass we can use to make ourselves some rings? "You're taking off?" No. I'm flying steep. It's the reason my eyes grow wide, the reason I'm sweating. If my imagination is a game, our true romance is my campaign. I'm winning right? I'm getting points, I'm swimming right? These furry limbs are all over me, just when you shout and remind me, to stop moving-

We climb back to the bed, and cuddle instead. I wrap my hands tightly around your head, and whisper soft. I whisper to you, "Please don't leave to go into the little blue hole too." "I'll never leave you." "I'll never leave you, you say." "If we're real lucky we'll die on the same day." I hope it happens that way, just don't die on me first. Otherwise I'll totally go berserk. Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me, or forget about me. Don't forget about meee-e-e please.

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.

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.

Without sinking through the spheres. Hymns betting, still hands crisp under the wings. The wind slumbering, stays in the dark spaces. Eleven invisible pages, over. Any other name- Lux Arabesque, Uuqui Haratas, Preset: 117, and the foil.

The mirrored valley’s strangest flora, sifts the decorated thriving trails. Then it can all become an infinite weave in this world where lazy whistling sand dunes beyond, claim the rights to a juried Spring. Then somehow it may recant this glorious history we’ve only barely known. The potent eyes starved by madness, waxes seas and radio fields, slimming the loops that rip into  hinges and dispel a tryst.

Toward Earth’s serene prelude, this pageantry of standard masks make ascending towers just and stately. Then come the planets we’ve always loved: Mars, Neptune, and Jupiter too. Barefoot and staggering through the modern coolness of a colossal spring, aching mental itching grows. Until the fruits have fallen into the cloven shadows. Until buried stones alit with day consecrate these omens and conceive such lucid strings to break these quiet thieves into song.

Then the diary belies this affair. The steins upset the tales where pungent fleshy working minds coalesce. Observe the horses play in their endings, upon the wild mountain rivers where felling human eyes wander amidst these cleaved and sun-drenched desert mounds.

Pt. II

In origins uplifting diets foretell the escaped  seams of darkness whose lofty tongues of nature’s prose lift the veiled hours’ wraith. Never pressing bells nor raked by shivers, it occurs swiftly should the marbled rushing master call. Above the sound of narrow whispers, comes the wishing hands to shout.

hello poetry, can you put me in the mood
give me your sacred anthologies
your oceans and rivers too

human insight seems to fail in everyone I knew
like painted sandcastles on a gravel beat
a song lyric draped in Princeton blue

don't hoard the cadavers from both of us
this is one right you cannot undo
licorice rope to tie the knot, in the coma you've slipped into

I don't want you to ever have to be alone Elizabeth.
I know too many amazing flower shops for you to have your vases in your cabinets.
I have too many wonderful blankets and even better pillows that you should have any trouble sleeping Elizabeth.
I haven't told anyone that you wrote Frankenstein.
I didn't tell them that Mary Shelley was your grandmother Elizabeth.
There's a creperie on Diversey if it's still there.
Do you like caramel Elizabeth?
I once made caramels in a tin *** on an open flame, it tasted like burnt.
What tastes do you remember Elizabeth?
I know too many fantastic places that your eyes should ever be tired, too many places where trees grow that you should have to keep your feet on the ground.
Electricity couldn't ground you Elizabeth.
Mike Tyson should cut off his ears for you.
The hair on your head is too beautiful that you should never have a reason to go out Elizabeth.
I know the magic that comes out of your mouth, you own silence it should never own you.
I was silence Elizabeth.
I was silence and charade and death and alone.
But then I met you Elizabeth, then I met you.
I would take two bullets for you.
Even if you want to hold the gun.

Tomorrow is your birthday, her birthday, his birthday.
It's thinning this suit of reddened skin. Boy-nails are never
As sharp as they need to be. Toxins don't work fast enough either.
5:00a.m. stop for premium unleaded just outside of Big Sur. Once you were in the devil in a Jaguar, leather biker jacket and a crown of gold.
Mused to be. The insides of the stomach must have claw marks by now.
Panting, misstepping, riddled with whys and whens.

Time is critical, yellow or black nail polish; signature colors. May minutes be returned and reused where aching poison ails but does not deliver. Tomorrow is your birthday and maybe you'll allow for the cleaning of ***** from your hair and the body crooked, lingering over your night-terrors with cool and wet cloths.

This is some tremendous furnace of unrecoverable agony. There is no use chasing the wheat. Into a bunker or hurrying the footsteps into the sea. Ghosts of humans trawl the flesh entombed in permanent suffering. And the men and women glue themselves to its familiarity and melancholy.
So many great hopes were **** into one hand and ******* into a folded over pillow. We are too old to have Fraggles living in our ears.
May my chest explode before tomorrow unless you would unvex the curse who devours language and desire and all these hours.

Winter is up to my ears
Water's in my eyes, the dull chanting squeaks of
Frollicking field mice, dark hungry souls eat dark hungry shrubs
They tear apart the grass until the dirt is overturned. The ministry is dead, into the shapes they throw, weapons in the syllables where voices dear to go. The Spring is hazing the moon, and the gallow falls, the Pines of Rome are just a symptom of autumn's calls. The mouse while he saunters in, gives no notice to the gray wolf's evil grin. Panting the tousle takes them both, no insides give, into the night I sit and stare from my window's ledge.

