To speak on things one knows nothing of
takes either hubris or innocence: I lack
neither now. I just speak sometimes,
                       I don't know. Nevermind
me, the amnion was not blue, I chase
nothing, I will not **** myself, I will
not drown- I don't like that
kind of music anway. I am not blond(e).
                       Sometimes, though, Frank
got me and I can't sit down for days.
Not in the ***, just an ocean, always,
sometimes. Nevermind. Baby blue.

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.

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.

The sunny yum-yum of eating you out,
I imagined this sometime, when I was eating your
lips. I would defend this kind of poetry.
It meant something, I hope.

Whether or not you could've foreseen it
Whether or not a ***** had dreamed it
I dreamed it, somewhere, possibly
   dreamed it, multiverse hypothesis

-dreams, of course, are a common *******
catch dat alternating history, it is discography
of movement of movements from Romantic to Classic
**** it, I know I went backwards

I'm backwards, because, I never look forward
I'm bored, oh god, it's already the morning?

                    oh god, it's already the morning?


I die pretty like a girl
Ophelia
I die prettly like a girl
Ophelia

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

"Racism is over", announced America
and we, like, called it a day and the boys let it all hang,
and hang it did for a bit before they were, too, again
and we said, "I'm so sorry, I forgot about that, too".

Alas a lass at last amassed a past

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!)

Don't panic: the moon
would've watched you in your sleep if
you were still here wandering, tilted
and jilted being you were. Lasting as long
as song as grace as to sing, sometimes
I love you is the greatest inefffable you could
voice and you kinda do. I do, I do, I blue
myself to the edge of skies once my eyes
close-- one more chapter before bed wherein
my thoughts,
they'll be more vivid and deeper (and bluer)
than ever, and all time and everytime some
of your love will be with me, free.

Talk is so largely masturbatory I wonder why even bother.
I thought you were cute until you started to talk.

denouement matter matters
nounema matters matter
scatter, sakura flower bossom
autumn, not pink here, but something
very close to a red (orange).

Granted a spinning wheel     it cannot go on
     for all time     in the world    in coloured fabrics
a girl turns   moth-wind warm to window   in fields of harvest
     to speak of clipped wings of    wax-
hollow
     bones, feathers as airy cages is often     to talk
of her: she, her, hers, heard      a song as airy cage, wax-
hollow    apocalyptic  in major-key turned     with what small shock back into                                        
minor; but to talk of what we heard     of  her
     as these sorts of light-songs     images in wheel
     as print turns to picture through light to video
     through light this life, this life
is gone,     flying        
                      
      (moon-princess, goodbye).

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

I'll dab in yo' face.

Remember.
Your eyes.                 When you close them.
Those little things.                      Small lights.
                                   Your smile.
It's like that.
                                   It's kinda like that.

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.

you can only do so much
(so much is probably beautiful
(so much depends upon))

god, almost.

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 ******.

I don’t believe in you but
                             your face.

Maybe you do or you don't
remember that (first) glittering unfeeling you had
(as a child probably) when you looked into yourself,
and there was no mirror involved, and said
     -what the ****?-
and, hopefully, it was a formative memory
because I haven't stopped looking since
and I don't really want to be alone in this.

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.

S.        L.

who is beautiful,
so beautiful.

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

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.

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.

Not everything coheres.
          Remember: not everything
                         coheres

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

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.

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

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?

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.

My entire totality consists of Beethoven,
                                                   Kanye West,
                                                   Neon Genesis Evangelion.

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.

In which we drink ourselves
to a certain happiness, alive
      as always, I think, to wake
is such dreaming, sleep to me now
seems such a reality I don't know
      why to continue walking
in afternoons evenings mornings
      what is sleep
(Nas says, *****, finger on ur trigger
                               it is the cousin of death,
                    *****).
                              ­ I still don't know
but everything feels so much more real
with my eyes closed, in which
                  we drink ourselves
to a certain happiness:
       something so quite unlike death
that we must call it life
     (some American college students
       sing some drunken Karaoke in China
       and I promise things will be okay thereafter
       in which the sun might shine again
       despite the eyes being closed and all).

Please remember,
                                I love you.

Personally, I do not really want to talk
of that kind of madness; to distort
                                            to be distorted
is punishment enough, I think; the world
is far too slow enough as it is. To love
is to see too far sometimes. Too near
is nothing but a kiss, which should occur
                                             with closed eyes
                                             signifying nothing.
                                             It is so dark in here,
my love.

Tsukiyomi is a dream in which each knife issa.

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.

There's these moods I'm having,
   life cinematic,
I don't care much about grammar,
   ***** are you listening.

Rabbit, run run
    Poets see things other people can't
Don't
Want to
Where were your eyes, my eyes, where
         do
Rabbits run, run
                               Back then I wanted to kiss everyone
    (everything).
All the pretty girls in their summer dresses, always
    Rabbits, running, run, ran

                        Look at how the world goes by when you
                        walk in these moods
                        Mr ******

***** are you listening to me.

What was it that you were looking for.

     Rabbits run run.

Lives were lived across those school fields the rabbits ran.
                                            I missed those moments of encircling.
                                            Arms of yours.
So soft.
                There's the small body of the Chinese girl
                I wanted to take.
God.
                Shame does not concern me no more.

If you look hard enough there's always a somewhere.

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[
]]]]]]]].

To breathe is a desperation,
it afflicts us all until it is artless,
a noose or a collapsed lung,
the wrinkles giving way to a baby
that never cried. Hush.