With a feathered breath heaving out of his bright red chest,
Robin lifted higher.

Afternoon had worked its way into the daylight after the long haul this morning the
Sun had had over the hills.

This time of day was always great as long as nothing bad had happened to get in the way.

A few days ago, gray light skimmed across all of the grasslands, garlanded buoyantly about in a better effort to make it damp.

The afternoon, that day, had made the air hang heavy and warm.

It stirred up a storm in the dirt that made the worms stuffy.

A stuffy, well-watered worm is much less alert.

Sadly the nervous little thing started off strong,

After long though, cracks started to grow inside the

Show-Off's brains after he shut out noise and color.

Passing away is sharing the light and dark that folds in every day.

Stashing away love is selfish and you're above that.

I'd sashayed away in order to stay healthy.

Although stealthily I'd made a round robin attempt to eat

that's neat, and neither are you,

so I stew in a nest made of my best ideas

Like noodles held in stasis

I will hold fast with graces

I made a snack tray out of anarchy and stale sandwiches.

I made a ******* stack so high that I'd be lying if I said it wasn't cool.

I stood, high up high on a stool after making breakfast.

I lied, after folding fried bread into a spiral, and then I died.

I tried to fold it in a square,
I dared to sow salt into a dare.

But, that didn't matter.
Nothing is near nowhere.

Gently pressed into pages on our family bible,

sprayed with Pam and Lysol were stages of life held in suspension.

I didn't mention the Giger counters,
mounted up meters of stone cold serial serious business.

Still, I'd be remiss to miss our beauty made of grass, and dusty weeds.

Yes and no,

Seeds,
grass and leaves,
then dust,
then snow.


Yea and naw

Padded with sight, and saw.
Precognition,
Patience,
Natural roles will play a part.

Snoring,
in sleep,
still stirs others who aren't you.


Storing up sins,
that don't show today,
but they show up in you some day.

Boring isn't a sin.
It's the beginning and the end of
every story.


Nothing, I'm not sorry.
Lost, that's a big negative.

But live.
I don't know yet.
I can't say unless I gave all I had to give.

Dandelion roots slow into dirt.

Working past ages of dust and skin,
bleeding out ancients for the ancient energy within.

Blankets of ages wear into an earth built silk head high above heaven for the sort of life that can be instilled by a seed held above death.

Old energy never dies away,
it's the priming of the candle that lights the path for the next day.

I'd made a cathedral made of mud,
and the local pigeon was our dove.

Our mass of candles stood,
massive sticks stood in for candles with no wicks.

On congregated and consecrated Sundays with the local cats,
some were stray, and some were ours, and some just liked the snacks we held in reception after service.

Speaking in front of the congregation made me nervous,
Sure, it wasn't Sunday,
No one knew.

They just did what kitties' do.

All kitties do is watch and play, and that's what I did too.

I played preacher and prayed with my fuzzy flock everyday

Gasses last about as long as a mass of memories.

Moving about in space,
laced with acid
and
storied massive centuries.



Gloss is fragments classed into fragments massed about in sand.

Blandness stands still, blonde and on call.


Knots hold golden ships,

Slipknots hold not at all.


Stalling makes glass great in smaller pieces.

By breaking leashes, you must need harsher bits in your eye.


Stay still.

Don't try.

Lying will wear you out too.

Just don't breath.

Blue is in season, and it looks real good on you.

Flabbergasted by misguided altruistic zeal isn't appealing,

neither is kneeling next to a half-hearted neighbor,
and spilling your guts.

Nothing will work, and it's nuts.
But, making is like living without taking up more than you need.

And even then, it can suffice avarice, greed, by allowing the self
to make and consume one's until, with out outside help or need.

But, callous and canvas can't stand lack of work,
so the stork of labor swaddles on over and dribbles out a bindle.

Carrying a button, a bun in the oven,
an warm hearted creature in need of some lovin'

So, start shovin' your sorries and stories away in a heap,
because someone
might someday
rely on you
rely
on the silence and peace of your sleep.

When the sun comes out again

is when

I plan on calling all everyone,

because by then

everyone will be my friend,

forged over fields of fever posies and possies of angries.


So, please

Grease the wheels of progress by rounding your rough edge

and by doing your best to be and make everything easy.

Please allow yourself some bed rest for what sort of wicked gang are we.

Seven days have held heaven above my head, they took everything.

They took my robe, staff, and bread.

