I've allowed loudness in my life.
Poor boy.
Poor Chowder.
It's like a firework in a boy's ear.
I'm sorry dude.
I can find a way
To help you
Forget loud noises.
Remember food.

Blanked in intestine wrapped tarmac built buildings.
Show in the end of protein trails,
can be found on ends of grapevines and haphazard wastes is the end
of loops and tangled edges border on tree trunks and the stumps staked upon the ground based upon
unscruptulious washing,
and bashings,
and unbrazened dealed,
left welt, unmelted and welded
bled and bleeding
melted
hell bend
understood
intrepid
instead its
hell
hell
under out spell
nothing
but hell
hell
hell

Every morning she left me,
but before she did
I would make her eggs and coffee
and we would dig into the plans and meat of the day...

Then she would go,
I would stay.
Because I worked all night, and get home at 2.
But that didn't matter when six o'clock came
and my baby had to get ready.
Showers and blow dryers fired at full engine
while I managed a 2 hour regimen including
coffee filters and boiled eggs,
toasted with bongs and foil.
Toiling over a freezer frittata
my motto is that:
I love her and should oughta help her.
Because she's mine.
I don't need help back.
So much, in fact, I'll be glad when you don't.

So now our morning is built upon me, and what I see.
How I feel,
because even still.
I don't see you when I leave or when I go.
But you do when you do and you do.
I set up a show.
Just for you.
But you can't take too much.
Because I will no longer be me when you do.

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.

Littered in a spilled pile of nose bleeds...
Still...
I'm sorry.
I seceded for a bone pile.

Beguiled by huge head and lightning
it seems that only strawberry swirls
could unfurl a white mans bleeding heart.

Stored in my grandmother's back room
Storage held shelves and shelves of cotton covered trinkets
and odds
and ends
Sundries that held old funny stories
and cans and old flyers that held little more history
than the **** I took this morning

But upended, on side
collided with time
was a heap of old wicker bough baskets
stacked in heaps and heaps
but guarded and carefully covered
Covered in cotton lace.
Tatted in tantalizing
waves of rings of knots, holes, and wide open spaces
The treasures I found measured in yards of cotton lace.

I felt like making files
I feel like I can finally classify my life

I'll rolodex my women
and archive all my strife

I'll log away my first fire
and try to learn from it.

Use my important papers to build my pyre
and use my rage to get it lit.

I used to click stones and rocks together
I pieced apart their worth
I imagined shore from long ago,
I imagined the life upon the shore.

I used to think about my dad,
They're dad too
What he's worth.

What life was life as a citizen,
or a soldier who had to prove his worth.

I am rather happy
that I don't have to be
the sort of child who is beholden to his
father's livery.

Still what I had wanted had finally happened
Way up high upon a hill

Finally my eyes can dry a little more
And I can feel

Joy is just above
Lit by a fire dove

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.

Closeted was my emotions.
And even still,
I had posited an emotion
to stop all position and it's my mission
in my life to send my hellhole
that I live in everyday,
the hellhole that I see when I say
that my pain is sent into remission.
Bliss. and blissful buttons had finally
mustered up a wall.
Should I call you now?
Should we finally feel how we really feel?
It's not really who I am.
It's just my stupid deal.
And I dealt and felt about just everything.
Please.
Don't make me sing.

Debilitating rehab little mission soft serve digs

Mitigating shifting shores over migrating make-up plains

Stagnation covers cold old little riddles

Pragmatism isn't a vision

Stigmata lives on in our stitches

Ever so often, someone sent food, which was good.
My god was it good, so really really good.

Out of every coffin was a sort of reprieve because of that
heap of uneaten rations from the dead who have died.

Died
Died they did.
And now
from they're dead eye's I've hidden my guilt and ridden my gut of the fat that had enacted a deal on the pit of my gullet that'd made me so sorry. To hate all the glory and feel all a sudden so sullen, so sorry, I'm not buying glory.

My Lord makes me hate killers.
Which makes me hate me.
Vinegar is wine in my eyeballs.
It's how the Lord makes me see.

And then I finally saw what you said I couldn't see,
How much I loved you, wasn't a foreign idea to me.

Pining for that little bit of love you gave
Pickled my heart strings in tarnished golden thread

Darkness gave me glassy eyes
Loveliness is little more than stress on my workbench

I've dusted lint out of my linen pockets and stocked them with candy instead.

Mussy hair makes me care less about why and where
Just disappoint me
Poignantly
And I'll breath it just like air.

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.

