Bitter grot,
daily grey hemlock pulp
wavy lays and apple flesh
at lull.

Brain floating static,
the kind that builds
in shoulder muscle
pushing through an image
mostly null

and void--

a happiness inherent in
South Korean absence
beaten to death by
self & blood & head--

a black that follows everything
in late class hurried laundry pickings
red and blue striped glass
of smoke & life & pine.

Needles ***** the sides of aether sighs
Halving forests by signing
American english bible verses
to the sky.
The path is inside
beside the others.
Content ears
hear nothing new.

The cord is caught between my desk and my foot
my thoughts and my tongue
my fingertips and everything else
**** life from willow
and scream at television screens
that project images into vectors
eating steel through cotton table cloths
every Sunday.

Seated, watching the time
restraining thoughts of getting there
when there hasn't yet been defined.
Uselessness and vigor
will pour through my pores
at 1919 ft worth
and settle,
****.
It's never going to settle.

Strings of life thread form
beneath your collar bone,
only when you aren't looking.
And every distracting thought
is a tally mark onto the stone board
between soft edges of obsidian cliffs.

Mint green elbows pry
the heart from ten commandments
and stitch spirit into twig houses
by the highway.

Cardboard ghosts reach forth
cream knuckles and seated stares
from scintillating pavement and disillusion.

Morning coffee candles burn,
tasteless, vague,
daisy-chained and flooded,

and man seems absolutely
unnecessary.

constantly alone
feeling company through fingers and toes
contemplating enlightened fire
in ice cold days and nights

trash in veins
heart on plate
eat my way through dirt and dream
stab reality through my eyes
just to see.

Spill over the top,
let me drink your insides so they become mine
once more.
We were all the same once but that was before
our parents decided to donate fingers
to the place on their gravestones engraved
forever yours.

And I still see you sitting there
pipe in hand
burnt lavender floating through your veins
just how you floated through mine
every day when we were a lesser age.

You're the only reason I am,
and I am nothing.

I laid out a smooth brown blanket
to comfort the scales
flowing through my laptop speakers
five hundred and thirty-two times every second.
Two more times is disarray,
One hundred less leaves you crystalline,
like water,
pouring from the sink
into tupperware cups,
gurgling,
heated,
tea.
We both just need a little tea.

The scene sways to double voices,
and the library stillness
draws dull attention into
warbling intricacy
flitting amongst television feelings.
A surface connection
waits at half the distance
to every pretty looking girl
that passes by.

But the cracks are the most interesting.
In sidewalks,
in streets,
in spirit.
I'd let their faults divide them
into one of the sixteen trash bins
on the way to class.
It's only past,
and the significance is imprinted
upon the present.

And I guess it's a heavy cotton flannel kind of day.
One dissociated from hard wood,
where the metal corners
nestle in a thick layer of fabric,
and embrace it.
The heavy cotton clouds only embrace for so long,
the fog replicates familiar separation anxiety
in the early morning consistency.
Midnight swells from the left
to steal the rays from my room.