What glamour could possibly be gained from this untrusion
hiphiphappy happy happy days
all the live long [(sk-ii-p-ii-ng---sk-ii-p-ii-ng)]
she should've shifted shape and shelter
_______
now I lurk, thick-in-the-murk
underneath
-
a witches brew of acrid broth
quicksand | quicksilver
dwelling under porches (lucid) dreaming
tapping out thoughts with a six letter alphabet
we gather in the quarries: VIOLETMASS
underneath the newly linen husk of vapor
underneath the ethereal 0eye0
counterclockwisemarching --- total separation
------
At first, it was my grandmother's embrace that shattered the veil.
It was July and the tulips were in bloom; red and yellow
    - like bold comic panel fire.
She had picked me up from the tilled garden ground and placed the
    okra seeds in my hand to plant all on my own.
It was before the yard was fenced in, and before her mind was cloudy.
    Before the alley was paved, and before the preacher was replaced.
In those days, I could escape under a blanket and afternoons
    were a thing to be reckoned in the eyeseyes of a lie she saidin the neyeght kindlingsprinwintefalummer when christmas when birthdawndaynoondusknight iiwithwhatwhichii crippled finger
when the time is slower and the eyeseyesiiis are right and the skeye is wheyete with the sclera of 'SCYLLA'  that hangs ever still in looming presence for iiii am the all-maker the breaker of thine ****** tonguu003....             NO REACH
FAULT
crumbllllllllllllllllllllll 000000 lllllllllllllllllllllllll
                                       ­ 000000
                                          000000
        ­                                    000000
                      ­                        000000
                                  ­              000000
--undo
0
6
1
6
00:.,-..
.-undue::
.:-
momma­=bogmama=mulch=lather
kruksog
..-.:*
..:
-.:
.-:-.:
--:
63­ 72 75 63 69 66 79 20 74 68 65 20 77 65 61 6b 20 73 61 69 6e 74
-
marchingmarchingmarchingmarching
esiwkcolcretnuoc
chant the wave abackISAY with vestigia((nge((l wings
and stoke the fla(mes)merize with-or-out gallant spree
THOTHTHETHOUGHTTHINKER
THOTHTHETHINKEROFTHOUGHT
HERMETIC
HERMESOCYLCONE
we sprinkle the drops of cymbal tonic downward
in the pattern so elegant so rooted upon )we(
the ones who kept the secret in our teeth
that was told to mercurio and passed on to ego
sheltered by cernunnos//squandered by that !B/A/S/T//A/R/D G/O//A/T¡
to mark the coming of that with nine heads
that with eighteen horns for eighteen years
that with eighteen eyes for BABYLON'S HAGGARD ****
that with fivehundredfortyteethththth
spit powder faith upon the squelching pest
let him see him
let me son
I am the strongest of the creatures
-
-
-
cellar door dribbledribble--
no more are words beautiful-
-
-
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
DONOTLET­THEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
D­ONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
THATDOGWITHNOLEG
THATDOGWITHCR­USTYEYES
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHNNYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHN­NYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEGODOUTJOHNNYMYSONSOHELPMEDOG
DONOTLETTHE­DOGOUTJOHNNYMYSONMYONLYSONWHOIKNOWSTILLLOVESMESOHELPMEGOD
THATDOG­TELLSYOUTHINGSABOUTMEIKNOWIT
THATDOGTELLSYOUIMAWHOREANDYOUKNOWTHA­TSNOTTRUE
-
-
-
;
UNDO
=oor

_
__
_­
----------------------
_____
underneath
I lurk, thickinthemuck
there''''''s bed for you
bed of you
bed of goo
bed w(h)eredog lay
licked clean
god in statue
no speak
not to me
maybe to the tip-toe man
but not me
knot anymhore
-
-
-
-
-
-
They told me I must go back to them, but I could see you later.
I saved the paper, the one you gave me.
They told me I could see you later.
They told me.
Dog told me.
Bless us.
Ysgramor.
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
-------------------
| r| o| o|t|s|
underneath
and I am sleeping
dreaming
feeding god

My naivety died with my father
at the bottom of Lake Shelbyville
when I was seven years old
and still losing little teeth.
-
I turn twenty-four next week;
January the fifteenth.
I can still sense the difference between you and I
by the long pauses in between weather talks.
-
I find solace in solitude
and that will never change.
Too many years of misunderstandings,
dope addled family, and conflict avoidance.
-
My mother has an addictive personality
which she tries to superimpose onto me
as a way to keep me away from the ****.
She wants me to be her negative film; her opposite.
-
I wish my grandma had leveled with her
instead of surrounding drugs with the mystique
and the danger of a loaded weapon
in a teenager's back pocket; denim daredevil.
-
Grandma.
Now that is a name I miss saying.
She was the stern force that matured me
and my protector in time of matriarchal absence.
-
Her mind started to die years before her body did
and I had to sit and watch it happen, helpless,
with my mother; her daughter.
Alzheimer's, falls, strokes, and in a flash she wasn't there.
-
I don't find myself rooting for the cause these days.
I just want to escape where I came from;
who I am, but the path is circular.
I'm accepting the fate, bathing in lust, and waiting for summer.

