Victory is of the self.

Another threadbare exchange to leave my spirit in poverty.
Nothing I remember but the time we drifted near my planetary ego.

Planet.
You know the Greeks called it aster planetai? The star that moves.

Why be something I’m not?

It was always about me – the bloated body expelled into space.
I can be less grotesque. I can be less absolute.
I can be less dead sooner over later.

But why be something I’m not?

I am the object of my own worship, and I shall take no gods before me.
In lieu I’ll take them with me.

They the minor idols, capsuled icons, escape pods burnt in the crazy science fiction fires of atmosphere re-entry.

Everyone was all the time fleas flaked off my solar bodyship, seeking exaltation in pursuit ex nil ad nihil.
I’d apologize for my deceptions, but I’ve got a lot to learn about remorse and little time to learn it.

Horror genre, body to cosmic. Gaze you, the invited subject, upon the approaching sun from the whet of my exhausted maw.

Burn out your eyes.

Who is greater than the sun? Who can talk more than me? It's become my occupation.

Matches made with flesh and fuel wait for the final fade to white.

I drank the *****
together with the pretty,
colorful juices

decantered and set
aside for the occasion.
Forgive me, I was

already tipsy,
because meeting new people
scares me a little.

I got drunk quickly,
and laid down on the couches
I just knocked right out.

Shameful, but then it
felt here, as always, like it
happened somewhere else.

I am a ballpark moth.
a buzzing light is made my home tonight

in time it dries my wings and takes my flight
but for now i live aloft a peacetime game all
shouts and metal.

If i could say,
i know i can’t,
Like a broken arm cast in sound aluminum,
Unmoveable
                                        but highly mobile.

Soon enough you’ll hear a mother’s admiration,
pride by proxy someone taught me:
Aggression   in sublimation.

What makes a mother fly i’ll never know.
I refuse to help mythmake America’s obsessions.

smoke or dirt or metal war

mythologize

and I’ll wait forever for these wings to dry.

Life's Summer happens at once,

all at once. With the agony of potential,

and I become the sprawl;


stale,

dysphoric.



acting without acting
sleeping without sleeping.
an act of will to close my eyes
to shut my ears to murmuring
too hot air,

my space a lesser place within the waking world
a world with shorter seasons and reasons to be
and being without reason; just being


A summer without rain.

A summer without late night drives and angry drifting from lane to lane - where the hours long occasions between petty obligations interrupt

a terminal

imagination.

vague background terror claims camp way back where eyes
deprived of light cast sails and line through see
Your body is water. You gunsmoke cannonade
affections rip through my cannibal babbling brainscape
deaf and dumb to love’s language intending attendant
Old World Spanish.
bilateral line
Yours a river run down over nose and Cupid’s Bow to a
neck of shared fixation
clicking nails and
picked face turned rough planks are paddles by
which I leave and lose my way.
let me by losing it gain You near again
and join oceans all the same.

meat packed tightly underneath. infrastructure. teeth rotting all the time. bacteria drinking spinal fluid.  botanicals bloom out of reach. menaced by health. worms.

In the laze of the morning air

I feel the weight of my bladder.

the shape of my room still emerging,

an image painted on warbling waters.

blanket and bed like heaven and earth

between them all the world right now.

It’s too hot outside for what feels like forever,
I resent it because even though I don’t know it is,
I feel it is, a signal that no matter if I tidy up, brush my teeth
and put beer stained t-shirts in the hamper

the sun will swell and gobble up my effort
absorbing freshly vacuumed floors into an inconcievable inferno.  

But God, it’s the sun.
What’s a pile of ***** dishes to solar fire, He whose wrath I feel a billion miles away.
God, infinite infinities of distance but I’m sweating in the time it takes to find my car in this Godforsaken parking lot. God there is nothing worse than parking lots. I’ve never been pleased to spend a moment more than I expected in a parking lot.

Every blacktop another ****** unbearable embassy of hell - a boring, baking sunscape.

Each and every one an anti-oasis of indifference and privation.

Thank You, Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday, Have Fun, Be Good, I Love You, See You, Drive Safe, Stay Warm, Be Careful, Excuse Me, Bless You, Goodbye, Hello, Pardon Me

Distance distills the good of time and places.

Tomorrow the reckless pace today- the talking, thinking far away- will make no sense to you.

Leaving only the pleasing private colors of singular impression.

Maybe sipping sweet tea on a floral couch, one ice cube with a captured gnat.
Straight tray sink refill. The trash collects them.


Maybe a lady, lethargic, middle age, amiable and sleepy.
What's up with moms and prescription filling her unshaken faith in medicine as pleasure.  

The window unit kicks on, the ice cubes shift as the sugar takes their edges off.

The heat has robbed the day.