But I'm cold now as I sit in the dryness
butterflies rainbows unicorns mermaids flowers anchors skulls puppies clouds razors and darkness- it fills never a bit of me. Summer trouble is like no season I have known, my anxious bowels can't seem to move to places I don't know, but weir the water is, my tears don't make a metaphor, but for the tomorrow, I'll wear that honor.

Smoking troubled teens, move their small hands up my pants in my rainbow smoking jacket, I'm younger in minds my feet barely tread. As solitude troubles some, I grieve in my lover's arms, I stitch a sorrow through tomorrow.

Belief takes too much work. Your lies are everything. I pretend to sway, with the parade in my brain.

Sometimes you can't win, you can only hear 'em talk. They might take your haircut and clothes, your jacket, and blame it on you for that. Some they say their ships coming in at this hour or that, but who can tell when they're riding the shadow of a ship or if they're just laying in the river waiting as all their clouds move passed.

She only takes a step if she can collect many stranded eyes. She walks right out of cities and leaves all the husbands cryin'. Her dignity has gone, her past is waiting up ahead. She's a loose cannon posted on the sea, and aimed towards land-locked places paved in red. But who can tell if they're just laying in the river waiting as all their clouds move passed. Her pockets filled with rocks while she draws the water to her breath, it's one of some confusion that most men and women will never half.

Soon the eyes fill up with blood, the pupils turn to silt, the skin turns into leather, no one I know yet has gills. Roof to the river, sun to Adam, this gardens very rude. **** your brother, slay a goat, and make an apple and serpent stew.

If the sounds keep getting louder, and the eight ball won't turn back. Keep your hands out of your pockets, don't walk into a river, go home and have yourself a bubble bath.

Save the cursing for the evening. Make your name something quite unique, this is today's new tomorrow, a pain from each bother, a whole in the ears not supposed to be there, don't wake up, your life is better, as long as your dreams they keep growing, while you keep working to keep yourself fast asleep.

The quarter isn't what it was, the arrow yields no more. And even if you've got 10 fingers, the man wants you to use more. Keep your arms in the ovens. Keep your disease to yourself. When the violence gets here, you'll find it's only you and her, and you both only love yourselves. The poison is growing, the water can't be drank, if you flick your cigarette ****, you might have your own Nagasaki in the middle of your kitchen sink.

So let the rocks do the talking. Let your slave work wait until the fall. It's so unpredictable picking poisons, that's why The Wolves do it in the river or on the kitchen floor.

Brings up the hole in my dreams, white dressed mannequin overlaid with sequins,
her dress form baring my hide, skinny legs in skinny jeans, faced with her blue eyes. 

This constant storm of thick regret, plays aching words through my stiffened threads. I am startled by the tinge of when he picks at my strings, his fingers cueing up my grief, I'm
transfixed by such staunch memories.

From this September thru December all that is anxious wrecks this time, blending stages of unconsciousness with the right to bide these rhythmic tidings outlined by the rigor of her whines. Bent by the rocking of the sea and the buried screams beneath, herein these mouths are tanned from where these voices once laid command.

Subtly superior, yet haunting in its serenity and clause, the metal stretched across her jaw, and while the dove is drugged, she cannot bestow her love, she is betrayed thru the very lens that halted life's immenseness and intent. Draped in her hospital gown, even her crown forgone, her gurney replaced her throne, no more royalty will she ever know.

Soma sudor, spit begrimed at ends, tiffs being had with friends, he takes away the organs, sends me back to consciousness with the bends. Every lock of hair I wanted, every piece of night I held, all my organs have been dismembered, all the luck I had is lost. In the corner of my iris there's a prime instance of despair, something left on a scrap of paper, though I could swear it looked like underwear. When the locusts fill this mind with every cadence indisposed, then they flourish on my body, leaving once they've eaten off my clothes. 

Hours were my pajamas, where I slept once, now I lie. I'm the afterthought of courage, even in this heady nausea I once found sublime. Here this corpse doesn't leave a shadow, missing time where love bid supine. Even the wind it curdles in me, where no heart beats from this life.

