Teetering on something significant,
but the words haven't been molded;
just some idea that was formed
in the attic of an old comic book store
when I was inspired by the artwork
of that Liefeld guy who inks dysmorphia.
-
The definition of ******* seems to be something
that fits like a drunken tattoo in a hard to see area.
You need a couple mirrors, your arms start to ache
and you never really do get a good look at it.
Now you have to explain to casual intimate partners
that you think it's the first Megazord, not a little devil.
-
I recently did a math problem that took up an entire page;
it was my first time doing something like that.
The pacing of math classes gives me an anxiety like I can't believe.
The word prerequisite give me an anxiety like I can't believe.
Sweaty, cold, fetal, this can't really be a normal reaction, right?
I think Montessori might have messed with my wiring.
-
I can hear my mom shuffling about on her walker.
I think she must be feeding a cat, or cleaning up puke;
the spectrum of caring.
Holly is in heat and howling.
I can't find my Proventil, it tastes so much better than the other brands.
I think I might just have some fruity pebbles.

Chance is a flippant mistress

Yet, she has blessed me with vision

Eyes to rebind the seams

Of two souls victim to division

I see her coming through the fog

With lips that could speak words past the grave

I see her march to the rhythms

Of the winds, the earth, and the waves

I crawled out kicking and screaming, born from the fires of a Dragon’s throat

My tongue created the blasphemy of which all demons spoke

My entrails are lined with sulfur, my heart pumps mercury

Fear provides me a humble bliss and anger shelters me


Upon your belly you shall go

And dust shall you eat all of your days

You shall be the lowest form of life

Cursed you’ll be until you meet your grave


By my hand I impale the remorseful king

And by my fires I purged his soul

Remarking as the ember quenched

Thus your crown is scorched and dull


Upon your belly you shall go

Crawling helplessly all of your days

You are the lowest form of life

You shall receive none of my praise

tremors from the albuterol
two puffs was enough
to loosen my chest
after my fourth maverick
cheap smokes
but not cheap enough
to fill you full of fiber glass
and cat **** chemicals
my lungs call me a hypocrite
can't help but agree
i'll get one of those digital cigs
to avoid the nightmare patch

antlers
fourteen points
cernunnos stirs
while the daffodils
reach their thirties
orderly routines
-
stones start skipping
replete potholes, puddle-filled
paving the way
capsizing axles
-
sipping steam from fog clouds low-hanging
not really minding that my shirt is wet from the concrete

There is something breeding in the underbelly;
whirling and churning like an epicenter of ******* trends.
Someone found the formula to turn a profit on karma,
while we were distracted by viral beheadings.
Powder white moths opening mental portals
through the dazzling lights of self-immolation
while I trudge block after block through the snow
wearing slippers because I had to storm out.
The classes continue, the mail keeps going out, coming in,
and I'm obsessing over a splinter of worry; unavailing at best.
I keep thinking of how nice it'd be to see Seattle  
and to stand near one of those Sequoia trees I've only seen on Google.
I keep thinking of how I'd like to see The Grand Canyon
and to to walk in the Arizona deserts with no socks or shoes;
the heat of the fine sand sneaking up between my toes
while the sky beats my pupils with that astounding blue.
Why am always alone in my fantasies?
Why is it that I can't handle the day-to-day?
Am I really even searching for answers,
or am I begging for what I want to hear?
My maturity and stoicity are rubber ***** bouncing on a line graph.
I can't go on bottling the venom that pools in my gut.

I wish you only knew of the brier we planted

But your eyes are always on the stars

I watch you pluck every note from the air

So vibrant, and eager to pass the jug around

-

Think of me too, Artemis, Baste

As the coals twinkle and turn

These moments have always been yours to burn

And I am but a goat - veiled and masked

-

Home is far, but I have my thoughts

I have my brother of tune

My thanks for the smoke, Sylvan Queen

I only wish your eyes weren’t hidden

-

We were flea-bitten in the first burrow

And found gold in the next

Red cardinal be swift, I carry many gifts

But I just don’t want to be in the middle right now

my friends, my friends
we are birds on power lines
huddled for warmth
specks against the grey
surrounded by the late october gloom
and the steam rising up from the gutters
we are restless and sour
eyes pointing outward
-
every step
every teensy, solitary step
sealed with egg shell footprints
womb nostalgia
tenderness found in autumn colored flashes,
moth-wick sparkles, and fried dandelion blossoms
we remember our grandmas’ knuckles,
chipped tiles on the kitchen floor
-
my dear, my dear
we are stray brown tabbies
bellowing rumble, ears stripped of fur
settled into our corner of the front porch
once we were roustabouts;
waltzing to the waxing and wane
carpeted floors gave way to concrete chill
but now the summers seem longer
-
the smell of cardboard,
cinder block walls, and duck pond water
stale memories with naked omens
we turn to face the chilling draft;
tomorrow
harping on and on about grey areas
while we kick up alley gravel
balanced by surface tension
-
under quilts counting freckles
plasma paychecks peddling uphill

Lofty

Aimlessly floating
Destination unknown

Inspiration escaping grasp
Silver lining lost
Pages left unturned

Cloudy is the day
Restless is the night
Left to recklessly dream
Within a thoughtless mind

Sleep is the only seclusion
For dreaming will not cease
Oh, such a keen villain
She is waiting so silently
Mouth watering; ready to strike

Impress the granite impressions

Blue and black anti-reflections

Marbles flicked and jacks are scooped

Like the games we lose in endless loops

Hardly pass any standard detection

-

You haven’t heard the lover’s truth?

Dialed in from the last phone booth

In a town that has gone all mobile

Begging for a title so proud and noble

So they can sip their gin and Vermouth

-

Mass-printed art for bath room walls

So raised noses can judge while ******* in stalls

They only care for tags and brands

And they never stop to wash their hands

When they’re dressed to impress at the local mall

-

This is hardly a truth - hardly a lie

A middle ground opinion to make snarky girls cry

They say “He’s so enigmatic! What a beautiful soul!”

But deep down inside they just want my pole

Their improper word usage squeezes from me a sigh

-

You think tumblr is neato? You like showing your ****?

