kiss the linear fact of existence.

****** it. it will come undone.

it will delineate. all you need to do

is shadow it with light. all it needs

is a reason to love

itself.

I kinda wanna watch the Dead Poets Society and cry some more













                                               ­   and feel ok about myself










            and stop feeling so lonely inside







my own head all the time













and all the pain I've experienced, and all the pain everyone experiences, and all the hate and all the evil and all the betrayals and all the



              mad strangeness








all the dead end moments spent thinking


                           'it's about to happen'

with that little up-euphoria and a cup of hottie coffee only to have it sink again when it's all an



                  



                                       ­                  unrealized











dream


               for


                               no













                                                   ­     reason













and all the  





























                                                    distan­ce



                



                                













                                               all the facebooks










                                                      ­                            all the tumblrs


















    all the snapchats









                      all the xanax







                          









                                   all the drugs















all the





                                                           ­              sobriety
















all the



















                                                 'maybe tomorrows'




















                    all the
                                                              

­
                                                           'one days'












                                          I CAN'T EXPLAIN IT










all the banks




                         and



                                  all the houses








all the flowers looking nice and the niceness looking not so nice so the              niceness              of         the        flowers      



                                     ­       ain't

                                                       so

                                                               ­ nice



















































        ­                                    all the jobs





and




                                                            ­               all the laundry










all the money all the lies all the painful honest











                                                     ­                          truths









  all the cellphones and water



and the fridge,
                      in the quiet,
























                    humming





























                                   ­              humming































humming

























        humming

embezzle the grey matter underneath a skull overladen with pintrest pins dotted sideways like impact-starsfallen bricks flowers plummet vase-first onto concrete side-world beyond the gardener's balconyit always takes an angry peasant to make the peasants into serfslike a bleeding riddle in granite or grass, left to rushed interpretation as the meta-physicists usurp the physicists authority and insist the earth is speaking to avoid a hemorrhaging final trimester in the birth of human omnipotenceinstead Mother Nature asks Dr. Neptune for an abortion in the final trimesterDr. Neptune politely declines and returns to Sean Hannity in the Situation Room__how dry is a planet where it never, ever rains?

I thought about how, if I were
able to enter other people's minds,
that the world would seem to take
on different hues of experience; dark,
bright, gentle, sharp, doomy, gloomy,
fuzzy, scary, warm, cold, a warmish
coldish synthesis diving between a
freezing.. naked.. sorry slugger on
a dimly lit island in the dead center of
the ocean thinking of how black and
desolate a place the world is only because
the potential for cold pangs of death wish
are there at all (whatta shock!) whilst he's
passed a blanket by a friendly nowhere pedestrian
and all of a sudden with the help of some agency
in the cold night, he is warm with the freeze only
nipping at exposed heels and neck and nose and
face.

sitting empty, expecting nature to clothe him, he
forgot that nature includes his ability to sew quilts..
adorn himself in developed fur.. accept help from the
endless parade of nowhere pedestrians eyeing with
worry, compassion.. that this concern is as intrinsic
to universe as empty breathless space and biting,
flatulent wind..

pepsi cola

        pepsi colon

                 semi colon

                        seminal work

Ockham's razor
until

      (or!)

     unless

a different

                     wager


              truly

changes

how we'll see it

now and later