a martian
is heathen
that deflects
abortion with
his artifice  
of adhesion
let superfluous
his connection
inside a
world that
always reeling
from monoxide  
now trigger  
of superior
intelligence to
defray sequence
of inhabitant.

It started raining on the day you left. It's not stopped raining one day since. I like it, though. You know I love bad weather, and now I drown in it. You know I love you. Certain things won't and will never work. Now, with your name in lights, my life is even less lit. Can you even seen me in the furthest dark from your star? My bed may as well be chrome, my head a mini-ATX, I'm on autopilot. Toward destruction, I run open armed and face first. The wind and drag remind me of our excitement, of living with the fires lit. I'll die in it, and take all our artificial memories with me.

I’ve sewn together a thousand moments
of nothing (butifandorthis) Outis of
sorts and                              ends
                     depressed
         enough to make your head swim
         your wrist spit
         to drown in your own thinking

grasp breath drench and saturate
obsequious regurgitation
prolix asphyxiation
words worlds whirled
LOGOS
spew forth and I choke on
what I can never get out
the
emptiness                within
                                ­                   a
                                                   few
                                          
secondsleftoverste­psout     line
                                            of
             ­                                  curfews ensue
more or less and less is more
of the same (few cures for futures)
                                                  of late
a puddle reflecting and shallow
sole-stomped-n-splattered
I
         Can not help but mis  
s
     the piece( is ) of me that mattered
less than the least of my worries
and the old black boot
            with  a                hole
                    ­                             the one that is always waiting to.
                                                             ­                                             .
                  ­                                                                 ­                       .
                                        ­                                                                 ­  drop.  
                                                                                                             ­                                                                         ­                        I Am 
                                                             ­             still           
                                                           here           
                                       hoping                  
             inre           
   verse              
          
It all fits                                               the tailor-made addendum
but it doesn't                                      the sedentary splendor
change                                                 the worn out agenda


of yet another loop of the clock
fomenting
a grand sutuREDness rending a
torque of tendencies
to ward off the
subversive inertia
of idle thoughts—***—wishes

the edges of that
cloud grapple
with dissolution and
the shaping of my
                                         own                                                 periphery                                            sic
        [i]magination                                           ­                                       

The interior storm
has come and gone
replaced by a wretchedly anxious calm
I then wonder if these
tempests are what is…
or just a fallway of mirrors
I pass through in a tumble
down some hole
feeling it’s too late to know
if I will ever be whole

Alas, another looking glass
I have been
cut up too
to see the half emptiness
of ours
in the hour glass
timetumbling down
the singularity of
How are we?
Relatively bleeding
Speaking of

self
shred-
ding dingbats-in-the-belfry
A  f  r  a  y e d  address of questioning
covered with
s-t-i-t-c-h-e-s
in
this
                                              fourth           ­                             dimension
saves what? 9 lives? No rhyme--no reasoning
with me
                                 …I guess
my wounds are dressed
but only it will tell
                                                            ­                              (What is real?)
                                 (so obviously rhetorical)
it marches on
and it can’t be stopped
but it’s of the essence
and they say it will heal
All wounds
and I say when and how and isn’t now
all I have
to be?
wound up again I see...

And then be left
to the present
tense
out of it,
Up against it.
Who the **** knows?
said the Emperor I
(in third person disguise)
Wearing nothing
(He supposes)
Nothing
But being
                  but...
The scars
Uncovered
for the seeing
Being what scars are
Are they something...
Symbolic?  Systemic? Sympathetic?
That makes seeing is believing
Real for me,
Or, for us all?
Is Being
Beingness
Or is it
Meaningless in a...life…
S
P
A                                            
Not evolving as fast          
As semiotics                      
Or sentient
Robotics
For the rest
Of us
To be
Sure that we are
Individual
Beings at all?

What?
Time’s up?
                         At least for the
                                              Time being…
                                                          ­           Nothing to worry about...

I am envisioning a world of bots,
pulling us into the black hole
of innovation and technology,
with no trees, no schools, no collages,
nothing that is bricks and mortar.
Can you envisage a life on man-made oxygen?  
Can you imagine the fantasy world
in movies becoming our real world?
I'm being ingenuously curious,
how long before
a plethora of machines and bots,
a metallic universe created by man,
replaces everything we have lived for?
A few more countable years perhaps.
Just the thought sets me off in trepidation.
I wish to somehow freeze and slowdown
the evolving era so the living flesh and blood
could be prepared for what they are about to face.

Unrestricted romances repeatedly consume the barren space between my sternum and spine.
A void that formed with the absence of your shores.
In its place you left no lake.
But instead, the sand that once met your waters is now a desert with dunes that were created with the whistle of the wind. The scorching sun with cloudless sky's, won't allow the flings to blossom into petals glowing with vivid colors, and aromas that cause your eyes to close, and breath to become deeper.
Artificial stems are dug into the ground with hopeless faith. I now have a garden of tulips
and roses
And
daisy and
morning glories.
With a white picket fence to maintain a level of structure in this lifeless terrain.
I'll carry pales of water to try and quench the sand and allow the elements at hand to create rocks. From those rocks moss will grow and with the passing of time succulent greens will arise.
Tainted views that evolved from our father's need to place explanation of the moon shining solely at night, and birds chirping at the break of dawn, contradict my insight of what is required to fill my barren landscape.