these bones are stolen
ive always known it
the blood that flows
food color syrup
this skin isnt mine
it feels funny on me
that look elides
something there in the corner  

i pilfered this soul
i know bc these false memories haunt me
if only i could jus breathe
jus bleed n confirm the strings underneath
but these distal phalanges keep tapping apps
i'm havin a little trouble dealing w the facts

my master must have cataracts
this heart's been whittled down to a splinter
i'm sprinting toward the door that tugs
but the handle keeps shovin back

all of it: counterfeit
ident probabilistic
cobbled together
head noddin off

moonlit scribbles copywritten
glow on the inside of my
third rib flipped upside down
expressionless face emoji
i'm not here anymore now

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

time is a fist
it inches like something fishhooked
it is it is don't tell me it iznt

open your hand and
let light sift through you

cutie

*winky face winky face

crumpets and tea,
taken with grinning powdered wigs
go scrumptiously well with a Mozart piece played in the tired drawing room;

Tchaikovsky's Fifth
would have the subject alone
in the vestibule,
ear against the ballroom double doors of ornate mahogany,
muffled and muted and just being;

Philip Glass
Is
The oppressed past lit --
A futuristic glance
over one's shoulder
Regifting an overrated present

I've been had
Stabbed
I did not see it coming

The wound waits
Red-tapes the heal
It ruins it ruins

Stilled knife neatly in my side
But look!
there's a killer twist too

As she looks in my little eye
-Stare like granite smirking-
The broad side of the blade

Materializes from a silver-lining
Now a mirror
Her lithe eyes widen, alive alive

The reflection
A scene
Of her seems undoing [hero shot]

And scene

once upon a time
there was
a circle

and it drummed
and it
strummed

and the lump
in
my
throat
the size of a tyrant's
fist
dissolved
into
a pure
white light feeling

and i was a

person

a part of something
not apart
not asunder  
a heartspace coming coming

a star starring

afar
in the distance
guiding my lost feet toward
an oasis
that actually

is

a new start an art of being dreaming awake made

for you

a land of yay to hold in the palm of your hand and
a vibrating tone
resonates in that numb sternum
a tone that
lay
one
shade
away
from the ten thousand and ten whites of the first light
ever lit

Her womb receiving you
again

im broke n homeless i dunno where to turn i am like ten tears streaming down the face of ten twofaced absentee aloof no-dogooder gods in the rain time is running out i hope im not jus character fodder for your book i err hereby reserve the rights to my genius dont steal my genius what is genius anyway why am i so tired all the time. All. Is. Not. Well.

and then, with one flex of thought
i torqued the possible into
the most beautiful cerulean sky you've ever seen
with this pixel of might
over must and muscle

When will you
and
I
escape to
some remote island
-afloat-
in the middle of the sea
constructed by our wits
alone

where we shall sustain ourselves
not with
food or drink or sleep
but rather
words words
words
of our own making
tapping ananda
that
***** the **** out of
our minds
and makes us both
***
simultaneously
together as
one?

i have ******
i have felt
but i have never
(not once)
been in love

not "well, maybe once"
nope
never
have i

been in love

been in love
it rolls off the tongue
with a force of its own
a cascade of eddies
flit about the edges

a past tense
slave to the future

been in love
a remembered caress
a needle
a sledgehammer
either way
it does not stammer
it babbles on
a brook a crook

we consent
not to its content but its
unmistakable steps
we bend
to its
innocence

the way it moves consumes

it is, i think, in a sense
what makes us want it
so much
it is what steals the breath

air replaced with
babbling
over tome of stone

i have gladly
taken a scalpel
to its made bed
revealing bones alone

drinking hard cider in
the dark. the art
of sad is mine.

the blue sky
does not lie
down for anyone

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 always become
Nostalgic
When I'm deep into the bowels
Of nature.

At first I thought
It was Camp Wildwood
Coming back to me --

Capture the Flag --
My crush and I, Sarah,
In the woods alone
Using inside-jokes and "strategy"
As a knife
For the tension
Swelling up inside of us
a forbidden bloom that never was --

But it isn't that.

