butterknife seppuku
is my fav way to go

lottsa little deaths
to spread thin

till the last edit
of these things
swims
upstream

away from me

light magenta vertical;
gaurdian of the margin.

light blue horizontal;
conveyer of the ledger.

the space
between -
white teeth gleam,

refracting
lunarlit scribbles

across one loose leaf,
fell by some god
awful idiot,

all for
you
to space

out
on.

i will be
written
down
yesteday

in elegant
recursive
flicks
of the

wrist -

a has-been
fate.

so, i am not supposed to be here.
not anymore, anyway.

i know that.
i am three-hole
punch drunker.
awkwarder.

but those potential
whatif's glyph bright
behind closed eyelids,

and
it

makes
me wonder
just a little longer.

indigo
cursor
blink.
blink. blink.

blink.

acro in the park
at the local farmer's market
energy, again

i feel
like
space
given
shape,

a web
crawler
whose spinnerets
spit out
time,

leading toward
something
genuine and
whole and

present.

fear does not define me.
i am energy,
incarnating

now.

things can be silly.
i can allow myself
to feel

joyous

without stressing about
capturing the moment -
enjoying things as they come..

i am density
in hand with
fluidity.

i am
river rock
and rivulet -
i sit, center,
pool,
eddy

and
swim off

downstream.

the space 
risked 
in this 
will to 
continue 

existing 

can be 
whiteknuckle fist ebb,
instead of
(or because of)
comfy square house 
called home
that we all had 

once
known

about.

dear you, 
down your dram of
petals withered -
sit on your bench
and watch the clouds brood -
let your twenties be
a complete blur,

then,

score 
a line
inside
the silence,
and jot
down
mind

on the margins 

of all there is
which cannot 
be said,
only

felt.

lunarhand left
tugshove the hurt
make things alright again

you are
furthest
from the

lightwomb,

but skinlit kisses
still whisper
ghostfuls of

yes

into your
crowded head.

anyone know anyone
in san fran area
that could spare a room
for a nite (or two)
for a homeless poet?

will
work
for
words.

im a rolling pebble
kicked down  
the road's shoulder

the hurt
is alive
and my eyes
are opening

there is no such thing
as home anymore
i know
that much

at a cafe
people, like me,
in transit.

the inbetween
slivers

my
molecules,

opening the space to face
caught thoughts.

i am spiraling.
i am not well.
an early exit is calling me.

i guess i can do
a blue sky.
but i like mine

grey and
splayed out,
sleepily burnished -
yuh know,
that something that
brings out

monochrome feral tones,

with a few
exposed
crevices
every now and then

to polish
me off
good.

there is a humble road that slowly goes up, inching into feral skies, rising high with conscious, living intent.

it is sustained by a preternatural order, allowing for, yet shaping, flux.

you must -first- be utterly grounded, rooted in, in order to reach these airy heights.

ancient scraper of skies old, babel-proofed from power grabs, confounding our words to capture this coveted ascent - convey

my sore
feet
along.

collecting quail eggs
in the morning summer heat
eleven spotted shells

onions and roses
pushpull fools
sweet something's

whispered

into your
torque

we'll endure
the shade of
spent flesh wakes

together

or
apart

crushed parts
flush limbs
**** mar

row

the felt
swell
of me

till it comes hard

i wish
i were
bright star,

far away.

but i am
blight scar,
here and

now.

i am
going to die
yesterday -

and all the feels i get
from this
strange world

will
go
with
it,

leaving my cracked
seashell
at your feet,
promising oceans
within.

my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.

the moonface
pushpulls me.

i am
moved
too much.

i am
not enough
mover.

i am *****
given,
all too often.

i am
not
me -

i am you
in your supine
palm.

i matter
little.

my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,

vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which

seems real
-so real-

real
like
when

the kitchen
sink
disposal

runs.

my lines
pinned
under hers

my sentences run on

till her vocab
comes
on mine

the blue sky
does not lie
down for anyone

got the truck stuck
wheels spinning
cloey (the goat) stares at me

arranging flowers
snipped from the flower garden
makes me feel close to

something
beautiful, or

whatever
you call
that thing
that makes your
insides

light up.

it isnt easy for anybody
to write
themselves

down.

the gaps of what is
or is not

elide

the silly lines you lay.

most of it is ****.
true story.

but -still- you
write the space and
chase the miss

with appendages
that lift
concrete feet.