The lies flow like tar from primordial pits

Slowly creeping to the surface, but unending below

The smell catches hold before the obvious show

This is a pageant for show offs, not a battle of wits

-

But here I am still, begging for your love

A click or nice word is like a sign from above

Opinions that drive me off of the nearest cliff

A glance or a compliment to get me all stiff

Your nothing, save ignorant, but you fit like a glove

The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored  in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.

We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.

One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.

Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.

Cinnamon sonogram

Detect the abnormalities too late.

Morning after birth of

a placebo placenta.

Irrigate the porcelain

of a lost labor laboratory.

Love found not within the arms of

the golem grasping for straws.

-

Wailing a harmony of blue and red.

Pumping panacea.

Steady the pace, you hotheads

with elegant electric veins.

On Monday she sung so sweetly and

whispered her prophet tales.

Saturday appeared as an echoing,

hollow and halfhearted hymn.

-

They retreat in rebellion;

lapping at salt laced lacerations.

Rye, grain, roots, and grapes

for the Baroness of the Barrens.

Weeping waters leads to the

sleeping daughters that dangle

their threats like fishing hooks

off of the edge of a world so flat.

Magnetically drawn
by your goddess curves.
Mind weaving
slick scenarios.

Ghost Relics**

Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.

Union and Grand

I moved into this house less than a year ago
and already three gun related murders have occurred
within a three block radius; two of them involving children.
I'm not making this **** up.
Those numbers wouldn't be anything exciting for a population
hitting upwards of the millions,
but this is not a big city.
This is the heartland.
-
The city paid for a series of strategically placed dead ends,
forced turns, and surveillance equipment to be installed
in the area of about a mile surrounding my house.
No wonder they call this place "The Trap".
They keep changing the maze,
and studying us like rats.
-
They had a make-do memorial for the little girl who got shot.
They attached her stuffed animals, cards, and photos to a utility pole
on the corner of Union and Grand. The city had it taken down.
Some kind of city ordinance
from some dusty tome at the town hall.
Kids killing kids, and the shots keep firing.
-
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not what'd you call an activist.
But when bloodshed occurs within eye shot of where you sleep,
you start to get a little irked.
These kids have as much potential as me, and twice as much grit.
Their teachers barely even know their names,
let alone what it's like to be deprived of privilege.
-
I'll stomp this concrete until my feet break.
This labyrinth is my constant reminder and reality check.
I am here, and you are there.
This connection is suspended on silver threads and I am your puppet.
Mold me into your angst driven dreamboat.
Because tomorrow, I'm just going to wake up here. **Tyler.
-
This soul has been folded seven times
and I grow tired of this reality.
There was a time when I could scream loud enough to wake the dead.
I guess I'm showing the symptoms
of an accidental child
with a tongue that only tastes art as bitter protest.
-
I'd tear my face off
to know if this is really getting through to you.
The face in the photo is that of the goat; the false idol and deceiver.
A Knight of Pentacles, selling you gold plated garbage.
Odin-kin.
You always feel like I have a secret to keep; my fist is in the air.

Nebulous and Refined**

The castle is a chain-smoker.
The king wears a three piece suit.
And in the air, most everywhere
that scent just does not dilute.
-
A car lot filled with scribes and serfs
that assemble to deliver their willing tax.
They bump and argue for the closest view
of their Man-God on high: Glycine max.
-
Employment is down! Crime is up!
What if the factories all move away?
This town will surely shrivel and die!
That's what the soiled townsfolk say.
-
They humbly bow to their master's whim
but behind him they say much more.
Another Dead Man found Stale Lee in the vents.
Carcinoma galore.

By this time of the year (In days of old and times past)
we would already be
                                    
                         ­             skipping off
              
               onto deer trails--------                
^^^^^^^^^^in the woods of Fairview park.^^^^^^^^^^
-
at
    the
          bottom
                   ­   of
Stevens Creek runs through
                         those
                                 steep
                                          hills.
-
We will dip our toes in the slow, murky water
(James came to town)
as the thick, sweet smell of my burning cigarillo
(and the whiskey fell into our glasses.)
lingers on the water's surface.
(It was a race to see who would pass out last)
It is here that we are young; No moss clinging.
(and be the one to see him off at dawn.)
-
That old ****-colored truck with the key broken off in the ignition
will take life with every well-used car I'm in. "The Brown Trout".
Marcus called from the 24-hour gas station on Eldorado
to tell you he broke the key in the ignition and couldn't seem to get the ****** truck started. We gave comedy its due.
What could we have done at that point but stumble into the blue?
I recall forty girls & boys crammed into an efficiency apartment that night
as the bathroom vent sapped the room of smoke, liquor stench
and Nag Champa incense, while the dense fog
of budding lust hung in stasis over our heads.
Boys on the exit living out their tree house fantasies;
drinking away boredom and skateboard injuries.
-
Phantoms of the apartment buildings
(Do you remember Dipper Lane?)
at the end of West Main tell tales of past tenants.
(I seem to have forgotten your name again.)
What does it feel like
(Did you hear something?)
to be a home away from home?
(I've been alone this whole time.)
-
It's four years later and the bikini tree has tan lines,
they cut down the ******* walnut at my old house,
and built my ark from its wood.
Supple leaves line the Sylvan Queen's Kermes colored hair
as we sail for higher ground.
Now the stinging sunlight cuts through the cracks in the wood.
-
I'm examining the border of a much larger picture.
Even now, the resolution grows fuzzy.
You are a leaf on the five-hundredth page of my dictionary. Ginko.
I placed you there on a particularly sunny day in July
when the Magicicadas woke up to the sound of Joe Cocker,
and we both learned the language of the spheres.

