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non-conformist
life-- a land of what if's
a romantic death

I've tasted blood            I've tasted milk
of battles past                 and wondered why
of battle present             I wasn't  tasting blood
of battles future              all this time

****-zip-bang shenyang ang;
Mang mangue flang hang prang pang;
Pinang lalang unhang kang youth defang khang;
Marang schlang gang wolfgang ying-yang xuanzang.
Klang sea get wrang.

Sang tsang li-kang gangue langues.
Thang drang crang tang harangue sprang zhang shang siang whang strang hang verdinsgang chuang;
Brang lang nang bhang xiaogang mahuang durang huang.
Hange hsiang und;

Zang rang kuomintang ourang section gang hang.
Krang pahang boomerang fang guilt;
Spang gang;
Hangsang xinjiang tunkelang slang tangue nanchang clang chang bangue vang ziyangbaoguang hwang pang the tsiang alang dang ylang-ylang.

Tang liang.
Overhang langue pyongyang.
Cangue sangh mustang stang frang yang lange kukang farang **** care sturm t'ang;
Zamang drang chiang road a jang;

unable
access
network

I stared at it;
the dead skunk on the road.
And I wondered to myself
                how it lived and how it died.
What it would have been to me;
                this animal, this thing.
                How the cold, silver lights must’ve shined on it,
possibly in the blackness.

Had when cards
Cottages the scoffs royal
Ye not,
By beyond
Struggling
By represent her under

And table, many
With on down wolves
Combat, changed
Named meanwhile loud
Loo through
Beautiful the wit,

Out crosses
Fields to array,
Like wolves
Falling, struggling
Opposed
Seemly o'er, to

rightleft
leftright

moving rats
in time

around, around
the same path

ashamed, ashamed
they do not leave

⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠Yes,
we all seem to look at it
for at least a moment or so. We
become enshrouded in ourselves. (it pulls
us away
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ from things)
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ We eat our dreams
off the plates
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ of the restaurant. And we will stay
distraught.  

There is a golden picture, an atlas.
Hung upon the bathroom wall
held by a nail
                    dangling,
                              ­   off to the side.
It had a warmth to it. Latin ramblings
and labels littered the grand panorama.
But the bathroom stayed minuscule;
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡a common misconception.

she's undressed
      i'm stressed

This is for that cold whistle and its tempestuous ring.
Come to greet me in your hardened sheen? O, You crystal empress--
blind as the night, and clear as the day can see.

I keep your company
   with my insanity,
            my hallucinations

How I glance out the window to see the
monolithic clouds, taking to the sky as if it
was the interstate that led to
the great American dream.

The dream that was revealed by Fitzgerald
and died of starvation from Steinbeck.
The dream that begged for reconciliation but got nothing.
The dream that was nothing.

Nothing but the plastic glow of ****-jobs along
with the lights that illuminated the local Walmart.

Nothing more than the glimmer of hope
shot down by the square conformity that is now.

The now that forgot humanity at the hazy bus stop,
leaving them to return home and ****** the intellect.

In head melting Sundays where I sit staring at electricity
that kills time slowly like a premeditated ******.

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00  00
0 oh  0
00  00

In the claustrophobia of the ally,
The hobo sits
Wearing a smile on his sleeve

Under the pink neon lights
Of convertibles and the 1960's.  

Where time stood still
And never moved.

Hobo-man saw,
Saw with his glassy light bulbs.

That the red, white and blue
Does not thrive on me or you.

Hobo-Man sat and watched time change
Watching the blue turn to gray
And gray turn to green

He will stay here, he thought.
Here in the ally way.

The world, too twisted, he thought.
Unable to make him stay.

For Hobo-Man does not live for time here, time now
Everything only makes him frown.

But Hobo-man still smiles somehow
In a world so crooked and hollow.

Hobo-Man burns like a fire
And lives life to live life

Mad to live
Mad to laugh
Mad to cry
Mad to love
Mad to die

Hobo-Man screams to the sky
Burning like a Roman Candle.

Is there nothing
to this cerebral portrait?
(I have already tried
loving— and
going for it). Yet,
I cannot deny that
a memory differs
from a moment.

water lily wet--
my head
to
my socks

I.
With strappy, **** cutouts at the back, this is tempting at every angle.
∙ Allover lace trim
∙ Strappy back cutouts
∙ Front and back bows
∙ Low rise
∙ Minimal back coverage
∙ Imported polyester/spandex

II.
The **** lift of a push-up meets the coverage you want in a supersoft bra you’ll love to wear. With lighter Memory Fit for extra support as it conforms to your curves and a smoothing U-shaped back.