It's the genes inside of me
Ancient ones
Deep Prehistoric spindles lit
Crimson tooth claws laws
Of an order
With no defined border
Knuckles whitened ***** firing
Mounting and
Muscling out the moral

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.

and she spoke,
and her lips were myth;
her tongue, song:

forehead scar shone
lodes of rune
re-membered ember
of yesteraeon soot cooked
sitting fire in ashen ire re-sired

without him

her self
felt, *******
clod alive

tooth of skull
culled forth
bone spoken
tomes uttered

and i felt her light enter
this dilating space
of ebb and ruin and alone

stile of mine
thresheld, again
footfall of wynd,
blown open
into dope field sprung swim

Hips calligraphic lithe alive
Serifs flare up immortal coil

Her mouth speaks to me
Between my legs
A language draped in ebony curtain
Unknown and inscrutable

Rising up
Mounting me

Her fingers splayed on my chest
enter me
Five pens
Now digging
Pecks taut
Flecks of red burst
Tattooed unspeakables writ

Her stare penetrates mine
Authoring my little demise

i want
this stream of consciousness
to pool around me

but its rushed feed of tumult is
only mine to thumb through

i dip one finger in
eddies pixelate skitter strip

look and
catch a glimpse
of brilliance yet

ultimately
bleed
into a

scream of conscience

i
am
funneled toward a

delta
leading my unheld hand off
to a sleepy deep dive into nothing i know im

drown
ing

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.

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

wax on you peacock rock!
show us a different
side
a time flusher
a shade killer
ashamed never
blood brave bigger bigger

shed yer usual white knuckle ashen deathwalk
give us what's underneath

time to reap
take me take me

there is no such thing as
"The United States"

there is
only you
and me
and either the presence or
absence of
united states

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

I wish to know the universe in all its various weird manifestations. I want to hibernate inside a lenticular cloud for one year straight; I want to be suspended among cryophiles living inside ice cores buried deep deep underneath cold opal blue polar ice glaciers and snowfields; I want to be amid the thermophiles and feel the flames of the sun lick the very essence of my soul from within its hot orange nuclear molten core; I want to wander in space, float in zero g from one celestial body to the other.

But most of all, I want to be. Jus be. Like a bullfrog on a lily pad croaking into the cold thin night.

watching the
ants

crawl

up and
down
legs of
the table next to
my chair  

crawling up
the potted plant
on said table

i think they are trying to
use a language

to tell me something
some things
or
whatever

time
t i m e

stretches outside the tick

tock

i am three hands to the wind

wasted on timespace paused
i can't finish it

be kind
please rewind ti m  e

nah
entropy is way blah
but ghost memes claw

crawl

i'll take molecules unbound
over that

all rights reserved
my poems
own me

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

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.

I am standoffish scar. Armfuls of hurt worm through this spar, this whisper no longer here. A thread of then, turned lead now. Eater of blue. The glib is winning. It's too much. It tires me. I'm always tired. Why? I'm never ever going to be me, again. I am lined with lines of lies lied, ******* and gagged with ballnchain blame games. It's easy to lay me. Sleeper of sleep, pulling my sleeve into childish reveries of when nothing was anything but that was ok. I know it wasn't really actually ok, but the thought of good times haunts the line dividing me between the wake and sweet release. I let it **** me

first comes the awe
then

the some

you
know
nothing

and that's something

yuh know??

Blinking cursor
Nemesis
Friend with benefits

I
Spill
Pixel

And disseminate wisps
A dais for your tor
Glyph of whim

Cursor that waits
I know you
I know you all too well

You grant a world of potential
And yet I'm all knees
I bite the curb

My words spent
conferred to a
Vampiric ligerhawk Nemo

Whom eyeballs me
Into an X
New Document

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

Does the dais
Of your tor
Raise sweet hell? Or
Does that relief on the wall
Implicate you
Like some thing winged and won
Telling your story for you?