With a child inside this bullet, art existed on her face, twice it eradicated lying, but not the ****** debt betrayed. Simple sin on the interstices, connected by the dots where pleasure writhes. All my hands are covered by this fever, where my mind has gone to die.

i don't care what the people say,
let your blue blood in my veins
wicked foxy devilsh and cool
i say it's in the news, and then it's in the news

Teach me your weapon's class systems
those broad and eccentric Jimi blue's
tell me the stories in the cipher of you
many in this list of marvel's accentuated

while we dive into this voluptuous horizon of youth
stationed in Chicago's sensual blues

this is the recipe to man's progress, classified from standard view

An apple in a pinch
Waterfalls called out for toddlers, Father's
Sports fanatic sweater wearers week.
***** by Saturday,
By the phone in Vermont but from India
Inside of six days: Seven, holidays, prey animals;

No one even pretends to sleep anymore
Anywhere words and eye fluttering can be had.
No caves to scribble with history, all purchase
Buying-Power inscribed.

Just a brief day, sixteen hours or less
Maybe two midnights more.

184 gone and in great despair
one hundred eighty four trials and institutions. 184 new reasons to forgive
to use, to be confused, to lose, and to get loose all gone
they are all gone. gone for good, forever, for evers and everys, somewhere on Everest, or likely just high up in the sky. Somewhere in the chasm of iCloud or hidden on the hard-drive of one of my Macs.

Tired and Hurt, Anxious, Alert, all of me is frustrated my skin is doing different things, all of it is baffling and I don't even know how I'm going to try to keep mildly sane, all of them are gone and I'm a total wreck, I am.

One-hundred Eighty-Four Notes on my iPhone gone. They're all alone, all of them on their own. Me I'm just by myself and squarely overwrought. Confused and upset, I wonder if the Mac God's have tried to take their pain and loss of the Jobbs out on me. All these note's are gone and I don't know what to do. Do I swear? Do I sweat? Do I call Apple instead of setting myself to burn? What have I done? What have I done to come down to a blank screen lost of all its myriad characters.

The pages don't care, I'm sitting perturbed in my underwear, baffled, unamused, furious, and feeling used. My trust combusted, my one hundred eighty four are gone. And no one cares. All my notes are gone and no one knows. My poems are gone, I sing this song, but all my words are gone don't you know? They're all gone....don't you know! I want my 184. I need my 184- don't you know! I just can't ignore, my 184.

bright **** youths you choose
railed against the steel muse
wrestle off your noose

loudly at twilight
it's the carnivorous call
shaking down the halls

fine beastly retreats
feasts of prurient art meat
you're your own real cheat

spaz schism victims
puerile and lurid women
these giant mens' venoms

let heaven patrol
every hole of your bottoms
let bliss be the meter cheated, by the stanzas forgotten

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.

If you pretend, you'll never know the right way this ends.
It's the passion of my pen that prescribes this medical zen.
In my den, I walk on water, I speak in colors, it's the message that I send- I received,
Do you really need to know where it comes from?

There's this spiritual axiom, that I've been askin' him, entranced by this romance,
All these butterflies and pretty clouds I've never had the chance to give.
In my passive peculiar I'm a user of catastrophe, exacerbate the simple happenings
That disaster brings. When I lived in California it was women, it was water, it wasn't the waves,
The way her hair flirted and twirled, and whipped around when the sun every-day would
Come out.

It wasn't that I didn't have the drive, the will to survive, I even had the doll-dollars, my rent was paid, I flew around in private airplanes, and every single day I got laid. Even her father was like, "He's a cool cat, you better make 'em put a ring on that." But she ******, ain't got a clue-
if I was me then now, then I'd now what I was supposed to do.

I was supposed to ride... clear the air and see the skies. Be bliss-bound, virile, like White Snake, Just make her mine. But I was...insincere, adolescent, and hiding behind a barrier. I didn't have the Strength to carry her. It was paramount, but I wasn't 100% percent clear.

Now I'd say, well, since, it's been 1,244 days. While I sit and listen to grave-wave, having a great day.
I'm in love again, and the music says,"There's a lot of cool in them, and he never had a doubt."
Kay even said, I shouldn't trouble on the past, the present is so much better then even the future, she said, "It's in you" and I guess the Truth is, I imagine you, beautiful, intriguing, like a different forever, that even I once was 20, too.





