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

that night
was

a place
adjacent

a shrine

thrummed totem rising
OOOoohhhmm-ing busting sifting
the hard
the oh-so *******
-hard-
mineral
that sits proud beneath my breast
always taking
deflecting

now
taken in
felt

carbon lattice wilt
this will pass

i've been

cared
for

her touch
friend love soul tall all pure
orbit of Oneness arcs above us

my chest

outside my self
reaching out of me
out of my grasp
wanting to be
more toward
the Other

my feat
inside the floor
where the beat is found

the hardness slips

for the first time
i wished to be human
and was

sliver in the diamond
shook loose
the sting of ME
wanting
transgressing
now outside me
the ugly is mine to hold
to observe

it killed me

i died last night
and
from that baseline goop
rose toes first
white-hot light dripping
from starburned furnace melt

Falling
I panicked and
Snatched a passerby winged creature

I held it close
Us nose-to-nose
Tumbling

It called itself
Something Like Awe Perhaps

Spiraling
toward that pebble
That I always sillily perceive to be
A rock unhewn

This whispering loose leaf
Culled from the air's tangent
Impressed upon me

Sense, dear

Wan swan dip eve to cleave ars

Not once did it
Plea to be to be
It simply breathed breathe

If and when
You space out
And miss
this
my poem
Know this:
I too roam
Within a thistledowned headspace

carve the bark
you plus your love
testified
made hard

heart needs a box locked
otherwise the feels fly

or maybe the big ought's that hover over us elide
that long hair lush inside
a sin if let down or
maybe jus one small discretion
to put behind you

or maybe it's an observance
to a rune more ancient
than history and its codes

your orb at work
his swell under spell
turn around and don't look over your shoulder
little spoon arch
wrap it in silk
spill the milk

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

to keep
the crazy
at arms length

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

hourglass laid on her naked abdomen
red pigment passionflesh
beheld by her own touch

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

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.

hair unkempt but it's aright
kicks dusty as **** it's cool tho
lame faded brain blues wade through
sleeper in my eye not noticed till, like, 2
or something like that
espresso? yes pls
barista and me awkward exchange
but it was nice still
you know, like how the skips
make you feel human again?
sun on my face such a simple thing
hello day where ya been

im not really real
im jus lines in yer device
im not really there
im just pixels in yer eyes

stay in it
stay in it
stay in it
strange innit?
this game this skit
frames hang us
yer pics sentenced
stranger days flit
vulnerable green leaves blush
nice teacups chipped
texts n snaps sliiick dulcet
stains in the sheets lonely loner
strange innit?
stay in it
stay in it

thought

...

thoughts about thought

...

thought
as stream

thoughts about thoughts
as foot

or

as torso wading through

or

as total immersion
of being

...

will you still
your thoughtstream
or let it run by?

...

i am on the road. i am
without home. i am a little
scared. part of me
wishes to be to be to be
another part..
well...

thoughts fell
stirring among the mindeyeshut

cascade of life watering
my worried little head
that either sees
beauty or blek

depending on

mood and rhythm and so much more

success is the undead
it needs blood

this might hurt a little

were the last words you heard

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.

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.

villain with hero stretches
of the imagination wasted
eater of the last light yum

yesterday i chose love
but then it swung.

emerging
from
the throat
of grided
anthropos,

i found

a view
distant.

it skipped
over waters which
merely glinted
at first,

but then i
looked
out of
the corner
of my eye and

the water
swam

in the harbor.
it carved
out

a kind of
geometry; i felt
short little
liquid daggers
stop these
hard eyes:

sea birds
glide and
dip along
air currents, making
roundabout
hemispherics
and landing in the water
with this
grace that
was like
accurate
solemn
play; then they

would dive deep
to fish (?) i counted
46 seconds for one;
62 for another. i wondered
if they got anything,
or if they were just
trying to see how
far down
they could go..

the breeze
was cooled.
it felt so
right. and i
could feel - i mean -
actually ******* feel. and
the nuerons on
my mouth
spoke to
my head.

but then my
parabola
dropped and

retraced its
steps back
to the grids
of them,
the cut slab
of have.

ppl not
walking but
more like
falling on their
legs. feet rooting or
cutting deep into brick,
staring at thine
rectangle pocket entity,
vectoring
destinations
efficient, dressed
in their conquerer’s best,
layered up,
shiny and
brand new. it was

as if
their father’s
father’s
sword had
undergone mitotic
division and
whetted the face to

the
nines.

i could
smell
their fate.