Lift & Lining
∙ Extreme lift
∙ Full coverage underwire cups

Straps & Hooks
∙ Adjustable straps can convert to crossback and snap into place for a secure hold
∙ Back closure
∙ Double row of hook and eye closures; Sizes 36DD & 38D-38DD have triple row of 

closures
 

for a secure, comfortable fit
∙ 4 settings to ensure a perfect fit

Details & Fabric
∙ U-shaped ballet back prevents band from riding up and offers more coverage
∙ Supersoft, double-lined sides for the smoothest shape
∙ Keyhole and bow at center front
∙ Imported nylon/spandex

watch
the rock tumble

do I who
bird
do I who

watch
the rock splash
the rock drown

she's barely clothed
she's smart
she's marketing

44  444 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44  4 4 4444 4 444 44  4 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44 44 4 44 44 4 44 44444  444 4 4444 44 4 4 444  44 4 4 4 4 4   4  44444 4 44 4 4  4 4 4 4 4 444 44 44 4 4 44 44 4 4444 44 4 44 444 4 4 4 444 4 444 44 4444 4 444 4 4 4 4444  444 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44  4 4 4444 4 444 44  4 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44 44 4 44 44 4 44 44444  444 4 4444 44 4 4 444  44 4 4 4 4 4   4  44444 4 44 4 4  4 4 4 4 4 444 44 44 4 4 44 44 4 4444 44 4 44 444 4 4 4 444 4 444 44 4444 4 444 4 4 4 4444  444 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44  4 4 4444 4 444 44  4 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44 44 4 44 44 4 44 44444  444 4 4444 44 4 4 444  44 4 4 4 4 4   4  44444 4 44 4 4  4 4 4 4 4 444 44 44 4 4 44 44 4 4444 44 4 44 444 4 4 4 444 4 444 44 4444 4 444 4 4 4 4444  444 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44  4 4 4444 4 444 44  4 4 4 444 4 444 4 44 44 44 4 44 44 4 44 44444  444 4 4444 44 4 4 444  44 4 4 4 4 4   4  44444 4 44 4 4  4 4 4 4 4 444 44 44 4 4 44 44 4 4444 44 4 44 444 4 4 4 444 4 444 44 4444 4 444 4 4 4 44.

the point
of almost drowning
then doing it

finding air
finding the loophole
luck

they like you
from atop the balcony
your scream, deadly

loved?
are you loved?
love?

shades of gray
shades of some romance
what is this ****?

fourth grade
so strange
first crush

dead in my boots
no
to say no

oh that's where
I'm a big boy now
growing on up

love
it burns my throat
found it in the fridge

I could start fires
with this stuff
I thought

fires that would
burn and burn
into the night

roman candles
that burned out
from the tears

I
burden of proof!
            burden of proof!
burden of proof!
            burden of proof!
burden of proof!
            burden of proof!
burden of proof!
            burden of proof!

II
how about you
shut the **** up

academic integrity
my ***

hope

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beepbeep beep  beep   beeep   beeep   beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

unbearable
stone,

immense
sand

&
cold
water

Oh sorry—
I was just in the middle
of composing my SpongeBob SquarePants opera.
I am almost halfway done.
At this point, I think I’m going to cast
Alanis Morissette as Squidward Tentacles.
However, I am still not sure
if her voice can
handle the E flat
in the closing song.

Even with that, one cannot
ignore the sheer power
and vitality of Morrisette’s
vocals. In her songs,
Morrisette creates
a sense of remarkable vagueness.
In my mind, this is exactly
what Squidward Tentacles attempts
to accomplish in his
clarinet work.