For Kristine

By Martin Narrod

"I think this is a poem you wrote on my phone (or it is something I wrote). I can't remember. It is from a time period when we were in the desert and both had working phones." - Sarah

Martin's musings
If you thought you had met the love of your life- what would you do? The heat is up our chills up and down, and the faces the old women make in drug-induced ticks, heavy noisome smells mixed with the best greatest sweetest smelling true love you've ever known.

And five times a day now you spend hours and hours entwined and touching and being touched by the greatest and softest skin cells your skin has ever been against

And with perfervid excitednees, a cold chest, but tepid limbs, you avoid blinking to extend the lifespans of us both.

You sleep they come, you sleep they go. They strike it rich, they take their gold.
They stake your home, you lose your house. Their life may change, you’ll lose it all. Ouchita surplus garbanzo bonanza. Milky white thistle caterpillars encircling State Farm. Around the rosy, redness blooms. First in a scratch, then flooding soon. You they watch, they watch you halved. First, you gave up plastic bags. Now plastic straws, and soon a water tax. The facts may might farriers to make haste with maize, face fate with rays of sun plants, and laughter, goodness stitched into new seeds we need to sew. New pith to chew our speed and seed pods back into. New buckets to hide the tragedies we’ve given into. Peace test, speed test. Time’s up and the beast continues. Some starve heading the tables of ancient feasts, infeasible feats that backroom recording darkness flows to fever grips in crimson-painted streets throw whim through. Chief prisoner that we’ve turned into? Where come we when new winds throw her Earth down, to see this missing blessed ‘being where unshucks from mystery and hide of humans’ rind, polls the throes in wheat to patrol these streets, puh lease don’t let this be the sh*t new DJs push their interdigital civics' symptom just to watch their hips get prompted down.

Who wants to be prompted. Particularly not we. Not now. Not a present. Not of precedent, and certainly not with this incredibly myopic disorderly gag borderer promulgating fact-less el ordeals. Wish these weren’t our ideals? Think again.

Faster than air conditioning units plucked out from under eaves, suspense is just injustice suspect from corruptness. Untouchable blood mensches, Houdini's that’ve come straight down the drain to take The Duchess. Forget smoke relief, screens between players in the first box, and the fellas driving the hearse, box first to fifteen with a given chance to clock down at the top if there’s a draw or otherwise start in at the Bell and pick up as many two or three rounds need to be until one side forgets why it needed to stand up to be put down, so then the Reader’s can connect with a truth mercurial and persistent with which needs to be more regularly achieved. Parts in pieces, or even just pieces in parts. If we don’t start to look at the pieces we’re never gonna figure this all out. We’re never going to make it to the paper on the sidewalk reminding us why we’re wandering around waiting to find a piece of paper to tell us everything, because look left, look right, and then turn around, answers to the questions you seek have never been more available than today.

tonight i woke up a man
covered in a thin film of
your magical black dust

and then I'm thinking
how long I can breathe in fire,
if I can I touch your face with my face
and we can still be friends

I see the sick with their broken jaws
what if I purposely picked the shortest straw
I can carry heavy things
and see them too, hold this face until my lips turn blue
All of these pachyderms and lies,
is worth this new motet

A Fancy Word For A Plug    
    
     That’s how it opens, from the end ripped off, the open end. Good bread, meh. The best bread I can find
here right now.
     every afternoon someone finds everything they’ve thought they’ve ever needed in the trove of glances stalking their eyes stalking back at someone only
      five minutes ago they may have called them, stranger, but brilliantly they have hope now, or the illusion I had thinking I’d be able to please every woman I’d ever take to bed
     being fifteen years old can do that to someone who spends nights after high school smoking his father’s marijuana. It’s funny how glances and stares are all a single man needs to feel empowered by a woman
     like he’s just captured his muse in a butterfly net. This is before he learns not all lepidoptera are butterflies, before he learns to transmit his rattling indecipherable hormones to her antennae, but never to touch the wings.
     He is a stalker of wing-touches, with a fancy diet to guide him through the unforgivable minutes he tricks himself into thinking he can make anyone happy, he carves a topaz vase he hoards the few moments before any voice should trammel these moments whose preciousness isn’t foretold by nearly a decade.
      Everyone wants to escape someone to move from one silence to another, they put on a show if only to escape everyone they ever went begging eyes from in a not so distant past.
      I used to last eight or nine times a day in college, I made a collage of faces for a Freshman-studies course, as if there was no price too vain for me to expose my soaked and fleshy junk. That was until I started guilty catching stares, taking away a gaze from another’s gaze, becoming Casanova for a moment, then again it’s still hard to resist something I know six billion people are wanting to put inside or be put inside.

