My mother is growing old, and beautiful.
My father once tried to grow a beard, it was grey.
My sister has just started standing up for herself.
And I... well... I miss you, I guess.

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

Song, give me the words to destroy myself. Not this
body, this broken music that wishes only for my peace. Why not
the lightning of genius instead? The cool stare of the man
as lover, loving me. As flower,
instead we mirror-look. Mirror as water:
with water, flowers; within water, bodies; within water,
the girl. She has no words. What singing she has
is this body, is this thing I do not want, is this air,
is the address I flare to you. So, to me. She is the genius.

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".

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

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.

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

I don’t believe in you but
                             your face.

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.

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 ****.

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.

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

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 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.

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

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

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

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.

Do you have da funk?
    It's a kung-fu shuffle with hip-hop hustle
it tussles in nerve tissue and glows copper sulfate--
    when you string up so many ****** of course their eyes
    bob and ba-ba-dump da-dump  jump and roll out the sky like

                                blue,

I mean the colour blue. That's da funk colour.

                               Take a lone winter morning

in which you refuse to wake: this too
is da funk. And it sticks to you like gum on a shoe.

                               So you dance

in your head and you think of the purple fizzing
nights like Lil Wayne on lean he jumps, jumps
and ******* maybe it might make me feel good again, too.

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.

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

Siesta in darknesss. The sunlight disappears to the clouds.
I could wonder hazily from one step or street to the next
yet feel unfurnished and empty. Walk through me.
A bash to the shoulder and some books fall, I'm sorry.
These magicians flutter past as I blink unthinking
and there is the joy of the thoughts glittering:
But I am tired, so, so tired.

verses that be like these days
people care more about their phones
than each other sound like
the snap of someone's camera on
someone's phone
there doesn't seem to be much point
besides to let you know, by not
smiling
that this **** be everyday for us, like
"the world is too much with us" but
I'mma look good while I let you know that so,

Art is the great hope,
                   the creaking at dawn, the anti-
cognition of frightening sounds--
                   the churning, thinking machine-like,
                   of all our libraries, strained of fluid
until
dry, chapped turning, the rows and rows
of solitary whispers-- a certain kind of madness
                   that offends my heart like no other. Where
else would peace be but not here? Somewhere
inside us was once a light that was not
in a bulb and it flew like a moth towards
                   itself
but beat itself apart into its own sun, fell,
its wings little mirrors descending while our
father
                  screamed for us, a howling like birth
itself,
                  and there was the tower anew,
no longer a prison no longer a library
no longer a school or even a thought.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You see everything and then it is gone: lightning
in a dark moonless night: you before everything
it all happened at once and then never.

My heart leaps for joy.
     The river running dry
     The cream of a volcano
     The sun exploding
     The foam of the hot air
How does it taste:
     the oil, the polar bear claw
     the salve of the ice, sweet
     and gloried like you: your
head is the sweetest thing I have ever seen: I like you
and the little things you do before you die. Before
the photo snapshot prints, flutters away, and you shoot
again. And the flash of my eyes is greedy
and would eat you everyday before my own pictures,
they go. They go. And.

Turns inwards, and light.
     My chest withdraws towards
itself, and my eyes are mirrors;
      I don't like what I see. I walk
outside and fear and hate
      everything. I rasp, loudly
in mouth-breathing and I don't know why
      I don't know why anymore-- and the sun.
      Didn't it just snow yesterday and the sun.

I want to leave. You
are not what I want
to go. Listen, or wait,
whichever your ears will let of me.
Wallpaper has music.
My walls are empty. My eyes are
walls. Your eyes are
--well, you know how letters combine
to make all sorts of things? You will never expect
them. Sometimes the letters will make new
things. New things will be
spoken. New things will
exist. Like this. My walls are empty. My eyes are
walls. I want to leave
you as the ringing after a person shouts in an ear. Because of how long
ago, your voice.

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[
]]]]]]]].

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.

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.

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)

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?

I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./

And yet
      after each dopamine pill to heal us in the full
      after each brain scan to show the sad to zap away the next
      after each visit to the white coat to say what is what tomorrow
      after each quiz and calculation that says what you are in the future
There will always be the same sound so unnew and still,
     "I love you".

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.