We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors
and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos.
“ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg—
fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets.

Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence—
the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms
in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood.

Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence—
* Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science* —
scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver.

Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper,
and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper.
Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees—
… for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.

I see you over the tops of uneven books.
I see your golden brown hair,
as wild as the tall tundra grasses.
I see you drop the musty book,
onto the pale grey carpet.
And you are unaware, of my peering eyes,
sneaking glaces from under my Algebra book.
And that the numbers are carved in my mind,
as if ingrained onto the bark of a dying evergreen.
PS700-PS3499 you are searching for great American poets,
as your hands glide over the worn leather covers.
Leaves of Grass, Sorrows Built a Bridge, Works of Poe.
As you glance at the Dewey Decimal Numbers,
Numbers flourish in my mind.
The probability that you would like me,
Numbers are more cohesive than the words,
that I have written to you in the margins.
In the distance I see you surrounded by your books,
deeply focused-serene,
I too am a poet,
I am a poet of logic.
Fixating on the truth showed by facts.

Mirrors paint the town tonight,

And the sad funhouse-

Where I kind of pace real slow,

In that backward way, where no one knows.

The branches waltz and sway,

In developed taste,

Sky as black as day,

The pressure tied to love, rearranged.

Always, always open.

Pulse’s,

Always, always open.

In dried creekbeds,

In the voices telling me, listening,

In the reflection of skyscrapers,

In the ghosts of 743 N. Elizabeth, clamorous,

In the wine and scotch bottles, emptied, on the counter.

There is a pattern on the shelves,

Wooden bells.

Imagine tugging at a loose thread on a sweater, expecting it to break off, problem solved...
but instead that thread unravels and unravels until the sweater is a sweater no more,
but rather a mess of string in a heap on the floor, a chaotic tangle that
resembles the contents of my brain when someone asks, "how was your weekend?"

My thoughts are replaced with the blare of static on TV and I can't hear myself think, so I say what I imagine a person is supposed to say, a preprogrammed response I construct for situations like these when my brain decides to check out...

Because of course the only time my mind -stops- is when I really need it to go, not when I'm laying in bed at 2 a.m., fixating on that cringey thing I did four years ago.

But anyway, I would tell you about my weekend, except it seems that the wires connecting the language part of my brain to my mouth have been cut. My weekend probably ****** anyway, but I manage to say, "it was good." And even then, those three words struggle to get past my lips, and any words more revealing hit the backs of my teeth like a car colliding into a brick wall.

By now the elmer's glue holding me together is losing its grip, so when you tell me about your weekend, the words wont stick. How your breath is wasted on me, when I can't concentrate on not falling apart and on tales of your tomato garden at the same time.

On the surface I look so cold; my painted on smile is a thin sheet of ice, concealing the puddle that hides underneath, one that the sun can't reach --
People will often say, "if it helps, you don't seem anxious". I want to tell them that anxiety is a tormented ghost that drags its dagger like claws across my skin at night, whose presence I can always feel but never see. A monster that feeds on vulnerability, and knows it will never starve.

But, I don't know what to say, so I stare at my hands. Because making eye contact feels like facing a lion, and facing a lion means facing death. But then there are times that death doesnt sound so bad, because I know that as long as I'm still breathing, anxiety finds a way to make that hard for me too.  

Anxiety is a broken appliance that the store wont take back, the Annabelle doll that returns from the trash, so it made a home of me instead. And in return for the shelter I give, my heart pounds like its full of angry bees when I finally press 'send' on the 8th draft of a text message I've been working on since yesterday and I want to hide, but why bother? when in a game of hide-and-seek, anxiety always wins.

It is my shadow during the day and my blanket at night, one that that drapes suffocatingly around my shoulders while I'm pacing the kitchen in the dim glow of the stovelight, worrying that the next day could be the " someday " that the ones I love finally leave me. On these nights, anxiety comes to my rescue everytime. It slithers up my back where it can softly whisper into my ear : "I promise you, chelsea, I will never leave"

Fixating on the emotions you provided
But only for a second in time

Before you had me falling between the cracks
With a touch of your hand

Moments pass at accelerated speeds
My heart flutters.

Vibrations rush through my perplexed mentality
A loss of affection transpires

Beneath this dark facade suppressing my energy
A troglodytic character exposed

The inception of just another fantasy you implemented
Like any other dream I envisioned

A borderline ecstasy of pleasure.

When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.

it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
reprisals...
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
repetition:
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
zombie-it-further.
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
            suggestion...
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
                   reincarnation...
    THE WEST KNOWS NO MYSTICISM...
        a common mantra...
   THE WEST IS IN A STATE OF A CRISIS
IN THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED ALL
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
          IT IS IN A STATE OF BABYLONIAN
  PLAGIARISM: A PERSISTENT SELF-RENOVATION
            BY PLAGIARISING ITSELF
DUE TO THE FACT THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED
      PLAGIARISING NICHE ENVIRONMENTS...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
                         sometimes...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
                     

Butterflies and crows circling the water
Dive
headfirst, closed eyes into the ocean.
Fly.

Rest easy
my
dearest;
how I've missed you
but only the physical things
only the ****** things

I'm objectifying you
(....how rude)



I'm riding on the waves of creation
fixating on free form and relation
with Self

Life is animated now, see the things
that we missed?
Life is kissable
It tastes salty and beautiful like seafoam
and sweet like spring blossoms

I'd offer you my hand again, but
last time you drug me down
This time I'll offer you sand instead,
and castles and sunshine
and smiles.
They're free,
you should try 'em out
sometime, baby.

There's no rush.
The sun will be waiting whenever
you wanna mosey over.
The time for moping is over.
Your misery can be over,
snap
That moment is over
That second is over
Your entire lifetime up to this point
is over

What's that you said about new beginnings?
Finding new things?

Dive in, head first, eyes closed,
towards those things you're seeking.
Don't ever stop

Don't
ever
stop

dreaming.

He whispers sweet nothings into my ear
His quiet musings that lull me to sleep
His teeth gently graze my earlobe, pulling at my earring
He's almost like a raven, always fixating on the shiny parts of me
Except instead of repeating never more, he screams forever from the rooftops
He's taught me how to fly
How to leave the ground
How to soar above the earth, into the clouds
He's given me hope and serenity and peace
And for this I will forever be grateful

the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space