i look for love
when i become tired of myself
and want to share it
with someone else.

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

everyone is going to die at a very young age.

.

.

.not a poem.

.

.

.

Nothing

every word you speak
is a monolith
built by
perfect desert.

it casts shadow
so narrow
you are in
constant orbit
with the sun.

declaring the great war then winning while losing.
the perfect man sits down, with the wacko, and discovers:
im too perfect to understand this guys ineptitudes.
and thinks and equates and considers then concludes:
i am the perfect one, i should be the only one..
but then becomes lonely and sad and crippled,
and just needs a hand to hold, or to end him.
..keep trying

baby velvet shoes
made from the
finest babies.

kindness and senseless beauty

i talk to old ghosts
who have changed their bodies.
they look at me
and ask with their eyes
"how have you been?
what have you been doing?"

and im speechless.
glued to the chair.
ive filled up with smoke.

"i have no idea.
i really couldnt tell you."

the past 8 years.
theyre not real anymore.
i wouldve given up my life
for so many moments
but now cant remember
who i was
or who i was with
or who i loved
or what was so funny.

the past 8 years
were a thundercloud
and rained down
each hydrating moment
and i look back
and all the puddles have dried
without the courtesy
of heat waves
at the end of the road
and everyone stays inside
because its too hot now.

soon the ghost will leave
and ill be a mirage
talking to myself
in the city.

a basketball sits still
and alone
in a vacant playground
filled with only
the stare of the moon.

a small bicycle
lies on its side
just outside the gate.

a family shakes and cries
next to a telephone
silent and avoiding the facts.

a man is fat
off of the contents
of the child
who he sweats out
dazed and in a
fog of zen.

the moon
continues its search
for nine months.

and that same child is found
in a new body
with a new happy family.

twenty-six years later
the child is a man
with a child of his own.

that child is stolen
from a playground
vacant except for
the stare of the moon.

the man searches and finds
his child
in the back bedroom
of an aging fat man.

the moon smiles
and rests its eyes
and dreams of
this beautiful revenge.

the sun and the moon
both need to sleep
and sometimes they sleep together.
the sun and the moon
go down on each other.
an orbital child is among us.

If the rain falls down in smiles
Then I guess I'm left
Inside of the mind
Of something else.

gods good girls are jews.
american jews.
sometimes i want to **** em.
im pretty sure they want to
**** me too.

i guess theyre not so good.
but god does like a show.

my sock

hopped away

my seeds convulse
with caustic
adrenal
fire.

a mutiny to melt
the will from my want.

a life grows inside me
a tumor with teeth and hair

to leave me

to chew
through the weight that i wear.

it leaves me
like a spirit
to possess you.

give the children something
to eat each other.
they are not a mass of lives,
but a flesh of hunger.
a massive
anorexic fly
en route
to good filth.
a snake
turning its jaw so wide
as to turn itself
inside out
completely.
a congress of monkeys
in a competitive ****.
the sun
swallowing its own soul.
folding darkness drowning.

born in a three piece suit
in a room full of unmade chairs.

the moon and i
have had a
long distance
relationship
for many years
and still manage
to make love
constantly.

like a lover
whos a stranger
living in my attic.

sometimes full naked
or an open robe

but sometimes
off drinking
with strangers.

and im left
in a retrospective
with no reflection.

temp, rogue, secret.

without a country.

without a home.

without a family.

