These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

Just what is it that I am discovering?
I feel like I'm blubbering
Idly hovering over something

Something so bright I am blinded
And if my hunch is right I'll sign it

While kissing in the sky

There's a place deep down
In the bottom of the sack
Where the weakened drown
And the warriors attack

Where the heart pounds
And glory turns to *****
Into gory sheets
Categorically pieced

Through out a dream state

In a feast of upheaval
Under the peaking sun
In a leash of retrieval
Over the space of one

All waking to wonder
In the slumber of none

My bitter bones tumbling
To the drums thump

My slithered poems humming
To the stumps

My withered homes crumbling
To the months

Turned years

Get what you give as you got what you ganked.

Live with it not in distaste, but relate.

A sheer myst
Of belligerents
Pessimists
Confessionalists
And jobless degenerates
Perpetually in progress
Just kicking it
On the Internet

It's a little bit sick

I just cant shake it
This taste of *****
As I look upon it
Then it dawned on me
I'm also looking at me
In the reflection
Projecting what I see

Deducting

The white noise of irrelevance
And filtering out the elements

Fluxing

With eloquence
And moving into and on with it

The back lit intelligence
Telling me how to live

The plugs are deep
And I take more than I can give

And together we feed
On gigs of distractions
Impacting
The worlds tragedies
Unraveling
At our fractured seams

The web unto me

Unbeknownst to actual casualties
I seem to fiend for the wars
The deplorable horrors
Exploring the contours
Of the obscure
But not to be as it seems

Maybe just to blur the mundane away
Merely may have it be

The fewer the flames
The better the dream

Profane blasphemy
With ******* means

In ***** slavers
Raving in the papers
Of danker things

Printed on the label
In the stables of kings
Pacing the ring singing
From the knees happily

So please
Just disconnect me

Infect me with reality
Push my proprietary
Philosophies installed in me
Over the edge

Make the pledge to disconnect
But I won't

Form the wedge of discontent
But I don't

In this very post
I cast my vote
And hope

For what?
I don't know

Just always stronger than before
And longer in the troll

As the binary flows
Through what I think I know
Even though knowingly opposed
To its rope of coping

Moping from a beam

Seemingly unreal
Spangling from the

Tink ...

Straining to think
And heaving
To breathe

Smiling in defeat
I'll keep clicking
From the sheets

From when I wake
To when I sleep

It's a discatastrophy
Condensing
Collecting
Calculating

And presenting
An electronic me

Unto me

Without grief
And seeping
Through the screen

I'd scream
But not one would hear me

Help me?
Help yourself ..

The interconnected me

Through that hole in the roof,
devoid of tar and shingle, I
                                              drip.

From that shower head
that needs just a wrench twist, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                   drip.    
    ­                                                            
That­ patch on the driveway,
beneath the car, just tuned up, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                       drip,
    ­                                                   d r i p.

In the back of a dream,
that stirs us to wake, I
                                     drip,
                    ­                               drip.

When that old dog only
gets older, sicker, I
                                drip,
                         ­                   drip.

Where nose ends and
cheeks turn into chin, I
                                       drip.

On the counter top a bottle- tipped,
chipped. I can't recall, but I
                                               drip,
                                                drip.
­
Overflowing and fraught with guilt,
a kettle of doubt, one carelessly spilt, I
                                                               drip,
                                                          ­    drip,
                                                      ­       **d r i p.

chutes of straw lean
in the wind, the way they tap
gently on my knee,
or on the table.
they extend, slender,
and pop when they bend
back to a point
at the goodyear blimp