Lost in the fumes of a cloudy exhale
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water.
My remains are scattered somewhere
between boyhood and gutter trash.
The present is hardly of concern
when the blankets of mud offer such astounding
silence.
This swamp was flooded with the prosperity of quitters.
-
The face of the street I grew up on
has been radically warped and distorted.
Leave a good thing to the elements long enough
and you’ll see it begin to degrade.
Dust gathers and mold begins to creep in
from the moisture lingering in the air.
It happens to our childhood toys
just as easily as it happens to the people we know.
-
Everything still holds the same shape;
the same structure that casts a shadow in memory,
it’s just that now the cosmetics have worn off
and you can see the tired lines start to show.
You can hear the creak of arthritic wooden steps
to front porches where old kin with liver spots
sit and drink a shared Ice House 40 oz. while spitting into the wind.
Cavities from a candy coated childhood.
-
There are strangers in my old home,
that place where my uncle lives
surrounded by VHS tapes, pictures of Brett Favre,
and reminders of dead cockatiels.
The biggest struggle is trying to recall
if he was always this way,
or did it take a forty year dope binge
for the hoarder to finally stir?
-
I wrote my name in the sidewalk at the foot of steps.
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water
and check under the bushes for garter snakes .
My stomping grounds have been wiped of footprints
and grandma’s violets don’t come in very well anymore.
They cut down the walnut tree, and got rid of the porch swing.
No time for whimsy, no time for strays.
The cicadas will sleep for ten more years, ‘til summer.

Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.  
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.

The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.

Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.

You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0● I ●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0●●●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 G A T H E R 0 0 0 0 0 0 0  
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
in the silence between finale and applause.
I/H/I/D/E/I/N/B/L/A/N/K/C/A/SS/E/TT/ES
spouting my lore until you break; hats tipped to
˙ʇsᴉsǝɹ oʇ pǝƃɐuɐɯ oɥʍ sǝuo ǝɥʇ

1.) I left your brother a fake key to my front door underneath the concrete block at the foot of my driveway. Tell him it's real; feign disbelief when he discovers it's not. Do not break to his powerful will, keep up the lie. (Don't worry about the cat, she'll be fine.)

2.) I've provided you with the supplies to harvest the memory worm and I expect it in good condition upon my return. Do not disappoint me again.

3.) The moon cycle is about to restart. Remember to water the stones, chart their growth, and make sure to keep up with your calisthenics; we don't want a repeat of last month's escape.

3-II.) Break the orange stone if it darkens any further. Malevolence is always in poor taste when inflicted upon people such as us and I do not want some rock probing around in my head again.

4.) Pawn your step-father's television, give his eyes a break. We need the cash, quick, to help pay off my polonium dealer. The man is patient, but we need to show that we're making progress; money will help. The synchrones haven't quite flourished yet, or matured for that matter, so gold is a little out of our reach, but we've at least progressed to clouds and static.

=--
===-
=====-

The vessels will soon flood over with the milk of bounty,
and the time shall come when the palaver begins to cease;
a time when words are indeed obsolete to the new being.
The vessels will soon flow with the true, fourth color.
Trichromacy be ******; we shall see things as they truly are!
=====-
===-
=--




