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

cleanse the doors of perception
and you still get cleansed perceptual doors;
sure, it's a higher, more complex order of doors,
but it's still a door.
it still opens and shuts.
it still reveals and conceals rooms,
one door at a time.

the subject always objects
in the house of many doors.
it pictures. it members. each one,
a massive concatenation of rooms framed.
but the rooms always shift
with each new door opened,
because we always

think.
imagine.
wonder.

and we
re-member.

remembrance is always novel:
the old, new'd
with visions truer, because broader in space.

thinky stick binoculars can never be put down
in the house of doors and rooms reimagined.

i don't wanna do this anymore but i will ialwaysdoacquiesce

i try to curve a line
with words
but this place is flat

did you ride
your bicycle
today?

you glazed bricks blue
at Ishtar Gate,
deep seas where
lion, bull and dragon dwell

you are featured on
the gold funeral mask of Tut,
adorning his brow line
in deep eternal hues.

your name is summoned
several times
in the Epic of Gilgamesh,
the oldest known piece of literature
known to exist.

your mere
consonance
of L's
and slant
assonances:

eleven tongues licking all my holes.

to the very bottom
of the atmotone bedwave
where my yellows swim blue

habit always circles the drain
toward novelty's end
feel the pushpull torque

dropping cool green sour grapes  
into your gaping mouth
hips angling into mine

leftover clementine peels
and apple cores
in the kitchen sink garbage disposal:

haven
for the rise
of the lord of the fruit flies.

this, my greatest adversary.

i lay vinegar and wine traps, and,
at various junctures,
lead spray sorties where they congregate
with all-purpose cleaner in hand ---
even swat at them
with my other free hand
like King Kong did helicopters,
whilst holding a screaming kicking Ann Darrow
in her small little nighty,

and i
watch,
haughtily  

as they fall
before mine
victorious feet.

and i beat my chest.

then i suddenly feel horribly conflicted
in the clutches of such a merciless slaughter.

they never
stood
a chance.

in that little honey hued moment
after helixed bodies
came and went,

where the arc of something sets down
over us
from over there,

with its glow suggesting things
of clenched whitened-knuckle awe,
hugging worried spaces,

i face
myself as
not just watcher -
not just wanderer -
but rushing water wide,
being conveyed

somewhere

into the big run of the space over there
where the strange firebreather awaits
as conjured conjurer
with nestled talking wings that cue us forward,

as we
gyrate
around
in circles; swirling
objects along
the side

for now.

i've the mien of a human,
alien among his own.
gross animal urges, brackish greengold flits, uncrushable surge; then,
demispoonfuls of Other emerge, light like photons
barely reaching, then lapping,
at my fatigued bare feet, toes curling up
in the sand of someone else's time.

i don't let people in,
because i
myself am
outside of me,
full of blocked ways,
full of rationalizations.

i am all hallways
without any room.

--- it's ******* weird, i know that.

i am not
altogether
normal.
i am out
there, but
still here.
please please, understand
this. it's key.

like, the other day..
while taking out the trash (that i pathologically neglect to do),
as i approached the dumpster,
that old-as-the-hills
tall, ornately carved double door glinted
into my space
- yet again -
out of nowhere;

made of an ancienter wood hailing from
a lost time and a lost space,
whose two adjacent hatch windows were lithely guarded
by some bizarre crisscross adamantine sentient metal -
this precise door, which
i have never been able to open up, let alone fully approach -
laughed and widened its grasp:

and, with a confusing series of heavy deadbolts  
receding from its nook with a resonant boom,
the left door,
ajar,

beckoned my
being,

as i
am,

and i crossed its threshold
into a velvety grooved room, remembered again
as a toward flesh warm and sliprune.

cursor blinks
awaiting it
the inside elides

none of these words
i muscle into existence
fill the dread
-the writhe that never dies-
that eats at my yellow bones
one day at a time

and still i push them
words words worm food soon

your blackbow words
melt my syntax
into a scarfelt dew

things
feel
possible again
when i lay myself down
along your darklit spectrum

my words
prostrate before you,
crowgoddess,
ruler of all
that twiststurns
and licks clean
this lonely vessel of yeses no'd

this night sits
low on my brow
alighting thoughts thoughts thoughts
i can feel this lunar weight's fist
it's knuckle
the color of come

