Monet, Impressionist Sunset
Spacetime diagram of Blackhole,
Einstein equations,
pictures of Hawking radiation,
pictures of Newton, Einstein, etc
The solar system, the universe, etc
A pair of eyes
Conversation with K
Four Quartets

How heavy things are.
Especially the feathers:
memories, thoughts, dreams;
heavier than bricks,
they tug at you even after you have let them go.

We jump

to our elsewheres
somewhere
most likely in the stars
beyond sky limit:
we were told we could
were we not? (some
were not, nevertheless we
jumped
because also someone
somewhere to
elsewhere
jumped).
We will come tumbling
down. Heaven some lightyears
away, we cannot
escape it, we are not
fast enough, we cannot
reach the velocity necessary
                            to not
stumble,             to not
trip on our feet, to not
rocket ourselves back
down home (come home
mama cried), cannot
go elsewhere:
world is all that is the case
the weight of it
soft heavy caress
it will always bring you
down, you will
always
skin your knees
         your ankles
it will always bring you
down, you will
always
look towards that
elsewhere
with eyes
light beams
telescopes
film screens
numbers
words
but it
always, always
brings you down
this great weight
not only the Earth
but the everything
that attracts everything
with mass, even you
and your smallness
are heavy enough,
even light and its
flickers
is heavy enough;
elsewhere
is
somewhere
is
home
are
words which grasp
at that thing that we
tried to remember
before our eyes
close finally and

we fall.

Roses are red. Violets

         , when violent, blossom; a gathering
         of petals is a flower, of course,
         but

Violets are blue. Roses

         yet, nothing gets me up in the morning
         like a sunny-side up on a face,
         so I ***.

I am running out of ideas.

I.
Now that the philosophers are scientists too, who will be next?
Remember when the poets used to count sounds, pattern them?
They seem so stiffling now, that one rhyme to the next,
the following of stress to shallow from height to pit, fall
towards some ending lasting in history. For example, now.
The poets stopped counting and sang songs instead--
it's not that different the professors say, in fact,
some song is lost. For example, now.

     II.
I practiced on a little plastic flute and I liked the songs.
I practiced with a small pen and it was quiet.
I wasn't that good with sound anyway-- I lost the flute.
I grew up and scratched away and the pen still didn't sing.
I would read and hear symphonies in my head.
Now the philosophers are scientists too. What now?

     III.
The famous scientist says: the poet complains,
I ruin the beauty of a flower because I explain it
like a  textbook  college  lecture  documentary-- look!:
anther  stamen  pollen  photosynthesis  cells:  !
The poet says why can't you just look at it,
thinking spoils it all. Don't cut it up with a microscope.
Just look, please.

    IV.
I wanted to cut up everything into little pieces.
I thought each small thing could sing.
Since the philosophers became scientists too-- quiet.
Everything is quiet.

     V.
I look at the flower and refuse to think.

     VI.
Actually, it is still quiet. The scientists now
claim that their pieces are poems and the philosophers nod
and the market values destroy everything
and the poets are hungry
and we are all hungry
and it is quiet,
actually, it is so quiet.

People want the whole wide world for themselves.
The blue is theirs, they say. I know because I'm smart.
I own the green because I deserve it. I am strong, they say.
There's a great deal to be learned despite them.
I think it's pretty. I shouldn't give up.
There's a great deal to be learned from reading books.
I look outside my window and it's raining.

I am not distracted by trivial things.
     Butterfly.
Over there is a glimpse of something worthy.
     Bus light.
An ontology of god's glories: cup overfilled.
     Water-bottle.

Thank god, everyday, for the blue on the tip of your *****,
the green insides of your ****. The colours are prayers.

Cracking a cold existential one with the boys.

Earl,
I liked how you retreated from the world
Every time I see a sweatshirt I think of you, girls
Wanna take my hoodie from me on Sundays
But don't care about me or my curls

It doesn't matter in which nation:
Colourless people cannot sing on beat.

Alas a lass at last amassed a past

With the frat boys
Drinkin'
[little asia]
Frankie in my headphones
Frankie always

In the quiet no light
The boys touch
Each other like
The girls
                  in all light

(Piano: parents are not
oblivious. They are mere
ly overly
hopeful: isn't
that love?)