n̷̢̬̯͙̮̤̫̪̟͂ͨ͋̅̏͒͒͆̅͌̚͢͢͜ö̈́ͦͣ̆­̶̷̶̛̹̱̱̭̝͈̤͍͙̟̬͕͈̤͈͇̩̠͆͒̄͑ͤ͗ͪ̈́͝ ̛͖̪͉̯̼̤̦̹͎́ͬͤͧ͂̏͐̀m̶̡̰̖̺̼̠̺̠̻͖̮̘̻͙̑̓͋̒̾̏̀ͬ̔ͦ̉͑̓͝õͩ̑ͭ͋̈́ͬ̈̈ͫ̓̂͗̎͆̒­͛҉̵͏̛̥̭͉͙r̶̗̗͓̻̪͑̃ͩ͂͗͌͛̂̽̈́̀̒̃́̕͡ͅe̢̛͙͕͍̹̲͐̍͐̎̄ͦ͒̈͂ͣ̾̽ͨ̇ͦ͋̀͟͡ ̸̨̺̣̬̩̩͚̹̰̖̻̜ͩͭ̔͒̔̄ͭ̓͂̚͜s̵̪̦̺̜̤͔̥̦̖͙̝̯̺͎̘̎ͫ̈́̔̎ͦͦ̿ͤ̏ͩ̌̕͞ͅm̑ͥ̾̈́ͮ̔ͪ­̭̦̮̜̱̫̻͖̔̎̐̆̀ͥ̈́̐́͝ā̷̶͓͉̼͚͕̤̘͕̰̣̩̲͍̭͓͎͉ͥ̆ͬ̎ͣ̍̏̑̂ͧͯ̆̄̓̑͗ͬ̀͞l̂̿ͨ̑̾́­̰̥̭͇͍̰ͬ͗̓̍̇͆̔̋͜͟l̶̉ͮ̃͆̉ͬ̾ͤ͑͆̓ͤ̆ͫ̉̓̾͜͞҉̝̣̙̯̺̳͕̫͍͕̮̹̝͖̹̠̼̼͈͝ ̸̨̮͓̗̝̤̬͖͖̬̪ͭ͆͛̒̎ͩ̍͐ͮ̈̿̂̓ͬ̆̄̃ͮt̆͗̿͋ͦ̇ͧ̓̉̌ͯ̆̄̚͡͝҉̢̢̱̮̺ͅaͬͣͧ̓̈́ͨͥ̓͒̚­̸̸̴̡̻̝͕͇̖̯̝̿͆̆ͬ̚͠l͈̬̫̰̺̥͙͍͇̭̣͇͙̰͚̠̦̻̜ͧͫ̒͋̊́̃ͪ̈́̀͘͡͞͞k̎ͯ͒͌̀̾̒̈́ͩ͋̓ͩ̚­̸̛̤̠͖̖͈̤̠̝̬̩̩̖̩͙̲̭̭ͮͮ́͝ͅ
̷̴̧̢͇͕͙͓̤̜͓̖̦͉̠̭̥̭̪̙ͬͩ̐͆ͩͨ̏̽ͫ͒ͩͪ͂ͦͬ̿̈̆̈́͝­͔̖iͤ̉̍̋ͩͬ͛̆͛̒͑ͥ̎ͥͧ͗҉̷̟͉̩͟ͅţ͉͚̹͚̑̂͛̉ͬͧ̕̕͜͡'̘̻̭͈̞̏̿ͩ͋̔̏̄̑ͤ̂̊͒ͩͯ̀̚͟­̫̯͓̮̥̝̩̖͓͈sͨ̑́̽҉̸̟̘̭̬́͢ ̉ͫ̊̒ͮ̓͘҉̯̘̲̖̹͍͝t̛͚͇͈̽͐̎̑͒̎ͬ̇̒̑̈́͠i̛̿ͭ͊ͮ͐ͪ̏͋͊͐̃̏ͪ̐͒ͧ͆͛ͪ͏̸̼͉̺̦̲̲̠͢͞m­ͦ̑̋ͦͫͭ͌̽ͯ͐̚͏͇̰̪̟̣̠̲͔͢͟e̷̛̥̻̟̲̰͕̤͎̭̖ͥͩ̄̊̇ͥ͋ͮ̓ͮ̑̎͒ͣ̾̋͡ ̶̴̷͔̟̦͍͕̦̞̖̬̖͛ͫͧ̀ͪ̌̓̊̉̐ͭ̐ͦ͊̕t̛̙̣̯̗̫͔̠̝̥̞͚̏̄͋͌ͩ̈ͪ̏͝ͅo̓ͬ̈̏̇̊̌͛ͦ̌ͤ͐̆­̸̝̣͎͖̲̟̗͇̰̯̇̍̈͊̕͜ ̴̡̘̥̲̙̫̞͎͔̘̦͔̎ͧ͐̒̈́̆͂͆̇͒̈́̓̊ͫ̾̚͞ã̇̏̀ͮͫ̇ͧ́ͭ̇̏ͣͥ҉͜҉̗̦͓̦͓͙͍̱̝̗̲̗͘c̐̾͊­̨͑̊́ͯ̈̔̃̂ͥ̆̊̽͢҉̶̙͙̣̝̭͕̺̰̞̰̮̤̱͔t̯̬̝̹̜̤̲̞̦͕̺̝̳̙̯̳̼́͋ͭͬͫ̋̽͂̾̌̃̂̏̌͠,̇­̢̡̧̣̲̩̤̖̭̹̬̜̗̞̭̰͓̂ͨ̐̀̄͐ͩ͂̀͗̓̽ͬ͋ͤ̒́̚͡ ̶̨̛̟͙͕͕̬̠͔̭̽ͨͫ͒͢m̧̘͈̝̟̹̺̬̬͎̳̹͙͕̜̭̙ͪ̾̒̐̉̾̅ͫ̚y̝͍̭͒͊̎́͋͋ͨ̐̽̋͗̏ͪ̈̕͟͢͝­̠̳̥̭͍͕̳̻͔̣̙ ̴͑͑ͫ̃ͮ͋ͭ̈̃͟҉̢̺̠̮̫͎͕̯̪͉̮̹̞̕c̸͍͉̝̦͎͇̳̥͙̋̆̀ͯ̎͗͌̈̍̽ͮ̌̏̈́͐̚͘ḩͥͦ̈́̀ͩ͆͐̿́­̸̱̻̥͙̳͈̙͚̫̀i̡̛̤̦͉͕͕̖̝̟̘̦͉͖̲̟̲͊̆͊͆͠ͅļ̶̳̮̦̗̳̂̓͛͂̋́d̨͒ͣ̂̐͑͛̈̏́͏̜͉̯͉­̣̭̻̥̻̮͎̰̦͖͖̟ͅr̴̸̰͍̤͉̦͙͎͙̩̞͕͉͈͙̻̣ͦͮ̅͂̒ͪ̏ͫ̓̋͆͐̀͢ͅè̾ͫͬ̋̽͊̂̓̾͆̅̅ͫ̎̓̚­̸̸̡̡̭̖̥̯̬̪̮͎̳͚ͩn̶̵̵̯̘͓͎̳ͥͪͫ̆̆ͯ̾̒͑͛̉͊ͩ̍̈́͌̓̈̕͟ͅ
̵̧̫̐̽̓͒̓ͤͫ̒̉̇̔̏ͧ͌̕͡­̣̩͙̱̺̞̤͙̰̬͖ͅ

-
߇ᆃ↿⊬❝ᆄ༺ᒦᅣ↑
Remember, you are not at fault here. This is all my doing.

Sincerely,
Mr. Cuttlefish

If she gathers enough sticks,
she'll be able to get the fire going real nice;
enough to see her hand
in front of her face for a change.

She's been scratching around in the dark,
wide-eyed and ravenous,
feeling the ground for wood
for what seems like hours.

Her fingers start to blister and sting
from the friction and the grinding
of her begging and pleading
for just one measly spark.

It's been like this since that day
when everything was still pretty nice
in her podunk town where she
was known as the black sheep.

That day, that day, in late April,
when she raised her hand up
stuck out her thumb and
blotted out the sun.

She woke up with dirt under her nails
and pulled a lock of hair out
that was starting to mat.
She went to sleep with dirt under her nails.

She went to sleep hungry
and now she chews on anything that moves
in the umbra that couldn't be too far
from where she used to live.

Dead leaf blankets-
"Are the trees still alive?
What did the forest smell like,
sound like, at high noon?"

"What were colors?
Light-lovers and their shrieking tears
filled with nostalgic longing for
magical, pretty un-black; privileges".

Sanctum in the murk.
She walks tonight, but not far.
"I am the mother of the moth,
and the sudden ritenuto".


) o ( ●

When I was a kid,
folding chairs
were my kryptonite.