No apothecary seems to work, all the medicines they give like names, until the doctor fools the patient she's well again. Cloaking in the shadowy stirs of the wicked herbs we picked from our garden and yard. Mellow to the taste, cold to the face, and stings like the tantrum does when the pain is just too much too much.

Have you seen the stirring woes of the frogs, stuck to the cement, thrown from the heavens by so many angry gods. Children hated for their voice, their skins and arms and legs dispersed, any dolt can name a common cure. Sicker than the pain it shoves, while the mood settles into to a rain water bath. In a crevice their may be some thought, but it doesn't even help at all, then the cold comes in and shucks awe and feeling where the aches and screams haunt the unhealthy whims.

After Easter and beyond each birth, no one calls and everything's inert, in the desert we call to the stars, but the birds return to us and make us stop asking for cause. Misunderstanding takes its awful view, and the children stop asking too. The events of hatred unfold weirdly, broken glass bottles splinter on the ears, even blood runs warm, we run hot, and shake our chills through the spine until stranger's call us out on our eyes. Even the wanting can't, and no one can. But the help makes the worst of it even more wrong. Until they can't speak or sing to themselves, whispers on the night break the shapes on the shores.

Before you came of age
Rotten pallid arm wings
All of your green monster soup breath
You were quiet. The little arachnid.

Surprised to have been the queen
In the windowless room.

Somewhere something menacing is happening

Overtaking the mind cantankerous me, here inside the apartment. No longer making plans, exciting friends, hosting

anything

More than a before noon call to maintenance or planned visit from someone else’s friend- concocted thirteen months ago. What has made them so afraid to ever allow themselves to enjoy, the chance at sour or sweet, umami, or something in between vexes these feet under-beat.

Seemingly never to trammel a midnight sidewalk or sweaty cramped R&B/Soul Dance party.

some third floor walk up

4:00a.m.

stranger’s unfurnished creative space

Friday untied to Monday

It's just that. Thirty pounds of weakness. A hard-sided steel briefcase with the black leather-strapped handle. It's that reiki healer I don't believe in, and the rocks that have names. I don't believe it anymore. I am stranded on a pylon, the world spinning beside me, the palm trees gushing blood onto the oedipal sand beaches. It's your brother Thomas ******* the curls in my chest hair while I'm walking to get a glass of tap water, we're face to face and he's touching my wiry curls and your juices and kisses are still on face. I don't believe him. The porch door is open, I can see halfway around the city from here, the lemon tree is serving ugly fruit, I turn off the hallway light and shuffle my feet like a child, never taking them off of the white curd carpet while I head back to the bedroom. I don't believe it, you told me I had the voice of your Uncle who touched you, who you blew when you were two. You said you could feel my shadow coming up the hallway but were too afraid to lock the door. I made whispers loud enough for you to hear about all the hole love I had for you. I don't believe it's been five years and I'm still typing and timing my meals to schedules in sentiment that haven't existed for months upon months over months.

I was in the bathroom, serrating my skin with a nail file. Sneaking phone numbers from the Holz-licker's phone. He's quieter than normal. I sent threats abroad, Europe first, the Eastern block, then Russia, two to New Zealand, one to South Africa, I met you in the car and asked about Nick and the swing set. No one could give me a straight ******* answer. I don't believe it, it's 12 hours later, and even Princess ****** can't put me to sleep, I know nighttime like I was studying it, hitchhiking the darkness with my thumb turned outward. I hate every part of what I have become. I could drown myself in the shower, breathe in the water and feel as it sharply shoots through my lungs, my tummy, and through the ventricles of my heart. I don't believe how much I've written and the hell I've written about. I should **** him, just for his indifference, just to rule out a single number. A prime number. The uneven oddity about it, slovenly and chaotic. I made a silver drop for your sister and one for you too. Nothing came of it, nothing comes. 30 pounds I wait, I'm weighted down to my trunk. I want coffee, I want tea, I want biscuits for breakfast, I want certainty. I make the wolves that follow, you're the chase that I'm running in. You are the footsteps and deep breaths I don't believe in, I am unsettled by us standing still. And while you usher my standard bones. And while you curtail my excellent surprise. I will be the one disbelieving your appeal, the one peeling back your eyeballs dry. Not that I wanted, I waned, I wooed each every other fellow through- but inside my needle, heaped atop my bed, are the locks of gold I entombed you in. I drank the black dragon blood of the heavy metal christ. I still don't believe that just because I killed you it means that you've died.

from far beyond the catalog
of outward facing eyes
have you tried this heaven
on for size?

deliveries to the ancient gods
chilling tales siphoned from crimson fingers bring
invite the tearlet hydrangeas in blackwater morning

pilgrim verbed and possum-eyed upon the beady flesh
aches upon this figure draped in moonskin

the mystic sewn in lightning wands
yields powers too great to speak upon
it gleams across the emptiness
but drowns the sorrow and suffering
brings the venom to the bite
where zebras yaff and witches cry

each tremendousness too great to let the words pass by;
under veteran protest guard, blank canvases persecute
the artist for the crime they could commit
******* every noun of every subject

black succubus startled from eating the fetid meat
where robin hens reveal their sighs
inviting the trembling glitter to linger deep upon the doorstep

brief yet over simplified
explained under duress
alone the student begins to profess