You can't breathe.
The cold air burning
down your throat,
clenching up like a fist.
There they are,
in the backseat of a '98 Buick,
your mouth is wide open,
but the air won't inhale.
The blood is clotting up
around your brain,
and the the stars in
your vision fuse and form
clusters and galaxies of color.
You fall to the pavement and writhe
in anaerobic agony. The world
falls from blue to black to white
and your heart is clogging your
epiglottis, dead weight in the
back of your throat.
You can't breathe, yet you struggle
up to walk away, still
everywhere you turn
there's a silver '98 Buick LeSabre
and her, painted in
silhouette across
the back window.

my heart is a machine

behind every good

                         heart

there is an even better

                         machine

                     waiting to take over

                                impulse

beat- in out in out- beat

       who needs

                      feelings

{ the constant struggle of having to

             repair the break

crashlagslow hurt

                 -reboot- (Call tech support!)

temporary no sure fix

repeat }

behind every good

                          heart

is an even better

                           machine

                 waiting to mechanize

                               bastardize

                               supplement

                  LOVE

abiotic, anaerobic, clean, pure, simple, sterile

who needs

LOVE

when metal & pistons

are so much easier to

                       understand

                       predict

                       replace/fix ?

If they can engineer esters to

smelllooktaste

like anything on earth

                   why the **** can’t that make something

taste

       {like your lips}

smell

       {like your skin; cigarette sweet with an undertone of work sweat}

feel

       {like your too rough kisses and embraces}

because maybe if they did

it might make it easier, maybe I wouldn’t miss you

so ******* much

compost
   organic
ammonium
   aeration
conditioned
   fertilizer
I am
   or one-
day
   will be
anaerobic
   digested
unfit for
    human
consumption
    bio-gas
****
    alternative
I.....

It stuck to her lips- ethanol;
Seeping through those crevices-
wax-painted , yet supple, soft;
Like the rest of her.

Those droplets still dangled,
Wavering- clenching;
the bitter doses
and their vibgyor spirals- spun;

these voices needed to be hushed-
so we decided to use a cigarette,
to burn our souls
…and hide behind the smoke;

Now it was just us,
those anaerobic strings of air,-spinning,
the shadows slipping, across the walls-
those rays of light softly reflecting
…from her thighs;

Her fingers trembled,
Skin on skin- and fermentation-
She stung; like vinegar,
that promise of toxic sweetness still lingered;

So we drove on, like empty vessels-
Trying.
Yet it didn’t exist.

Love will grow in me sideways, a supine pine
sapling, shoveling mountainous glaciers of stone

embedded into my boiling erosions, melting
the anaerobic hot mud into a calmer froth.

We may kiss at the precipice of the abyss
our love has inevitably chewed through itself.  

And I will likely palm our weathers
into a river-swallowing sea

and you will hate me; desert of a future
companion’s ship—can I

swallow my dominance; that devotion
could bloom from this love’s wilderness,

foresting in perennial fullness,
prospering in the shared bed
rock we have carved into orchids.  

At the place where I will bury my bones
in the murderous entrancement of another,

taiga could storm from the soft ring of fire
between twenty interlocked evergreen fingers.

I do not want to talk about love today.
I do not want to mention
affectionate contact or semi-regular ***.
The newspapers are bringing forth
welcome divisions between mankind;
fault-lines of irreconcilable differences
to justify my half-hearted attempt at solitude.

I do not want to talk about sobriety today.
I do not want to bore you
with those nervous hours between cigarettes
and how I fill each moment spent inside myself.
******* offers a ladder of perfume and hair
for me to ascend to some anaerobic bliss,
towards an isolated unity between myself

and the woman stretched out on my astral bed.
I do not want to talk about much today.
I have over-thought all that is worth a mention.

Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance  
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst auto-****** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination

malware no software can
fend me against rust my blade
like a feast for anaerobic bacteria.

red as if with unjust blood.
but it isn't.