The boys like to watch each other
Just like the girls as girls
Everything is fascinating
And is also, unshockingly,
A *****, obviously. Nevermind
Gaia. Eve. Apple. Mothers.

It is not
time to go.
Much time was left
all so long ago;
bold favours, unfavoured by my
nature. Thus I
processed what I could, how
I could and, I could not,
of course,
many lesser of me
exist. This is
not enough, it is not
       enough. How does
one write? To inhale? Most
not likely. Rushing through this
won't help much. Undiscernable
        rhythm. Many dances
were velvet. This leads not to knowing
much. Much is all a softness.

Watch me, world, I might
breathe  on you  so gently.
             Much. Much is all softness.

Better now than never
They said

I wouldn't know

Some things don't sing

Some things don't quite sing the same

(To be honest
Some of the black songs
I cannot dance to
At least not with them.
Mother, please, it is my right.
I will survive
Even
If
Ain't no moutain
High enough)

Don't let me catch you singing again
Don't let me catch you singing like this again

I don't want to be you.
I don't want to be anyone but myself.
Maybe claim you, your body
for some single ecstasy.
But never nothing if not
myself, whom, I love, who
lives at home.

First line:
ugliness is biological deficit

Okay:
so such
remarkable marked. I am
ambivalent about most
(I mean when we talk,
when we talk
to each other,
that is what is meant) of it

I don't really know what to do
with that

Dance maybe,
drunken.

That might help.

So rhythmless.

No matter how much I drink

So black

No matter how much I write

(Sad!)

S.        L.

who is beautiful,
so beautiful.

Why are we responding to things. Imagine
statements in vacuums. True or false, finally
quiet. You can shut the **** up now. Thank you.
Thank god, everyday, for the blue at the tip of your *****,
the green insides of your ****. The colours are prayers.
The world is so much, remember, why black and white it.
            I don't really care about old films.
            I was pretending I was someone else.
            I might have slithered, I might have been
            might have been a snake. Blue.
Green.

But the trees, the way they sleep
my lungs cannot hold it all
the world is all too all to be compressed
by breath, nevertheless, there were my lungs
squeezing everything at all my chest-

I'm sorry but I can't see anything
everything is too much and all at once
all at once the world is around me
all at once, somehow, saturated, undistilled
thick, slice the air with hand, hold

that breath, I could stare at everyone
and everyone could stare at me. No one does.
I'm not very fond of mirrors. I stare
all the time and each time I learn nothing
outside there is so much and it doesn't fit

it doesn't fit it doesn't

Sea-shell song, hand-paper gasp
green grass swish crunch, fugue siren drowns blue,
pupil light harsh glitter, blood bite teeth cup sing,
     do not submerge the baby's head again
     again head baby's the submerge not do
why and where are you gliding down like that
aren't you done you're born already- what
significance were you expecting if the corner
of your eyes stops- there is nothing behind you,
nothing. No song shell-sea, paper-hand gasp
      blue drowns siren fuge, crunch swish grass green
      sing cup teeth bite blood, glitter harsh light pupil
again head baby's the submerge not do
do not submerge the baby's head again-
STOP ******* WITH THE REMOTE ******.

My dreams can't fit inside my mouth.
CPU fan spins a lil' too fast, what heat!
    If I was a computer I would have legs.
    I'd run sometimes.
    No one would use me.
I'd write every little thing down if,
well, if, if I was substantial. Then
    something might follow. Then
    this instead. Then,
    somewhat remarkably, a smile. You
    are adorable, let's get coffee sometime! I
    don't even like coffee that much. Is
    that a thing that real people say?
    Say to each other. I'm still
chewing.

Let's bring out one more. I like this flicker
of ink, a lil' swoosh-swoosh and scratch, and,
surely one day I'm this lucky again!: a glow.
I remember the baby's moth-breath even though I am born
I remember a child being the father of man
I remember how more than a lil' weight
                 of the world
                    is love.
Dawn and Siegfried go out towards the great, big blue
and Dawn and Siegfried land on the moon. Black,
everything is black now. See where we are. White,
everything is black now, it was all white then. I
don't really know anything at all   about how we'll return,
but here we are and what a view?