i went to the bar
last night. had a few drinks.
jukebox played. people danced.

my glass
spun around
in my hand,
like my head, and
it drank

me up
good.

i have
a hard time
a lot.

i know

the press the press
to be someone

so well; and, she knows me.

the trim of her pale green dress
whittles the beats that

keep me going.

wooden boy with a prop in his hand
and a flower for a face.

sitting on the couch
with her legs tucked
under
at an angle
toward the door
 
that i
walk through

she is wearing her mint green bathrobe 

her fingers clutch
a wine bottle she jus got done killing

its contents dousing
some of the fire

we start
to argue

it spirals

i create
space and

go to the bedroom

her being now frames the doorway 
i notice and
recognize
her one foot on top of the other 
pivoting the toe in-out-in-out 
digging it
into her bottom toe
as if to
***** herself 
to her place

that im in 

it crushes me
to see this tic of hers
because it was always the small things she did
that made me want to curl up

inside her bones
and call it something like

home

her fingers grasp
the door frame 
i can see
the blood
leaving them

i feel
so much

the flowers are dead and dying and
i feel like i am
watching these ******* petals
ball themselves
into a wrecking fist
with time lapsing much too quickly

before i
am able to
be in it

i am yesterday right now too often it hurts it hurts
and its weird bc
the high-flung melodrama
of me
feels kitchen sink disposal real

her blue
blue iris
so beautiful
detained
by the stilled willful dark that
increases itself

abysmal circumference
pooling around
my feet
its teeth whirring dicing

us now lying down
on the bed
together
one last time

her fetal position curls into my

stiff
straight
body 

her fingers
lacing the fingers

of another 

next to
her 

indigo silhouettes
on top
of black

lack

rooster crow.
goat horns clash.
sudden sutured glow
for what is left

of
this

soul,

comes forward
into thought.

soon i'll know
what it feels like to find roots;
or i won't,

idk.

afternoon slow
blue sky flies
off the tips of treetops;
old-growths,
ancienter than dragon bone femur,
scraping aged skylines.

im

earthing
in
my
mind.

Buster the tomcat
hunting in
the garden

field mouse
wins

this one.

i hate myself
out loud,

and
make
things

awkward

er.

if
you
are
reading
this,

then,

you
aren't
alone.

your
being
-right now-
by virtue of
reading this

is
with
mine;

and mine,
with yours.

and even when
you go

away,
you

are still here,
existing in
my
little
poem,

smeared
light

remnants

rubbing up
against mine.

and even when i go away
after sending this off,
i too will still be here

like you.

all of our weird
written words
penned at a distance are

always connected
by some

strange
residual angle
and spin
emitted,
leftover
from our

small but
eternal

interactions;

alignments of the light which do not discriminate,
nor create hierarchies of strict titanic binaries
that demand and interrogate..

your
big
red
hearts
make my
little grey
lightning bolts

light up:

bright yellow strikes fluoresce

over and
over

and

o v  e    r,

again and again.

your
tiny torch
forever
charging  

me,

even as i
cool off

and

darken,

is much appreciated,
dear poets

of
mine.

blue sky
white cloud  
birds mixing sound made

ray of
energy.

i counted your number one day;
or tried, anyway.

you danced
for me
over the cityscape,
even the horizon;
your hips
undulate,
describing lines
dangerously.

i picked up my little pixels
to capture
this dissent.
but you

were
so free

that i stopped writing
and started being

like you.

pink lady
apple
nom nom

i know this
high vibrational elf
she energizes me, sooo good.

i jus now saw
some dude
literally move
the apt. dumpster
so to paint
the wall white
behind it;

a wall, which,
will be completely ******* covered
by the dumpster,
after putting it back
against the newly painted white wall.

plus im pretty sure they're calling for rain..

that happened.

i actually witnessed that happen:
and, then, proceeded to
turn around
-awkwardly-
to go back inside my apt.,
with two full trashbags in hand.

... do you even realize what that means??

somebody actually gave him
that task: "go paint behind the dumpster."
aren't there other things to do?
or is this guy's boss that much of a ******
that he'd tell his employee,
"heyyy soo.... the wall.. behind the dumpster --
you know that wall? yaa
it needs to be painted.."

i mean, it'd be one thing
if, like,
the wall were
visible. and gross looking.
and people were calling
and complaining
about it,
like it was some eyesore
that offended their
otherwise
aesthetic enjoyment
and anticipation
of approaching
the scuffed forest green
apt. dumpster.

but it's not;
so it's not;
and so
they aren't.

or i'd get it if people routinely socialized
hanging around dumpsters,
like a water-coolor
or something;

buuut they don't;
so it's not
like a water-cooler..

