you can look at the ground
to watch the ants
or look at the sky
to be one being watched.

everything good funnels down
into the jowls of a frothing,
ill-natured beast.

the rain is every fruit of heaven plucked at once to feed the fruit.

people have no souls.
but souls have the people.

ive made poetry.
im happy.

when there is nothing besides poetry
it terrifies me.

the yolk is more achieved than i.

the shell is what
keeps me waiting.

too depressed to *******
I need someone to talk to.
life runs its course
and I of course
I never got a walk-through.

youre in the sky
pouring everything
out of your mouth.

i was dry
but now im drowned.

ive spoken to you before.
your mouth catches it all
and ***** it in
somewhere into your purse.

the beauty comes
from the quivering pulse
that is the battle
between desire
and restraint.

this is where the walls crumble
and send shockwaves
through the earth
and up your legs
and into your soul.

and im happy to be
your enemy.

the spiders in my dream
crawl out through my ear
and into my shelter.

i wake
and watch them
while they sleep.

your mind
run away from me
on fire

then run back
and beg me
to subdue it.

there is a dungeon
inside a room
in your house.
or in your car.
out in the city where you eat.
a comfortable place because
there they know your face
and you dont have to be
anybody.

they have t.v.'s there
that think for you
while you watch them
from your dungeon door.
and you think
your dungeon
brings you peace.
so you decorate it
and call it your home
and live there
until you've used
all of its air.
it is cursed by
the inhabitant
who built it
around their self.
a place for quiet
turned hostile
because eventually
the truth shines in through
the wear in the walls
and sends you
screaming into the sun.

if i were to cut off
a piece of my flesh
or a finger
or even an ear
it would crawl
the way a slug crawls
to your house
slither into your bed
and sleep in your mouth.

i sit here and try to be still.
within minutes im a skeleton
in a wooden chair.

you still walk into my soul sometimes.
and i sort of look at anything to distract me.
you might be my health but i dont want to steal yours.

there is no straight line
to this point.

science is the shell
encapsulating the
oddly shaped object
of truth.

she spreads her legs open
and i climb inside
and die.

im trying to write my soul down
before it leaves.

.

i wonder who
all of you people are
passing in and out of my life.

a film of frost formed over everything for almost forever
but fell off fast when every form
finally felt fever.

-god

multipictoramagraph

.

the dog stands
so still
at the
half open door
but im
frozen
and cant
let him in.

you come and you go.

the costume is a veil

there is no straight line
to this point.

they all died
and im crying.

when you learn to love everyone
it helps in realizing that u don't need to love anyone in particular.

words
tend to become lost
in poetry.

poetry tends to become
lost in
thought.

thought tends to become
words.

evil lives and evolves
all of our lives
to love.

evil always lives
and evolves our vile lives
to love.

ash is a physical shadow
you only can see
with the light
of your mind

theres a deep root i cant quite share
but it becomes tired of everything
including myself
and i love it.

i enjoy my author.
he is a good author.
i love my author.
he does not think highly of me.
i can not cope.
i will end it all.
goodbye.

when the truth comes out
it hurts everyone in the room.
like giving birth to a stick of
lit dynamite.

so give it up...
here, ill inspire you.

you got a cigarette in jail.
and I smoked one on my birthday.
in Atlanta.
but now I smoked one all by myself.
neither tastes better than the other. but if I'm in jail on my birthday again I will let you know which is sweet,
because so far I can't taste anything

a rain frog
sits on my window
and i wonder
if its me.

leather being tanned
by a ****** in a shed
somewhere in the south.

myself as a child
was a teacher to me now.
i knew then
that everything
is alive.

my lazy soul
looks comfortable here.

and it probably
looks at me
and wonders why
we don't do more
nice things
together

smooth stones.
round puddles.
no corners at all.

there were spirits,
spirits wanting.
someone to inhabit.
a body to be pregnant withem.

the room was a woman.
smooth dress.
no bra.

he played it on my guitar
36 years after he wrote it.
and my guitar made
his sounds appear.
and when we become that dust again
we'll be broken down into something
born from sound.
something that truly listens.

no two people kiss the same.
they only kiss
the way they kiss
when they kiss each other.

i want to light small fires
in every corner of my mind.
not to light the way
but to burn it down.

the most intimate ive been
with anyone
in a long time
has been with my own hemorroid.

junkies live in the garden below
a saint dies in the apartment above
theyed wish eachother love
if their paths had ever crossed
they find themselves dying lost

my head lays in my hands.

it must be exausted.

my neck
must be
somewhere
off in the distance.