the ultimate graciousness that is of you. Back from California, my witching ground, the place I still eschew from the pyre- you came back to me. And even as we spoke during your adventures, and even though I read of your exploration. The last day of your trip I could just tell how something was hurting you, how had you let this state inundate you with its adulterous poppies.

And after you arrived, the kisses and the kissing, the touching, and your cheek to mine, we caught the truth staring each other in the eyes. And you lost it. Eyes swollen, lips trembling, so I layed with you, touching your hands, your face, I combed my fingers through your hair, until we both could take a breath.

You told me everything. A boy you thought you would never meet, a kiss you thought you would never draw. I became so sad I could barely lapse a sentence from my mouth, as I watched you get sniffly and sadder. Black eye liner pouring down into my pillow. But there was no blame, shame, or guilt that you should have. We all have our libations. You and I both are perfectly imperfect, and so human that we have the liability of spotting enamoring, harmonic beauty in the souls of others. I just begged you to stop scorning yourself. You looked at me to scold or scorn you, ask you to leave or retreat, but I couldn't even break a whisper. You told me how such feelings still lasted, and how much mirth you received from touching tongues with this someone else I didn't know.

You are only guilty of being in love with me, kissing me on my hands, arms, lips, face, and legs. I insisted that we resolve this tonight so we don't ruin the today we have by dwelling on the past. You assured me that you wouldn't be moving permanently to California, I just kept insisting that you remain honest- and you were completely open every step of the way. I explained how I have committed similar acts and imbibed on prurient journeys of my own, offering to share, compare, and clear up the past by accepting our youths for what our youths are for.

I am the best version of me I can be, and there is no competition, should you wish to dance in the other room and tack down what we loved so immensely in each other, and then came downward-facing-dog, we were both only in underwear. It was that we couldn't say anything else with our mouths or our pens. You were never pretend for  me.

The air is falling like a serpent fissuring on the cusp of a sneeze and blast of fire. We are the greatest and worst of ourselves.

and the shores turn to fruit roll ups
the ashes of vibrant colors explode into the eyes
over long legs and arms, longer than psalms

until pleasure undoes every bad thing that's ever been done

Nothing is right, everything is permitted.
If I was the king of the world, I'd make more things round, nobody's
Baby ought to be put in the corner. Nebraska full of skyscrapers for earthquake And hurricane victims, the soybeans and corn there is a machine of mutually Exclusive syrups that taste the same. We could go back to calling sugar what it Is, sweet.

I could make you a prince, her a dutchess, myself just another worker among Workers. This hive society is getting old, and Britain holds half of our honey in gold bullion. I would make stone soup, and make it Special on Friday. Acorns would be exclusively for dendrofied alum, and not for raking or Rattling. We could call the bad sick, because there is no bad; and we could Eliminate the goods and musts, and mustn'ts as they just make people feel low. No one can feel fat, they can only think they are.

We too could have an organized society of writers and editors and critics Whom decide what words we allow into the English language. Commercials Are poisoning our youth, our mainstream, our middle-American allies that Rebel against us with their extra-laminate NRA cards. My right to bear arms Allow me two, a left arm and a right arm. That should be plenty for many of Us.

I would call the president a model citizen, since he only models. Change Fitness Journals into Fashion magazines- everyone would like to dress Similarly enough as it is. The costs are high, and the big cities have rifles and Shotguns aimed at us over their shoulders. Data sharing, wi-fi could come With high-fives and we could all use one cable for everything, and one Password of password that unlocked everything.Perhaps we could begin Banishing people to live outside of Rome again. The hunting is better in the kept gardens. so we should allow this.

