At first when it happens

     it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it.
To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly.
Gruesome fruit loosies.

Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery,

a conflagration.

Burning us up. Two in two out.  And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy,

anxiety.

A poem comes.
     It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one ones that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what-

a throw blanket in a common room.

At first when it happens

     it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it.
To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly.
Gruesome fruit loosies.

Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery,

a conflagration.

Burning us up. Two in two out.  And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy,

anxiety.

A poem comes.
     It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one owns that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what-

a throw blanket in a common room.

The Deerfield keeps me. My eyes follow the treeline testing my wit, tossing new exemplary corybantic lights. They zoom around me in hurried whirling motion. Then you appear. You can have my moon and my planets, my stars, and I haven't even spoken yet. In the midst of an earnest offering to the first of three heavy drinking boisterous uneasy types. I tell the stranger I'll drive him the, but what- .2 miles to his home- and your light exaserbates my speech.

Maybe you thought I'd go for your nose, but I'm after your breath. Rightly so, too many men have squandered much of the joy from being superfluously strangely with strangers. The drunk party exits screen left, and a new character, a Kennedy evolves from the shadows.

[This is where you begin conducting]

My thoughts brim with colors, patterns, shades, and hues. I paused to take in these profound chakras I thought had become the desiccate dusty footprints, walking around Foley's pond trying to find the best fishing hole through the rough and tangled undergrowth that consumed those hours of my life.

Your writing is far better than mine was at your age.
There is depth and richness in the vocabulary you choose.
Let me kidnap you for a day, present you with the places I like to let
My eyes gaze upon. Between the thatchwork of black and white and gray.

Where are my hands? The Earth is at my back, she begs me
To pry further, to know better the rejuvenating handy-work she
Has laid before me, and the noncom I mustn't reject either.

I cannot sleep. I wouldn't want to sleep if I could. I would reject it as I am. Drive until daylight casts morning into memory, I would recreate another
Fifty of exceptionally raw and indulgent exchanges. This is before the questions begin.

I inquiry myself to draw your story through the sparseness of details I ferociously gobbled up with excitement and profound wonder. I am absent in my own hours, and  yet there is frothy balance, no bedevilments of the flesh, but even so we are only the skin and bone and makings of human. I commit to protect you from harm and show you beauty and humor amidst the chaos and crisis of life's evolution. It is your excruciating curiosity and lack of fear that draws me ever more near.

Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.

     - For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical *******. So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.

Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes

                           .rearing privilege

countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******* and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** *******. Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.

She's in love with a bird but she doesn't even know how to fly. Five times in persistence I gave fingertips and fingertips, thousands of eyelashes, more than 700 changes of the guard. Three years of talking about the flowers in the post, the letters on the dresser, and a firm ruler over the top of our hands. Death's saliva plagues us thru the night. Into morning, the rain soaked our mattress and pillows, my lips are chapped, peeling like chipped paint off a 20th Century bathtubs' feet. I tip over the hourglass but the time does not reset. Our sisters become even more valuable than ever. Each year adds one more invisible number to the rest, and still we don't know how fast the train moves.

Pleasure dwellers and Jeep keepers. Relics of the 90s still left in cardboard boxes. It's the drugs that make time tolerable, but Tylenol sadly doesn't qualm the ails of an inevitably ending world. We ate pizza, drank wine, and kissed all the time. As time would tell, I don't actually have dibs over your left breast, but I really would've liked to, though I'm not sure where I'd put it.

I got a tattoo of the bird put onto a branch, it didn't seem right to take it's friends away, after all it had been through, I couldn't bring myself to say there'd be no more songs coming. A little empty house, with just a table, one nest, and some sunflower seeds in the cupboard. That might be something that would have been offered to someone nicer, more sweetly, less confusing. Instead, I don't have trouble sleeping, it's just getting myself completely into bed, otherwise I'd just wait around outside waiting for the other shoe to need restitching. An unfamiliar sound shapes the mouth, something unfamiliar but quite refreshing. All the people who hear it first repeat it, but no one is exactly the same, each person certainly acts a variety of ways in what seems true according to the early ones who felt it. Was it a disease or a way to forgive, maybe uncertainty will challenge those who find it to face forgiveness. Turn the heat up on both knobs. Target the marker and sink the submarine. Silent summer steps buried into the summer wind. Laughter's cackle resumes again.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm getting gone.
I'm getting gone.
And the daisies are tryin' to move.
I'm getting gone.
And the sunrise is tryin' to come early too.
I'm getting gone,
And we stayed out late last night.
Tuesday morning we've got an early flight.
But if you aren't ready to go, I'll get dressed for us both.
We're getting gone.
Red pants and these Tom Ford shades.
You'll wear your Rick Owens sneakers and jacket onto the plane.
We survived another night on the road,
Now we've got to wake up before we're eating yesterday's dinner tomorrow.