Mainly and namely, some form of grace
would be required to continue. Player One
should keep going at it. Player Two
can join whenever he or she or they
would like. Running out of coins-
finger click, bone snap, running
breath sitting. I'm excited to touch you,
I guess,
                let's not make it a big deal, she
said of this, practicing for after
her heart wouldn't be so new. But can I
grab it and you and all else new
and let it taste, let it, that might
be some semblance of my weak word, nice.

Tsukiyomi is a dream in which each knife issa.

Inside jokes are peculiar (and public) ways of touching ourselves.
Maybe we shouldn't do this while the neighbours are watching.
There are too many rules, [subject] protests, [subject] declares, [subject]
is worthy of anything peculiar (and public) in this world, in which
case is all, I'm sorry I couldn't help myself, [Wittgenstein]
is far too **** for me to have not forced myself on [                           ];
let's not make too many off-colour jokes about empty-sets,
they contain far too much! They collapse! Sometimes!
Under themselves!: [it is incom[this is a theory [goodbye
to everything that was [once [so symmetric[ it is [plete[
]]]]]]]].

Life is shockingly inexactitude.
For example, above's grammar.
Another, above's grammar's grammar!:
it is far too wide-eyed and wide open,
a sky of blue a pupil of black,
and it plays too much, swallowed
so much by whatever confusion it gathers
in.

These are so many misunderstandings.
To be had. Some built in already.
Mental architecture, walls holding it all in.
Rigid bounce against doorframe, concussion.
Sudden nothing- push back from the dome,
the end of a thought; it is hardly weary.

This is a really ergonomic chair!

I'll dab in yo' face.

so we began to be swallowed.
in my case, first, by the trees.

I'm like, one person
How is there never enough space for me
You talk and your mouth is...
listen, I'm like one person
The air sort of passes by
from time to time
        sort of how
your mouths do.
Whose mouth was first on whom?
I thought it would feel better.
You asked more than once,
if it feels good. Stop
asking questions that aren't
                 good. Stop,
no, not like that. Yes,
       maybe like that.

People are enthusiastically boring
I wish I could get more sleep
*** isn't interesting: neither are my hands
It doesn't matter when you ***
I believe in the Bible once
Physics doesn't make much sense to me
I'm saying that I tried
I don't like the sort of questions you ask me
Ask better questions
Maybe one day people might fit together
until then, please, ask better questions

Okay, so that didn't bother me that much,
anyway, people are nightmares,
but that's okay, okay?
that wasn't even the problem.

I think it was the gleam,
***-light.
People think that there's a sun,
a whole ball of it,
up their *****.

So yeah, it's hard to say:
maybe you should stuff it
maybe you kinda ****.

There was another light.
It wasn't so bad.

I sort of liked it.
It was nice.
It didn't wake me too harshly.
How can I explain:
     stained glass, church
     small solution, math book
     small ocean, ******
     curved shaft, *****
that sort of thing. I guess.
the perfect sunny of not giving a ****.

Tomatoes are nice
fruits or vegetables, I like them.
I eat now. It is nice.
Cheese has a fullness.
Meat a warm blankness.
And my tongue-

The business of living makes me be.
And it is often simple,
         I would cry.
         Could, but can't,
         I could.

I don’t believe in you but
                             your face.

A few more words about: coherence,
it doesn’t exist for me, I’m so hungry
for everyone else and their platitudes.
It must be nice to avoid existential breathlessness.
I like that word: breathlessness.
I resent that platitude: existential.
I am not bitter, I promise.
It’s just that the air…
it tastes so…
                      …(blue.)

I mean, yes, of course, yes
I’m so, so hungry
but I will not eat you, no, not
no, of course, not like that.
      I otherwise like you,
                I promise.

Regret is such a useless thing
I’d so prefer it, if
you did not, look!,
                    at me
                    that very
                        , if
regret is such a useless thing
why preface it with the word
              (poem)
why preface it with eyes.
I will never forget the word
-even if it messes my head.

