Certain fish, chosen
to this pixel colossus,
what will you say if
I ask you to be near
me, and your blood is
drained clean from bone.

We're still bothered by our births. So, science.
Leaving college English classes horrified at answerlessness.
Calculate me.
Here's some simple answer on a once clean page.
Blank slate, painted with the codes of all
life, thought; numbers.
Before sleeping, once more a wound appears with a roar,
the sort of roar of the wings of an ant:
bright particles shoot through a double slit
and our comfort is misunderstood as the pattern
on the wall behind in front of us.

Scale me.

Hey there, white pill.

Can I swallow you?

(If not

let me know how

it means

to sing a song as sky-mirror).

Best friend and I swing by in small rollercoaster.
I miss my childhood but I don't miss me.
I hate younger me. Terrible child, worse teenager-
too many affectations. Swang by, we did, and we
smiled; I could have kissed his face, but, then,
I liked girls too much. I still do.  
Intimacy is so often unbearable.
I'd just rather stick my face into someone else's
then call it a day.
Maybe, after, talk a little bit.
I loved you, my friend,
watching the world go by the way we did.
I would have kissed your face if you let me.
I would have I would.

If nothing else,
we are propelled,
by this sense of wonder,
to seek always,
the next weight in the sky,
and watch how it drags us,
and watch how we drag it,
former easily latter barely,
to the next eclipse,
the next end of light,
the next collapse of things,
into deep pits of nothings,
shudderings of spacetime,
blips in experiments,
like little heartbeats,
ultraviolet on Mama's stomach,
before she was Mama, things,
like this: which drag and are,
dragged, counter point melody,
a repeat sign at the end of score,
without end.

I kept thinking of bombs: Slowly in my mouth
my teeth decay towards a snapping sound
of a broken bite
where age greets itself with such a yellow smile; creaking
towards our new meeting are such flashes of voice
spoken from the dusty wardrobes of my brain; Narnia
frosting forth wind and witches, a sometimes gasp of fun;
but I would never open any door nor thing that wide enough. The city
is big is absurd is grey and I play the songs I am supposed to
upon entering,
and look: the bricks scrape the sky when they come together:
what have we built here? with our messages? Twin planes crashed
here years ago and the sounds of those collapses echo,
hence now, with my headphones.

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.

Cracking a cold existential one with the boys.

When she left again I touched you between your legs because you
kept me. I wanted to make you feel good. It was a hot day
by shrub grass and wire fence and orange dirt. When
did her airplane leave again? We were
at the edge of the school. When she first left, you
and I had exams. We did well in them. When she flew
back in to visit, you and I were finding each other's mouths
again. My first time at her house
when the power went out--the power always goes out
at home-- I tried to find her with my arms. She did
not let me. You said yes. Some other day you were happy
about how smooth your legs were. I asked did it hurt.
Bodies were so new then. When we were born we first found
ourselves with hands before words. Hands inside legs now. You
kept me. I'm sorry. You waxed your legs
and you were happy. So you loved me. I loved you,
your mouth, your legs. I wished my face
could make you feel good. I hate my face. My hands
were a short time, and then new, and you were also new,
and afterwards, class. Why did you keep me. I think of you
as air, as sky. As earth. As ghost, as person.

Nerve cells are assumed things seen
       assuredly. What then are our
eyes? Thinking things
      whispering maybes with
light, guiding
      us towards hopeful
touch, threaded
gently with needle through an other's
      slivered eye: we
return to looking. Silk-curtained. Through small science
glass I have you. Here,
let us speak with colours. Blink for me.