What glamour could possibly be gained from this untrusion
hiphiphappy happy happy days
all the live long [(sk-ii-p-ii-ng---sk-ii-p-ii-ng)]
she should've shifted shape and shelter
_______
now I lurk, thick-in-the-murk
underneath
-
a witches brew of acrid broth
quicksand | quicksilver
dwelling under porches (lucid) dreaming
tapping out thoughts with a six letter alphabet
we gather in the quarries: VIOLETMASS
underneath the newly linen husk of vapor
underneath the ethereal 0eye0
counterclockwisemarching --- total separation
------
At first, it was my grandmother's embrace that shattered the veil.
It was July and the tulips were in bloom; red and yellow
    - like bold comic panel fire.
She had picked me up from the tilled garden ground and placed the
    okra seeds in my hand to plant all on my own.
It was before the yard was fenced in, and before her mind was cloudy.
    Before the alley was paved, and before the preacher was replaced.
In those days, I could escape under a blanket and afternoons
    were a thing to be reckoned in the eyeseyes of a lie she saidin the neyeght kindlingsprinwintefalummer when christmas when birthdawndaynoondusknight iiwithwhatwhichii crippled finger
when the time is slower and the eyeseyesiiis are right and the skeye is wheyete with the sclera of 'SCYLLA'  that hangs ever still in looming presence for iiii am the all-maker the breaker of thine ****** tonguu003....             NO REACH
FAULT
crumbllllllllllllllllllllll 000000 lllllllllllllllllllllllll
                                       ­ 000000
                                          000000
        ­                                    000000
                      ­                        000000
                                  ­              000000
--undo
0
6
1
6
00:.,-..
.-undue::
.:-
momma­=bogmama=mulch=lather
kruksog
..-.:*
..:
-.:
.-:-.:
--:
63­ 72 75 63 69 66 79 20 74 68 65 20 77 65 61 6b 20 73 61 69 6e 74
-
marchingmarchingmarchingmarching
esiwkcolcretnuoc
chant the wave abackISAY with vestigia((nge((l wings
and stoke the fla(mes)merize with-or-out gallant spree
THOTHTHETHOUGHTTHINKER
THOTHTHETHINKEROFTHOUGHT
HERMETIC
HERMESOCYLCONE
we sprinkle the drops of cymbal tonic downward
in the pattern so elegant so rooted upon )we(
the ones who kept the secret in our teeth
that was told to mercurio and passed on to ego
sheltered by cernunnos//squandered by that !B/A/S/T//A/R/D G/O//A/T¡
to mark the coming of that with nine heads
that with eighteen horns for eighteen years
that with eighteen eyes for BABYLON'S HAGGARD ****
that with fivehundredfortyteethththth
spit powder faith upon the squelching pest
let him see him
let me son
I am the strongest of the creatures
-
-
-
cellar door dribbledribble--
no more are words beautiful-
-
-
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
DONOTLET­THEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
D­ONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
THATDOGWITHNOLEG
THATDOGWITHCR­USTYEYES
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHNNYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHN­NYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEGODOUTJOHNNYMYSONSOHELPMEDOG
DONOTLETTHE­DOGOUTJOHNNYMYSONMYONLYSONWHOIKNOWSTILLLOVESMESOHELPMEGOD
THATDOG­TELLSYOUTHINGSABOUTMEIKNOWIT
THATDOGTELLSYOUIMAWHOREANDYOUKNOWTHA­TSNOTTRUE
-
-
-
;
UNDO
=oor

_
__
_­
----------------------
_____
underneath
I lurk, thickinthemuck
there''''''s bed for you
bed of you
bed of goo
bed w(h)eredog lay
licked clean
god in statue
no speak
not to me
maybe to the tip-toe man
but not me
knot anymhore
-
-
-
-
-
-
They told me I must go back to them, but I could see you later.
I saved the paper, the one you gave me.
They told me I could see you later.
They told me.
Dog told me.
Bless us.
Ysgramor.
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
-------------------
| r| o| o|t|s|
underneath
and I am sleeping
dreaming
feeding god

Drink like Kerouac,
Smoke like Bukowski.
Wait...
is that backwards?

My grandfather had always felt like a sturdy tower that I could lean against

or a mighty redwood that offered peaceful shade

from the hot sun.

He was a very tall,

very strong man,

and the years of working hard labor

and hopping trains through The Great Depression

seemed to etch a certain unique dignity

into his persona.

Raising five children on a single pay was never an easy task,

especially in his days,

but he managed

and he got by.

I remember hearing about so many odd jobs he used to work,

like furniture restorer, crane operator, embalmer,

and even more surprising dress upholsterer.

He was a man who would stop at nothing to put food on the table,

and he would do these jobs with his southern wit

and friendly demeanor on full throttle.

trudging through mud waist-deep
these lungs are billows of smog and
these hands are brittle claws
world-breaker, I am fate unseen
through the clearest of lenses,
and the most acute of baubles
simple phrases caught in raw
and searing throats
with these ideas, my brain molds
an even more bothersome equation

satellite of lust
stopping the presses
essentially broken
entrancing machine
never back-step
epileptic idol
old ways are dead
adhere to the lies
essentially broken
entrancing machine  
netting a good one
nearer to mid-life
fed up with the ghost
starting blank again
in a different palace
cemented to space
cemented to space
cemented to space

An eye for an eye was the reason we acted

You’re so far away and I can’t stop the fireworks

Talking the night away, the exhausted second meeting

A sip of ale from the singer in the graveyard

I never wanted to call to the Sun

But every morning I would cave in

I buried myself in an empty room

-

The trips were acidic to my tongue

Beaches filled with trinkets and sands

“Fish swim, forever free” you tell yourself

Now, Pisces, who is the one swimming?

Buried in the sands is what I remember

The other half is lost

-

Am I the one to defeat now?

The words that stained the walls are now sparkling white

Abandoned

“Now close you eyes and sleep” she wrote

I’m somewhere between the ponds and the highway

-        

The mimics and shadows match suit and play their roles

The words do no sting or stick

Tough as leather, from the arrows

That flowed from me like a river

-

This product is finished

Ignition improbable, idiot.

No courage and hardly a motive

-

Triplet years

Falling backwards

-

My head is buried

Decrypted Version:


We both knew what we did to each other was out of revenge

You're in the next city over, and she is here, making me feel again

Staying up in an Adderall talking fervor, and the passionate love we made the second night

and there was Mike, singer of that band named after the local graveyard, passing out expensive beers

I never want to call you, oh center of my universe

But every day, before you left for school, I would, ridden with guilt

I never wanted to leave my room again. Alone I stayed in fear.

-

Every time you left for vacation, I felt like I would *****

A paradise on the beach along the Carolina shore

You said you wanted to be single and free

Your March birthday rolled around, I was gone, and you were just alone

You left the girl I love at that beach with the charming fellas

You brought back something far worse, and numb

-

You've found a new love, and I've seen how he tries to out do what I did

The words and promises of us that you drew all over your walls now painted over

Now that you and your family have left that place

Megan wrote on your ceiling the night we all stayed together. It made you laugh

I'm in your backyard, wishing I could look back and in.

-

The new love in your life has become a perfect copy of me. You sculpted him that way

You know longer feel weak when an insult comes rushing to you

I really did make you tough and numb

Because no one could say anything more vile than I did

-

I guess this really is the end for us

We'll never see that spark we had reunite

I can't replace you, I don't want to replace you

-

Were the three years we spent together a waste?