The owl and the snake,
fight for their precious short lives.
Love's venom is sweet.

interlink   interlink   interlink
link  interlink   interlink   interlink
interlink   interlink   interlink
link  interlink   interlink   interlink

It was humanity that was the mixed bag of jelly beans at summer camp that spilled out into the scorching sun restless for *** and sun-tans.
All before they melted away into Kandinsky paintings pretending that happiness was something of a virtue.
And while the paintings ignited into a righteous firestorm of white men in white robes with hope and faith, flying out the church doors and taking to the sky, morphing into airplanes to destroy the great peace in the form of two obelisks pointing to Allah.
To the american hypocrisy that we drink like cough syrup to cure nothing.
While pretending everything was alright.
While  dead men are worshiped more than a word of the past that is the future.
Let us forget about innovation.
Let us look back onto the great circles of cycles that we overturn on the great history
of the 4th of July flagpoles that I grasp, feeling the pulse of the blood-filled stripes.
Let us look to the cold-blooded blue square that we plant ourselves on as stars, making our marks in this smooth and creamy void.
Let us walk into the white absences were color is uninhabitable to the Negroes or the Latinos who used all of their angry fixes in activism and cigarettes that burn holes through eternity.
To the Chinese who were thrown out of our stars like mutts in order for our stars to shine the plastic glow that stays illuminated in the lights of Chick-fil-A that sells homosexuals with a side of Leviticus.
Taking, taking, taking to the past and somehow justifying death to natives, then scalping the land as some sort of victory of great imperialism that still hangs to our hearts like a collective tumor.
But I have been kind, I have been free.
To the breath of foreigners breaking the normality that is conformity.
Let me scare you with your greatest fear which is locked away in gravestones and darkness.
Locked away in Kerouac, Whitman and Ginsberg
For that which is change.
I speak directly to the inner gashes that are your soul.
Change before the fireworks turn into mutually assured destruction.
And you won’t.
Change before the feminists shoot me with their trigger warnings.
And you won’t.
Change before the immigrants last breath murmurs “**** dreams”.
And you won’t.

I am America and my flag is paper, white paper.