We're getting gone.
And the neighbor's are going to keep complainin'
We're getting gone.
And we hold our tongues out even when it's not rainin'.
We're getting gone.
Let's get coffee and eat some LSD.
Smoke three cigarettes and then we'll leave.
We're getting gone.
Red pants and these Tom Ford shades.
You'll wear your Rick Owens sneakers and jacket onto the plane.
We survived another night on the road,
Now we've got to wake up before we miss another tomorrow.
We're getting gone.
We're getting gone.

But hold up 'cause I'd like to know you
I'll kiss your neck if you'll touch my face
Let's be a stereotype and make them wait all the time,
Ten more minutes, is that really the worst lie?

(Break)

We're getting gone.
And the girls and boys are running us down.
We're getting gone.
I can't remember, what's the name of this town.
We're getting gone.
**** my tongue while I turn you on.
I'll **** your tongue while you turn me on.

this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.

Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

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

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

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

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

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

For Sarah

The 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.

The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.

Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with  Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.

Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ******* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

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.

which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
          
                                                                                                   She

afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng

anthropolatrating agelasts.

Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.

                       Her lips

                                                       instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.

And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way

                                                                             towards & towards

   and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,

just sat and stared

her life, her love, all gone and              disappeared.

As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.

And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.

Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT ****. I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and where it as a hat on a first date. OKCupid's not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the guzzling wind, the air that comes into my mouth and looks for any breath within me that it can go out of me with, and I'm breathless.

I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby bourn,

he's the mien of an Anthony Hopkins, living in a hologram I saw in my dream last night.

As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.

And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.

Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT ****. I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.

I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,

he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.

I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.

Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.

Soon my wishes will be verses, earthworms unraveling a silk string that wraps us in the world. Ravishing, I'm raving madly, going crazy, coming, and coming undone. Your physical frame matched with your intellectual marvel drives me totally insane, dumbfounded and looking for all of my marbles. I'd sail a thousand ships to afford even just a glance, you're the oeuvre to all my movements, conducting the symphony of all we have. I've written a myriad of many books: essay, narrative, prose, and poem. That merely begin to document the excitingness interspersed within our knowings.  This mirthy bliss of ours is an overture to our youth, it's this astute aloofness inside these hours fervidly wrapped in a cocoon of me and you.

I'm not coming across, the way that I initially intended to. The truth is I'm clueless on how to take something too awesome for words, and then attempt to put sentences into them. Like those pictures of you I sometimes take when you fall asleep before me. That has been a fantastic example to myself of just a miniature way I adore thee. Scotch, IPAs, and hoppy drinks splattering laughter through the room, now how can I find one of 200,000 words that could even give justice to it.

So whether or not it's romantic, I don't do it for any other reason, except that describing you and I in words is an inadequacy I'm not pleased with. When lips comfort necks, and hair comforts chests. Sleeping nestled like Bell your head nuzzled at my breast. If I could only say, how incredibeautifulamazing it's been- not last month, last year, or yesterday, but every increment between us without discriminating any piece. Then perhaps I'm getting .0001% closer to being able to describe how amazing we make each other feel.

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.

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.

And then they can't write anymore. They turn their faces dangling  hthreads. They are no fight and no three musketeer. There is no buddy system when you're playing for one, and your keyboard is pocked with burn marks from writing and falling asleep and writing and falling asleep; Apple and H have been missing and the Space Bar, V, and B are on their way out. The positives have become absolutelies. The women abandoned the children and their children, and dinosaurs have eaten the rest. Rest with the wicked and the wind and the women you black-tip reef shark of **** and dross and wickedness(x2), you scratch 'n' sniff barracuda for poor kitchen sink, outhouse, washer/dryer, and wet bar maintenance for a low-cost of ninety-nine dollars and nine cents; the joke is better when the numbers are written out in ink. It **** across teenagers better- that is what I mean. Nineteen year olds specifically, passion possessed, beautiful creators of 2008 and 2009. I should be about  ready to shuffle my feet, curl up my gray socks, and shepherd a Wheaties Box, donning a frog costume, with a homemade iron-on Jesus patch. It was in a box with some pogs and Michael Jordan Valentine's Day cards that I wrote to everyone that fit the profile for my Mother, at least until I turned nineteen. The magical age where even the catholic girls have found out that they're already going to hell-

-

I relive the natures of so many marauders from unclassifiable ***** that I can still taste in my mouth. Sometimes it's a fever other times it's my initials scribbled along the walls. Inquire and we'll dine, lie supine, intertwine; you can teach me about cooperative.