I'm descending into another deep hole

-

I'll never come out again.




Original Version (Which is still available on my page):


An eye for an eye was the reason we acted

You’re so far away and I can’t stop the fireworks

Talking the night away, the exhausted second meeting

A sip of ale from the singer in the graveyard

I never wanted to call to the Sun

But every morning I would cave in

I buried myself in an empty room

-

The trips were acidic to my tongue

Beaches filled with trinkets and sands

“Fish swim, forever free” you tell yourself

Now, Pisces, who is the one swimming?

Buried in the sands is what I remember

The other half is lost

-

Am I the one to defeat now?

The words that stained the walls are now sparkling white

Abandoned

“Now close you eyes and sleep” she wrote

I’m somewhere between the ponds and the highway

-        

The mimics and shadows match suit and play their roles

The words do no sting or stick

Tough as leather, from the arrows

That flowed from me like a river

-

This product is finished

Ignition improbable, idiot.

No courage and hardly a motive

-

Triplet years

Falling backwards

-

My head is buried

I could spend lifetimes staring at

the half-lit wick that glows behind your eyes

That twinkle that make the stars seem sickly

and the dawn seem a dreary maze

-

Fear may be the mind killer

but anticipation goes for the heart

Breathing to break the anxious calm

that accompanies this unknowing

-

Yours are the words that bound me

and yours are the words that beckoned me into the fire

This is my punishment

Without you, I fall

On Saturn's day, his body quakes,
the lights go out, and the craters form.
He drinks the rye to ease the shakes
and watches as the cicadas swarm.
His records are warped from cellar air,
his walls are stained nicotine yellow.
The night creeps in from beneath his chair
to taunt and **** this charming fellow.

Fifty years of motherless meals
and fifty years of loveless mistakes.
Fifty years of seasonal wheels
and fifty years of screeching brakes.
Fifty years of challenges met
and fifty years of swallowing pride.
Fifty years and not dead yet,
and fifty more before he has died.

He draws in deep from his old cob pipe
and exhales the smoke toward the fan.
Once the orchards are good and ripe
he'll go outside and tame his land.
Until that day, he's mighty content
with sitting back and wasting his time.
These are the last days before his descent,
there is no call for reason or rhyme.  

Fifty years of unpaid rent,
and fifty years of tall tales lost.
Fifty years he can't repent,
and fifty years of permafrost.
Fifty years that won't come back,
and fifty years of worn down soles.
Fifty years of catching flak,
and fifty years spent digging holes.

I. centipede:
-
They come from both directions and it doesn't take long
for me to realize that they've figured me out.
My mind was fast, but not as swift as the hands
of five-hundred outreaching hands; one angry crowd.
Grabbing at limbs, low and high, they don't waste a second
before tearing me in every direction; at least the cardinal four.
My mind takes flight, leaves fancy, but not before
I get in one last swear, and one last spittle in their faces.

II. snake
-
Tail and head aren't in sync this morning, I tell ya.
No rattle, no bite, just a lot of traffic and heat shimmers
in the one place I don't need to be today.
The people here act like they don't know me,
but they still turn their noses up when I empty my mug.
The waitress answers when spoken to,
but just stares in the time in between wheezing breaths.
I've got to get out of this county, this state.

III. scorpion
-
Ronny hasn't been on a roof since a couple years after we got married.
He wrapped his ankle in some gutters and took a spill;
his thigh popped right out of it's socket and he just dangled
like some kind of prize in one of those crane games.
Doctor says he can still have kids, and I know he can still get it up
from how he watches that ****** **** on t.v.
But he wont touch me; hasn't in fifteen months, I've counted.
He's in for a surprise once the settlement clears.

IV. lizard
-
Wallflowers never get anywhere with their mouths sewn shut
and I cut my stitches well before my teens;
I got what I needed and I made sure of it.
But there is something to be gained from
basking in the naivety of youth and ignorance.
Trouble doesn't set in as well, and boredom comes
as some kind of waiting period, rather than the norm.
These bars are a reminder of why they don't let me make the rules.

V. toad
-
Invulnerable, incontestable, unphasable, archetype.
I listen for the right words to drop the shields,
but I'm only met with the silence that accompanies
asphyxiation through means of wet wax paper.
The touch of phantoms tingle along my skeleton's core
telling me the time for lollygagging has long since passed.
Stand up, giant, you're running hot and the moon
keeps calling out, "follow the lit road home".

The smoke clouds the room
with a thick fog of false confidence
and we can’t help but breathe it all in
We seek to absorb what we can’t have
and embrace every thing that brings us harm
I see you standing there alone
and I hear your soul singing
the same song as mine
The song that harmony and dissonance
cannot define

Floral print dresses
for the girls
who stare past me.

train pace
quaint face
indecisive stutter
faint lace
embrace
cloaked behind the shutter

roving revolver revisions
inflict internally incubated incremental incidents
spit right in his ******* face
separation. moksha.  
hypodermic hypocrisy

copper lined veins
keep pumping
filth =
into your eyes

My uncle slit a man's throat with a box cutter in my childhood home and didn't apologize.
Sitting in a circle filled with crack smoke and stale beer breath.
This is a shining example of what I've lived with
and the lengths I've had to go to escape the thing people call "destiny".

Thievery, lies, pressure, and violence
has been calling my name for the longest.
But I know the voice too well to be taunted.  

Words are my freedom and words are my piece of mind.
There is not a single substitute.
Whether poem, prose, or paragraph,
This is the only calling I've ever had.

I've lived with a hoarder, addicts, senility, and ignorance
in a variety of different combinations and forms.
At times, power, water, freedom, money, necessities, have all been an unachievable thing to me.
Lost to the vile goals of those folk I love.
I am the only one who sees the beauty in the fragile and odd.
The others see only a mess on a paper, and move their eyes to the nearest glowing box.

My father drowned when I was six.
My grandfather followed soon after.
My mother felt the stab of this and caved so many times.
I witnessed and shared the burden of her pain and grief.
My grandmother forgot everything she ever loved or knew, and short after passed as well.
Pets and possessions,
friends and followers.
All gone with a drastic breeze.
I am the one with the vision, but I am trapped in a shell of a city,
covered with that wretched stink of refined soy.