I've done something wrong, I've been rendered invalid by the bell, cowardly When it comes to giving advice, and if I was the king of the world I'd make More 24hour pizza places in Chicago, following the outdoor food-styles of New York CIty. Given names should serve as middle names until people are Old enough to choose what to call themselves.

We should reward more nobodies, and depopularize all of these "somebodies," leaving a little room for the poets to do their work.

If I was the king of the laughter, I'd package laughter and ship it Internationally, bottle up messages and send letters. In fact I don't have to be The king to send letters, I just need some postage and an envelope. One for Every person on the planet, to send a thank you note for being alive, a flower To bring them comfort, a quarter, and a bottle of pear nectar to nourish and Show them that I care.

That I care about we and not just me.

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.

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.

We are the wild ones, so curious and superb. Hyper-expectations, mainly magic and its' feral treasures, we all welcome aboard. We are the technicians of the sky, messengers of the infinite moons. Inside the scythes and harpsichords, explosive reiterations of gravity and inner body magnetic yearnings.

We are stacked and galavanting in stockyards, whips at our sides, leather roughening its unstitched oiled calf hides up the hands onto these ethereal imaginings of utopian unicorn, walrus, and seahorse.

We represent the catalog of diversity. You are not as hidden as you think and you must not be. We of the wise wrestling candles off of our staffs, we count the mountain rich mountainside. Red, clay-capped, snow and hidden saplings adjusted against the rows of the peaks and plateaus.

We are named for our perversions of nature, our tolerances towards myriad injustices spanning our existence's time-sensitive minutia. We may be the kings and queens of Lollibellum, our flights have landed, our hands filled with duct-taped newspaper wrapped packaging and knock-off designer bags, a cardboard box with a few books that survived the burn.

Bumble

How do you decide what to take from a burning building? Objects? A ring? A Journal? Your father? Your daughter? Your grandmother? Your birth certificate? How does a child decide who lives and who stays? One day there’s a fire, and it’s your house, it starts in your room, you can tell yourself you’ve already packed a bag, but who can say where it is?

Since I was fourteen *** has let me feel like I was alive, I always thought that great *** meant somebody cried, that somebody got hurt, that if you weren’t hiding from somebody else than you had to be hiding from yourselves. That’s when I pulled out an old notebook and began reading back the lips of lovers, running my fingers over their handwriting like brushing my mouth over the raised ink of my lover’s tattoos. Who decides when everything you call your life uproots itself and walks away from you one morning while you’re still laying in bed? Who decides when every rule and mannerism you’ve become acclimated to shifts and changes and the way you felt anger is now the way you feel fright, the way you felt lust is now what you call sadness, the way you lived in happiness is now what you know to be all on your own, and what you told yourself was love is now nothing at all.

There is a bed with the sheets nearly hanging off, the blankets lying on the floor, three pillows colors you’ve never seen. This bed is in a room you’ve never walked into, in a house you’ve passed a million times, in towns you’ve visited but only to top off your gas tank or looked at while riding through it on a train. It’s in this room, on this bed where your whole life is unbound, it’s here where the cover on the book of your life falls off and disappears into a story of someone else’s, and while you still bite your dedication page as your own, the publisher’s page, the dedication page, and even the title page are all altogether gone, and no matter how old you are or how quickly you move, nor how attentive or well prepared you might be, there is nothing you can do except curl yourself into an ammonite and lock up everything you’ve ever claimed to be yours, light your candles and cigarettes, and put a record on the record player. There is no place like home that couldn’t become yours anymore.

You drink hard liquor from the bottle until you can touch the faces that you’ve lost, you can turn the hot water up in the shower until you don’t hear their voices anymore. There’s nothing like the sound of quiet that peels off the skin, or the sound of loud music blaring into your ears that you can play if you need to hold it back in.

You can **** the war and hate and heartache out of the brains and legs and holes of someone you barely know, but in a burst of snowy sunlight you’re only adding numbers to a score that heeds no winners at all. There’s no one that never shivers, no one that has never gotten splinters, there’s no one who is never been sick, there’s only the one’s who know what life is, and the one’s that lie about it. Only when you’ve lost your head can you see with your ears. I’ve found faces in my underwear that run fierce with rivers of tears. This is the waste that makes waste, this is the nerves that end nerves. This is the patch I placed on the moon, and the cold that stings every part of the body I know.

