you don't hafta be fearful
you don't hafta be saved
just be braver
than you were
yesterday
today

sometimes i feel like atoms flung;
other times, like
atoms in flight
arching toward some strange
sideshow attraction
at the end of time.

my skin,
opal
white
in lunar light;

she
scryed
these hard tears
until they came.

your cold heavy vapor swims up there and
itoldyouso face and
wild rose distillation, which
always has me coming
hard.

it stills it;
like lakes placid in the beginning back then, it
kills the pill
that takes me
and frames me
in the worst ways, like like like
an oil painting of a bowl of ******* fruit hung
in the abyss (?).

but sometimes i can't come
and then my thoughts hafta
turn the color darkknotsundone
so that i can shoot thorns
and be fuzzy peripheral again.

if only
my boredom
could become alien
to me. maybe
then i could
feel, again.

i guess poetry can be used
to inspire optimism
and make people feel good,

but i'm looking for the kind of poetry that
eats the air
from my lungs and
sifts my holes
with a fistful of dead flowers.

i have lived
my life.
i have made friends and
mistakes and love, and
all the other things between.

i mean, i don't like to go out much - so what?
i like my room quiet - is that weird?
solitude is
sorta my
thing.
i feel alive, there.

my thoughts, alone,
in my
head, are
still real.

i have
lived my life
******. yet
i still feel
a hand
as cold as the window sill
in the middle of winter
crawl up my back
and give me that
condescending pat -
"we know, kiddo. we know."

the words she uttered,
marked by a fine soot, scribed themselves
on the inside of my sore ribs;
with wrist and finger adroit,
it burned off the serifs
i had used to write myself down
as something utterly known.

i stood there, before her - before myself -
dross coating my feet, altered
by this strange medicine.
naked and sparse and
unknown, chiseled
before her strokes, i am.

it will
hold and
i will heal.

i am light. i am night. i am writefuckingwrite.
take my bones, ******. take this skin, ******. HERE, take my name, ******, i
still. am. i still
am.

i still write. i write i write.
my ribs are ledger. they hold up my awe.
but my thoughts s p i l l
into the gut, where they churn hard.
my accidents birth cosmoses.
my self-hate wills supernovas.

i am not yours. i breathe, alone, i am being. unseen strings
strung from my fingertips: i manipulate gods.
i fear no god of yours. your book is finite. my writs are
i n f i n i t e.

feel the inside of my femur there you will find my fire calligraphic
it is rune i am ancient babble stone megalith cut from monolith i am

in the beginning was
a single distinct conceptual unit of language,
and the single distinct conceptual unit of language became fist

and ******
all the things,
like a total
****.
and all the things
were sad.

his typewriter is silent
and tombstone;
mine is
nonexistent, and
never was. instead
all i have is this ******* device.
all it effing knows is
silence.

blinking c u r s o r
stares at me,
waiting, whitely, like some
bad god scrubbed good with a new book.

jus thought I'd
let you
know,
*******

me? stuck
inside this, t h i n g,
inside my
skull,
the size of two consecutive fists;
it won't stop
slinging thoughts thoughts thou g h t  s. you?

star shaker in the night,
won't you shake some stars
to
night?
   t u r n
my silent invocations bright:
    this, my hid wōnt,
     urn
of awe
in wounded flyte,
till it glows, again, in palm alight.

then she looked at me, gazing
with a vigor that collected my scattered thoughtstream

and, fixing her stare, she said:

what if we tabled our demons?
Pulled up a chair for them? Got to know them, instead of
trying to vanquish their persistent presence?

and setting upon my worried head
sat something like
the quality of being wise; it inscribed

lithe formulation with a depth, true.
and i knew,

then

the types that once arched so high, so vaunted in blue,
were mere sets of symbols
induced with the incantation of a brow
steeped in trickery of the highest order.

i, jus now, walked to the store to get some water
and - it's weird but - the sun
  hit
me: and, somehow, i felt
detach e  d no more;
one lit plane, arrayed
beneath my sandals

and walked my feet
along the woven pavement, which had
either come alive at that moment or
had always been so and i just never noticed it before.

but then, i felt

some weird s i d e inside of me grind
its bony armor, elide the light, and
glyph into existence, dark. it spoke; it wrote

me down. it captured me with an adroit hand. it
fed me lines. lines. lines. lines brighter than star proximal.

my insides stood divided.

i got home
and drank
the water: straight from
the jug.

her heart was artifice and true
and my hand
caught one fleck from its flex,
only to, then, release it:

as blue words burnished by flight.

