talk is cheap

so is gum

so let's buy a pack of

alltalknoaction with a

hit of *allworkandnoplaymakesjackadullboy

i wrote myself in

     permafrost

        

       so

  you're my


global
          warming

Collecting lonely moments

while not technically "alone,"

a recipe for bite-the-bullet recovery

from on high.


The bonds between I & "Other"

seem to strain

to the point that they

ALMOST snap...

whether in collapsing disconnection

or the simple anxious pulse

of "all" in disassociation,

like identity

was nothing more

than a summer lawn

adorned in trampolines,

with ideas of ID's

bouncing up & down

like an ambivalent parade

of helium balloons.

there really is no necessity to go on living. don't treat it like a duty, treat it as a gift. and don't for a minute think you have to take it seriously.      the point is, if you really want to check out of this experience,            

                                       you can.                    

                                        








                          
                                                      you just don't have to.

Strange artists;

even we wish

to marry the

sentiment. Marry

the "factual"

C.R.E.A.M

or "CASH

RULES EVERY

-THING AROUND

ME."


But if it truly

rules over us,

which, in fact,

it does,

then let's call

its neurotically

quantified

condescension

for

what it is:

"The Divine Right

of Kings."


And we already

beat the living

legitimately-validated

****

out of that narrative

a long, long while

ago.


"Hello? Are you

human & have

you been listening

for the past

100,000 years?"


Rhetorical

question.

Yes,

you have.

someone once told me

to purify fire, one must

wash the flame

and sit in darkness, thinking:

"finally, it's the Brand New Testament

                                              I'm reading."

crazier and stranger than you was the fact that it

                                                               ­             never

                                                               ­            opened

                                                         ­                      up

having a seizure
is like
having the rug
of
basic familiarity
in life
entirely
tugged out
from beneath
your mental footing

as your perceptions
whittle themselves
into
sharp
sensitivities
and a
strange penchant
to mistake
the place
you find
yourself
in

for
... another ...


or start
mixing memories
and
perceptions thereof
as if both
must
have always been
one
and the
same

(which,

granted,

perhaps they are.)

This proves
there really is
no difference between
the observer
of the universe
and
what is actually observed

...except relative to the ubiquitously shared
sobriety of the
rest
of the
human race
reinforcing
its own
cognitive-perceptive bias
through a never-ending
feedback loop
leashed and tagged
with a label that reads:

'Radio Normativity.'

"Tune in to have your bias confirmed!"

Solvent catechisms

dripping thru the ashes

of complacency,

like a burnt-out cosmos

weren't enough to convince

a high-ender like me

not to dance along

to the beat

of my own

sordid

drum.

Test the prefix, nasty "the,"

"the end," "the task," "the mannequin's

freakishly piercing magenta gaze";

What's the MaTtEr?

is matter the MaTtEr?


Don't twist my arm

like a twist-off beer cap,

twist & shout, perhaps

because the void needs us

to scream.


We exist as the amplified feedback

of the Universe-At-Large,

& if sound isn't made,

there can't be consciousness,

or confusion

without the screeching feedback

loop of time.

this town is a skin

I thought I shed

like a snake

in the grass.


But sitting above

my old haunts

as if a vault

of old remembrances

dipped in a soft coat

of nostalgia

has made me find

it is much deeper than that:

it still sits in my

muscles, my irises,

and burrows

down

into

my

bones.

I swallowed my soul with 3 sips of
wine-- measured toward the dust of
us, measured toward the dust of us.

Both my inner

& outer companions

cannot accompany me

any further.



Each have their

own lives

to live.

Three people
stand upon
a peninsular
rock revealed
overnight from
beneath the
rolling waves
looking out
towards
Port Angeles,
each absorbed
in their smart
-phone, save

for rotating


photo opportunities



with the entire



           planet


                              itself.

I did nothing today as pertains
academia. I AM  a mess of a
man. a mess of a manly manly
man. not that I need to be a manly
manly man, but I would like to be
at least moderately successful in my
ventures (I have too many dreams to
hold silent in a space as small as this
skull of mine). Dance with me in this
awfulness, like a she-wolf lone in the
wilderness with nothing but a collar
to tell it that it was once a dog. Tell me
your wrongs and I'll tell you mine.
Together, we'll make it
"right."

Together, as I said, we will make it
write.

