i'd be dead long ago
fossilized in memory
of my mother
maybe of another,
like a crisp cubicle
amber snapshot
lost
and a sunken rusted corpse
rotting,
if I'd given
unconditional control
to the alabaster breaking curiosity
streaming my veins.

worm food too soon
but brave sturdy bones
reluctantly deteriorating  
with such luster wished to hold on
like Venusian locks
breaking down unwillingly
into their amino acid state,
informal fertilizer for woodland's mirth.

so i am here
instead
away from the earth
near a foreign border
a flight
line unlinear
where my heart lept off
for regions uncharted,
not just to Rome or
was it Greece
clogging this train of thought,


but i can remember all of this
do not think i won't

i will not deny what i heard my left ventrical plotting
on raiding the pulpit
of life
a ceremonial teaching from leaves
to live with the oxygen
and it's pulp
and the recommendation to drink it together
together
for optimal optical evolution.

my resolution is to daily
gaze into my orange juice
the sun
that lick of sour
sweet release in time
its nothing to an hour
but an infinity in a day
of trials
and try agains
and oh wait
we went the wrong way
and realising but wait
the plum tree is fertile
feeding us plenty fruits,
endless fruit,
okay.

there cannot be only one
staged divine
except when seasons cut short the seasoning
of harvest,


unless you mean us,
then time survives
just to give us another line
to muster somemore condaments
but not compliments
for our dining
to spice up our ripe oozing confection,
our confessions,
our rhythmic happiness.

another play
I am attending today
this stages higher
this stage is indigo
with orchestras,
no heart string harps will be hurt
in the making of our film
when i pluck yours softly
from the black stuccoed darkness
no lead roles
or precious rings of metal
or unholy hymns
of god knows what descendence
will dictate the future
or the past
what lineage?

arent we the same?
so it seems

that all that this is
is truly a metaphor
for the greatest
of all
most spontaneous
of my glances
at death
and the death of my ego
in the west and

here today

the graduation of our children
hearts who may have already left
but found each other
somewhere along the way

and somewhere along the way
we will get them back
in the amount of time it takes me
to trace your spine
I'll trace the universe
to see souls
gaining there wishes
like eyes reincarnating
into others heads
and there we be no pain
just a safe shot
no radical injections
or vaccinations
to save us
from this love

that while glaring at the sun
and whining for a return date
or address
or something with
a conscious
in sleep lip shivering,
the warm grasp of my resting heart rate
will place your arms at ease.

so rest now,
easy baby
my sweet Zues,
and when i wake you
at an ungodly hour
let us fervently light the sky
eternally, yes, eternally
after a goodnight's rest
because someday that rest will,
well,
it will be the only hour
stuck on midnight
our only thing to live on
and our eyelids will have died long ago.

perhaps,
God must have been taking

alabaster casted around your oak wood soaked eyes

I coughed on you

and you growled like the tectonic parting from which it came
the continent calling with a Hades ringtone


it was a fair trade
an amazing grumble percolated through my brain

and drenched my senses in
what I could only sense to be
a scented calligraphy

flesh making mistakes
but a deep temperance coos

and alas,
something leaves my brain
catapults from the yellow skin
leads to rain for thirty days
and rusty leaves cover a hole
of my heart
ten feet underground
a trap unfurling
along the strand of the horizon
only in the morning
does courage ride
on the lips of the sun
to meet the dome of the sky
with a warm readiness
like your oven baked eyes
an ancient script
on the hips of the hills

our love miles in the making
an extra horizon away

it was a feeble attempt by man to glain the legitimacy of our rights

i slide my legs between half departed memories
plastered in a pain
of foggy glass
of red fish eggs as eyes and white pickled ginger for a tongue
perfectly creeping my fingernails down my larynx
to scratch at seamlessly
the words that were trying to act unoticed
prying their way past each trachial cartilage ridge
as a means to get closer to death
jump into a bold Alaskan lake
on a bed of ripe hydrochloric stomach acids,
frozen inside a cuneiform layered mixture of tissue
under a well of empty air
no arua borealis has been present in ages
no phenomenon but the one that tricks the uvula into letting toxins
slip into the tunnel, worming to the secreted stomach bag  
stalling to digest with pretext after pretext
but no display of tense pretension
just loosely taped claims,
jaggled, like a fifth graders palm would do
ragged and ****** and dismal like a poor man
around the corner
watching us
patiently

I move my eyes left to right
and if someone from afar saw me
well
they wouldnt know
they would think maybe,
had they seen me up close,
that this diversion was,
as some corruptions can be,
containing two sides
like i had a book or
piece of fuzz i was following
with my eyes
a smooth transition
but the dismal certainty
says otherwise
that this split noticing
is involuntary movement
from one part of me
to the other
from one decision
to the opposing
from one yes
scaling to no
and vice versa

a sort of cyclonic woe

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Last night I saw this etched behind my eyelids in the incremints of my blinking.

It's like torture
but its kind of fun
when you know that the grapes haven't spoiled
just yet
and your mother hasn't come back just yet
and you are wondering
where are these things going
where have they been

sugar and ****** are the same thing
minus one clean curtail:
the breadth of the crystal is a lame liquid
the flower is self-aware
one knows the power,
has never braved a shower
the other has the breath of a child
heavy ignorance pooling in the air

which one day corrodes with realization
but the other has been
known
always known


to opal opoid Poe traces can be found in down trodden spaces
they caved to impermeance and the ultimate tempter
****** outlining a safe haven for injection
to escape the wind of the winding helicopter wings
by words


the uprooting of the white sand cube crumbles
easily
as though it faked the illusion of beating,
being
and the waves lapped it time after time
making an imprint impermanent to becoming numb

did the classics have it right?
or did they fear dismally to stray from the unearthed crack
something that would unviel multitudes
a seam that would bust and be confused
unleash madness
it only looked as such
but touching a pinky into the ripples reveals
busted seals and phony penguins
curling around their fake egg for sixty days
keeping their minds out of reach of those
who yearned for ebullience
and pretending they contained the very essence of it
they didn't really know

only a small few
in a field
on a sunless day did
or in the middle of a bell jar with cyclones
spinning around the globe
wiping raw the temporal portions
lobes sorting right from wrong

or did they all have it skewed because their sheets were never torn
and they never had to witness what it was like to go to sleep on
a cumbersome cloud and wake with their lips to a puddle in India
poor and cold
both young and old
noticing nother other than what could be
and seeing logic as a spun out drunk
the one in the puddle who has no opinions for others
or flowers or mothers or god

not slicing themselves with invisible butter knives
or asking nicely for advice
but cracking their skulls in sleep
with the cackle of crows
and rusty crowbars

i just know this
the sugar, the plainness, the liiiiiiiiiies
are nothing compared to the lilies seen after getting burn blisters
from black rains produce; poppyseed planes
i know the sugar-coated croaks were toads
diluting their world in no's
afraid to change it
to change it to yes
to say something else
something far away
but attainable


and maybe coughing and once noticing
that no matter what

we are nothing

and doing it all the same

porous disarray
evades the sulfite star dust,
sealing my sweat glands