i've never been able to
  fit in
anywhere, not really -- not with friends, not with family, and
not with

lovers.

me: freak; lots of leaks; knees hugged; tears, none left.

my superpowers consist of
hours

w a s t e d

awkwardly.
boxed in by this, my silly imaginarium.

i feel so small.

i mean, after all, my
heart
is missing from my chest.

i am
  eater of space: plenum

for
  your
plenty.

while driving up the coast on rt. 101 the other day
i happened to look out of the passenger window
and saw this
  weird
patch of sea
that was -still- and utterly

p l  a c i   d.

ebb and flow had become
  static nebula mirror,
penetrating the
apparent
blue sky lie; and my sad looking eyes,
were, now, less observing:
looking through  

g l a s s melt

and: my rotted heart composted forth
the most beautiful lilies wi l t ing;
its petals falling
upward
into the glinting red circle circled in the mirror below it.

we are not atoms in the dark
we are not Adam's in the garden
we are not Atman's in the seat of kosmos

we are adumbrated sound, found in this form;
light in the n o   w.

my body contorts
along white bedsheets boasting basic blue flower print.
i stretch, without direction - fingertips reach cosmic deeps, i think.

curtains mostly drawn; one sliver of sun let in.

globular of lonely, swung
out into this far-off nook of hook and warm-no-more:

i am, now,
chemical alter
on the downswing. where
is my attraction?

stuck in space
deep,
pitted in sleep that wakes the Fates (that do not exist),
only bored ice dust and
lifeless true blue neutrinos swarm about my body.

i used to have pull;
gravitational cool.
now i am tons of tundra,
acres of bleck lol melodrama,
a mess, always
in bed:

it makes me.
it always has.

https://instagram.com/p/BAkux4WwJSn/

listening to Nirvana's "Something in the Way"
and i am -now- just realizing how ******* good this song is.

i mean, the mood cuts right to the bone:

underneath the bridge
tarp has sprung a leak
and the animals I've trapped
have all become my pets
and I'm living off of grass
and the drippings from the ceiiiilinggg
it's ok to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feeeeeelingsssssss

something in the way
mmmmmmmm
something in the way (yeah)
mmmmmmmhmmm

it's jus kurt on the geetar alone till the chorus, doing a simple chord,
and, thing is, he isn't so much singing as he is speaking in loose meter;
and it's almost as if between the words he is saying,
".. well how the **** could song survive this thing i am talking about
yuhknow? i am giving you my guts."

you finally get some lilt and rhyme that might be considered song
toward the end of the verse, but this is immediately undercut with,
of all things,
given what preceded it,
a joke ---- it's okay to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feelings

holyfuckingshitdoesthiscapturetheabsurdityofthings

an­d i don't mean a joke as in hahafunny but rather
what. else. can. i. do. but laugh, else i'll cry; and I can't cry anymore 'cause
i'm all outta tears. why??
because this abyss
called "existence" - that history, heh, tells us is imbued
with rational purpose or intent, or whatever -
bats its pretty little eyes at me like a big fuckyou..

i think
kurt is, suggesting, here:
laugh back.

it's like Camus' Sisyphus:

i
dare
you

to roll that same rock called "life" up the same hill everyday all day
and summon (somehow) a smile,

------ or at least a    s m  i      R    k

and watch as beauty bolts through your dead fecund heart
removing that
thing
in your way

being; wet cloud bent down, now of this form,
how will you ever know

the whispering splinter of youaresobeautiful
that has set down
under that identity; under that cult of them,
if you do not
alter it?

ascend into the being of hallowed mud:
you are pillar and pulse
and light is yours to have and hone

sometimes my wants lust too much and my feels turn thin as cardboard cutout

i feel like worm. i am crawler of light dim. i am
him
that guy
and it makes me ill worn out wasted

how does sea remember you?
the ebb recalls your flow

and also

your
toes

and how they
curl in the blue
matted sand and
twinkling saltwater foam

mother of this our Earth
enfolded beneath
we know her usual mossy haunts
but she has now been fitted with glinting wheeling prosthetic

and her body has no rejected it

we are being pulled toward her
at
the
end
of
t i  m    e

Gaian mechanism curving us inward
the birth of a new paradigm
where information is realized
in unison with beings bright

she was
after all
star
in the
beginning

and end

her pictures are blue
her fissures are too
her scissors are true
her 6:30 is late

but it
lays me down inside
the soon
mushroom tip bloom blown foam

dark ocher elixir
of the arcane
when time did bend

you convey yourself to me
in a 16.9 fl oz reused plastic spring water bottle
thawing out in the crisper

bare my being
fang and all
and lick the blood from it clean
so that this light will reconvene with others being
and been

blood taken
is a dark
winged thing

it will fly inside him

it's caw
will manifest
in stabs

angling in
it will grow on him

gyrating from metallic sliver sip
now facing the blade's plain look
his god will read dog

and it will bring him to form final
and the hatchet will spill from you
into killer blue landscape still

this is the first day that
my grandma
didn't
get to live
since a really long time ago

what can i possibly say?