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.

bodies blot
white-hot light smear

formality cut
content allowed for

two spheres
that once were
a thing
-now without any go left-
uncurl with a bang and
whirr
across all that is

the wonderful color called Rip
a line never heard before

carcass of light pure
scar kiss redbluegreen stir

Just a second ago
I cut my own risks
And watched myself slip around
In a pool of acquiescence

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.

i touch myself
wiping serifs from the elements
pressing this object's edge up against
my writs
where old lines layer

i'm having thoughts of editing again
until the blue cursor blinks over white nothing's glow

i can sense it's call
like autumnal grip
about to fall
into short sweet no more

see
the words
that grow inside

this ribcage;
the paper
each rib bone;
a line

words bow
and the whole thing
creaks

it will
snap
soon enough
falling

through

one large heap
stuck at the bottom of the page

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.

these framed pixels won't do
it screams derivative
only mine truly haunt

i cut carrots and kale
and eat it w soup
delaying the doom of this, this

I had an ego death

tonight

i didn't know the stars
could shine so hard
see so
far in

chest drummed
beats thrum bang
bodies jam

all my senses widen
iris collides with swollen abyss
touch
craved

self forgotten

i betrayed trust
and it betrayed me

i am consciousness
too much

that realization
i am broken

i wish for a fix
perhaps along a new wave
us bliss this

Buster the tomcat
hunting in
the garden

field mouse
wins

this one.

You know how when you are eating oatmeal and it suddenly hits you that you are super full? You wanna finish it but you just can't.

And because of this, you sort of just take your spoon and mindlessly scoop up a heap of oatmeal only to then kinda twirl it around in your fingers and watch -mesmerized- anticipating the oatmeal's breach, its last hoorah over the edge of the spoon, like when you first chance a look past the warmly lit scaffolding of language, only to peer into a lidless unflinching abyss where the wires of "justice" or "truth" or "god" or "father" don't actually plug into anything really, dangling over a cliff to who-knows-where, and, after losing not only a staring contest but also meaning and purpose itself, you watch the oatmeal splat into your bowl?  

Well maybe it's not that melodramatic but you get me right?  You start to play with your food..

Well, that is kinda how I feel sometimes -- like unwanted excess oatmeal creeping over the edge of a spoon.  

I mean, not to sound annoyingly existential, but, really, what's the point?  I guess I could run that errand that I totally need to run but, ya know, entropy.

I mean I guess I could get out of bed and make something of myself but -really- I'm already half-dead.  I'm 32.  The average life expectancy for a male is 68.5 years old.  I am nearing that halfway mark, slowly but surely.  The bottom of the bowl awaits splat
  
That old saw plays over and over inside my head: we are all going to die; cease being here; away forever.  It is a mindfuck. We all pretty much have a preexisting condition of not-yet-dead --- and even with Obamacare that **** still will **** you dead.  

Read the fine print of life and you'll find: "um your molecules will start to **** soon, sorry"

Like an ocean tide, we come and go and no feelings will change that.  

The final It does not care - it just does, and then does not.

So, what's the point? Might as well say **** it..

But life.

But sunshine, a sudden warm glow of heat after the sun peers out from a passerby cloud amid a half-eaten blueberry sky. But the wonders of reflection, deep dives into the mind, delving, creative spurts gushing. But the rush of accomplishment of a simple stupid errand that you stupidly procrastinated over. But the big ******* to shoulda's when you get **** done. But the gradual respect of fear, not giving into it but not running away from it, facing up to it, going through it, letting it have it's say and do its worst, letting it teach you. But ***, really ******* good *** where you *** so ******* hard it makes you laugh out loud afterward cos you can't even believe that such a feeling could ever exist. But the being OK about the tears that don't come, that elusive big cry that as a child made you feel like a renewed self, purged from the fires of this strange new world you were still getting used to; and now made all better, brand new, scrubbed, ready to go again, ready to play. But the nostalgia from something as small as a smell, stabbing you so perfectly that you could swear you were back there.

i'm looking for a space
a place to be

where aha and yes arrest my waketosleep

tune this breath of mine with crunched elements bent
toward a wavelength like large steep icy hills that spill
up into the whiteblue nipped expanse

circumstance inches me closer
to that scaffolded archetype
male aloof unfeeling closed-off

in my arms
she felt like telephone
super long twisted rubbery beige curly cue cord or
was that me hugging myself?

we live in both dark or light days. they are
the color of binary flips saturated in malaise plus
a dash of crass

flourish, thrive, feel alive, lithe
your i, inebriate of the everyday
simple simplicities

dare pirouette through danger, confident not cocky

empath and convey other's anger to solid ground
become the stream