-no identity.

a watch with 6 zones.

nothing but time.

nothing but to sit
and stare
and still.

spinning fan blades.

the languge i know.

the gun is the silencer.

the mission is quietude.

a mission met.

a dead old man
living in the city

theres a dead guy living inside of this dead girl i know. hes crouched like a bug and her skin crawls so she does too. all fours like a dead animal, like dragon-flies fuking their fetus inside. shes a nice girl and i like her but her sorry dead soul is being repeatedly ***** and shes in so much pain i cant have a decent conversation with her. her father is a pervert. he touches himself sitting on her head-stone, laughing. if he knew what i knew hed be jealous of them both. when he dies soon hell have to face the fact that hell have to share. i give up trying to talk to her, to tell her hope. i give up the ghost.

i am this way

because it is

my greatest

masterpiece

its the ded winter, nowhere in sight a life besides you and your infant you you exhume.
crying screaming and frozen tears rip off the face.
you die in no time youre sure of it.
baby making cry make you want to suffocate the sound. or child. or you.
no time til die.
you die, child die.....then two to exhume if one is to find,
after more make to burry and mourn the no-more.
youre a full person and the other a half .
......you...youyouyouyouyou..... do you eat the child??....
youve made before you can make more ..... but if you make it.
. . . . . . . . . . .  i promise not to search for nothing to find.
ded cowardice feed on a barely born suffering.
and out of breath. no mouth to mouth. i eat both what i find.
a hellish hunger froze over the deadened bodies. preserved and rotting.

have you ever squeezed to smell a bag filled with generations of ded flies?
youll kno it wen i spread my ded wounds over your airholes
as you suffocate on my nourishment.
slipping your name from my tongue to your ear while you sleep.

a skeleton with no bones
dances everywhere
silent letters for teeth
with no talking
its breath in a bag
blowing past the front door
of an abandoned building
with no floor.
a rat trap snapping on a rats back
is percussion.
a dead rat is friend to talk to.
Hunger is invited to an empty table.
the cracks in the paint
scratch and claw up the wall.
the walls excuse
themselves from the room.

the applause of a silent audience
is the stage
filling in the performers tomb.

ahummingbirdlodged
initsthroatchokingit -
laughingandsinginganddying

clappingandhappyandfull
are the people so
dreadfulaheadfullofhorrorandhell

there is nothing left for a person like me because i dont feed on the privileged or the stupid.
and i dont move mountains but the privileged pay for that and the stupid do for pay.
my payoff is always cynicism and poor habits and debt.
a gun would pay for itself 3-fold on day 1.
all im really missing is a gun.
but i need one to get one.

a dead dog hangs itself
the only way it knows how-
with honor.

a head-hunter dreams
the only way it can-
in vivid colorful horror.

an assembly line designed
to pour quicksand
down the mouths of robots.

we keep the truth hidden.
the ground we walk lost.
a table top cloth.
a mind shattering meal
of silence not deafness.

Yellow.
Toast.
Catfish.
The Great Masturbator.

pian rains out of my pores
as i bleed the death of an elephant.

maybe the only reason my hearts so open to love and beauty is because I've been such a ******* in life no one wants to reenter my diseased heart.

an extention chord

plugged into itself

slithering passed the people

baby too crazy but crazy enough.

i see a room i remember

and a room filled with strangers.

ghosts sitting in odd chairs.

some know the other

but it is my reunion.

no words.

theres nothing.

theres nothing i can speak.

if i break the silence
they might leave.

my body is filled with flies.
like feeding gas to a balloon
shaped like me.
when i burst
your family will know
pieces of my wet pestilence
grazing their lips and
mating in their wigs.
furiously scratching
the madness off of them,
covered like clowns,
in rotten
frowning
red
horror.