So instead, instead of feeling sorry and running my self dead after
the cliff had opened her arms for me.

The earth can shake, and I can starve.

Freedom painted on the golden hillside,

when I close my eyes
that's all that I can see.

Hassling pissants after breaking my face open

The world is blood red.

And the only thing protecting my eyes are my eyeglasses.


Stiffing and short changing beautiful women is only fun if they're just as willing to play along.

I could teach you how to play guitar,

we could write a song together.

And maybe even spend some time outside once the weather gets better.

Sadly the fight of forever is never getting us anywhere, but
is just as fashionable as ever.

I feel clever folding my feelings and tucking the under my seat
beneath my feet.

Bad.
It's so bad how radical untamed rushed tactics
can't do a that **** thing.

That **** thing.

That **** thing that sings the harbinger song of patience.

Please place me upon a midnight farm
and try to convince me that it isn't the moon that I see through the trees.

Please place me up on the sundown settlers
who were better off not waking up and making up
a ruckus
in the middle of the night.

Edges of burnt up, bleeding ****** paper

All over and all torn up

****** was written in blood upon a paper

Maybe we're indifferent,
Maybe we feel crazy
Maybe it's out our experience
Maybe all they are is crazy.

Globbed all up

Knackered about and baked into

an overdone buttermilk biscuit.

I hate getting up,

Not caring is a sin too,

I'm not sure either, but I will see if I risk it.

I pranced all over a crystal path this morning

and found a fun and angry way to crush everyone's dreams so it seems.

What really is happening and how much space is the left that is
earnest and deserves the unwarranted authority

of the power and...

Just don't.


PLEASE.


Be nice!
for ***** sake, I'm getting sick of it.

Sit with me

Please stay still

I feel the reckoning over arching

black hole swallowing up the rest of me

"shush baby"

" Stay under the stairs and don't breath"

" Oh god this is the end of me."

Oh god....


I see you.

Stay still


Don't breath.

And for the love of GOD

Don't let it be

Degraded relegated
after our
horn-held *******-red bed stands
stained again stick wallpaper
and painted like...
over...
all over our
overpulped walls.

I'm dead.
And so are you.

I feel blue.

You feel it too.

I clocked in and rested a bit of work against my knuckles.

Bested,

I stuck a nest of broken bits under the chin of our
prize-winning sinner.


I gurgled and brimmed about happy.

Knacked, I wont be.

Around me, garbles can't see.

It just is.

Just.

Just what WILL BE.

I welded slugs of over shelter knacker violence.

Trapped.

Black clack boards caked in chalkboard soot.


Moot, black big heads.

Stacked on dead little sticky bodies on overcooked baking racks.

I'm acting as if lack of laurels is never the be and end all
of who is and ever was.

Crispy.

A list maybe...

Crispy air.

Crispy chips.

Crispy toast.

I felt so old so long ago.

And I'm a lot older than I was then.


I sang my saddest songs when I was happiest.

But I was young.

I had no sense of 'when.'

So, I banged out hours and hours of labor,

and logged away notebooks of independent thought.

"Naught" is not like how I felt.

I searched for a more creamy meaning.

Something much more,

And easy-swallow-snot-knot that doesn't have to fight for a feature
on our front page, caked in anti-anarchy pastry and high-fructose ****-stirrups.

Glow....

Row your boat about in an ocean of red...

Blood red molten soul

whirling and dipping

out over and under.


So....

Stand fast and crystalize ligature knots,
epoxy blots
cake frosty fast
everlasting feeling.

I know...

Planned, meals hold fat and
taste much tastier when the
hotness held in porcelain dolls,
and mattresses of food go good with
however well our day went.

I'm spent.

And so are you.

So eat.

And Pay.

Please go home.

So I can go home too.

This past weekend I had scheduled an afternoon craft class,
this past weekend I did, as a chance to see and say
all sorts of fun stuff with my buddy.

I best buddy I had held in my heart for years,
the sort of meatbag that'll make you think,
but won't make you text.

So, I held fast the next week after classes were cancelled and I never got to see my friend.

So, my week ended and, and my gut was more wrended that I'd planned on.

Funny, moved on as I passes,
through all the gunk caked on my classes,
I was still able to see, and to speak,
so to speak.
so I sung.

Really hard.

I gave hell.