Not everything coheres.
          Remember: not everything
                         coheres

Xclarity about this very real figment
of my imagination is
not possible,X                      (pigment)

actually, I don’t want to think

I don’t want to think about this

Xthese problems never go awayX

I’m not black my name’s OJ

        XokayX

I Xcan’tX breathe
I Xcan’tX breathe
I Xcan’tX breathe

        XokayX

so were trying this new thing of written freestyles and its pretty good i quite like watching the world go by this way just sitting and speaking and playing so gently loud w/ sound im proud to be playing around like this fun fun fun fun til her daddy comes and takes her awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Breathe- don't matter if air is fresh
Colour of my lungs- canvas is flesh
phleghm look like thick paint- god, cigarettes
you hit a blunt a lil' much, rather just sweat

out the toxins 'fore problems prevent more mopping
you promised you wouldn't puke again on floor, 'member Mama's calling
She says your sister said hello- is everything great?
said sure- just as soon as I remember where my mind is at again

Thoughts are so reckless citizens feckless still
Society got me buggin' but thumpin' doe
If I'm gonna dance let it be in this hell
If we gon' romance, can it just end well

for once it'd be nice to hit it and smile, fill
you up and sip-sip all off of that cup, mo'
drink, drink water in the fountain of your legs
where the youth, youth going, no more shots from the kegs

for me, no more, no more
'ready drank too much- what else is in the store
for the night, is it nice? is it Nike? am I right?
be my wife? Not tonight, but I'mma hit you with dat spice

Yeah     let it all go let it all go go
              let it all go let it all go go
              let it all go let it all go go
              let it all go let it all go go

Cartwheel across an ocean top
and you will never drown again.
Flutterings like this will keep you alive
forever, I promise, it doesn't matter; you
are dead already. You were so young.
I like your body. I like that you can see it.
When you drink water it doesn't taste.
Things don't cohere but puzzle pieces fit.
Some fires keep burning and the physics stays the same.
When I look at you the puzzle pieces turn ionic.
There's another, there's another- it all
goes like that on a gentle march to sense.
When you were younger you liked things.
Older people don't like to sparkle unless they're weird.
I want the strangeness of everything to swallow us.
I didn't like who I am anymore. Longer.
Long, long widths of water to sing across.
What a voice my Mama had before I could hear.
There are so many ways of being deaf.
The way that death sings is so black.
Water, water, baby blue couldn't see a thing.
You still gargled though when the light struck your ***.

So many themes sound the same.
But it's not so sterile.
       Some variations are other songs.
       I could talk to you all day.
       Bach was a genius.
       He played the same thing again and again.
You all sound the same.

I am not a serious poet.
    (if only the water was cleaner)
It's not a matter of laziness.
    (the air is thick, the skies are grey)
I can't sing the way the ancients did.
    (listen closely, they still do)
Why whispers of love appear I know not.
    (in the quietest moments, a closed symphony)
A pen is something I hold sometimes.
    (oftentimes it could have been something)

All on its own
    a world and me
           (kiss
                  hold hands
                                leave).

I don't know your number so I cannot call again.

Way my pockets were snug- **** print felt like a hug
Know that you like it and liked it like that
No need to be mad, a ***** spitting facts
Fax- obsolete but scan and send me, fly like a bug

Cockroach, black Beatle, K-West, bald eagle,
w/ hair, long like Samson, no ***** Delilah
Delilahs flowers mysterious powers in the ***** print too, even after the shower
Not golden- just clear like water: breath and drink and devour

Let's pause for a moment and think about that
                                                      think about that
          pause for a moment and think about that
                                                      think about that

The madness of caring
is like a hologram;
it's there,
but you touch it
and then

So sad, so sad.
    Not quite anymore.
Sisyphus bolder,
    air.
Skyscrapers are wings
    with feet.
Wouldn't you like to clip them?
    Babel
    Icarus.
Either way, things are so
    beautiful when they fall-
look at us- the way we are
    talking-
it's like we already knew
    what it was once
         like, not too long ago,
               to fly.