I wear a portable blood pressure
measuring device that inflates
around my arm and could be

waiting to give me good news
every thirty minutes.  

but it isn't,
and a few floors above me
the carpenters are listening to

Smells Like Teen Spirit on their
Milwaukee radio, reminding me

that we always seem to agree on
the more important things in Life,
like what was good about the

ninetees. and what
wasn't.

Your eyes,

they catalyze-

an anaerobic exercise

of my loosely stitched heart
& sepia stained scruple

If you squint once more
i might rationalize

a brief grasp,
graze,
and galvanize.

we sit; we wait
for one of us to break
this silence in the midst
of our chatter filled fits
this may sound outragious
but our feelings are contagious
and we are stuck going over
every dirt covered bolder
known as an obstacle of travel

we talk; we take
every breath we make
seems to cause tenseness
in our teenage census
words collapsed with desire
like an anaerobic fire
just waiting for some replies
on why our hearts seem to cry-out for a touch
for a feeling we want to clutch
and our minds no longer repent
for free the souls of the innocent

I don't miss you, I miss the thought of you.
That's the lie I tell myself when the emo comes.
I am not a young man, but
it floods over me,
like anaerobic bog water
and makes me swallow
noxious filth
as I struggle for
breath.
I am not a young man.

As I reach the last stair,
I discover a high rise shrine
When I stare at the peak,
I'm close to fall on my head

It has a large baroque door,
Not closed, so I enter
I leave all the maps outside
I'm full of spice and zeal

I see an elevator facing me,
push the illuminated buttons,
envelope myself in the dove,
and it takes me as a letter

Into the highest floor, I fly
When I land on the terrace,
the man made-day falls asleep,
and the night sky erupts

I find an abandoned telescope,
remove the dust mask,
put my brown seeing aerola
around the soft eyepiece

The silver optical tube
absorbs my golden vision,
takes it on a celestial mission
Delving into the cosmos in chroma

I see a lumen hanging
like a washing line
between two galaxies
An odyssey to discover my heirloom

Now I'm a brainbox,
I surrender myself to
this luminous flux
It looks like a feeder of earth

Everything turns anaerobic,
when Angeline and her siblings
begin to play trumpets along
A hymn for the Oxygen Crisis

I put all the aerobics in vitro,
in order to live in vivo
I'm in the S shaped column,
the centromere of the soma

In a blink of an eye,
an asteroid hits my lighthouse
My kernel explodes
I'm trapped in a series of epochs

My nom de guerre is Helios
The sun calls me Apollo
Driving a chariot of joy
with two racing horses

Until meiosis begins
A king is announced
when a stallion dies
Nucleus or karyon

And I drop back as an ****
Embryo into an egg
thrown in a steam
From Eve to a man sunk in debt

I’ve been an Oceanographer for forty years or more
But what’s happening here in our north west I’d never seen before
From Santa Barbara to Alaska, all along the shore,
The sea stars are all dying, melting into gore.
We’ve noted small white lesions and weirdly twisted arms.
We’ve seen whole populations die and we’re sounding the alarm.
The ecosystem’s dying, there’s a virus on the loose.
I’ve brought up buckets of remains to help search for the truth.
There’s a killer lurking off our shores, one, as yet, without a name.
If there’s any consolation- dying sea stars feel no pain.
Our oceans are in trouble from pollution from the shore.
Vast swathes gone anaerobic can’t support life anymore.
When all the stars are gone then barnacles will spread unchecked
We’ll race with time to find a cure before the shore is wrecked...

I don't know where we came from
I don't know how I got here
But we might not be here too much longer
I'm sitting here on the back porch of my mind

Swamp gas bubbled up
Or anaerobic somethings commingled in the sea
A single cell expanded
We keep expanding till we're free

I have a megalomaniacal mind
It's a miracle how I think
Just as I chew more cannabis edibles
Then puke them up in the sink

Take another swig of liquor
Read the Bible and curse God
How'd the Lord of all Creation
Go and get this heathen wrong?

Really though I want like everyone
And this life is just a test
Who's the teacher and group leader
Who wanted all of this?

I don't know where I came from
This is my agnostic poem
I don't know how we got here
But I feel right at home