... yaaa, unless i'm missing something here,
as far as i know,
there have been no
emerging cultural trends
whereby large groups of people
are routinely finding some
sorta symbolic resonance with
the object of a
dumpster;

it's gravitas
doesn't exactly
prompt frequent and
spontaneous dialogue
around it.

it isn't a known cultural artifact,
representing something meaningful and
bigger than ourselves, creating cohesion
and establishing an intangible commonality:

behold, our goodly trash-bearer!
great eater of things prolly totally not needed!
humble builder of plastic trash continents,
swirling vortex in the middle of the high seas!

nobody says that.

ever.

and nobody
is overstaying their visit
at a giant,
smelly
metal maw
which disposes things,
either unneeded or unwanted,
long enough
to suddenly notice that
the wall behind it
could maybe use a new paint job.

it's not exactly a cafe.
it's a ******* dumpster.

that man,
charged with the task of
painting the wall whiter
behind the dumpster,
ought to be
painting
on a canvass

which we all could see,
visible to the greater public.
and we would celebrate it, with him.
we could all gather
together, and toast
to his mind manifest, his art,
on display for all to see.

i wanna see THAT.
**** the white wall
behind the
******* dumpster.
that **** can wait.

what visions would surface?
how would he render it?

what would
he make?

i dunno

maybe
he'd paint
a surrealist depiction
of a man
charged with the task
of painting white
a wall behind a dumpster
as rain clouds
rolled in overhead,
spelling out

"i am Employer.
destroyer of worlds,
and vibes.
feel my ****** wrath."

i feel alive, again, sunrise ---
this is all too strange, noon high ---
i don't want it, early eve ----

i wonder what
it would feel like
to be

alive,

moonfall.

if i died
would you lie

with me?

lay me
down
in my small space,
touching
my chilled
flesh,
caressing me
till i arrive

over there?

i have died so many times.
it hurts.

i
don't
want
it.

so give me it,
dagger deep.

my meds are syntactical pills.
i pop them daily.
never fail.

i constantly rearrange them
and stare

at their sound.
how they
slant, or how they
run off
into tangents.

each day i stare at what they say.
eyes wide shuttered, half-here-or-there

or whatever.

they make me feel better, i tell her.
i get off
from it.

hear me! i am creator
of small thoughts
written down.

slipped crown tumble.
wings fallen into
this glyph

which stands for
something greater; or
so they say.

----- crow over there. see it? it careens scenes
of scenes, never-ending slipstreams and forgotten seas;
tangential shadow tree limb swim there: promise is viral gold..

i want to be difficult to read so you can't ever fully know me.
or because i know i'll never know me,
not really;
so why the **** should you get to?

no. it can't be.
i locked and ate the key to me
long long ago.

shine the light just right
and you can see it: it's there,
grown into the spleen.

see it?

it turns me on
and off.

my doses have increased, i say.
i'm addicted, she says.

we all are.

we all are because
to write is to admit
you have so much more to say but don't know how,
and probably never will know how.

but still you do it.

there's always
another
angle
to be
seen.

I'll most likely die
chasing the syntax, i think.

these days are farther
from the light.
choose to trust
or hedge your bets?

or can i even trust myself?
and, if so, which self?

meh, that's
the question.

this lalala lightly felt
high noon breeze 
has my head stuck
in all sorts of texty zoos

legs hips navel
clavicle ridge line
hands behind binary bars shallow

these wet blues i feel
feel real
swimming hues
suggesting so much

i am the fool who'll 
follow knotty impressions and
fall for that crevice
just beyond
crenelated hipflesh

where woolly strips the color of sea unders
straps across
and barely covers it
 
three
light
taps
of the tongue
at the back of
both incisors 

is all it takes

and i

lick you
from where you came
to where you went

and bright orange
clementine,
peeled,
for your open
mouth. i adore the **** out of you,

queen of my
imagined scene,
finally traversing this

digital space

to eat
each other
up.

to jus pull the ******* trigger
and do something,
anything.

but i wonder if
i just need

new blue metaphors.

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