hey, it came about that i was
and it was thus that i am
          
                 or is

and will be was
but so of now i will be
if  only yet but not still a while
   and if so i'll do some thinking
and some thoughting
    or stand or eat (or sometimes both) or sometimes neither
and if by day
so too at night
                                      I'll come to these
                                      the dead length of
                                      heavy words
                                       which writ by men of learned haste
                                        i,ve chomped the morsel of
                                        their fat and narrow tidy
                                        skinny wide messes
                                     in chapters and verse
                                    
yet what will stodgily
revolve to fore is central
the chiefest realization
of my riggling dearth
is that all is simply unsimple
a great prfounding
a small and illustrious sound
                                                           ­              (everything is paradox
                                                         ­                so too are i as you
                                                             ­            and you or i
                                                               ­          a truths a lie
                                                                ­         or lying truth
                                                           ­              and if you listen hard enoughyoucanhearalmostnothingrattledeeplyfirmingorfirmlydeepening­ . . ,

.




























                "I love you."



                "If only it were that simple."
























.

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't
Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?

Spring is tight between her thighs
((with DoeAndStag)
together

                  leaping           ).

Winter's nice her fingers deep
'round comely sickle
slowly reaping.

)Summer's **** her mouth is sleeping(
open ******;
swallow all.

(But nice is neat,
and **** is sweet,
)when all the trees are rapt with Fall.

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

.































































­



















what are you some kind of monster kind of some kind of monster are you





























































­


.

for do i remember far weight less colours

      reaming

the mute carcass of the earth
from whom perfumed life
is boosted splintering
and releases enveigling fingers nimblest shoots and toes

     who

by capricious arms smoothly
piercing slenders penetrate
hands and tongues o' demure lightness
which onto naked stillness pour
a rage of purring dawnlight

everything                                             :

. comes , together ;    '       "  and   '   falls  ;     apart       ,        

                                                                                                       .
                                                                                                    ,      ,
                                                                                                        '

.  these deep uply
)whom i'm become
              as you'm

i'd like to with       (
achingly clutch
the whim whisper

the sure hum
and crisp vibrance

of white white mouth;

always starrily
always upwardly

           :          body

of snow in June(

whose light pertness be ).

whose own wish nothing ever
so be could:



as white.




as mouth.

what am I I don't know I think I'm a boy I grew up one time reading a book with a gun in my hand with a pellet gun in my hand I grew up a boy

i wish i could talk to you

Does loving want *******, only?

(I'm not sure–after all
maybe because
what else has a hand
ever turned over
the hem of something
supple soft and spun
within its thighs 2 thick
fingers of gasping?)

Love is it even, really?

(I've never known no loving
unless it had its mouth draped
over my hips and I broke
sighing through heart and lung
its swallowing throat.)

What is purely something if not loving?

(loves not nothing–but it's rubbing.)

i lay here in bed
and my wife’s
beside me her
breathbody is
rhythmically and
i can hear sleepness
which the curved
blades of her back
:(risingandfalling)
commit each after
each of breathing
which her ribs
contain and her nose
vents between cartilage
and membrane making
the finest whistle
only finer than the
thinnest fineness of
her hair which also
is and beside me which
catches the lamp light:::

      SHIMMERING

.























































                                                                                                                                                                        lust.






















































­





















































.

Dying: that's life–who is a boy

sitting alone; and knows,

but writes a poem anyway.

when i do looking(eternally)into
your eyes steeply
the complete
ingenious potion
of their
smallest
drunken dots
eat the entire fullness
of me
and i fall into them
                                                            ­                      


                                        ­                                         4ever

the eyes turn over fingers
turn over wine and flesh,

teeth tasting and small
inside the hips

(where my mouth lives
with 2 blades of youth.)

pale spark, cheeks faintly, rouged
thy kiss is the distillation of summer
in the thinplump ****** of your lips
hides uglywonderful snarling fangs
pretty like ivory or alabaster incising
sets totally me at teetering 'pon their
cute painful hushed sharpness
gets each hair of my nape on end
frivolously alight at their queer press

w

          w



                         wh



                                             what loves


                                                     this
                                                        I?i
                                                      loves the
                                                      rushing of in girls
                                                      Summer when heat
                                                      does its lips in forked
                                                      seething.