Heart heat held enough
to burn up every crux,
cornerstone breakapart brackets
tacked up and held up
with stickers and shushes.

misses and muffles,

strangers,
and a stifles,
carbohydrates and rifles.

Slippery brightness tentacles wrapped around a wine cask,

After I'd rafter out after a picture stacked over oakboards,

Storage stewed, porridge renewed two towers of overbrewed ideas.

I learned how to forge fake glass in my home over the holiday.


I learned that frayed edges on the hem of otherwise pricey pants on happens to make the wax filled stance cost just that much more.

I held on to a basket of old receipts that lasted longer than my marriage.

It saved me thousands of dollars,

but still I disparage the process,

and have to much pride to counter act and access the process,

founded out of fired,
mired in pumpkin mud,

living life,
feeling fire and holding beauty,

but never able to forget that I'm a dud.

I'm producing a fanciful musical,

founding on impatient propriety.

Mulling indignation, stewed in salt and peppered annuity.

At nighttime

Even when I wake up.



In spite of good ideas.
Even mine...

Will be likely misunderstood.

If everything was perfect,

and we were able to know what we want,


The fire would be put out,

and our entirely population would look much less malnourished,

and even more than that,

they would not look afraid.

Those poor souls would not look sooooooo gaunt.

I peeled off a *** of chewy nonsense (dough!),

and I needed it to feel alive.

I kneaded it,

and brought it to life.

I turn grass into pizza, and seeds into sauce.

I lay it on an iron fire and watch what fire causes.

Fire is pure energy,

fire-baked lives can be understood.

Understood much better than raw people.

Because it is time that makes life good.

The morning after a horror date,

I baked myself a non-denominational celebration cake.


I celebrate being alive.

In spite.

Bedazzled by a bedroom sprite,

I made light of my emotions,

that turned into pig iron and over caustic coke that could never even ever start the driest fire.

Crafted,

Long lasting carved,

Was a shorn and shaven, wooden totem held up high upon the door.

Paraffin wax held lights on high sticks held up on my hallway halls,

Held up high and burning for more hours than I needed.

More hours shown about in stories that led me feeling that I would never have a minute to think before the tank of time will sink me dead.

I had acknowledged the brevity of placing crystal on the mantelpiece.


I felt so bad, but at least a loss of a crate barrel of peppercorns had released me from the largest form on endangerment.


Relenting,
I, snoozing about in a blanket made of broken trade deals and lackadaisical linens laced into a self hated leaving.


I shiver like a silkworm held against her better judgement.

I'm sealing a lining with my spit because I'm uncertain what will be.

Just say the word.

If world peace depends on me.

at least

pretend to be interested.

Because stories aren't as plentiful as squash and strawberries.




the beast

he had entered sideways into a show that'd already started.


at least

the words placed on our family mantle top had showed
that life is a locomotive that will never stop.

sheesh.

aggravation only does little in order to shift
my opinion from one place to another.


wish,

pessimism only places a knackered placard on top of my well earned toothy veneers I had held on layaway.

Yucky,

yack, not ever.

Sorry,

I had no intention of going back.

Boiling Boiling Boiling.

Rolling caustic water.

Boil.


Boil.


Burn up the most peaceful thing.


Wait for them.


And boil them in water.

Do it.

Do the most hateful thing.

Turn the kindest element in the world into a cauldron full of slaughter.

I had a huge *** of sugar water boiling overnight.

After several days, the police knocked on my door

for several nights to ask if I was alright.



I wasn't, of course.

But what could be said?


They didn't care.

They were just concerned if I was dead.

I placed a layer of salt

on the edge on my ceiling to ensure

that I would not wake up

to gallons of flooding little faults

that had very little to do with me.



I set up shop in order to protest

the last part of a legislative article.


I had died several days ago, but my
farcical sense of humor had bemused
and encumbered me to the point that I would
never could what I had, because I hate myself
and I feel bad.

Instead I popped up a hopeful hopperfull of plenty of popcorn
smothered in butter and unsolicited carbs.

It's living large,
because now I know I'm not starving.

And turns out that just because I'm not unhappy or thriving
means that life is worth living,

and it's nothing.

Not worth my time to wonder and marvel at the life of other people.

I had invested thousands of dollars into my
next door neighbor's renovation.

Patience and promise of a hard earned vacation
were mentioned and that presupposed the notion
that every evening I had since boiled away hadn't been for nothing.

