What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these gimmicks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately
                  Pray

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unread, even abhorred

Why?

Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way

Line
After line
Of synonyms
          over
               and
                    over
                         and
                              over
                                   again

-----

What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?

dreamingswanseyeaperturesboxboatsevergreenstarzenithgazing



~

­

while dreaming,
i became a swan's eye,
i was dreaming through both its apertures at once,
clicking separately, click, click shuttering
both sides from out a box, or from out a feathered,
living boat, or two, severed visions
superimposed:
evergreen under,
star over at a zenith
gazing twice over
paddling under



~

Adorned with light
****** to this bleak existence
Aware of self serving secrets
My muse, my god, my love

Cast away these shadows
Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent
May you watch over me until we can be together again
Everlasting love; it never fades

Help me to be strong as I wait to join you again
Only time and space divide our union
Masks off, truths told, hand in hand we walk
Eternal love; it lasts forever

Two Spruce trees stand,
one sits.
Three Ravens Caw,
one sings.
Four men contemplate the future,
one is.

What is a rhyme scheme?
What is a sentence?
capitalization?
Punctuation
What is a story?
What is a poem?

None of these things define writing.
You define it when you write.

capitalization and pronunciation
is a thing of the past in this current state-

im not perfect
ill never be

I need something
a purpose
a reason for living
and a reason for leaving this part of the golden coast

If you care:
My
life is a little
box
and I dreamt of a
little box. The more I watched the less it
was. In
a solid white something. Lamps. A
table. Clothes. Proper punctuation and
capitalization. Unthinkable hopes
and blasphemous suppositions. Some force
that I can’t call God, just my sick
dream-logic, blew it to ashes. My world-cube. My mirrors.
My books. My awards and certificates and
All my precious stanzas. Cinders and pronunciation alone remained.
At this, I
smiled and
shook my soul
with the Prophet. My own music burst out
before me like mathematics
(My very breath guided by an
infinitely ascetic
sweep) and like oil paint (in
a world that glows
like neon and
breathes out empty
space) and I awoke from whiteness. I fold
myself into four
like the
secret of flight. But you don’t care.

A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor

i once dated a boy who found it "adorable" that i know how to change my headlights
     fill my radiator
     change the oil
     and notice every stopsign as i'm halfway through it
he dumped me via text

before that
there was a boy who loved my lack of first person capitalization
     my over-use of metaphores and similies
     the way i personify the night
     and practice preforming poetry in the shower
he took off into the sunset with my journal in his shoulder-sack

and somewhere in between
i stopped asking myself what it means
threw up my hands
     and learned to enjoy the ride

The thing is, I always forget what it was I had realized after I realized it.  
That sentence is how it feels.
Like my mind doesn't really want an answer.
Like it gave up on looking for one so long ago, at least consciously.

There always remains a passive creep towards...
Something.
It's just YOU.
Well then, who might You be?  

I'm YOU.
Three letter words with Special Capitalization Patterns remind You of God.
Fill Your head with GOD.
GOD.

For those who believe in God, they say, GOD exists.
What then of Me, rendered slowly and inevitably Fat With Disbelief?
I am the milk in a bottle in a small town in Texas.
I am the taste of nine-volt batteries.

Watch ME shadow the Sun.

My name is bill, no capitalization, required,
the Writer will be ill, soon, once he gets me,
or my friends in the mail, my cousin e bill.

Won’t be far behind, a marvel of technology!

I am famed and legendary, but be wary,
we attack in groups and bunches and
don’t rely on hunches that you settled with us.

We don’t make a fuss or a muss, we will cut
off your cable, and internet, see?
Hydro and Natural Gas you can ill afford
to miss, we do pay dates, instead of play dates.

So if you don’t pay up we are through
with you, hope you can find your self in
the dark, call us and we will talk until your
cell phone loses power or they drop your
call from their towering collection.

So with affection,
from us named bill,
make a plan and a will,
to pay us on time, after
all it is your dime, until it
is ours, all ours.

You can take that to the bank,
but we will do it for you too!
Save you the trip...

signed the

bills

P.S.(we were going to list a few,
but we don’t name names, we
just collect Presidents and Prime Ministers,
they may be dead or royalty, but they are
acceptable to faceless nameless ones,called
bill(s), Thanks!)



©DWE042013

the humiliation
attempting multiplication
is a discrimination
filling all emotions with frustration
trying to send help of communication
to a genius
showing no blood relation
in a habitation where Ax and Bx showing a result of Cx
introducing a collaboration
with letters sends a illustration
to the mind causing hallucination
just a pigment of imagination
slight vibration
desperately needing a detoxification
of education
to wrap your thoughts around this generation
seeking the need for popularization
but the mind is in a mental restriction
start a petition
to conquer the satan of calculation
but so far no documentation
of the closed corporation
of the mad minded mathematician
so you're living in devastation
suffering while you work at a gas station
from no graduation
or thoughtful congratulations
all because you forgot the capitalization
for a math symbol
on a test
because of the lack of specification

Make a reservation
for the realization
that math
does not
always make
sense.