i want to curl up inside my own fist right now
like one of your old matryoshka dolls
that i used to play with
and put you inside me so i can make it all better

i wanna recall all the thoughts
that once were yours
i want to know you why didn't i get to know you better

i stayed away im sorry im strange i get sad a lot but i loved you still

she had once
been
a person
but
now
she isn't and
i can't stop shouting these rips from my eyes

sometimes words pour out of me. but mostly i pour them. what comes out is.. is..

monkey suit
ontology that thinks he thinks an original thought or two describes me.

i really need to grow up. act my age. get out of this

place. yuhknow?

hi friend. welcome to my scream of consciousness. boing.

do you ever ever wonder when or
how the was had -even- been,

or whatever? sky outside looks like nintendo again, full of intent and so forth.

yes, of c i feel fine. why, this primal horde is not mine. it's your sub sea too.
all have crawled from it. exchanged that'sfishy for this. ex-istence is weird, sorta.

he wore a star upon his face
it said its part and then escaped

stolen babies glitz and glam
underneath he came and went

he wore this scar upon his grace
the was will be
book of him solid as sea

and the solid book we wrote
cannot be found today

so let us rest in the powerful were
where moonbeams try to tell us it's day

tchaikovsky's violin is so emo --- no,
it's sylvan undone, or
it's sylvia plath in
the hot seat

this isn't me being cheeky
-as if my jowl were up against that cold oven rack-
it's, obviously, me acting out, me being difficult, me wanting your

attention

ahem

i once got off to her in the school library bathroom stall
her Words
were hands that day
and i came unrequited blackberry skies

i sometimes wonder if
she hadn't realized, just then, how silly it all reallytruly was
and that -that- realization was a place she could, finally,

get to

and

in the sudden rush to pin it down with chikoffskii violins that wept syntax tor,
she bumped her head upon attempting to get out

and she was
going
to sing
i mean really sing
for you
too

chew your thoughts with your mouth open

i want to see
all of you
teeth, tongue, throat, synapse, neuron
stammers and spasms and
flashes of crippling vulnerability
streams of lucid genius
speechlessness' met with
one single look that utters sunsets
giddy ****** kid

i want it
glitch and all

all rights reserved
my poems
own me

you'll have to talk to them if you wish to use me

your poems make me jealous
because they breathe into me tales
i'll never be able to tell

not really

stars are weird
their light, to us,
spells utter darkness for them

her gravity, that next morning, was one heaping demitasse
of swirling dense nebula ebbed-not-yet. we drank coffee
in silly mugs together while looking at the sun
as it came up for us,
bathed in freezing cold blues. she stretched. yawned.
she struggled to wipe a sleeper from her eye.
her kimono opened,
showing a cascading ledger of ribs behind vampirewhite skin -
my namesake was now scribbled on its rounded surface;
hers, on the inside of my femur, calligraphic.
she was too young for me, i know that.
no worries though,
her soul was older. it was sacred stone. megalith glyphed.
we held each other and
downing that bitter morning brew
watched the sky flick on.
then we picked up our heavy bodies
and went back to bed,
and ****** so hard i got a cramp in my left foot when i came.

i mean, it was crazy. i got really sick that night. worst luck EVER.
but she
took care of me - she fed me and
played ** on wax
and burned sage to cleanse me, all while kissing me.
she spoke French to her Persian cat. we laid together. *******.
then we jus laid there.. both afraid to break the silence that was good, so good..

my eyes were closed, i remember, and
she started kissing me,
interspersing them with these, like, super
small ephemeral licks
-one on the top lip, then one on the bottom one-
gentle and full of thought,
so light,
almost imperceptible,

like an amalgam of ice and rock the size of Manhattan
wobbling
teetering and
slipping, ever so lightly,
into our orbit.

i slept better than ever that night. spent on ***. lots.
and like dead flowers not yet
we dreamed of iridium petals falling up, wilting in the hot blazing summer light
bearing down on our fling.