                                                       I loves
                                                       the hush
                                                       of almost winter nights
                                                       and the concise
                                                       melancholy
                                                       of empty rooms.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the by
                                                        cherriest of wristness
                                                        to loosely
                                                        in vagrant slumber
                                                        stir whitely.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the brother of my brother, and
                                                        the little timid
                                                        of barely unviolence boys
                                                        (in fists very tightly which).

                                                         But.

                                                          w w   ww what loves
                                                           Iis
                                                           the most
                                                           of life
                                                           and lessing
                                                           too
                                                           of it
                                                           into
                                                           primest daftness of sleep.

what's a poem?some numbers
(after all)howmanydoyougot
                                          ?i

got oh how many let's count
'em
        do

you think
you'll get as many?i'll

like yers if ya likes mine
let's like em

a word without reading
cuz

         what's a poem?

Just some numbers, after all.

let's all ***** who spring
(feet first)
climbing the swelter of
prim night



                        a bud


back ribbed in sinuous
muscular colours
rising drunk tingles
on quivering odors
lightness; darkness mingles
in single singing petal
revolt faster into

a cherry (stem clothed in)
crimson

and faintlier moans
ever

       faintlier

i love you
being the leg beneath mine
,my wife
who is
beautiful
and feels warmly
something softness which
i love to feel
.



.




.









,

nearly you when i have felt pulsing
my heart(yourheart)has become
one smooth toto
red and hotter and tiny
fluttering stupidly
smiling under
your *******
my hands cup it
and to my dumb finally mouth
i draw,carefully,your fierce noble blood
and drink drink drink drink drink drink

a glum thickly dolloping gray today to day i say this day i say today today
   (a lip is twice as thick when knuckles tumble rumble numbly bumble
over pearled lengths of ivory smearing in his gobbing gabbing moral oral
    silence bruising orifice)
in class
               listening shortly
                                           to hard and bitter wafts
                                                                                    arrogant and nimbly shoveled
"he was 20lbs heavier than me"

crinkle dust
up on
           lashes frail
those mercurial onyx
splinters o' your sharp
eyes
        you catch me
looking at you from
the back of
                    the room
you catch me onyour
sharp eyes
                   grinning
a slutty rictus
                        you cut
a sharpness out the air
with them
                   green shards

i do not write a poem it
from "who knows where" comes
in its body
is some words
i think
some words
but

why       ?
and             i

"don't know" cuz
like lithe
from out of
sleeping hair it marches

adamantine

unstoppable

invincibly fragile
it marches
doe-like

its eyes are pretty too
and in the terse clutch of its stinging copse
i s
pythe
gleaming rind of life

foamed in sweat
it is nubile strong delicate

but

i do not write a poem
it from
"who knows"
where
(idon't)

fall into sleep thy body always Spring,
let thy hair uncrisply from mutest gold
turn from youth's splendors

                        towar' wrinkles; fold.


of thy mouth make early nothing,
as April flowers tender

pass thy lips to clearings cold
with kissless hours slender.


fear not the weary mile
treaded years shall always bring

walk in fasted silence
and of thy ending slowly sing.