˙qɹn ןpnsɥo so ɥıʇʍ pǝsdu ıu sʇbǝɐ ɥǝʇ
؛ɥʎʇ ɥıs bʇןuɯǝı ǝɔɥɐ ʇıɟʍs
˙pɐu ıɹbɐısudǝp ɐɯuoʍ ʇo ʇuǝɥ onʇɥ ıu ʎɯ ʇɐʇɥ pǝʎɐdן ıu ǝʇɥ ǝɹɥ ı duɥʎnɐd poǝu
˙bıɯɥʇ ɹɥǝ ɐpu ɐɥǝp buıǝɹnʇʇןɟ spoǝ s’ןoʌǝ ʇɐ ʇʇuıuǝ ǝɹɥ ǝbɹɐ
؛ןɐן“ buıʇdɐu ǝpuʇɐʇ
؛pǝʇdoıu npǝɹ ubıʞ pɐoɯuɯɔ ɹǝǝbɐ unʇɔ ʞsıdɹɔ ʞǝɐʍ ıu
˙ıubɹǝuɐʍp ןɐן ɥʇnoɯ
˙bnuɹsd ɹǝɥ
؛ʎɐɯ dɹɐʇ ǝnɹʇ ǝnboʇu
˙ןʌǝo ɥʇǝ ɹɥǝ
؛ɐpu u’ʌǝ sןsʇǝnظ spıǝɥ
؛ɐpu ɹsʞuqı qpʇǝ ǝʇous
˙ɐןʎ upɐʇs ǝʌןɯǝsǝsɥʇ ɥıs ʎןɐuʌı
˙sǝoןɔ ɯsɹɐ oʇ ʎʌǝǝɹ ןɟɐɐʇ ɥǝɹ ɯǝsɐןɟ npoןɔ pɐu
˙ɐʍʇɥ pıp ʇnbɹu ǝuɹnʇɹ dʎɐ supsǝuıʞ uɹǝpıɔ sɟɟnɔ pooqן ɐɥʇʇ ɯǝ ʍsoɥ ɹǝʍɟoן ǝssʇɹǝʇ ¡ɐɐsן ɯʎ
˙ǝʇsɐʍ ʇsɯıɹǝɥ ʍoɥɯ ɹǝɐdɹǝd ʎʍɐ nqʇ sǝןɐɟ ɥsʇı ɯoɹɟ sǝɹpoɹ pןoɔ upɐ ɥɹǝ qǝsɐ ʇoɟo oʇsp
؛ɥɐǝʇp ıbuɹʌı bɥnoɹʇɥ ıbɥusʍı ɐpuɥ oʌbuɯunı
؛ʎuɐ uıʇıɥʍ ʎɯ ʇo ןןɐ ǝunɹnʇ sɥıb bɹıunɯɹnɯ nʇoɥ zuǝɹɟo
˙qɹǝıɯן ɯʎ ǝʇɥ ʍuʇo ɹǝǝuʌ ʇnuɔ sǝɥɹɔɔɐu ɹo pɥɐu ɐɹpǝ ǝʌsןopıs ǝʇsoɹɹǝ ʎɹnɔouʇ
˙ı ʌoןǝ ɐɹɯs pɐu oʇsd ɥobnɹɥʇ uo oʇ sʇןɐ ʇoɟ ʇɐǝɔuǝɹɹ ɔɥns pɥɐ spǝo ssʞı
؛ǝppʎ ɹıǝɟ pɥɐǝǝɹɔ
؛uıbʞɔnɟ ʇɥǝ oʍɥ ı ¿ɹɟoǝǝq
˙suıɥsʞɹ ןןsɐɯ
˙nʇq ʎɯ s’ɹnǝʇdɹɐ ɔɥonʇ
˙dɐɹʇ ɐʇdɹ ןʇןsı ǝspo ıs“ ǝnʇɹɐu oɯsʇ pǝuɹbʍo ǝʇɥ ɐ uo
˙ʇı ǝɥɐʇ ʇsopǝ ǝıɹǝsp oʌɹǝ buobıןu ouɹ
˙ɐ ıbןuɟɐɯ ʇıs ɯʎ ǝɹɐǝb bsןǝ pɐu ou sɥǝ ʇuɯʇǝodı uǝǝpdp ǝɹɯo ɔǝɯɹɐǝq puıʞ upɐ ɥpsʍǝı ɹǝ’o
˙ısɹǝsǝp uoʍ
؛ɥʇıʍ sısqן upɐ
˙ɥnʇo ı ʇɥuɐ pıubןɐn
؛ʍoʇɹɥ so pɥɐu ǝɹod ɹɥǝ dnןɯ
؛ǝsnɟǝɹ ɥbnoʇɥɹ ssןǝdɐs npoouɟɔu oʇ op oʎqp ou ǝuʇ ɯʎ ɐ
؛ʞɔnss ʍoɥǝɹ ɐ ¿oǝןʌ pɐu ıɥʇʍ ıoʇu
؛ǝǝʇɥ ɹǝsǝʇɹǝp uqnɹ ʎpɹ ןnso pıbnןı ʇǝɥ :sǝɹʌıʇ ıu oʍɥ ʇɥɐʇ uı ʎɯɐ ɐɟıן
˙oɟ dssı ʞqsǝɐɹ uɐp upǝǝıɔnbsɔ dn
؛ʇuo ǝɹ’ǝ buɹoǝʌıɥ ʇnq uǝʇʌǝdɹ
˙ɐpןǝ ɐ upɐsʇnɥo ǝɯ
˙sǝǝɐspı uʇo :pɐʎǝʇs ǝɹ’o ɥɹǝ ɥıʍʇ oʇ ʍuǝɥ ɥʇıʍ bʇɥon npןʍʇo’ sʍǝsuןǝp
