It don't
mean
nothin'

until we make it up,
lean in to me, we think
we have ra tov wisdom
understanding with science,

we can hold this thought,
we can think this thing
though we see ghosts
roughly speaking gh aha silent
though through ghost thoughts

ghuking unholy common thoughts,
be spoken letters letting us just think,
ritually, just right,
the spin and the coherency, being
on point, this point, perceptual me
happening
in ever after you before me were in
ever after ever before at this point,
right
here, prior to the ritual pending,
the core correction essential for me,
loosing as
some part of me wishes to be ready
to be read and held as true, self evident,
pre-
sent from beauty and truth, to prove us both
here
body and soul, all the people think they know,
but, really,
the word of life, in truth, divides soul from spirit,
the form
between us tonight, the distance sensed
the thought let live in lines I find tying me in one
mind
both hands in flux… dancing letters, keys to this
letting
next experience inside, to know my measure, mete
for me, she who balances he who wished to pray,
letters let us take
and receive, in truth, our daily bread, and essential
other formal additions to daily bread alone, water,
with fire
power, rain and lightning, and ozone smell, or
"petrichor," ichor of stones, groundust wetted
with
gigantic drops, drumming on a tin roof.
-------------------
Look, man, this is what I do. Two hand writing machine
interface taking my worth to the scale
we need for trade,
my best, my easy peacock cry
for help, look
into my  eyes,
see we no longer wished
for what we have, so we have it.

Yes, for now.
the time gone riverwise, flows past
into tomorrow, when I go
to the rest and relaxing place
introspecting expecting lost knacks patience

perfect. just in time, not for ever.

Time will tell
but who will it tell
and what will it tell
and why

Time will fly
but where is it going
what will it do there
and why

Time is a great healer
but who is it healing
how does it do it
and why

Time waits for no man
why is it so impatient
who is the slow man
what will he do when time has gone

Only time will tell
so we better wait for an explanation.

Your tongue is tied,
cramped from its labor:
lip-service and laments,
twisting prophecy from parking tickets,
doom from unloaded dishwashers.
You monologue like a thundercloud,
over breakfast,
foretelling despair,
in the sogginess of cereal,
and how the day didn't start off
with just the right tone,
the sun glinting through the window
"wrong".
Every spilled cup is symbolic
every sigh a soliloquy.
You speak in psalms of pity
as if your calendar
were made for tragedies,
names written in expo,
scheduled to take turns
making you the victim.
Imagine the audacity
And when the world doesn't end,
exactly on time,
you sulk in darkened corners,
complaining about the shadows,
as if the loneliness your ego creates
isn't an apocalypse of a different kind.
The intent behind every word I utter
is spun into serpentine silk
in your ears,
so you paint me the snake,
accuse me of hissing,
when all I have done
is refused to speak Jabberwocky.

I swore I meant to get baptized
you ended up with my head under water,
just alittle too long that time
and it should be cold instead of hotter.
I fight against the rough waves
my arms reach out for you instead of splashing.
I prefer that method where I’m being saved
instead of receiving a verbal thrashing.

Rooted in ground, meant to settle down,
hiding under the rubble,
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
While I’m bound to always maybe poke around
believe me I don’t want to cause trouble.
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I’ve always wanted a bigger bath tub
she craves to have a yard once more.
Everyday I trade both for a back rub
you ask “is your body even sore?”
I tell her who doesn’t feel some strain
and that her hands have always felt healing,
infact they cure almost every single pain
that I’ve had the misfortune of feeling

Hearing no sound, except the counting down
too far and deep in a puddle
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
A trick I found is to always use a spin pound
straight from the knuckle,
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I only want the best chocolate
but I won’t pay for it out of pocket,
I expect a free taste to know if it’s worth my time.
Like picking doors and lockets
and sticking your fingers into sockets
it’s the type of thrill you don’t want to define.

Sometimes when the world feels too bilow,
I cover up my ears.
I fade into the shadows,
And wipe my dripping tears.
Nothing ever seems to be policanary,
Always moving further on,
With no destination…
Tune out the jabberwocky.
Ignore the noise.
Maybe I’m a crybaby,
Or am I poised?
Listening to all the shouting,
Drowning in all the loudness,
Shuddering at my plonious thoughts,
That fuel my fears.
What am I to do?
I must continue,
To push through,
This kilomuny, trepidary,
Oligarny, relinbary,
Foolish jabberwocky.

A chortle is
a slythy gleeblish burstle
of verbivore
snickerdazzle
daufter.

To chortle is
to gigglenuzzle bubbles
of snottish glimmerguts
that tickletwist speworling
belly happyspritz and
vorment fuzzlefizzes
out your nose.