Summerwassohot
    (in you)
when
plum wine

,

in the tight heat of tiny Eugene

,

mudfuddly
drunkenly heaved
with ******* every night.


and sweat

and my body knows
when it's with yours
a pleasure more
and pain less

it knows just how
delightfully draws
the better curves
of your sting heavy
*******

how is immaculate the
darling prism of thy
stomach               and
how pleasantly scrunches
it up in ecstatic pink
rimmed diminutive folds

and how the taste of
your sweat is like
honey more than
honey even is

.























































                                "Let's ****."

dying is that a little girl x63
going into dust as from which
came her just sixty three years
ago not loved once within
them or met with the kind
smile of anyone but her old
little cat that just as her within
became as into dust like
(From which they were breathed)
that 63 years ago pile of used to be

my daughter moves
there is something
shakes moving
rattles a bit
falling she
does
into sleep
something
small(smaller)
than all smallness
her tiny aspect is
warm and i think
Very perfectly small
and smaller than all
warmness. i fold the
several things of my
arms around her smallness

and


she


s

    L



    e



                      p




                                     s.
                                       ,


                                       .

"who knows?" by body what
eglantine,
silver curving
upon heaps of
curving flesh:

upholds some girl hips
on two sturdy beams
of nicely wide
so easy to dash against
folding pink cruelty?

(i wonder) and how
you fit archingly
on your back
the gaudy sinew
of faultless youth–

(your ******* *** feels so good inside)

the rumpled fool
of boy stings
to fill with heat
every crumb of
slattern'd SPRING.

magic surly blood dank
gold flecked and musty
shimmer set alight burning
you're some copper and some
dark brown sugar

                 like you taste like rust

against night dear a skull
sockets brimming with ladybugs

          behind a knoll

in forest deep and green sleeping
magic forests

  (         where fairies are still really

       nice fairies with

            great hair
    
   and they play diminutive

   harps
             strung
                         with light
                         and dancing)

magic stirring from firmest and
unyielding repose

             rise

and meet me in Summer in
forests sleeping greenly and
festering with holly crimson
Magic
you're some
thing i don't know
but i'll try to say you
anyway and i know you
love me 'cause i felt you in
between the sweltering balm
of girls thighs pliant and annihilators

(Magic surly blood dank
and glittering a bit of rough
you are like baking cake just
for yourself and a friend arrives
unexpectedly and you sit down
delighted and instead of alone
you eat and talk all afternoon
about nothing at all)                      


                                                Magic
                                                           you are
                                                           like that

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

love is a girl with black hair last Saturday night
i said, "you have something in you i see, which
is a little vulnerability and beautiful is so"
and tattoos(milesofand)
that were a heart pierced by a blade
anda gain pierced

   A heart

with dark red lips
said, "you're really sweet, but i have a boyfriend"

come pretty quickly out of air incised
precisely with your hips skinny waist:
Saturday
                  say

                            LOVE,

sum or is or body fair?
the dawn which marks with crimson
the light which trills or hair

                                                 ?


loose or hangs by easily does
such clatter and or slop
(legs unmeet; a trollop)
or string that cherries pop


sum or is or *** wit lips?
lush with tearful smaking?


or is it honey that which drips?

"No one really wants to be in love. They don't really want someone to care about them and think about them. Most people prefer disinterest.

Make somone the focus of your attention and attend to their feelings and needs–they will be terrified of you.

Nothing frightens a person more than the feeling of being the true center of attention.

The feeling of having somone really looking at, observing, them.

No, they would prefer someone who has their own life. Somone who makes the perfunctory gesture of love. Some flowers here, a compliment there; but real, true attention–no one wants that.

To those who are true lovers this is a painful reality we encounter with each new love. We must re-learn restraint. To control our desire to shower another with affection and attention. For as surely as we do, as surely they will turn away from us.