Even in the summer time,
hotdogs fall on the floor
The best of us can rest because
We know our dogs will eat them

But I've been at night before
I place that I can't find food
And a ***** hotdog is a treat
But eating dirt is rude

So I pick up my napkin
And pick up my pride and self
I revere the ***** dog,
I would place it on a shelf

But out of way, food does mean nothing
so I garble it instead
because with food I can be something
I can because I am well fed

They said I should stay in the ground.
It'll be awful *****
Try not to be wordy
And don't be the man we gotta send back.

I'm lacking on motion
And I cause quite a scene.
To be like a bit birdy is to be bloodlisciuos mean.
It'll feel so obscene.
It'll like that I'm dead. That I'm like you.

I've learned that being happy
Means how to stay away
From certainty and surliness
Frenetics is my way

I'm learning life won't let me live
in the way I stay away
Causing living life in uncertainty
Can only make you fray

Fraying like lived-in leather
Living in the snow
Life's what makes you shiver
Showing you what you don't know

Clandestine stonework embedded into a nasty little nest.

Showmanship passed for ambivalence wrested from dead reefs.

Sheep blocked out a weathered blood scene.

Worn in ridges was worry held in high esteem.

Life never ends, until it does.

Is never fun, until it is.

It's only bad when it's not good.

And really great while eating food.

I brushed the soles of my boot against the icy grain of frozen dirt.

I touched the crusty, crystal pane of white glass stain with watermarks and fingerprints.

I tried to abstain from feeling cold, because of how old it feels.

Being old can steal

bold feelings

holding on to the heels

of gold leaf
peeling off of sinter cinnabar shelves
checking off sinister forces

pieced apart by well ministered contorted purposes

Such forces on bring remorseful endorsements and attackments

and shunted, splintered, fragmented tactics.

I used to lick the salty rocks
that slacked upon the stooly trail
a stable of able shelf able built ******* who've been bewitched with
alterart stitches which means mowers caulked with glue and round of

"i don't know, You?!"

Fashion.
Razor wire fashion.

Blessed
Brazen-fired blessing

Messed up.
Most, bereft unsure *******.

Fess up.
Make sure we don't lose hope in our unmessing.

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 ***.

Well!
WELL
yes.... yes
it's something we should do.
Let's take ALLLLL
the arts we found.

I'll take mine...


...and


you'll take yours.....!!!
Yes!!

AND WE'LL MAKE A MONSTER.

While digging in my garden I wish that I would find
The hilt of an old dagger and an old ration rind
I wish I had the vigor to feel all the burdened dead
But I don't wish the destiny of those that ride the river red.

Sent on the sheets of my favored bed.

In light was friends, and ever after it extends into fire.

Only fire isn't free.
nor should be.

I can help you if you
promise to help me.

Somewhere, while out in the world
Standing, I stood and heard word of a bird
Who had heard of me
Who I had met before long ago
Way back when then is when she'd decided to live with me,
live by me,
and love me
Pragmatically acting on my behalf often for lack of my proper judgement

Smart.

The smartest folks should be real funny.

Or as least not run credible work in the ground.



You're funny amongst your friends, but the tags are unwholy unfounded.

Joking isn't heart.
Joking is in the blood.

If your joke don't ever land,
it means it never should.

somehow i let a lion live in my room
somehow some beast, some bear for a way to rear its
way out of my broken water closet.
Some how.... some way I have to posit some sort of solution
some way to drown her.
some way to put her down.

Lovely little silver strings strown in long night gowns along midnight hallways.

Hovering into bitty livered beings known in **** lights owned twilight stalls.

Blink.
Blink blink blink like
Light has never cared.
Be scared.
And think think think
GOD
and link together light with love
GOD GOD GOD
Lighten sorden braken broken branches into a
Tree.
Maybe you'll see that it's worth seeing the way dead seas.
If'en loaf of bread feed the flies.
Then I would happy live a soften-short life.
As long as maggots fly
and I can DIE DIE DIE.

Green lights can turn frost into emerald glass
At last the chill had finally stopped deciding to breeze itself in
So finishing the rearrangement of my furniture became
less of a blustery chore and more an assured
passage into a brand new page
I haven't had the pleasure of having yet.

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.

I cleared my crusty eyes with Visine after a half hearted attempt
to better clean up the mess made of my glass ***** of heart.


Stammered pockets of red hot sauce have been ladled into our
signature oak-barrel bed spread.


So, in everyone's best interest, breakfast has been rescheduled for tomorrow morning, and we will be happy to see if you're not dead.