Will I be able to unburden the world from myself?
You all give me such great courage and allow me to share the beauty as I see it.
You all have such great skill with symbols and it makes me feel like home isn't far.
I want this. I want this.

If I keep breathing like the rest of the world
I feel I may miss the sound of the world's heartbeat.
But my death would not bring a solution for the ones I love.
Only a warrant for more death.
I need this. I need this.

With my words, I conjure up hell.
And hell brings with it the familiar.
Run little kitties, run.
The Doubling House and The Sequential Church will not hold forever.
My havens are temporary, but the craters are forever.
I will struggle till the pain becomes all I am
and I buckle under the weight of what I shouldn't have taken
from the mighty Atlas.

I do this for me.
I do this for you.

I need you to roll me a cigarette,

little girl. Give a twirl.

Flick the Bic and spindle your hair.

Will-O-Wisp in every curl.

Princely visions laced within your

every exhale  - sparkle fog. Alive,

thoughts so eager to dive and weave something vivacious

Memory’s mantra, colony hive.

-

We were born in a bog, favors never come easy.

Just stepping stones and play things

for the spoiled, the renegades, and identity seekers.

Impressed not by treks of rat kings.

Perhaps a crag will open up with a yawn

and swallow down towers of sheep-men.

Digesting their white picket vaults in the core.

Maybe I’ll get some sleep then.

-

Void Water throne room;

on golden stools they sit.

Not shiny chairs to squat on,

but the stool they crave to ****.

We lay in watch - cackling, amused -

As the chamber corrupts its own brood.

Together, we cast jubilant tones.

Beggar’s sphere language renewed.

-

Beneath the crooked branches of the walnut tree -

all bards fell silent. She riddles: “In which key?”.

The answer was the sound of ten-thousand vibrating wings.

Here she comes walking
The silent steps that hover on egg shells
Velvet incarnation
Her every word is where my mind dwells
There she goes walking
My body must be made of glass
Her eyes stay set forward
and I shatter with her pass

I am the flightless pelican.
I’ve found myself with my mouth full,
my stomach full, and so much still on my plate.
Possessed by an inhuman hunger,
I will gorge upon pure potential.
I will yowl on and on, without sleep.
-
I have sand between my toes.
My shoes are glued to my feet.
Keep on running ‘til the calluses come.
There has to be a point where I stop to sweat,
and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief.
I have one ride left on my bus pass.
-
I have a tendency to ramble
and languish in my own stench.
People tend to forget this at first;
lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke.
They want to know the impression I left,
not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat.
-
I can’t sleep being held,
or if I feel someone’s breath in the still.
I start to feel the urge to burrow
into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land.
I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves,
but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion.
-
I have cousins like brothers,
and I have brothers like strangers.
Stray cats with names
and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in.
I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water;
avoiding conflict with no bait.  
-
Paper cuts from the gold leaf
on the edges of hymn book pages
with burgundy leather covers.
These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours,
while we steadily forget that anyone was singing.
Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.

I am wandering in the grove.
From out of the darkness
Christopher John appears perched
on an old ash stump
giving a speech about Robert Mitchum
and his performance in Farewell, My Lovely.
I want to say "right on",
but my voice only whimpers.
He doesn't notice me in the shadows.
I close my eyes and his voice fades to a whisper,
then nothing.
My thoughts drift along to pictures of liberty concerned porcupines.
-
I am wandering in the grove.
Against the shady walnut
Elby Marcellous husks the meat from a shell
and tosses it to his canvas shoed feet.
"You ought'learn a trade kid, it'll save yer ***."
His mouth never moves.
A *****, navy blue sweat suit; fruit of the loom.
Hundreds of construction paper stars
glued to a bedroom wall,
and a legacy of tall tales and unrequited favors
for the train hopping rambling man.
Comeback Jack, come back Jill.
-
I am wandering in the grove.
My house slippers were not the best choice of shoes.
There is plenty of mud from the gather dew,
and the rocks are jagged and unforgiving.
The Sylvan's planted the trees here,
Roger and I dug the holes by hand,
Roberta watered them each with care.
The Eastern-kin cut a lot of them down
to help feed their Dionysian pyres.  
At least they left the mulberries,
so the birds still get their colors in the spring.
The songs need the full prism to translate properly.
-
I am wandering in the grove.
There she is.
My feet were tugging me due west the entire time,
I could feel it.
And there she is,
underneath the sycamore like a sore thumb.
I want to cry, I want to run,
but the song comes crooning out.
It is our instinct to dig our nails in
and tear each other apart from the bone,
but we sing the refrain, paralyzed,
feet tied to the ground with pyrite bands.
-
red, orange, yellow
I'm seventeen, long-haired, and screaming my lungs out.
green, blue, violet
I'm throwing verbal punches from sixty-two miles away.
red, orange, yellow
There's no where to be, and no one to impress.
green, blue, violet
Two cities weave troubling stories well.
Everything shifts to ethereal indigo,
things shake around a bit, but nothing seems to be any different.
I awake, rid of my flaxen shackles, but bruised.
The scent of thirteen perfumes linger in the breeze.
-
I am wandering in the grove.
A quilt tied to my neck for a cape,
serves as a warm shield against the cold night.
I found a rusty lantern, half-filled with oil and
with working wick, I venture on.
There is a crunch of brown-red leaves with every step
that I take in song-less stride.
The moon is new, the deer are charged in estrus.
Every creature I happen upon is speaking
in some strange tongue to which I cannot comprehend.
I try to motion that my hunger has become dire,
but no eyes are lifted, no responses given.
-
"Hurry now, no time to dawdle,
we have to make it to market before
they sell all of the livestock, and the farmers
decide to call it a day; no naive pockets."
-
"That rotten boy was a **** from the placenta,
and his mother was a crystalline chimera
made from chemicals in one of those zygote-vats.
Nothing was natural from that household; that bloodline."
-
"The day will come when we need a place to go,
but we can't ever go down the winding path
or Mama-Bog will come crawling out of the mud
and take away your sister like she did Papa."
-
"My eyes saw what I would never believe again;
the town was gone. Not destroyed, not missing,
not packed up and on it's way, but gone.
The **** place had never been there to begin with."
-
"There was once a planet between Mars and Jupiter
that was the home of a peculiar race of fungus.
The planet was bombarded by a multi-nation nuclear strike
when the fungus was found to secrete [OMITTED]."
-
"No, my sister left about three months ago, mister.
Said she was headin' into the city to try and get a job waitressin'.
If she were to just up and leave the quadrant she'd say something,
or at least update her ping location on her bio-input; sheesh, guy!"
-
I am wandering in the grove
and the trees are weighed down with ripened fruit.
Muninn and Huginn take flight.
Tap on the stained glass windows of the cathedral
as if the hounds were nipping at your heels.
There was a time when wings alone were enough
now the game has change, the cards disguised.
No direct line to the big man.