"There’s a beautiful Buddhist temple in West Lake, which is an entire fresco of greens. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m trying to write quiet colourless poems or thick, heavy raps so sometimes I sit still, say nothing and write a few sweet nonsensicals, and sometimes I tap my feet, bop my head up and down, and convert my whispers into scratchy line breaks. This is a false dichotomy. I know. I can do both. Somehow. We wander into a room filled with hundreds of heavy-bellied figures, stony-faced, in a criss-cross maze. Another room has warriors towering thick as trees-- some are dark-skinned, fearsome; I look at my hands to see if the colours match-- and they snarl and smile with swords and spears in hand. And then there’s an entire wall carved and filled with hundreds of dancing bodies that I cannot name, coloured in endless golds and browns stacked up in a massive Creation. I try not to think of the Sistine Chapel ceiling painting, which I have not seen, but for once the West cannot compare, and in this room, finally, I don’t even bother looking to see if my fingers match the statues’ colours."

The socks are wet. Cheap. It is winter, why sweat.
So I flutter through the cold undry-- the snow gone by
long ago. It will return. It always does. Days
go by and by as they should and I grow like wood.
I don't. Harvest me I might ash another and her
lips might oblige. I am of live, virile impotence:
a man who cannot finish
his days without a cup of words. Sometimes
I swim and seep
        under a waterfall
(a library, I mean: a library)
and finally I am dry.  Why.

Poems, bars: people, stars
Eyes lookin' Life on Mars
Boy wonder looks at mirror- Blackstar
Boy wonder looks at mirror- Blackstar
No time for jokers cause I keep it Nightwing
Fly 'til early morning, next day, coda, swinging
Pendulum, swift; please acknowledge the kid,
even though he skinny like Syd
What a future: even if it Odd
Grimace in my face like I'm General Zod
But I keep it Clark Kent with the moral sentiment
Merriment when I'm flying over all Metropolis
Heaven sent? God bless. Still stressed.
Still flex. Morning breath. Kinda fresh
I guess with your skin under your dress-
aaaaah, where was I again?
Are we having fun anymore?
Not really? We still friends?
I'm sorry we not talking anymore.

Sorry, who are you?

Voice to void to void the void
annoyed but buoyed by white noise
helps to take the fact that there no point
as given, what difference with man with boy

he toys with himself with eyes closed
eyes opened: it's the same, she broiled
and her breath fuzzed like... white noise
fizz-fizz, hiss-kiss.

My poetic force is violence, a mile in my shoes
is way more than eight, it's a lightyear in the least,
                                                          ­                               sheesh!
My  distinction in incision when I'm cutting tapes--
to paint the frame I shame the games of all the other lames, yeah.

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 ***.

To bite into yourself and not bleed, that is hope, "my son,
you will be the beacon of hope in the solitary sky, fly",
and so, I become a Superman fan and tie the towel
around my neck and swoosh, swoosh. When
everything will inevitably come crashing down and all
but my childhood remains, will you too remain
my tongue?

                        Yes, yes. Always, my love. Speak.

I'm pretty sure that none of us can think, thought,
in fact, is a trap, made entirely of language games;
and then some experiments in William James Hall-- reminder:
no one ever knows what thought is! What are you thinking.
                                                       ­          What are you thinking.
                                                       ­          (thinking you are what)

I often bite into myself when talking.

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 thing I did was weeks ago. Bones
bend more slowly though set quicker: I
don't like the way your eyes eye across
the room. I wish I could configure
myself to think, "Yes I will never forgive
myself as well", but instead I think "actually,
given another quick thought, I don't think
I **** wit y'all no more".

I am a quiet poet! Which is to say a frog
without a croak. Imagine a huge stone
leaping from space into our air without flare.
I'm like that! Did you hear that? No.
Punctuation doesn't speak. Professors sometimes
say "space" and "time" and sometimes "heart" in
reference to the bed the clock the beating. So
I have not much to say of the sky. It's blue
and sometimes not. I am surprised with grass
and here how it isn't yellow. The mirror
and my blackness in it shouldn't make me blink. But I do
click refresh. And where I am. Is my mouth
closed? It matters very little. Well, the ground on
which my feet step. It is also quiet. It screams songs.