While you were once the queen in the body's sore sorts and blisters from insatiable bear. I'm ready to **** a lion. I'm attracted to your spine and the positions that we've lied in. The pleasure is square it's the shapes in between, non-existantly spinning me into despair. We have seen over one hundred thousand movies, we've had *** in a jacuzzi. You were the fabulous muse so bemuse me again, it's enough of shaving one leg to feel closer to you. There are a million effing elements that won' t seem to align. I'm sick and you're outstanding. We're supposed to be- I can't shut my eyes without seeing you smile, the shape of your mouth and the color of your hair.

I'm twisted up. My elbows shun me and I collapse even when I try to gather myself for walking. It's been years since I've heard
you talking. There must be a scientific law, just a clause that affirms I wasn't supposed to have purposely been given this, "*******."

My chits expired and I'm well over on my phone plan. You're the one that got me addicted to cologne, am I going extinct because I can't seem to hold anything down? The therapy hasn't worked, your therapist is a schmoozer, he's on a tract of trying to use her. Corroborating these lines of language that's died, it's so slow he sees someone himself.

Recently I learned a cure using cigarettes, Led Zeppelin, and liquid morphine, it rearranges my endorphins. I've tried very hard to support it, I've even been a good sport when I realize it's still ******* silent and you haven't called or wrote, or sent or shown me anything. Your poison is heavy. Isn't it time for me to **** the lion and go back home. When you go I'll go, when the shapes of our shadows and the dusts of our ghosts decide to go. When your face is placed on my nape and the house lights low, and I can breathe, and know that my world's other half brings all time to a slow crawl. There is some magic that can keep abright a dying star.

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

Autumn clovers leave
The dirt it stays behind
Steelheads turn up the arms
I don't wanna stay, I see no thing but pride
That man he drowned. He loses everything.

Pinnacle ladies cry, they move up the yawn.
I shake the bed, until tomorrow's grieving.

It shucks our graves in two, splits the pupil's
Fearless cast. I can't run away, I can't make Friday.

The needle takes too long, the blood doesn't leave a trace. The opening is long to go, but
We wallow with it.

Each funeral is a thousand alms
They call to each other's arms.
They won't go astray, even if
You leave them.

Sorrow is my brother's lot
It takes up the head, and leaves us sideways-
Another whim lilts in two. The bridle makes the saw, that breaks down every god. It brands the flock, I don't look at anything.

This day grief makes it hard to go
Another man is bent.
My crooked spine, he shakes in torment.
Up upon the piste, broke down onto the knees
Nothing's there, but I can't look away.
Keep me to yourself
Like a secret you don't know
If I could just find a way
To live another day.

Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.

Well hello poetry, give me your astrology, hold out your hands let's have the maps your treasure's keep.

Sing me the songs now, your idle devotions, the languages of lucifer you
hide in your pots and pans. If you're awake, go back to sleep, it's time to eat you and cry on your pants. In a mistake that the garden you've kept on a clock, analog visuals to change how you talk.

While the song it keeps exploding, you only know how much you've been holding. Don't be too tired to call out if you need. It's late but don't forget how much veterinary school is worth, even the bumps and early morning rattles won't shake you at your core. It's morning now, the heat is on. The rustling of peasants start to grumble for their eats. Pumpkin with coconut oil in Ed's dish is the greatest point in her morning's happiness.

I don't cry. I don't cry. I just talk about it, in voices that only you understand. I don't cry. I don't cry. I just care about you. As much and more than the certainties you care about me too.

It's getting noon soon. And the cold is growing. I'm talking myself into getting more clothes on pretty soon. I don't cry. I don't cry. I'm just pretending to keep me going. I'm so enamored by someone as cool as you do. Let's play pretend, but keep all of this still going. Our neverending portrait drawings of Wednesday afternoon. Do you try? I try. As much as you have taught me. The weather doesn't affect how much I'm talking after you.

There's a needle in the drawer
The shakes move through my knees
When I see purple lights I know my mind's playing tricks on me. I thought I was old enough to know better or just don't care.

Around every corner there's somebody there with long blonde hair , she walks a stride behind me.

When I greet the sea she kisses my face We made the San Andreas fault line shake.

Never know where you're going,  or you'll get there too soon. With yourself all alone in a room fit for two.

Was it the same silence that October brings, that broke your speech, and left me crumbling. You snuck out of the house on the yellow brick road, then killed two of your friends and left their bodies to mold.. Now I'm back on the arm where you used to lay, the touch of your hands send the chills through my veins. I'm not over it, just older, and holding it closer.

Until the storm in my head explodes and shoots my ink on the walls, or I spend the nights scribbling in bathroom stalls. I've seen you dance above night a number of times, but never disappear so unexpectedly

So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild ****." By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.

Take me up. Let the devil take me up, like the morning when we left ourselves. The ides are upon our lives, maybe backstabbing partners really won't pay the bills. The irreverent god, the irrelevant clause that speaks too soon, comes upon the midnight waning sky. Like the moonful of ham in the stock of the flesh, second helpings because I could not resist.