I am the flightless pelican.
I’ve found myself with my mouth full,
my stomach full, and so much still on my plate.
Possessed by an inhuman hunger,
I will gorge upon pure potential.
I will yowl on and on, without sleep.
-
I have sand between my toes.
My shoes are glued to my feet.
Keep on running ‘til the calluses come.
There has to be a point where I stop to sweat,
and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief.
I have one ride left on my bus pass.
-
I have a tendency to ramble
and languish in my own stench.
People tend to forget this at first;
lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke.
They want to know the impression I left,
not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat.
-
I can’t sleep being held,
or if I feel someone’s breath in the still.
I start to feel the urge to burrow
into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land.
I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves,
but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion.
-
I have cousins like brothers,
and I have brothers like strangers.
Stray cats with names
and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in.
I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water;
avoiding conflict with no bait.  
-
Paper cuts from the gold leaf
on the edges of hymn book pages
with burgundy leather covers.
These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours,
while we steadily forget that anyone was singing.
Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.

my friends, my friends
we are birds on power lines
huddled for warmth
specks against the grey
surrounded by the late october gloom
and the steam rising up from the gutters
we are restless and sour
eyes pointing outward
-
every step
every teensy, solitary step
sealed with egg shell footprints
womb nostalgia
tenderness found in autumn colored flashes,
moth-wick sparkles, and fried dandelion blossoms
we remember our grandmas’ knuckles,
chipped tiles on the kitchen floor
-
my dear, my dear
we are stray brown tabbies
bellowing rumble, ears stripped of fur
settled into our corner of the front porch
once we were roustabouts;
waltzing to the waxing and wane
carpeted floors gave way to concrete chill
but now the summers seem longer
-
the smell of cardboard,
cinder block walls, and duck pond water
stale memories with naked omens
we turn to face the chilling draft;
tomorrow
harping on and on about grey areas
while we kick up alley gravel
balanced by surface tension
-
under quilts counting freckles
plasma paychecks peddling uphill

By this time of the year (In days of old and times past)
we would already be
                                    
                         ­             skipping off
              
               onto deer trails--------                
^^^^^^^^^^in the woods of Fairview park.^^^^^^^^^^
-
at
    the
          bottom
                   ­   of
Stevens Creek runs through
                         those
                                 steep
                                          hills.
-
We will dip our toes in the slow, murky water
(James came to town)
as the thick, sweet smell of my burning cigarillo
(and the whiskey fell into our glasses.)
lingers on the water's surface.
(It was a race to see who would pass out last)
It is here that we are young; No moss clinging.
(and be the one to see him off at dawn.)
-
That old ****-colored truck with the key broken off in the ignition
will take life with every well-used car I'm in. "The Brown Trout".
Marcus called from the 24-hour gas station on Eldorado
to tell you he broke the key in the ignition and couldn't seem to get the ****** truck started. We gave comedy its due.
What could we have done at that point but stumble into the blue?
I recall forty girls & boys crammed into an efficiency apartment that night
as the bathroom vent sapped the room of smoke, liquor stench
and Nag Champa incense, while the dense fog
of budding lust hung in stasis over our heads.
Boys on the exit living out their tree house fantasies;
drinking away boredom and skateboard injuries.
-
Phantoms of the apartment buildings
(Do you remember Dipper Lane?)
at the end of West Main tell tales of past tenants.
(I seem to have forgotten your name again.)
What does it feel like
(Did you hear something?)
to be a home away from home?
(I've been alone this whole time.)
-
It's four years later and the bikini tree has tan lines,
they cut down the ******* walnut at my old house,
and built my ark from its wood.
Supple leaves line the Sylvan Queen's Kermes colored hair
as we sail for higher ground.
Now the stinging sunlight cuts through the cracks in the wood.
-
I'm examining the border of a much larger picture.
Even now, the resolution grows fuzzy.
You are a leaf on the five-hundredth page of my dictionary. Ginko.
I placed you there on a particularly sunny day in July
when the Magicicadas woke up to the sound of Joe Cocker,
and we both learned the language of the spheres.

I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****

I’m nothing but a monolith of ice and gravel.

Stuck in these wintry doldrums.

Waiting, waiting for the time

when the birds return home and

Sol’s warm light puts life back in these bones of permafrost.

It is then she’ll come dancing and singing

like the days when we were young.

Union and Grand

I moved into this house less than a year ago
and already three gun related murders have occurred
within a three block radius; two of them involving children.
I'm not making this **** up.
Those numbers wouldn't be anything exciting for a population
hitting upwards of the millions,
but this is not a big city.
This is the heartland.
-
The city paid for a series of strategically placed dead ends,
forced turns, and surveillance equipment to be installed
in the area of about a mile surrounding my house.
No wonder they call this place "The Trap".
They keep changing the maze,
and studying us like rats.
-
They had a make-do memorial for the little girl who got shot.
They attached her stuffed animals, cards, and photos to a utility pole
on the corner of Union and Grand. The city had it taken down.
Some kind of city ordinance
from some dusty tome at the town hall.
Kids killing kids, and the shots keep firing.
-
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not what'd you call an activist.
But when bloodshed occurs within eye shot of where you sleep,
you start to get a little irked.
These kids have as much potential as me, and twice as much grit.
Their teachers barely even know their names,
let alone what it's like to be deprived of privilege.
-
I'll stomp this concrete until my feet break.
This labyrinth is my constant reminder and reality check.
I am here, and you are there.
This connection is suspended on silver threads and I am your puppet.
Mold me into your angst driven dreamboat.
Because tomorrow, I'm just going to wake up here. **Tyler.
-
This soul has been folded seven times
and I grow tired of this reality.
There was a time when I could scream loud enough to wake the dead.
I guess I'm showing the symptoms
of an accidental child
with a tongue that only tastes art as bitter protest.
-
I'd tear my face off
to know if this is really getting through to you.
The face in the photo is that of the goat; the false idol and deceiver.
A Knight of Pentacles, selling you gold plated garbage.
Odin-kin.
You always feel like I have a secret to keep; my fist is in the air.

Ghost Relics**

Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.