we'd wake up and play with magic
like any other game of pretend
bath towel tied into a cape
we'd approach an empty plastic top hat
wand in hand
 
we were tapping into an ancient power
that we barely even knew
we've played a superhero, Sub-zero
and now, a miracle worker
there was nothing we couldn't do
 
we'd climb trees to the summit branches
as high as we'd dare to go
we'd lower the hoop and dunk with ease
alley-oops, 360s
sometimes in slow-mo
 
there was nothing but room
to grow and explore
frontiers of imagination
seized on roller blades with plastic swords
 
we'd tie skateboards to the back of bicycles
and Jamaican bobsled down the street
we were free ninjas in the 90s
because our clubhouse was the bushes and the trees
 
we'd front roll down hills like hedgehogs
we'd scrape knees
we'd footrace to the stop sign and back
to pretend we're going faster
we'd kick clouds of dust in our tracks
 
we'd steal bricks from the neighbor's garden
and throw them into lakes to see the splash
we'd throw pebbles to see how high they'd go
or paper planes from the top of the staircases
one time, we jumped off:
it was a dare
we did it though
 
we unscrewed the air cap from the tires
of our enemies' parked cars
we clapped back with super soakers
the block was truly ours
 
we'd play until the streetlights came on
with more discoveries left unseen
and in the shadows when all were sleeping
we'd play catch with our dreams

about me:
>a room of people without faces, they cut them off of themselves long ago, their price.
>we’re all wishing for intimacy. but conversations are drowned out by a virus made of: a gentle humming of fans and power lines held overhead by the trees they grew on, and blue-white light flashing in orbit.
>an unstoppable pathogen, the growing monster made of tubes and plastics, consuming those looking for connection is living in the mess of wires.
>a hallway of lips. their words fall on their own deaf ears. their weeping quiet, gnashing teeth unseen, trapped in their own world speaking nasty words to no one in particular. hoping someone, anyone will answer, trapped in the web of 1s and 0s.
>and God told me in a whisper, “let’s see how far we can go.”

'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

I
Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
II
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
III
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
IV
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
V
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
VI
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
VII
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
VIII
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
IX
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
X
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
XI
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
XII
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
XIII
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
XIV
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
XV
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
XVI
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
XVII
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
XVIII
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
XIX
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
**
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
XXI
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
XXII
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
XXIII
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.

I love you so much my love...
from your dear kind heart ... to your beauty which is complete and so elegant because it comes from within  
the most kind and humble person I’ve ever met , so dear .... and so **** hot and ****  I love the spark I have always seen in your eyes
I’m just so glad that love has fanned them into flames that I can be a part of.
My love... each moment I love you .. each day many times a day
I fall in love with you

I'm feeling quite neurotic, to put it plain.

My conscience is muddied, mind soaked through with rain.

Nothing feels right, no comfort will do.

Might dig myself a hole and stay there a day or two

Won't walk on the land, just admire the view.

There seems to be nothing that can make me feel sane

And yet, you dig deep, try to keep me sane.

It just hit me that I’ll be playing timeless hits from the 2000's and it will **** my kids off just like how I hated my folk’s oldies. can't wait.

taupe is the hue
that comes to mind

when two chords
are played in pairs
four times
which makes eight movements

then the words come
but they don't arrive
or completely appear
they merely peek
from behind the stone wall
of the bass
muffled and shrouded
by some dull amber liquid

it is Kurt
and he speaks of his home
of Oregon
in all of its earthy moisture

and then when the chorus arrives
the spectacle of violins
and the tangibility of his words
is lucid enough to paralyze
and lay to rest