If i am wordless before it, does its blankness infect me?
As the page is filled, do i become more blank?
Or, worst of all,
do i, in filling this page, feel fulfilled?

The **** squelches underneath
fingertips, whose only barrier
is plushly folded paper.
Clench, release, dispose,
rinse, and flush away
the human
oh so human.

Greed is a fencepost,
her thighs are laced with barbwire
towering so tall.

You shall not have me
for i am enormously
so much more than you.

Greed lies between thighs
tongue deep inside the lip folds;
this is mine, all mine.

Maybe the sensual emotions involved
are the same for
grrls,
but i doubt it
because they don't need a mirror to do it
and are not continually running into
that old forgotten friend
of a face.

I am possesed by rain and spiders
clinging to the limbs of trees
as they sway like the arms
of dancers in the wind.
These things scoff at my existence
and my insistence to record
their vitality
in bitter, unrequited attempts
to find my own.
But the clocks will spin
and most of the sleepers will awake.
The rest can only hope that
they know the worst nightmare
belongs to someone else,
as we who are awake
can only hope
that the nightmare doesn't find us here,
tinkering away existence
in rooms with walls,
as though anythings could keep our nature
away. As though all which possesses me
now would fail to break a part of me off;
something immeasurable and weightless
that i never owned
to begin with.

The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.

I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.

There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.

The door of a fifth wheel trailer clanged open from across the street, and a man that looked a few years older than me with a shaved head and clumsy stature ambled out of the trailer. He left the door wide open, and on the small concrete patio next to the trailer took a hit off of a pipe filled with ****. He exhaled a few moments later, and let the *** smoke join the cotton tree seeds in the afternoon air. I watched all of this with moderate disinterest, and then plunged back into Buk’s evocations of the old gods as the man plunged back into the trailer. He left the door open.
More activity quickly followed, however, and I scarcely made it through another poem before the noise arrived at my spot. Apparently the man had begun to act reckless, and an elderly lady began chastising him about his behavior.
“Shawn, knock it off! You’re going to break something,” the woman intoned. It was almost a whine really, and at the sound of her voice I was almost tempted to go assist Shawn in breaking some of her things. Shawn replied with odd laughter, and a crash could be heard from inside the trailer. He then stumbled outside, and started behaving like a four year old boy would. He picked up a few things that lay scattered about the trailer, and then immediately lost interest in them and threw them back down with reckless abandon.
“You’re being reckless, Shawn. Stop it.” The woman obviously shared my critique of his actions.
Shawn didn’t stop it, whatever that was, and kept rummaging through things before tossing them about. He fell down as he tripped over a few of the things he threw aside, and screamed “Fuuuuuuucckkkkkk!!!” Yep. He was acting just like a four year old boy; full of ****, vinegar, and conquest right up until the world socked him one in the mouth.
“You’re going to hurt yourself! Cut it out!” It was funny how she kept saying essentially the same things in the same tone of voice, but I was glad at least that her attention had shifted away from material possessions. I mused to myself that some people just can’t handle their ****, and attempted to try and lose myself between the dry pages of a decades old library book again.
The universe must have had other plans for all of that though. The man kept staggering into things and screaming ****** ****** when he fell over, while the woman kept at her nasally whine. Only occasionally was her existence even acknowledged by Shawn, and this was done through the clever use of the phrase, “*******!” After spewing forth a vulgarity he would then resume his parade as ruler and champion of all; subject to only the merciless force of gravity and his drug addled mind.
My peace was disturbed by these shouts of anger, self induced failure, and recrimination, but the peace was replaced with a subtle interest. Overall, I wished the whole thing to stop, or that I had my key with me and could simply ignore the calamity of it all, but since neither of these two things would occur I felt as though I should break from my reading and enjoy the spectacle of life around me. Apparently, however, this other elderly man’s peace was far more disturbed than mine, and he walked over to ask the lady if she needed help, not realizing that he was not solving anything, but merely adding to the production unfolding before my eyes. The man and the woman spoke for a bit as Shawn ran about, stumbling into the trailer before finally managing to step inside of it. The woman mentioned to the man something about Shawn being a diabetic and that he hadn’t had anything to eat today, and then she asked Shawn for the sugar. Shawn’s hand promptly popped out of the trailer and presented a pink box of sugar. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the sugar was really for him, and so the woman then asked Shawn to eat some of it, which brought back a warranted, “*******!” Shawn then jumped out of the trailer, clearing the miniscule metal step-ladder which was placed at the door for easier access, landed, lost his balance, sputtered around on his feet for a second, caught his balance, and then ambled towards the back of the trailer where he tripped over something and fell to the ground, catching the corner of the trailer with his body on the way down.
“OOOOWWWWWWIIIIEEEE!!!!” He screamed from the ground. I felt like applauding, but instead resolved to keep my response limited to stifled laughter. Shawn stood back up, took another two steps so that the trailer blocked his body from my line of sight, and I heard him hit something hard and metal before again screaming, “FUUUCCKKK!! OUCH OUCH OUUUUCH!!!” The urge to applaud came up again,  but I couldn’t disturb the production by breaking the fourth wall between myself and the actors.
“I just…” the lady sighed with her hands running through her hair, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him…”
The old man asked, “Is there anyone you want to call?”
“I don’t know…” Both hands came to rest in her hair at the back of her head.
“You could call an ambulance.”
“I know… Just… Shawn! Eat some sugar, hon.”
“*******!!” Shawn darted back inside the trailer.