There is a bed somewhere, there is a town of people waiting to **** the person who lives in that room. There is the fire that consumes the bed, there is a child waiting there that’ll someday have to choose.

what is more gentle?

than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,


I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
youth inside me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
Or answer an echoing voice
From across the gloom
Where nearness emotes itself
And I freeze inside my own cacophony
Of brilliant moods and total confusion.


four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I may never forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as youth and eves
Three drops of cuteness
Spilt against a human act of
Being.

Brief Yet Common Encounters Pt. II

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

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

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

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

Deep valleys of arid central hills
Attempting to rise to the day
And show compassion to the Underprivileged.

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.

A skin of threes your majesty
Pepperdine and cypress trees
Commit to me next summer please
My needs of us together lover
Let us wed us into we.

In twilight sounds of Louis Prima,
I blast the clouds of milky *****,
Loosies falling through  cracked plastic casings. The leather race.
The skin race. Mother Goose's shoes gave me a ******* for starving
Innocent women children- how I love
All. The lintels excisions' forgiven,
My libations intended for an astronaut of solemn jazz solos.

Puking narrative, out a gentle cough gives way.
To the colors of Mars candy bar caramel coatings. How we gloat.
Glowing of paradigms, distraught by the quiet ring of the cup & string.
Earned from an evening of perfervid pervert cacophonies
Often where I where the shoes with backs cut from shreds,
I know have uneven shreds. The Dead plastique of alligator cleats.

Ichbarken, lucifers *** drawings of Darwin, making alive the living Room shackles where I pack backpacks of narrow-minded princess Girlfriends, and I
Trespass reason for every hedonistic reason I please.
Whilst I onward huddle(belly out) guarding the Heraldic heretics of
Every disgruntled guilty Jewish mother- hands and toes I nibbled on.

My name is The Bill, and I am fasteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee­eeeeeeeeer than goblets of lye which decompose wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww­wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww­wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww­wwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Departing life, grandeur of elysium. Daylight and strife.
Mid-minimal ocular display, see it if you do.
The ****** morale is scaly and prickly as coral flowers, within
The rut of cornery blossoms, ransacked by pronghorns in rut.

America, corner of the second century. Title of the thermopolium and its Lintels. Chests of coals from where fox kin stuffed goose meat and wild fowl.
Anchors us into the Earth. Salt vibrations echo through narrow thickets of Grazers. Undulates flaunt urea on every cleft of green, this shelf of plateau, Any gall stone thrown this way or that way.

Underneath the hours, under nine, we sample ginger and sugar snaps under Our tongues. We race, like royal rats, through the timbrels, down the trail, Out into the outer-woods, down the ravines, up through the terrace where The hedgehogs go, and out to the quay and rills where father fits the stream With his string laps and lanterns. Margaret loves roe while I can barely stand Anything that breathes underwater. Except for the sharks, I am crazy for Them, how there quill-like teeth paint me into oblivion and my amazing Flight for death.

Mommy hates the subway, she says it's gritty and for trollops and beggars, But I say it's an adventure. We have our own tunnel, and George comes with us too. I wonder if his daughters in Cropredy come too, or if they have to. And papa taught me to listen for them. 1-2-3-4-5 CRASH!! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 BOOOM!!!! They fly over to us, from France papa says. It's the Germans he says, "but by '45 it'll all be done with, America can't keep its hands out of our pockets, and when they come everyone will go home." And I ask him,"Even George, even George will go home?" And so he told me no, not then. Not ever really.