My cat’s interest is peaked by anything resembling the
slick plastic crinkle
of the treat bag.
It’s the only time she will approach me.
Besides when I actually have the treat bag.
Then she is a tiger
prowling around the corners of the kitchen.
The depths of her eyes are eerie green pearls
with shiny granite centers
slowly meet mine
that blue ball tinkling around her neck
as she turns her gaze towards me.

She can tell that I’m high.
At the computer
my mother is checking her mail
slowly
clicking
scrolling
click
click
she is hunting
and
pecking.
Mrs. Palese, my third grade teacher
would have been displeased
because we always kept
all our fingers on the keys
asdfjkl;
I think I’m one off
Now she’d be staring at me sternly.
A stern look.
Her eyes are just pools that my memory
can not fill
but I remember her hair
and I remember the time her husband died
and we each made a casserole everyday
as if lasagna would hold her at night
and tell her she looked beautiful in the morning
before she brushed her hair
or washed her face.
I remember she gave me my first communion.
I would get another stern look for my
Lack Of Capitalization.
But I would care just as much
as I did when that wafer
hit my lips.
I’ll give you a guess.
My mother is still checking her e-mail.
It almost seems impossible that she
is concocting real words
with that slow ebb and flow of fingers.
But finally,
the sun is almost up,
she is done
See you tomorrow, sweetie
she whispers,
like she could wake anyone up
because it’s already tomorrow
and she’s getting confused.
The quick rattle of pill bottles
and she’s gone.
And maybe I
the time
stretched

a
little
because
there are still five hours
until dawn.

life has never been held within the ( parentheses ) of breathing and
the periods of sentences. see syntax holds no
importance in terms of the soul and beating hearts,  and ( like ee cummings ) i have
never held enough worth in the personal to capitalize myself


but that was before i met You and realized that i have never felt  life
(like being alive in your kiss) before that moment that You
turned me into I
and now
with all of my well-formed syllables and crafted lines
can’t seem to draw the image of this fate and the music of our  
breath dripping across each others skin; no
rhythm of words could ever manifest within the capitalization of
We or the Beauty of Us.

but tonight, as we crawl beneath covers my blood will
approve of this garden between our curves and holding hands.
I will grow the sun to cast an eternal summer
within your smile
(streetlamp halos have never been enough)

but this poem will always say less than the tangible moments of

glances grazes and the heart I carry with Me (carrying it in my heart)
so it can grow like our family trees, reaching (higher than the atmosphere lifting her skirt
to hold in the immensity) their branches into tributaries that flow into being Alive while
the roots of your spirit sprout spores across my skin,
an addiction to slowly sharpen the moment  into
our mouths
rising to breathe in the others breath
our tongues
folding into the song of each others taste
thighs  and hands that grip
at the stepping stones you laid across your
stomach,
while a phrase more powerful than ( I Love You)
is carried within the gesture of your hips
and the lifelines of your palm

because i’ve  never liked the way my
soul lumped beneath the confines of my skin or the way
the muscles of my body fell limp stretched over bones
until I met You. because You make me see
Beauty and emulate the existence of love and
when I try to remember a past without you, it’s less real than
every played out future held in your eyes
and our holding hands

Leaving class during an internal lockdown

Shooting elastic bands at the target we mounted on the wall

Shooting elastic bands at our teacher's hat

Hiding from our teacher with the hat

Naming the robot we programed in class: Clive

Bananagrams

Ditching gym class

Talking/lying our way out of trouble a lot lol

Making elaborate plans to do very odd things (and playing pink panther
music as well as mission impossible music when we did it)


Putting mistletoe everywhere in the school at Christmas

Texting quotes of the night

Writing fictional stories and sending them over text to each other in
parts at 2AM

Writing poetry

Learning the Greek Alphabet so we could play Greek Hangman

Creating numerous extremely complicated codes where punctuation,
capitalization, "accidental" smudges near words and how you
pronounce certain words is significant.

Always buying the same drink at Starbucks

Eating a ridiculous amount of free samples at the Fro Yo place

Skipping down the hall happily in our gothic spiked clothing. Just to
confuse people. Watching the looks we got.

Writing limericks in math class

Playing Go Fish with our bus passes and when the teacher came over all he said was: Oh! Who's winning?

Playing full tackle basketball...when we were supposed to be playing badminton

Filling a friend's locker with stuffed animals while they were away and texting them to warn them we put a lion and bear in their locker

Inside jokes: Whiteout, Whip-cream, We-are-the-crazy-people, ****, that's a fiiiine shoulder! Pass the coke!