Pick me up. Pick me up. Like a devil born again in the flesh. Your womb is a rotten tomb of forced reclusion, I'm wide awake before I can even sleep. The Time, our heaven is pyre, we're in it now like you thought it had been. But the flesh never whispers when I tried to break it in, it only clung to me like pre-used clothing.

Write it up, tomorrow we make Japan. Tomorrow, the island is our vesper. Your nine lives have come, and you'd decided to trade all of your needs to please me. We intertwined into an elusive butterfly, you're dead inside my beak, chewy, squishy, crunchy meat. You're eleven but you've never tasted better.

Your lies are so stupid, I had to have you in supine. I had to lie to myself to placate me. I survived by being a witness to a life. A dusky, grayish shadow four feet yonder.

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

Just a cool stone falling from the sky. A parachute smoking Parliament Lights coasting the real world that was passing it by. Coaxing a kettle to observe kashrut law but tamely give it time and it'll start handling the swine in the huge sunlight of Williamsburg's Southeast side. It will learn to pedal its parlor tricks in order to survive.

The tabloids had the story neatly bundled up with a news team in their 3-floor flat. Bubble-wrapped and packaged with plastic. Two new reasons to draw a truce to the agonizing and circuitous chasing of the playground muse. Beautiful warmed cerise porcelain skin intertwined by the golden threads worth never ever choosing to blink again. Beautiful like imaginary childhood sword fights among the assurance of our towering grandparents. Beautiful as the vintage polaroid blur of a person whose city slept itself into the sea. She slept herself into the sea.

From the sacred realm of the many desk drawers, lintels, cupboards, and closets where so many objects of misdirection, confusion, and memory appear out of 25¢ rings, faded business cards, nameless sentimental must-haves, four or five photographs that are never looked at, three or four leather cuffs, brass knuckles, a sailor's compass, 12 cigarettes, and two empty cigar boxes of stuff that is home to even lesser known finer sentimentally necessary stuff.

The commoner takes no notice of these fantastical theorems or the promulgating tantrummers in the sweaty cobblestone streets where in the sarcasm of a daydream, he the dreamer sleeps here yet he's awake in July the Fourth, Eighteen Seventy-Three, Independence Day or though it would seem. The narrator who is played by Humbert Humbert constantly fidgets with a steel 6-shot revolver, he drops it multiple times while his eyes are stricken with the brightest shine from the sheen off a knife in the hands of the stranger's while he shuffled and whined.

Inside the shells of flightless birds there are always the tormented ears echoing the screams of the children that they hurt. Who will never gait through wild strawberry fields or understand that everything is only as real as we choose to feel.

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

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?

If grey is a kind of blond, and white is the color it leads to
Then skin is the way we learn to touch, and hands are the way
We learn to play with one another.

Sleep is a song of breathing, legs are the way we bring ourselves to know One another, and you is the long version of I. Then I am the one that keeps you to ourselves.

Day is the way to night, night the way to longing. When I was a little child, I dreamt of a girl who I could fasten myself to sleep, and when I awoke this evening

I saw me lying inside of your beautiful skinny arms. Then pleasure was the count of two. Warm bodies gushing smiles from morning into the night.

In day's prime, in summer's sweet eyelids,
Two lives arc, their eyes struggling to break a stare, sharing trysts through dulciloquent exchange,
After the deep blue blossoming lake. To avenge time, we sought it and drove our pupils
Down through the bluff and the green trees, limping past the arenose and albicant sands
Into it's quivering- I must say.

Hey fancy. You make me smile regularly,
I need you to know, because I don't always say so,

but if I didn't read what you write about
your interactions with life,
I'd definitely be not the half that I am of alive.

So thank you, from the perfume of my heart,
and the plastic that is my legs,
the opossum hair that makes me who I am,
and the light of my malaise.

Snake Bite

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

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

I feel the call from the oceans,
the voices whisper from its breeze.
Snow and satire can't label the mindfulness of
memories slowly coming back to me.
My mountains have missed you so much,
my legs miss the warmth of your thermos,
I miss your gentleness and subtlety.

Priority one. If you don't think you will make it by Tuesday,
I'll travel back in time before we were forty degrees,
you can read the seraphs on my signature
if I can lay in your sheets for a week.

Chrysanthemums all over the hallways, Irises in azurean hues.
The charter won't take us all the way to the break wall,
I'm at the airport trying to reach you by phone.
I'd take the flavor of your spirit,
over the sweet coolness of truth,
Slide my fingers into the holes in the jeans you always wear for me when I come home.

The only thing I write off are pages,
Tables marked with the ends of so many words.
Who are you to know what you can do without
The more I've learned, I realize I'm happier with the less I know.

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.

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.

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

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