it was
then that

i heard the
saprophytes
that will
eat me
call my
other name; the one
that i have long
shut-up in a box whose
label is unintelligible

i then
ate pizza
with
cheese and
pepperoni,
making
my
bed
for them

There once was a poem
Of which was spoken
Then taken away
Never to be heard of again

Jowl pressed against
Oven rack
Eyes placid
as a holy cow
Breathing whispered line

Giving
Taking life

Incantatory orbs sworn
Coursing forming
transfixing
The torpid
Into tor
One last time

One more
Poem
Hers
And hers alone

Conjured up rungs of rack
Her impromptu ledger
Bowed
By the weight the weight
Of galloping mouthed axes
Running full speed past
The rush the crush

Into the margins

A clever trick!
Gone from us

Handful of whitened knuckles
Inside usurped fist ******
******* no more
Open to the magnificence

She had had
All there ever was to be
For a time

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

i look at her
and she is goddess 
loop and knot 
 
i look away
and she's ocean sky flow
breather of this breath 

i look within
and i am at her feet
removing her sandals 

i look without
and i'm depth ebb
space silenced

my father is 62

it
KILLS me
to hear him
talk about his knees

they are shot

he sez

i am getting
old

he sez

we aren't even close
and yet hearing this
makes me
cry the worst kind of tears

box that used to house magic
now you are jus an awkward corpse
that won't lie down

old bony black ear encased in steel and window
you once were a god
with your promises and movies and whatnot

it must be lonely
now fading
graffitied  
or does it feel like bliss
to no longer hear all the feels of mere mortals

I've listened to many Mckenna lectures but in this one he is at his most thoughtful

http://youtu.be/_NclGeWlkrY

style
askance oligarchs
text for the win
pull heartfists up through mouthings
anticipating something winged

stardom usurps

star stuff
trimmed

none shall pass but i

it sez

we are a way for the universe to conquer itself

it sez

eyes pierced
with an earring sniffing
4 good taste

one yum style to style them all

the flowers must die
legs and arms shed
our pretty petals fallen on the floor

is to see --- i mean REALLY see ---
my situation
for what it is

to stop bullshitting myself

and then
confronted with that
bored whitened knuckle
muster one final act of bravery and
turn off the lights

the big vast
din
*******

weird static slurp
the it
the it
GodVoidBuddhaTao
or whatever

unzip skin
only to be
gloved

draw your small
seemingly inconsequential
dot
clot the space
that bleeds
in the in-between

everybody deserves 15 mins of bold

the blip of you
truth of us

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.

she never stood a chance,
of course - so
she stood
oblique to it.

drawn forth
by odd thoughtful urge shaped,
her lines scribbled
tall orders small:

till all there is, is.

it just is. amirite?
that's life. darkness. carcass of star bloomed. flowering doom.
feel it.
a twist of it
tickles your ribs like gliding rusty winged blades braided tight.

it flies in the face of happy. it never misses a flight.

butterfly vampire. black pupil dilates.
stuck inside. it wants out. it will
cut through. unless you

see somebody.

..

healer, help me?
join bone to flesh. make me one. make me

one

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

start
wars,
we should not

flecks of maybe
dance in this star's columnar flit
creamy gray chartreuse orbits the were
softer than ever before
and i re-member her

little abyss, my ear, yours..
for too long, i have trysted with
that last slip

'summoned you softly
in my dark little posies:
take this wisp

The scent
of an orchid
Pinned to war criminals
Buttonhole the tor of either/or

Fell lapel
smile say cheese
See the teeth crepuscular urns urge

They speak
And raise the untruth
Clubfooted
The living dread

Many are asleep. Many are awake. Some lie betwixt, straddling the waking and dreaming worlds.

Yet all is one. And all will always be one.

The myriad of tendrils extending from the superorganism of Gaia throb as one single heartbeat. This is the ancient way. A tide of lifedeath, receding and reseeding. One recent manifestation of the infinite and her ever-fecund complex of awe and beauty are a small band of lunar vamps gone rogue, renouncing the Order of Crimson Red for Opal White, death's blood for life's milk. Gaia, mother to all living things, has tended  greatly to this particular green strand of hers; She wills it forth and it obediently flourishes in response, despite the race of humans and blood vamps and their respective patriarchal death cults of never ending consumption.

Something is afoot. Wheel of time grinds to a halt. The Atman is -now- nudging man and his greed. New epoch emerges. Third eyes wide shut begin to narrow open. Beauty will again retake it's rightful place over the usurper, truth, putting it under her foot. Transformation beckons Earth, parting lips sealed, opening her up, seeding her anew till sleeping snake at sacrum bottom uncoils and slides up, up to be lit, enlightened, ecstatic, rolling milky eyes to the back of the head.