˙ɐ ɐuuɔıɹo
˙ɐ bbıuıɔuן ɐɐʍʎ noʇɥ
؛sɥı ssǝɐɥ
؛ɹǝssǝן pıbnǝ ɟı ǝoןʌ ʍıɥʇ ɯɔןɐı ”¿ǝɹoɯ
˙ǝbɐ ʇo ǝʇbɐɹ ǝǝɔuıpǝqo oʇ bɹɐǝǝ uoɯɔoɯ ɥʇɟɹoǝɥuɔǝ
˙ɟsuɯɔɹıo ɟoɹ ʞɥuɹns ʇo ǝoɹɯ ʍǝoqן bsɥo
؛ɔıbɐɯ ou ɔıʍɥɥ upɟno
؛pǝʇɔpɹǝı ʎןbǝɐןn
˙oɟ ɟo ısǝן os —ǝɐpɯ
؛—ǝɐʇɹɥ ǝɯ osɥǝʍ ɹo ɹʇısɟ sǝuoı ɔbɹuǝııd
˙ɐɹɟı ıbdsuǝǝʍ oǝʍɥɹ
˙ʇı ʇɥno pǝɹıdsuı ǝʍsʇ ɔɥǝɐ ʇo ןpnoɥs ɥqʇo
˙uʇǝ sǝpɥıɔ pʎɐןdǝıps ǝɥ
؛ɥoɹʇǝɔ sʇɥı nqʇ dɔǝpɹıǝ bʇuıןɥıub ubıןqɯʇɹǝ ɥıʍʇ ǝɹǝʌʎ ǝɥɹ
˙ɟɔǝɐ qnʇ pǝǝɥʇɹıʍ
˙ıpq buɹɐoıɹ
˙ʇo ɯʎ ɹqǝɐן sןɟǝsnɟɔ ɐ
˙ʇo ʇs’ɹɐp ɯǝ ʌoɹpsǝןǝ ɥɹǝ ظʎso ʎnɹɐbɹsuʇ
؛ɔuʇuɐo upɐ ʇsɯn pǝnsɟuoɔ sppıʇ ʇןsıɥʍ ʇɐsǝɹq sǝıʍd qןɹʇɐn sɐ ǝpʌɐıu ɹo
؛sʎnq ǝıʌɐן ɐ qǝ
؛ʇɯos ʎɟןıʇsɟ nǝsʌuoɐɹ ʌʎɹǝǝ sɐpʎ
˙sɯʍɐɹ dʎɹǝ ʍǝ pouɐsʇɥn pɐu
˙ʎɯ ןuɐɐɔps ʌsǝıʍ s,ʞoןo ǝɥs ǝʞıן uǝdsp ʎɹǝǝʌ ǝɹɟı ʇo ʇǝnɹsɔǝɹɐɥo nɥʇo buıʇןubı ʇo pǝıʇɹ
˙ɐʇ ʌǝɔı oɹןɐʌ :ʇ’ ɯʎ pǝɐʞu ǝʇɥ
؛ʎnɹɟ sʌǝǝǝןıɹ uoɐsısd ɥnboʇɹɥ sןǝʎsןɔɹɐǝ spıɐɯ
؛uı ɐɯu uʇnʇɥןɹqpǝo ǝʇsɐɥ ʇsppı oʇ ısǝɹɔ ɐ ǝɯɐɥs ʍɥɥɔı
˙ɟǝןı ɯʎ oʎظs po ʎɥʇ puɐ noʇɥ ןqɯuıǝ ʎuɔʌoǝ dʇuıo ןɐן
˙ɹǝɐʇɥ ı
˙ssʞı ıu ʇo ɹɯɟo ǝʎɹʌ ɥǝʇ dsןıɔ ʇosן sʇdɐ oɟ ǝıן ןɐן ʇo ɹnɥo uɥǝʍ
؛ǝɯɐʞ ʎʇɥ ǝɟɐɯ dןɔǝɐps
˙ʇʍɐɥ ʇs’ʎɐɯ uǝʍɥ ɹǝ’ǝʍǝɥɹ ןǝןǝʞɹɐɥ dn
˙ɹǝɥ ʇı ʇɹsʍo ¡ʎǝoq ןǝɟpıן ıɐp ʎʇɥ
؛oןns ʇsʎɯɐ ʎןɯɐɔɯ sʇɥʇnɥob buıuɯsnɔo ɥıɔʍɥ ʇɐɹp uıɐןןıʌ
˙ǝɹ’o ɥɹǝ ɐsǝɟן uɯɐ
؛ɟo oʍpnן ǝuʞsɐɯıʇ
؛buıןosʌıps-ןɐן ǝןɟɯɐ ǝɹʍoɥ
˙ǝɹnǝɐןsd ǝɹɥʇǝ ɐןן ɐsǝq ǝuʍɥ oʇ ı sɐɥ
˙sǝɹndʇɐɹ ןןɐ ʇןɯǝ
؛oɯqos nǝp ʇɥɐʍ pǝɐıʌu
˙uɔnʇ ʎɯɐqן ɯɯoɔuo-ɹɐbǝbq-ɹǝpıuɔ-ǝʇɹosʎ ǝsɔɔsns u’ǝʌ
˙pןǝıddɐ ʇɥsı ǝǝʇɥ ʎɯ ɔǝdıuɹ ǝɥʇ sɥǝ ʇusoǝ sɔınɟoıɟo ǝdʌɹo ɹo
؛sɯɹɐɔɥ uɐsɥb upɐ
؛ɯɹsdǝ puɐ ɥsǝ buıןsıɯ puɐsonɥʇ
؛sʇǝɯǝ ʞǝıן ʇɥɹıb ʇo ǝsssıʞ ʇo ”¿ʇoo sı ɥʇıʍ ɐ oǝןʌ ɐɹʇ ʎɯ ǝʌoǝpʎuɔ dsıן ǝɥs ɹuɟoןoɹ ʇɔnu