sojourn of old extremities
into new space
pinkbloom ribbons and ropes

her vocal chords
ten verdant tendrils
helixing ocher brainscrape stir

sound re-members energy againagain
marigold tiger soft glow fleshcaress balm

my contusion
cared for
dressed in mossygauz
diaphanous cure

i feel
good
somehow

dont let me get me
please
eater of spiral
seer of hurt
speaker of word

i will bottle the sound of rain
and fold it
deeply
into the quietest recesses
of that muscle
just below your breastbone,
and make it beat chartreuse
soft taps slithering wet yesyesyes's

her blooming figure gyrating
arcing, tilting, wilting above;
my tasting her secreting prose,
licking all the lines

that come
and go

like fallen petals hugging themselves
in moonglow spell,
lit with an aftercoil meld, blueblack waters stilled

i am dis.sociat.ing
bit by bit.
bug. stuck.
glitchy.
i will never love.
loveloveluvl0vel00v1.
i am coded to grow old alone.

1.  return to cocoon
2.  cut wings
3.  fade into the blue black

don't let me in.
i'm old scratched plastic cup, the color daffodil,
sitting overnight in the blue kitchen sink.

don't let me in.
i'm too far gone; i'm tightrope walker of leftover hairs
stuck inside the hairbrush on your nightstand.

don't let me in, ever.
my thoughts are caught inside themselves
where they play the role of both inmate and guard.

do not let me in,
you'll jus get hurt. seriously.

im a ******* *******
******* bastsrd ******* bastaed
*******

my thoughts are nintendo gray
iffy 16-bit graphics
fading into retro

blow on the cartridge
i still won't play

i
am
running
out of continues

salsa verde is on
like
all the things
all the time

yerp

i wanna roll her over
onto her knees
lick kiss **** drink her everywheres up
until she twitches real. hard.
and laughs that ohmyfuckinggodihavezerowords laugh

and then put it in
slow at first
then pound her till the coffee mug falls from the headstand and breaks
sense it swelling up and
glitch
inside her
with my eyes wide meeting hers
i will die again and again and again till i am dead

i am hating myself 
then analyzing and reanalyzing 
why i hate myself 
then hating how i hate me so much
and how self-consumed it is
then feeling the evening cool breeze 
spacing out
then wondering what 
that last final edit of me
will feel like

if i deleted myself
would the hatred of me stop
or would i become a tree
along the river of this-****-is-forever?

my computer is tombstone
s'only room for one in this, here, algorithm

i'm done

rumi was on ta somethin - eff zombie werds
shelve that ****

yer yum glistenskin skims my mouth probes  
libraries lost easily contained in each feel
makes me undoom this dumb selfieshtick kitsch i do
that kills the mood with two neck wounds incisors apart

feels before syntax

jus thought i'd let you know
*******

this is how the imagination is made:

your tiny origami world gets torn;
then, yer mememe death comes by way of small paper cuts;
from the periphery of this rip, you swim upstream, again,
till you see the fēniks wing glinting like a finger ring careening off the sun.

hmm's and err's now populate yer thinky time
like never before, here in Cleverly Folded Paper World.

t h e r e you are;
mmm, you feel the feels even more,
and the refresh bubbles up from the torn.

but still the big cut creeps back ---
x out old you; new document, anew anew, stares, blinking, waiting.

edits forever bloom steely wutabtme? iridium spiels around edges
of tattooed white petals, elegant writs fell; wilting; seeding...

this world, too, must be cut to fit:
if you wish to have a home for the iNGkē worm
that sillily dreams of one day winning its wings.

Looks like I'll be on the road again. Nowhere to go. Poor af and no motivation. Shadow without a body. kicked pebble. road marginalia

i'm sitting, here, broken as ****,
looking through Venetian blinds
at a sunset that breaks me
even more.

the hurt
feels
so
*******
good.

her petals
fell upward
into the sky fecund,
spelling energy again.

you are alone
in space,
waiting on the edge,
making room
for existence to start, again.

i ride her grayed gyri,
slipping from crest to crest
as it undulates
into dank sulci; trough of her troubles
mirroring, i think, my own
interpretation of hers,
and of mine:
and this
entwine, it writhes
like lithe yeses
half-whispered, half-glossolalia secreting babbles
from faces wasted by pushpull cravings eaten.

I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.

Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******* Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.

This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.

remember when
we ate too many
*** brownies
and you astral travelled
and saw
some ****
and i held you in my arms and
brought you

back

and then, in the cool blue
heat of our summer flung,
you remembered
you are not you
and i am not me
and we are jus
dripping with
playing parts now and
wavelength later