Procrastination is the fundamental definition of what it means to be human.

Reality isn't patterns of phenomena perceived as such in accurate fashion; it's a collection of loosely coupled mind hacks that cut corners around certain blargh redundancies that need not apply. why? in order to create create create.

This is true fitness, in evolutionary terms:

to out-lazy Neanderthal, and in doing so grow an imagination which could then - by simply lying down in the grass and gazing up at that lingering monochrome blue sky, with cicadas thrumming, smells of summer bursting saccharine - engage the senses at a glance; and without even knowing it, effortlessly bring about the very notion of the wheel, or fire or propulsion systems of rocketry that will bring us home, from scar to star again.

Luxuriating in the elimination of the quotidian reasserts the ability to imagine something other, something stranger, something so utterly complex that it squares itself and leaps exponentially forward like weird origami in pirouetted flux.. You know that feeling when you surprise yourself and do something epic? That. This is novelty at its finest. This is not just another life living. This is worth rolling out of bed for. That is worth the thousands small paper cuts wielded by -their- ordinary.

.. Of course, this hypothesis is completely bias, because I am almost pathologically procrastinatory. I'd rather write or space out or listen to a YouTube lecture on tree consciousness or supersymmetry or whatever..

The usual day without hiccup bores me to death; no, it scares me to the point of whispering death wishes out into the ether. I fear it like nothing else. Tasks? No. Obligations? Noooope. Running errands? How about I melodramatically run this sword through me first? I'm exaggerating of course, but kinda not really that much.

I'm horribly afraid of being known through and through, made simple, like an amoeba microscoped or a god put in a book. I'd rather not be reduced to maintaining widgets for the financial suits who rock cuff links which eclipse the GDP of Somalia, thanks.

I feel like bliss -is- somewhere out there in the void, like a blank white page with a blinking indigo cursor, full of potential, just waiting to be written on; rather than some subject of some religion or some subject of some state, waiting to be written down.

I feel like there's so much work to be undone, and so little infinity.

blackbird eyes me up from its wire
sez im aright
sez i can fly higher
sez there's no period at the end
only a halfhearted comma

but i dunno what for

blackbird hops over
makes room for another
makes the saddest caw you ever did hear
then dashes off to lick the sky clear
till eleven shades of bluewhite appear

but i dunno im not sure anymore

this is the part where i carve
one little hole in my thoughts
watch the me breathe its last breath
watch the i beady turn tor

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.

one long difficult
brow hair  
sticking out
with a slight whirl toward the end
bending its once linear course

i pull at it
whiff on the first three tries
but get it on the fourth

one smear of red
marks the deed

holding it between thumb and forefinger
i observe its root
pale translucent box-like tag

bags layers of me

the shaft of hair itself
wears three layers

its cuticle tells species
the cortex tells the sort of hair
and the medulla tells ethnicity

but the follicular tag
brags of my very own me
that i cannot see
ladder of unusual protein
pirouettes
and scene

cursor blinks
awaiting it
the inside elides

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.

Visions are paired with -im's.
The eyes are
mouths of syntax maxed.
Ya know?
Yes of course you do --
The I's and We's are all elbows-n-knees,
Their voodoo looks are nooks
That hush the crannies. Look,
Don't you lecture me with your
Dictionary of dearth kept tableside
Like a biblical sigh
I know I know -- so there!
Crouching
Disavowaled owls eyes wide
shut up.
Yes yes, I know that
If I'm not careful,
These words will be
The life of me.

my greatest fear used to be:
that I'll carve bodies
in pixel, and
unknowingly
plagiarize another's crime scene.
now? I fear that I am plagiarism --
the usual (as usual) --
my body a bruised copy of a copy
on a blah metal slab
toe tagged: *the yooosh

if the sky were torn
-which it is-
the stitch
inside your oblique
would take the glow of
sun beclouded
and
make it
its own

a cut carved into woundnomore

numb
is
not a thing

itself

it
waxes wanes waves
of photon streeeeaaam
crepuscular crawl of careened being
pilfering
life force
vamp ***** siphon of tor

it is yours
to have

all of

it

awaits your gait
sidelong face lips pursed poised
antidote to troll

you are light
on your
feet
because you are
i think
light of soul streaked

and

smeared across the Verse
you hold space
and black holes inside
one small dixie cone cup pinky out

you are
writer
written down

this glyph is