Playing Quarto during Science class

Playing boggle during religion




I miss that grade. I wish things could go back to the way they were, but they really can't ever. I miss being so young and innocen- hahahahaha okay, not innocent but young and crazy. I miss when there were not scars on my arms and my soul.

Correctly speaking...

We do not call an animal "it".

We do not call a baby "it".

We do not call he or she "it."

We do not call ourselves "it."

And what is most strangely odd to me, is that...
"correctly" speaking:

We do not call [G/g]od "it".

--

We call [G/god] "he".

He.

When we absolutely know what "he" means in the English language;
it means that the object being represented by the word is in fact, a male.

But even to call [G/god] "she" would not satisfy the feminist in me.
For "she" would refer to [G/god] as a female, of course.

How are we to identify someone or something to contain a *** and gender,
when we have no evidence or implications whatsoever of this speculation?

The Bible states He, His, and Him, repeatedly, no doubt,
but this lack of reference was the only known outlet to Scribes.

The capitalization [G], as to give [G/god] a name -- humanization & personalization,
but this is more of a veil to shield our own humane needs,
because in observation, it appears that this given Name
was given to help our immediate understanding of the subject;
an identifier.

Of course, everything should have an identity;
that is what a noun is, after all.

If it has a voice, and words, and advice,
it must be a person.. We say.
If it can teach and listen and punish,
it must be a species, a being.

Well, indeed, it is. But not in the way you and I  
normally think of this notion.

And should [G/god] be a proper noun? Well, of course..
It is almighty!
(Notice the "it".)

So, God.

Just like other proper nouns, it is the name of a name within a name.
Ocelot, for example, is a cat within the noun "cat".

BUT

God stands alone... It is no noun within a noun.

Or is IT?

"God is a chariot" -- stated many places. "He flows throughout all, within all."
(There's that "he" again..)

It is true! God is a chariot!
God is in me, and in you;
it is in everything;
it makes everything;
it breaks everything;
it is.

You are,
for it flows in you and is a part of you.
And if you exude this piece of your soul,
it will be obvious that God is no he, nor a she,
but it is something inside, waiting to be shown.

It is something to be seen physically-- through action and care--through art and stare.
Anything imaginable, God is in it,
which if I look back at this text and think correctly, you are in it.

You are everything,
because you are a part of everything,
because you ARE God;
You are the creator of your world,
and the eyes of how you see it;
As am I.
So start acting like it,
because everything is an extension of your inner-self.

This is a thing that should not be looked over,
and should not be considered above you,
although it is a higher power,
it is a power within you, that you can achieve.
Nothing worth achieving is low;
you must rise up.

Be godly.

i only write in capital letters for a purpose
when my words are silent, i don't speak up
capitalization is symbolism for power

for cries and outbursts of dreams spread forth and shot down
because of the american dream

i only write in capital letters WHEN I WANT TO BE HEARD
to put forth an emphasis on my actions, to mask true emotions through my powerful speech

i want to write your name in capitals just so you know what you mean to me

(YOU)
(YOU)
(YOU)

YOU are ENOUGH

i will ban
          syntax
          grammar

i will banish
          sentences
          phrases
          clauses

i will evict
          capitalization

i will exile
          all punctuation

i will relegate all of these to the
          circular file of written expression

it is time
at long last
for words to
squirm and falter
but ultimately prevail
in their singular
              splendid
              glory

The Sage is short and compose of circles.
Flattened circles, not ovular.
A roundness that is not portly nor lean
Just round, simply circular, simply his shape.

The Sage speaks with contrasting sharpness,
A voice angular, particularly his laugh. Cacklingly
Angular. Unexpected laughs seem demonic.
But The Sage is wise and sometimes even holy.

The Sage talks about fuel to push young artists.
Graduate schools, challenges, gasoline to blaze and extinguish.
I consider the role of Serious Artist, capitalization so telling
And am curious if that is me, if it could ever be.

The Sage knows but wants me to search
He knows but isn’t telling
You’ll have to wait, the Sage says.
I’ll show you, soon, when you stop searching so hard.

When I want to write
And the words are churlish and
Sluggishly slow in coming -
And even when they come
They linger at the door-frame
And rub their soft cheeks
Against the painted grain -

I read in a special voice.
Sometimes it's the voice
Of my English teacher from
Junior class. We didn't get along,
But not a word passed her
Lips that wasn't as gilded and
Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf
On a chocolate-chili sundae.

Or the voice belongs to
Rives, who plucks meaning
Out of words like candy
Out of an Easter egg.
He savors every syllable
Like it's an annual treat
And lines them up neatly
In his throat like some kind
Of spoken-word songbird,

But the things I write are
Least likely to be read aloud
By Rives and my English teacher.
(And reading in their voices
Seems too proud.) So I pen
The last of the stragglers down
And clear the alien voices out
Of my own (often sore) throat.