I climbed to the top of the persimmon tree
To look into the eyes of God
But all I could see was the Moon staring back
So I figured that He was a fraud

I wept and I and screamed late into the night
This surely must be a mistake
Do I wait till I’m met by the reaper’s hand?
No, that’d be much too late

“If I jump right off of this tree,” I said to the wind
“I know I will meet my demise”
“But I just can’t resist knowing my fate,
And the color of the watcher’s eyes”

I fell to the world like a shooting star
My impact would be so profound
What wonder, what magic, would I soon learn of?
As soon as my head hit the ground

I feel the air vanish as I met Earth’s embrace
Into arms of soil I lay
For my sleep and dreams will never compare
To the mystery I solved on this day

Darkness, darkness, is all I see
In every direction and more
Silence, Silence is all I hear
From within God’s bedroom door

these horns, these horns, they weigh me down
they extend like branches towards the sun
and my head is forced to face the asphalt
while I never get to see the rushing headlights

my shadow is sewn to the soles of my sneakers
feet slowly being molded to cloven hooves
as I tip toe through then new year silverdust snow
to feed my few remaining stray familiars

I still live behind the old car wash
so there isn't going to be an inspirational landscape
only drunken demi-gods, dollars falling on deaf ears,
and a cutlass ciera in need of a catalyic converter

inev idiv iciv

I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****

I gaze into the lapis lazuli embedded behind your eyes

And I read the words that are engraved on its pristine surface

“I hide in the dust of diamonds and bathe in Luna’s glow”

Inscriptions of a fiery passion from the heart of Aphrodite

What deities were praised to conjure such an immaculate apparition?

A vesper turned mortal by the north wind

Gilded in the feathers of seraphs-on-high

And garbed in the fineries of the seventh son of a seventh son

She couldn't be a mortal, just simply born;
but truly a goddess, ignited, free from form.
-
The day the ground met with her delicate toes
was the night the stars aligned in symmetrical rows.
-
In dream, she dances and glides upon air.
Awake, she braids comets in the threads of her hair.
-
My greetings seem hollowed, I am drifting afloat.
The language of fondness is a lump in my throat.
-
Her outline is gleaming with a soft, vermilion luster.
Her eyes, subtle jasper, urges your core not to trust her.
-
Not a staza, nor an epic can contain flawless grace,
or the yearning I feel when we are sharing this space.

The warning bell sounded, and heads did spin

In a full on exorcist twist.

Hearts and lungs on overdrive.

Max gear ***** race, go!

Eyes meeting, hardly a greeting.

Run for the horizon, little darling daredevils.

-

His legs are burning, her lungs are burning.

Can’t stop, can’t stop, won’t stop.

She sees the results and snickers.

Surrounded by searchers and sirens.

The schooling facility, a funeral pyre,

a gasoline catalyst. “All the same, stupid”.

-

Endless lines of lockers filled to limit.

Echoes of “run along to class!”.

Chunks of charcoal - Chambers of change.

Left on Fairview, right on King.

Watch out for Pauly’s pit bulls barking!

-

Down the hill on University avenue - Dead End.

Train tracks up the hillside, so climb!

View of the evidence;

Matchstick Mayhem Miracle Man.

Gasoline Gal, so elegant.

Smoke cloud, smoke cloud, our little secret.

Chatting cold conspiracies from across the coffee table.

Pangaea on the rocks - sweet, sober, civil silence.

When did the degradation become so severe?

Time ticks down and friendships fade to acquaintances.

Spine tingling tempo of the pitter-patter rain drop percussion.

Galloping triplets trickling down from the temples of thunder.

Hands of the clock clap in celebration of another hour killed.

Two o’ clock Coca-Cola to crown the king of carbonation *****.

Naming off artists to impress the drunken temptress.

Taunting the room filled with glimmer-eyed, lovestruck libidos.

All the kids are struggling to remember the horoscope they skimmed.

Brains drained to the point of puking in mouths, poisoning the passion.

With whiskey laced erections, this night chants a swansong.

Illegal lane changes and tiptoe key turning roustabouts.

The Hubble eye can’t detect the silent thoughts left hidden.

Dreams within dreams, lost in a cloud of exhaled acceptance.

Tonight, you fizzled, and tonight, you sleep alone.

These are the danger days. Timber!

I sleep in a crater on the far side of the moon.
I tell tales to the moon-cats about the warm month of June.
We sing songs with no lyrics, because moon-cats don't speak;
while we wait for the pizza guy who's been late for a week.

I sleep in a tree in the west end of the park.
I stripped it of leaves and all of its bark.
I just bummed five bucks off of a guy jogging by;
he said "fight the power", and held his fist in the sky.

I sleep in my car, somewhere outside of Denver.
Don't ask for how long, I don't really remember.
I met a weird looking guy and he said "Hocus Pocus",
now I spend all of my days in the back of my Focus.

Houses sitting condemned, taking up the view
while the old guys sit sipping forties in forty degree
temperatures facing the wall so the wind doesn't burn
their faces too much in what could be called a modest December.

They turn their back to the guy hiding bags of rock
in his lips to avoid detection from the cameras posted
on both street corners. This place is set to a constant sneaking
violin pluck. We are all capers in a burgle commune.

I hung up a tarp today so the stray cats can hide from the wind.
In one stanza, January has set in and it is bitter to the bone.
We summoned the name of old man winter from repetition and
no one man may hold that burden. The ***** only warms their blood.