I never knew how to clip the nails that I kept on my fingertips.

In love with how the fingers had lived together, in a lonely way.


I sipped in the pool of tears from whens hearts been cryin'
in an escape, in an ache to find the other way

Escape is gray, great

and it's hurts so bad

Like sickled silver grated on a gravel beast released during my deepest pain.

It took so long to realize.

Killed in silver, was a glass goodbye.

Baby magpie birdies
Cluck early in the morning

Coyotes have breakfast
on all the worms and birds.

Trout gather nymphs in slurping slurring.

but the longest live terrapin remains inert.

Licking a leather lollipop made of dog-hide drool.

I never knew a piece of me that would slobber all over dogs.

Pick a pepper in pleasure while pylons pop at all

Is knowing the little weasel who knew where to stop and stall.


Still, the still evens
and I can go to bed.

Because In my heart, I know the road is even.

Regardless, I'll end up dead.

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 never knew a motor who had held it's blade so low
I'd never known a cutter who had deep cuts that They would show.

Never in a million years would sheer hair tear a part of me.

Your hair was brown.
And mine was black.

But gray is all I see.

All I can see is two people.
Two old fleshbags wasting food

All I see is the church we built.
The gooey stoop that held our mood.

I'll only plop a squat when concrete hell is mooshy met.
I'll only forget my god and dog, when my preacher is my vet.

I'm a cold person.

And I'm good at being cold.

I've been told I'm an old soul,

But I'm not so good at being old.


I'm not sold on the oversold notion
that being old means being tired.

I've felt the most old at my youngest
and my most ancient is when I'm most wired.

In an effort to make things more friendly everyone was instructed to leave their dogs at the party,
while the rest of us were kindly asked to go home.
Still, the cops showed up and no one spoke any English.
I mean they understood it well but lacked the proper capacity to carry on a conversation.
Still.
I've never seen a party look so happy when the K-9 unit finally decided to show up and make sense of the situation.
They were qualified.
Probably made the most sense, and should have brought those good boys out in the first place.
Still.
They licked every last inch of my face.
Real estate in skin is something to be graced with, not take unfinished.
Polishing cheeks in drool is the duty of dogs.
Goodness is like a gallon of pond water dredged from the bog.
Slaving away for canteens of nostalgia, patina.
My memories stay sealed in a golden marina.

Who would stand to live longer than those who live off over others?

Who would survive in a world turned upside down?

Is is the tiger or lion who only eats when they're hungry, and lays about the rest of the day?

Or is the scrapper?

The raccoon?

In a world that can only serve scraps,
courage and valor only take you as far as they go,

In a world that can only serve scraps,
what are the eagles in store for?

And what of the scraptakers before?

The pigeons, rats, and raccoons will soon inherit the earth soon, they will be the only ones that can stomach it.

Pleasantly cleared upon the break apart
was the justice of silk built imprevity

So how often should braided legs of halls
laid with willow braids and wicker built baskets.

Lacked in the edges of eve was the unforseen
take of unscrambled
unforgettable
political action.

Even while waiting for actions in order to divert it.
Let it bleed and bellow out loud.

Let blood shout and and iron bleed
Let it need, let sounds shout and bleed while life
heeds warnings of hate and hell built will.
Let it lie in state still
and it be before will
let it still
let it be
Boughs, enact a bill

I pasted a piece of my favorite food

on a bit of purple paper that I made for dinner late last night.

I still can't decide it's something that I've written, or something I should write.

I shoved it down my gullet and got in a fight with my ex wife.

Little-me never knew that this could be considered life.

If you really want to be funny
Don't have a sense of hate
Take back and don't take

What do you get when you have
when you have two
Englishmen with no donkies?

A pair of assless chaps.

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.

Just trust loneliness
Adjust to lust for fear
Loving liars, living with hate
Abate sorries. Create stories
Catharsis is a species
Masochists list pain as love
Have a content look at horrible
and have a terrific funny funeral

I thought of a great idea:
to build candy infrastructure in my on rapture-based town

I frown on the fact of bad feelings
I grumble at her guardian's gate
Because lack of laughing is evil
Of all the things, it's just what I hate

I'll cook a grand dinner of viddles
I swear to God I'll do good
Because even though girl's speak in riddles
I still know that they need food

I listed out my groceries because I have to eat.

I seek them out, because Life *****, and I have to eat.


I see a cute girl jogging, but I ****, and I have to eat.

I meet my friends, and apologize,

I'm not strong.

I live in fear.

And I'm weak and I have to eat.