Nodding as I exited out the front door cradling the exterior of my shameful severance package had only applauded

the stewy ingrates and laid laurels and lauded all the lazy baffoons,

who instead of working, had eschewed a barrel of monkeys,

boiled their bones, placed them in my lap, and then had the audacity

to ask me to throw them away.

Okay.

It's not like I read and never got scared.

I acted like I never really care, because who could really care?

Make a ten-year old stare at lifetime of suffering.

**** that guilt.

I'll stuff them in the ignorant ring,

of scared human beings having to look at the future of their suffering.

Instead I'd read, and rather bring enjoyment.

Either that or I have to act like I don't feel.

Either that or I have to steal a bit of my hearty healthy soul

and make it into to fuel.

To use up all my energy.

To pour my life into a bowl that will blow,

BLOW UP, and ****.

Just so I can feel strong in the face of those that will never be.

What would happen if the smartest dude you ever knew had gargled half of glass of alkaline work, and half asinine notions?


What would it make?

A potion of well-constructed posited positions based on logic?

Or a self-constructed swamp bewailed in muddy air the had never even shared the point of life and joyment?

Instead the swamp was employed by devils deployed to only stack up and foster self-hatred?

It turns out that gobbling up gaggles of desperate souls is a perfect way to con humankind.

I really don't mind being wrong, and occupying the space of the poor.
That's nothing more than asking me to be who I always was.

What does bug me is offering hope from the top of Olympus, and then patting yourself on the top your back,

when in fact,
You're the weakest.

Finding the slightest pimple on your face in the morning would set
you back so many hundreds of years,

It makes sense how selfish and petty people can be.
Because life is so hard and blinding, it would take a chosen person,
so special, so real.

It would take a real human being for us to realized what a human should be.

Monitoring past economics and diametrics has tossed my peasant

corn-fed, sorry brain into a frenetic existential disdain that will never

be solved, even when we marinate it in a sea of self-actualization,

separated nations, insolvents, indignants, malignant social tumors,

coupled with pills of american bills, hamburgers, drugs, and ***.

I had planned on heading to Home Depot, because my way of life had required a gross of wooden stakes.

144 ounces of hate made of wood would construct a plank of self hatred that I would keep harbored away until judgement day.

Likewise, I had hoardes of rotten twinkies to sink into the soil.

Sink away and sink, boil away the toil of broken hearts an overboiled sunken sweets.

Seep into the grown, the sullen sugar can and will boil away in the hate soaked heat that made the life of our ancients so gay and disfrayed.

Mild emotions and ambitions only manage to feed the hungry monsters that have ensconced themselves in power have yet to abate their desire to gobble up everything that is not them.

Pasted a "Help Wanted" notice on my local community wall

without following proper protocol,

because I was in a crisis,

and stalling emotions is a perfect, impatient way to

stall and stay away natural feelings,

while instead,

letting them ferment in a rotten brain until it all winded up dead.

Blessed and arrested are the bales of prays at leave.

Shelved off a leaf everyday had made room for more blood to bleed.

Avarice and greed made a grassy *** casserole dotted with

kisses forged out of milk and peanut butter cake.

I pounded an ounce of rice into a fryable patty.

I knitted, ratted about bits of **** made of laughable brads brazed.

Shatter what could be in normal clotted cloueds shrowded in holes of
fire and acid.

Creaking in fast bending dealings.

I hate it and hate you too.

I placed a well woven blanket on the edge of a window sill.

It was well made and warm.

I stormed apart because impactful starts had shorted out holy night.

I shared a napsnack of overdigested hellholes branded in fire patches.


It's ok.

I'm left forgviving hell in firepatches made of dust and stool.

Why I ranted past, and next to needs, that's the reason

I made so many abrupt ideas into how I feel.

I know I did it all night.

I know.

I'm alright.

This blows.

It's can be just right if you promise to pay attention
to very little, and let my buy time to be a regular part of life.

Baking egg whites in my oven

was a sort of ashy quiche.

Making my laundry stay white is often

missing the beast of the moment.

Lowing out offers and staking a bill in statements made for really
bad, bad memories.

So, let's see what else can be made out of rotten, token failings.

Never, it's an assailing makeshift shower show.

Blowing in orange air, blessed with care and kinder coffers.

See what lot make little out of over laundered linens,

baked in waxed winnings and pinned under our armpits.

Lit with gas and kerosene and left leaning on our most flammable bit of prized literature.