How were they introduced to themselves within a flash of light? Enormous shots of humanness flying across the universe- only still inside the shapes of two blue eyes staring back at this vessel. Just molecules of flesh colliding into one another in a heap of colors and sounds we’d sometimes prefer to force ourselves not to hear. How do you keep yourself from exploding? Into a masterpiece of delightfulness pushed forward into the mouth, and sometimes only to be a breath, or a story dressed as a pink pillowcase on a childhood bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

BD

we make death
we eat breadths
lay in beds
bray and fret

we make death
sticks which twitch up the legs
passing through like a wish
it’s an inside your one-two tease
i stare at your shell
i want to ring your bell
just plant your hell on me
give yourself what you need
please baby please
give yourself what you need

we make death
we acquiesce
apodyopsis
feint of logic
till quite obnoxious
eat flesh in keys quixotic
lubricious sycophant rhapsodic

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

Again?

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

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

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

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

This is the paper taking down cities. This is the worship building anarchy in its own members. This is the end of the call and the beginning of the caste. These are the mute and colorless stains on the walls, and the childhood loves of an adult that colorfully decorate the dormitory in his past with the clutter and occupancy that curtails to no complaint. There is the paper and there is the gain. Will any of them ever be human again?

I'm the only one that's feeling happy,
sometimes I'm the only one that's feeling bad
Even if I were to pretend I'm lucky,
Maybe that's the best that's already happened

One day I just started feeling lucky.
Every dream became so real.
That even while I was all alone,
Nothing seemed that bad.

A poor girl. With big eyes.
And a smile upon her heart.
Wears the stamps of my laughter,
In the treasures of her heart.

And all the while I think I'm writing letters,
But it's really everyone that's writing me.
Today is the first time I've felt lucky,
So lucky and so free.

No one. Compares to this. These mesmerizing eyes.
The poetry in all of us when we race our property lines.
Because if you want it, because if you know,
That in her is a freedom that the rest of us don't know.

(Guitar Break)

But somedays we make mistakes,
In the recipes of our lives
Because really it was the big bad wolf,
That ate little red riding hoods' grandma's pies.

Your indigo crystal aura spins through the meteorites and rock matter
Creamsicle wheat, gold aura'd
The golden freed, guild and greed appealed. As if

from up the causeway of some starving and scary ghosts. If Shel Silverstein had ghosts their ghosts would be still too decent.

In the tired eyes of friends and their declarations- I have no cyn to give nor cywm to live. Tired am I of breezing through narrow rills in Hidden Creek the obvious spillway ditch of our not even near immortal wealth that weighs on the souls of the outlying suns.

Realize that active sight, only breathes from active mind.
And until today I never realized that I don't mind child. My child
My sweet sweet child of the radiant and crimsony misty blue and white skies through divine amber and aurulent lights, that twinkle acrosss such

Incredible sea-green and robin's egg blue colored ocean sized eyes.
From these Ides whereon I've drifted supine, lost, scattered and random
In the weeping tide's of Alice's watery eyes.

Oh yes,
Night terror, history:
The Orders of Guessing Hypothesie

Oven bubbling mutton
Ew, ew, ewe!
Nettlijg kethered kips
cym built

Figuring out the beating sounds
Against
Irony, Ann, me butte you plateau

Dactylic appraisals the young unable,
Kip Candy Whack
Fuzzy teg legs the lanolin glutton of mutton
The muted toot-toot of a train's  course of traction no left or right

Just go.
Just reverse.

Weighted out  fears for
Anxious rhymes with
Don't speak the heavy metal in the ending if he jungle. Danger plays to a child at play one day
Some pillows trying but something doesn't count.


Beautiful yours
Beautiful Hers

never fast again
eat and eat kirbojrrrrrrrr

Rich composition
Simple eyelids
Nictststensldnebt

1:12:18

I don’t believe in size and fit
Or the split head’s of animals that
Cross the aching mind of the girl I’m with.
If its disease is blood then we’ve all got this
Same type of familiar sickness, just don’t Think that you won’t have to bother with it.

There’s a symptom, it shapes the skull
And wraps it with wire and twine. It’s just a Plaything or a ******* eating the fruit from The beasts and scarlet joys in the stashes
Of instant reliefs. Smooth arches off the

Feigning mood lines in the rough shadow
In your tourmaline corpse. Jostling in a glass bed of horror *** and crying as you wake up in a garden where nothing lives.
Shakes, too. Betting starvation and whet with the shivers in this strafe.