Where I to recapture that eternal everything you first
glimpsed at the beginning of the end of your birth when you
screamed, for the first time, at the injustice of life, at its
beauty- don't wake me up just yet I was dreaming but wait what is
this feeling I have between my skull there is something shining nothing
and there is no longer darkness- Would you love me then?

My throat croaks on the slow days, which is to say
often, I am coughing, heavy, oxygen greened in mucous.
I wonder about all of my lost reds, but I try to fall
again and again nowadays, but, you see, the way my life
is set up is such that the croaking encloses my tongue.
You really would not be able to deal with how sticky I am.

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.

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 like breakfast.

the one time there was no light
a second of absolute blindess
the pit of fear, hard like a dried pea

Stiffening, flaccid, shriveling, plastic
     croissant, towel knot, water
recycling- shower steam, forehead sweat, snow
     caked the bicycle to a streetlight pole.
Turtles, to the shore and back, beach eggs,
     chicken-thought first before, all the way
down- shadows on a wall after stiffening,
     flaccid; your hand- what is it?
And where did it come from
      to throw away the light like that?

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.

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

I cannot speak
with you.

And yet words;
I still sing.

It is a strange song,
even to you;

but you hand back some coins
after I give you some coins
and then you give me some coins
back again and I feel the coins

and this time the coins: I can't count
with you; the coins make sense.

And I stumble towards the other space
to the right, give the affirmation
(in the form of a: coin
(plastic))

and there then the drink. Another stumble after.

Language.

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'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.

Baby cousin points at my old toy robot
Declares, 'This robot used to be big.'
I say, 'No, you used to be small.'

'What?'

She then crouches down to old toy robot's
height and smiles and laughs,
'I used to be small like this!'

Maybe, just maybe I'll have
one of those little things
and teach them about stars
and boys and girls and words,
but I already told you
I can't live like that,
I think.

I always look for wholes.
     Seeing things for another first time.
          It is practically a gleam, dream, dream-machine:
when I'm plugged in, everything goes fizzy:
     white noise could never pierce me with its pitchfork tip.
           You can't string me up on a tree if I arson the forest.
I'm pretty sure I arson the forest.

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

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.

Okay, conciousness, will you watch me here alone within these four corners?
No, not the world-- surely we've settled the question of that flatness.

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

In the experiment, we put the chicks in the box
and make them love the little toy ball, then
show them many *****, then hide them and see
if the chicks can count them: and they can. In the city
the people rush around and the stray people with skin
like mine
remind me of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers (mine)
   sometimes even you (once)
but I lose count while God watches, wondering.

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

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

I feel as if we are biding our time.
We yearn for the world as a man still ***** from a woman's breast
(so many years after birth, and still our mouths:)
Eventually we will graduate and, perhaps, say something.
The professors seem to speak often enough
(it cannot be just the pay, surely, throw me
band after band of green streams and my mouth:)
She says: I'm interested in the ways
women will themselves into the world,
I study this, look, I'll mean something someday
and the other she says: I'll put it all into a machine
and let the code sort it out and I say: my mouth,
what would you think if my mouth:

The young one's are maddening. I must watch them come
and go as if they never know anything, but their teeth are libraries.
We could make out sometime and maybe I'd gain your industriousness, and you
my clean heat (which would otherwise make a mess of your face). Space
is limited, I am intended to say by my role as their elder, instead I
ask if it is cold outside. Would you like to come in. There
is a fireplace in the corner if you like. But only if you like.

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 ****.

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.

Creamy: beautifully carved hillocks
of mush-- I crack open skulls on the daily yo
in the lab, I scan
     them and need them
to stay very still while the machines blip and bop--
     sculpted
by algorithms
that recombine the pulses of your sentences
     into maps
of meaning: spiked with and voltaged at its peaked lines
and smoothed by noise towards its graphy flattenings.
                                                                             Can you imagine
the treacheries of travelling one can find
                                                                              within oneself
the kinds of climb in mind inside
                                                                               you?

Well, to be honest: no; hence, statistics

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

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.