stung like a bee
bold like a bull
i still remember that
i am me
nobody else
can see
he
that is me

ooo
ooo
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ooo
ooo
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ooo
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ooo
oov
vvv
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vvv
vvv
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vtt
t­tt
ttt
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ttt
ttt
ttp
ppp
ppp
ppp
ppp
ppp
ppp
ppp
yyy
yyy
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yy­y
yyy
^^^
^^8
888
888
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888
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zzz
zzz
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zqq
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aaa
aaa
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aau
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uuu

children
         oh children
stop listening to your elders
who knows you,
don’t you anymore?

children
         oh children
don’t you wish to change?
looking to the greats of the past is not changing,
(for the future does not live in the past)

children
         oh children
but it is what you are taught and taught
looking to parents who looked to parents to parents to parents
until the freedom of thought is ****** out of your mind
****** like the sickening slurping of the vanilla milkshake that the ****** in the corner sips on

whose name is
america
        america!
                  america!
i speak to your children
(for the children who will follow the ****** in the corner)
they will listen to the ****** in the corner
so they can become america

(for it is america who is perfect)

perfection
            oh perfection
you burn deep,deep into my veins
full of insulin, from the diabetes that america has claimed


******
       oh ******
it seems like i am your child(you are all children to me)
you won’t
         you won’t
listen
         to me
you are older than me
you will not
          respect me
but time seemed to change
and you stayed the same
  
america

dark
day
bright

melt
melt,
I
into nothing
                ing
                ing

there is this chick across the street walking her lemur—
wow I wonder if the lemur likes to roleplay as a bird.
on the street, i am not alone—for i have my chicken McNuggets
and i can hear the translucent ocean through a floating **** cheek
have you ever seen a young fawn in a window?
Yeah, me neither. But i do like to eat wooden tables.
i want to blog about how the sky is filled with clouds
that look like the inside of a pillow.

I am
always falling for
the pavement.
The cold,
the rough,
the hard
pavement.

This pavement
yells,
screams
for me.

So
I look
and
I stare,
all day
and
all night,
giving it the
attention
I think it
deserves.

You begin
to realize  
the pavement is
a thing of
beauty.
So smooth,
so equal,
so perfect.
  
I yearn for
the pavement,
its wonder
more exquisite  
than anything
else in my
life.

Yet I am
clumsy
and trip,
and fall,
colliding  
with the
pavement.

Crimson
droplets
fall from
my nose,
landing on
the pavement
as I leave
the pavement.

It was hard
like falling
in love,
but not
being loved
in return.

The water
is deep,

do not
drown.

spells
(S)pells
sho(T)
fro(M)
ou(R)
(H)an(DS)

the corner
of my room
has a light

it's pretty
     it's bright

but in time
    it will age,
but in time
    it will die,

i can change it out,
have a new one shine

but throw away
the old light,
have it die?

tossed into
the garbage
it breaks and
         shatters

the old light
that i knew
that i loved
is dead

must i forget
that love

with a
replacement?

can we replace
feelings,
           emotions,

for something
            someone?

Miley Cyrus has a colorful wardrobe.

something of cubical glaciers
rolling on sugar and water

we ride our big shiny ship
we have our big shiny hats

suddenly life happens
--we have lift off

Houston we have a problem
with gashes in time--

oh dear, we've hit
feelings of chilly winters

cold, cold, cold, cold
four seasons shot

by this icy slate
by this killer lack of hue

o, this world I
have grown to hate

I am a ball
pushed by a blizzard

in some direction
I don't know

so I sink into
this poor world of snow

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
         ABABABABABABABA
         BABABABABABABAB
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    WWWWW WW WWWWW
    WW WWWWW WW WWW

outbursts
in
the hollow

break
walls in
eyes
of
somebody's
everybody