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.

the fames of dysentery and the funeral it takes
you don't want to know it when it knows you
your skin can bleed with boils you'll scream
when it takes you alive, will you know if it's time to fight or die?
The most important thing in this life is to know where to put your feet
and when not to move them, one day you'll wish for your bathroom mirror. Inside the dell and simplicity,

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

Squash. And let me touch your *****.
I'm a killer
when it comes to you
I'm a sinner
when it comes to you
I'm a forgeter
when she comes to me

And I breathe never.

what're you doing with those faces
I don't even want to talk about it
our bed fare has gotten exciting
it's interesting they say it takes a village
but Sunday it'll have taken just a year

the landslide is down to its knees
I don't want it to leave I don't write letters anymore
this city is cold now and it's time to go
when will I catch a break or even just a drift
the coastline is calling, the water is coming after me

from your elbows I draw strings to the back of your arms
little spiderwebs and chills to the top of your back
I can climb highways and descend from the stars
but I don't drink deserts and I certainly don't write letters anymore

she's a cocktail of pride, stirring anger and envy into a crowd
avoid her like a power line downed on the ground
dropping off bed linens covered with blood
I know where the going gets going and knowing implodes
inside the brain and sweats off the brow
there are only so many shapes we can try to ignore
can I just show you pictures of when you were happy before

I am the cauldron of summer
Caking onto your throat like a bib
Where your mitts give sores to the throes
In the nation where quarks serve some
Misunderstanding of the bells' curve b
Where two eyes drawn on the wall turn and they fade your ribbons of meat.

Stars whizzing through the bourne.

this is where our adventures begin to warm up, they burst diagonally, stretched seams. Opened wide, blistering under this caustic and virile heat. The epicenter of someone's bi-polar anomaly-

swarms of words and their words
people coming and parting,
coliseums and amphitheaters in spectacle
garnet, draped in praise

as upsetting and down-troche of what those blue sapphire lumens grew
against the pale and sinewy shadow of shape flickering,
violet cartoon faces bruising up their faces in the pulp and pulchritude
where two separate identities meet and coerce the familiar into seeing

at what it conceives. The diplopic opera and didactic vapidness in
the horrendous aperture of the inexhaustible and mercurial sport.
Then to see as the other half lives, compartmentalized in the
curious cabinetries of disorder

Dr. Bob and the guilty two. In a basket they carry you.
What the river knows, is Saint Anthony. Cleopatra and Moses
Star on Dawson's Creek.

There were silver bells coated with Vaseline last night,
Rayon lights on lips- the clock arm diet, little
Rub-a-Dub, KGB, and No. 4.

This is who we are.
This is how we speak.
Come on over, yea!
Be inside the part of parties.
Come on dressed in bows, boys all dressed in roses.
Candle-light chandelier surprise, we're in the kingdom of the wise.

Talk so cheap its whispered. Instead
Let's get a bit closer. The lean,
A skinny kiss, for another hot-girl in a slim-fitting dress.

Be it yellow or white,
A neon pink design?
My stylist doesn't mind-
We take our clothes off,
So you can get to know us.

Seventy valets, the moon is out in full bloom.
"One more bottle to the living room!"
All the boys they dance, while the girls rub on their pants.
The treasure hunt has began, I can use the map but you can't,

No need to  sleep it off, hey! Hey!
The DJ plays through, it's Saturday, hey! Hey!
My bedroom's right this way,
While you get laid, I get paid.

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.

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.

Mentally, with transfixed exuberance
I beget unto my fingers something so entrancing, that as if to steady a tongue-thwapping aweness- it plays to me, like a unicorn song. Heavy-like. Sweeping hands over with stranger’s voices, mixing the toiling mischief misunderstood. Then stains each column of its melody in waves impervious to this language. With nexility, the nibs and thimbles jettison into the blissful rains of beading color, where only such human momentum cascades before its subtle ends.

oh amethyst jungle of beautiful night
where these million cuticles waltz in kind
and strike, hammer, and type
the maleficent furry animals dine
and our species cries in size
hollowed by the weeping and dandelion wine

where cupid's clutches rally in triple-time
twilight's symphony combines timpani entwined
with the lux cacophony of midnight's sighs
and the vibrations of these electrical lights

unveils each mind with universal life