No one wants love–really."

let's say tomorrow we'll meet more usually than yesterday we didn't know each other
but today let's kiss and **** with our hearts pressed bleeding against our ribs let's drink
the big enormity of our conjoined figures wracked and bobbing let's say tomorrow we'll
meet and we'll get coffee and we'll talk about nothing and we'll just think our hands
in the twain of each others thighs and we'll say let's go catch a movie but we'll both
know that's not what we want so let's just skip saying and use those practiced oral tools
excellently with the others own; let's bump them and giggle

quietly mysterious and far away i love you
i love you the big and small unnearness
of your imagined hands i wonder which
on your body's wrists (and the head upon
clothed in shortness) are skinny so nice
and never to be known by my hands you
are so unloud will not ever close and


                         (i will love you always even though you will never know)

wet stoops
wet sleeps
down beside
vibrant hulks
of day into night becoming
a persimmon fleshed in robes
of sweetish musk of raging dark:

that blind canny o' comely marsh
where sweats tallly the brisk frigid
smirk of winter coming into between–

i cannot fathom
nor wonder 'pon a thing more
violent **** or primly stolen
than the absurd tumor of suddenly
which every immense second of life
Is.

and how do i call it?
how do i name it by itself?
is it nameable?
is demanded some strict finitude of immutable logic?
or is impossibly monikered in nothing short of illimitable self?

(and who have I been? have i been myself? where did i begin? and shall i ever end in knowing?)

.































































­












                                     love me.

                                     **** me.

                                     trust me.
















































.

i will be A Poem someday,
(or will i)?
being some earth
maYbe or (whynot)
a worm, and who
will remember nothing
of being what
i WAS NOT being
(apoem?)
someday when i
was, and will U
be there 2? i
wonder laying next to my wife.

i loved you so much




























































­
























                                                                   .

Leaves of grass, my chest, is to your chest, as; gently soft and pressed of light. And though a thousand tiny green, one root only beats at their center. One root red. One root pushing of difficult life stuff, out, out. Pushing and pushing. To lip and finger equally difficult.

(I watch the streetlights as they pass over my hand while driving in the dark Bellingham feels beneath me big and sleeping in almost spring I put my fingers through its mouth and I cough a star)

I feel the immediacy of things. The imminence of objects. I feel the keenness of a glass in my hands. The instantaneous dribble of condensation over a knuckle. The spontaneous aroma of a summer night. I am enthralled and enraptured by the crisp mint of toothpaste, after a barely slept night. I feel the rough twill of a garment and I am in love with it. I extend my hands into the rapid amber slats of the streetlamps on my dash, as I speed beneath them. I watch them wash over my hands and I feel somehow indescribable.

I am in love with beautiful women who pass me on the street. Every one them pretty. Every one of them a neat mystery. Every one of them in skin as lovely and soft as breath off the ocean. I know myself least when I kiss. I know myself best when I am kissed.

I feel myself in the world and I feel IT in me. I love my friends and my family. I love the rough smell of fire. I love the wisp of spring, grown into the verdant pulse of summer's heat. I love to sweat and feel the movement of my body through open space. I love the sharp itch of a tattooer's vibrant needle. The splay of colors. The tang of my blood.

I look at men and I see boys playing at what they think a man is supposed to be. I see excess, increase, and birth. I see leanness, erosion, and death. I somehow know that neither is life a beginning or death an ending. I know it as I know the tip of my finger. I know it as I know the taste of sweat and hairspray and sunscreen, distilled in the instant of a drunk kiss, in a tent just inside of Idaho.

I am for life. I am for pain as I am for pleasure. For I know that one is nothing without the either. I wish to be known and to say myself. I wish to know you and to hear yourself, said by, yourself. I am simply. I am a man. I am just what I am.

I may die tomorrow. I urge you to love those dear to you and to say it everyday. I only try to do that. I only try.

she,s a livid verB
of pure distilled
filthy l!ghtn!ng    and
                                               she makes me wanna

she makes me wanna

                   sh       e            m
                                       a
                                                                      kes
me


                      want to...
                                  (   !

behind my eye twitches) not a whisker
stirring from immense sleep leaps arcuately
determined of slim air to meander in precise
dithering cuteness (a fat and orange ellipsis

i want you to have com--

                   e

easily slowest faster
a tightly groomed lips

pleasantl--


                        y


of colossal tiny groaning
into deepening thighs
wanders deeper a
wand and dies (petitel--


                      y)





la mort