why do fellow poets give so much praise to fellow poets?(either they genuinely enjoy the thing or they assume karma and wish for wealthy appraisal aft their own ****** poetry) but my real question, or observation (since im obviously predisposed to my own insight and wish no response be paid even if bearing reason) is: why would ANYONE go out of there way to say to a fellow writer: 'that was amazing, thanks for sharing'??... THANKS FOR SHARING????? REALLY?????!!!!    ....as if the writer heard the voice of god speak to them their revelation of true and higher purpose, whence they quit their job ON THE SPOT!("ive got more IMPORTANT things to do right now! you wouldnt understand mr.boss-man. just go home to your wife and children, and wait for my instructions to guide you."),and, on their righteous march home to share their beautiful soul-dripping piece of literature(soon to be coveted by the heads of all religions)with the rightfully deserving PEOPLE, denied several beautiful women the privilege of touching their selfless masculine form glowing with the sheen of purpose and higher calling(please, PLEASE!! ill do ANYTHING to make love to you sir! ANYTHING!! i have MONEY! i have DAUGHTERS!!!! take anything you want, PLEEEEEEEEEEZ!!! - im sorry miss, but i cant...theres just...something i must do....) and KICKED!! DOWN!! their own front door, bare-footed and blistered, to (not dash, but) FLY to their laptop, ripping off their old lower-calling work-shirt to expose and stretch not only their massive hairless pectorals but their just-now-formed giant shining ANGEL WINGS!!! OH MY GOD!!! and this is just the beginning; deep selfless psychic concentration on the vocal fragments which god sends through uncountable dimensions to our hero of lore has worn our hero out such as would **** any mortal man, but not He. He is DRIVEN by His purpose and GUIDED by His words and immeasurably GRATEFUL for the flesh falling from His now skeletal shell of a ****** pair of hands(once clasped as a cage, but are now splayed apart upon His holy stone, setting free the Truth); in tears with gratitude for the sun-hot pain He receives with every stroke of the key. He cares not for the capital "H" which god hath bequeathed upon Him, rightfully deserving or not. He hath no concern but of His duty to all people. "I care not for the capital 'H' which god hath bequeathed upon me, rightfully deserving or not. I hath no concern but of my duty to all people." -He proclaims in his new booming voice(also bequeathed by the one true god to Him) which sends the walls of His earthly confines CRUMBLING to the floor; His entire city, country, CONTINENT!! leveled and aflame; several million left dead or broken....all without homes, while the tumultuous chaos of children crying for dead parents pierce His ears not, for He is all-consumed by the voice of god, His OWN voice, commanding the very last verse (which He diligently, and with no sense of relief or pride, types onto sacred keys with bones of hands now whiter than the Angels crescent smile) of what will inevitably be..... The New Bible of Hope and Truth and All-Real-Reality, which he faxes telekinetically to the remaining masses that be...His followers...His followers who would bring a long-drawn-out slaughter to their own kin if promised a glimmer of His Truth. For all that He is is All.... HIS WORDS. HIS PURPOSE. HIS BIBLE. HIS NATION!!!!!.....and all you dare say is "that was amazing, THANKS FOR SHARING"?????????????????????????????????????..... of COURSE He wanted to share. it was His DUTY. His LEGEND. His REASON to have ever been BORN!!!..... but you wouldnt understand....NONE of you would!!......................you greedy poets disgust me...

i feel
someone
in my skin
wondering
who this man is.

people are clouds
everything is a cloud
everything is an ambient cloud.

it was once
that i was the rain
in drops.

but a puddle
in this world
grows a skin of gasoline.

a rainbow sits
on this body of water
only when
a flame is found
to light the way.

the flame will drown.
the way will die.
to find the light inside.

and the light
it leaves
in broken pieces

scattered,
as i was,
when once it was

that i was the rain
in drops.

all movements in art are
only an agreement that
all parties involved
are inspired
to stop thinking.

a madness of zombies
ran through my dream
while i lay there.

one day ill find a war worth waging
and a battle worth bleeding for.
until then its just an aimless war.

photographs become
the saddest things.
and moments are
so special, yes,
but to pervert them
is a form of slavery.

she could perform
a botched surgery
with precision.

the freshly dead
would throw
their arms
around her
casual frame.

and the heart is in the mail.

in one cigarette you can make art.
in one lifetime you can smoke almost infinite deaths.
tragedies
worth capturing
at least once.

in my past life
i was a dog.
i went to my grave
several centuries from now
and dug up my elephant bones.
i went back and gave myself my ded bones to chew on.
and patted my head.
scratched behind the ear.