Lost in an unmapped maze, we are
forced to draw our own from the
narrow chinks in our particular
caverns. Unique in amazement
and pain. Unique in the colors
our blood takes when converted
to paint. Unique in the ways we
slowly **** ourselves. Unique in
the ways we slowly work to build
life's very meaning from nothing
but a blank canvas always declaring
that "tomorrow never comes."
But I think you understand
as well as I do:
**this was the point all along.

I will never

not

If only there was a way
to explode into an aperture
of terminal ecstasy, massing
an army too small for invasion
at the borders of a conflagration
far larger than our individual bodies
crafted of flesh, bone, and water. Sort
of like oatmeal rising with the addition
of a liquid, expanding to become the last
thought you'd imagine you'd ever hear
spoken aloud in a busy thoroughfare strip
mall lost in the sprawl of cityscape snowed
over in light sprinkles like icing sugar across
the soft top part of our holiday muffin.

Location,
location, location!

Look at those palisades
of rock, ice, and tree,
evergreen (  maybe

FOREVERgreen   )

Soak the fire!
we're all about
to spot a light
at tunnel's
end.

Flashlights off.

Eyes closed.

And with your
eyes closed, close
your eyes
tightly.

-  -  -

*Thank u
for the
chance
to
once
again
dream
big

(again).

Tell me everything,

but—hey, wait!!—as you do

start way back at nothing,

*** it's still 'something' too.

AS IF
the curvature
of the
earth
were enough
to let me know
there were another side
to this great continental shore,
a side
long
distant
at which you will soon
find yourself
clasping
the base
of infant trees
and gnawing them
deep
into the soil floor
as if finally
wage-labor
employed its own services
to stave off
the further destruction
of our single biosphere.

"Does distance
make the heart
grow fonder,
or
does distance
cause the heart
to wander?"

All I can say to this is:
I hope that while your body wanders,
my heart will be beating
alongside yours
beneath
the soft blemished skin
of your chest
and as
they hold each other close
below your rib-cage,
you will hold
mine close
as you freeze
and ache
at the end
of an abandoned
back-wood
workday
as if

we can


never



truly leave


each other's

orbit


so

long

as



gravity



persists.

The clouds wisp
with shapeless form
above the jagged,
smooth, magnificent
top
of a still
and                            silent
mountain

reminding the rock
that it, to,
is a cloud.

so everlasting love was what we wanted,
a universe that sank into a
self-same
observation
of itself
like a child
into the pages
of a
well-written book.

but in wanting it,
we admitted to our
great
                    collective
                                               dissonance:

we didn't have it.

and so,
as we sought,
the copious

bLeEt-ing

of our
sheep-like

humanities

repeated

the very same
angry

mantra:

"   serendipity
                                          has really got me
                                                                                          by the *****.   "

PuLsE

pULse

because,

I mean,



dripping like a wet set of waterworks, I cry

to express my own ****** analogies

on a sidewalk where no one will

ever stop to give a ****,

unless it's in order to call

the authorities

because

it's true.

What the ****

IS going ON

?

*******....




sometimes, I just want




to smoke


from


        
         dusk



to



      dawn



until I'm nothing


but





                                                  ashes.

Remember that time we flew to the Moon,


Where the angels were angles and later was soon?



Where we dream of the stars,

We see light beyond time.

Cosmic corpses piled up

Visceral line after line

Lighting all we call space, firmament, and the night sky

and you can't help asking “why not?”

before asking “why?”


It's the way we are born

to receive and to grow,

but there's a little bit more

you're unlikely to know, so

join us


as I show how to move mountains,

to my child, in the snow;

Not all good things come easy,

but all we nurture, we grow.


I'll show you how to open Hell's Gate

With a shotgun at the devil's throat

before our emotions in emoticons

explode into a joke.

People often proclaim it's one or the other,
but it's my honest belief that Shakespeare was really on to something
and that both Heaven and Hell are empty because all the angels and demons are here with us.

In order to ward off the darkness,
we must imagine how dark it could truly become.
In so doing, you adjust your eyes in silence
set a candle in the last corner you feel the light will suffice to illuminate the ceiling
sailing apertures of a setting star
receding like a drawbridge
being pulled to gate
until you've become
so nocturnal,
the night itself asks
that you
remember to put out its candle
and silence the silly little flame
on my chest
before falling asleep.