what to do.
where to go.
how to

get
there.

icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that

i have
on my person,
in my backpack.

---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my

scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.

all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.

but we still
can rewrite it.

this
is
why
i sit.

alone.

this monkish
quietude
i exist in:

living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my

pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks

on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or

i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.

i mean, what im trying to say is:

the road
calls
me;

long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,

really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.

i have
resting glitch
syndrome.

new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.

come
save me,
my poet.

ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.

be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.

you are being.
pointillation
along this
broken
pale
blue dot

lit

with focus
and swarming intent,
strange, and
sometimes dark, yet

true enough:

your words do not simply word
but world
things

into existence;

your mere gaze,
ten thousand and ten gods clod in daisy chains,
whose glance together moves matter into wave,

history into potential origin
re-eden'd, new again;

your light,
never flawed or sinful,
always already
there and
so ******* perfect.

everything feels wrong,
but feels so right.

all the devils
are here
in drag.

worry not poet,
you are only light that matters.

so, play the role.
be somebody.
and make me swim
inside your pointillist earthing spoken,
cursor sojourning
across the blank page that awaits
the next line.

we learn to split ourselves
-even contradict-
this is the game we (must) play

to keep
the crazy
at arms length

images brim
inside my
lonely, worried head.

things.

all the
t h i  n g   s
need
to be done
all the time.

i know.

but i
petrify
like a tree slip;
now tipped over,
asked to lay down;
horizontal to this,

death's opened fist.

and then,

all those lightyears
spooled along the edge of the rush
come lit with a sound
so furiously felt

it -somehow- passions forth
a small being, breathing
from ways milky forever.

and i

place it,
upright,
in the palm of your
hurt hand,
semi-curled openshut, and
sorta tilted;
as if to say, idunnoifishould..

... but you do know.

and it will grow up
and down
and around,

where it will thrive till shone tumble and wilt.

your light feels like
a fast getaway from
all the things that "matter."

**** all that **** ride with me babyyy

till we hit

white
hot
screams
of
conscious ne s   s

let me yoke to you.
twist mine into yours.
***** me in at the hips.
lift me into your if's
and have me, present.

our torquing bodies
charging each other,
holding back the

bloom of darkness.

yes, it is true:
we are
closest to the dark.

but we are also
sown to the broadest urge
that wrote us.

this ebb is lit with written poems,
receding into the lightness of dense being.

so,
jot me
into this

and i
will
exist in
your margins,

like nice little notes
that mean everything in the world.

winged things tear violent
from shoulder blades
the wet purple skies are mine