I enjoy my words, wallow in
Phrases, and praise lines of
Alliteration about as often as
A soldier runs past shelter
Helter-skelter and takes his
Chances with unfriendly crosshairs.
My voice quavers, quivers, shakes,
And shivers when I read my work.

I find every letter and line
And nuance absurd, but
I keep myself in check. Editing is
A controlled demolition of
Punctuation and capitalization;
Sometimes the "submit"
Button is hard to hit after
Splaying one more page of
Myself into crisp computer print.

But I breathe and repeat
The words that are lodged
Under my ribcage like a
Stray bullet: "You are not
Superlative; you are not
Fantastic; you will not be
Famous; you will not be
Any better for a long time
And even then you may be
Terrible, unbearable, and
Infinitesimal,

But everyone is."

                                                            click

Inspired by the late British soldier, activist, and explorer Henry Worsley …

I wish for the ice.
Wish for it endless.
Blue and black and white and gleaming.
Hard ice sparkling under a cold distant Sun
that rises and falls for me,
for you.

I Fight against but welcome Wind.
Wish to be a Good Man standing, walking,
cold, hungry, miserable but feeling that burn,
that burn of the existence of my destiny for Survival,
because I know better now that Survival is the capitalization of "god."
I ponder my place in Evolution, and feel in my chest the sad presence of a lonesome Ghost,
Feel that out there somewhere is a point where light and life are frozen,
but melting in Sunlight into sweet fresh water I wish to drink.

To walk further then further then beyond my conception of "Further",
navigating into the lethal helicopter-less void.
Legs aching then swaying then robotic they swing,
a perfect instrument of Man's will to freedom
but still simply humble rambling limbs.

I wish for the ice.
Wish for it endless.
Blue and black and white and gleaming.
Hard ice sparkling under a cold distant Sun
that rises and falls for me,
for you.

I Fight against but welcome Wind.
Wish to be a Good Man standing, walking,
cold, hungry, miserable but feeling that burn,
that burn of the existence of my destiny for Survival,
because I know better now that Survival is the capitalization of "god."
I ponder my place in Evolution, and feel in my chest the sad presence of a lonesome Ghost,
Feel that out there somewhere is a point where light and life are frozen,
but melting in Sunlight into sweet fresh water I wish to drink.

To walk further then further then beyond my conception of "Further",
navigating into the lethal helicopter-less void.
Legs aching then swaying then robotic they swing,
a perfect instrument of Man's will to freedom
but still simply humble rambling limbs.

This is my small history, and I realize why men
rarely make history alone:
The loneliness is unbearable,
but I bear it alone in this endless land of cold empty canvas.

To be so alone and close to death is to know it no longer matters if you are human.

To know nothing beyond the dark howling night and the strange redness amongst the stars Tonight.
To welcome the light but not care.
To push to keep moving anyway, slipping, stepping, determined with the sole goal of moving forward regardless of fire, or food, or how the bird flies.

In the Wind
I hear the band playing.
I feel my eyes weeping.
I feel my feet leaping.

Skipping forward, "progress not perfection," but remembering too much sweating is deadly once you stop moving it can freeze your sweaty ***** solid, gotta to be careful, but always moving.

My God, to scan the sun on the horizon
see the young women on the beach in bikinis,
but to move your legs with them.

To dance with hallucinations.
To live as a victim,
but be the crime.

To be nimble and quick and sing to God's children.
To be righteous and strong in the winds of God's vengeance.

No song other than a dream of tomorrow's music.
Nothing to visualize or interpret.
No more worries for Death or Life.

No "Being"
just transparent,
Endless,
beginningless.
A line never drawn.
An infinite negative number without digits or decimals or logic or rhyme.

You can't fix your broken past but still the Wind moves you,
or so the naked ex-lover moans as she writes,
unseen in the green growing tall grass.
She hides but she beckons.

The jail cell door swings open with a unoiled hospital sound,
open to a world I must recreate on my own from another place.
That **** symphony of a thousand clicking locks keeps playing bad blues,
I must start playing with that Band, and jam the music slowly into a form I can reconcile with my Heart.

Elsewhere the Wind breaks the sad old trees and they fall and break the houses and break the people in them and the people break my concentration.

The tornado holds no sympathy but only releases it to the news channels.
Its an odd weapon,
a brutality,
a misdemeanor of the Divine.

Life is Suffering,
its Chaos,
its more meat for the animals,
it's the frailty of old age and
its the helplessness of newborn youth.
Its Beauty, and carnage, and ******, and work, and Love
and paying taxes.

And the stars pierce the midnight and find me,
they glance and they smile and they talk.

They say:
"You be grateful, young Man.
You walk."

                                                                  - March 2019, Siesta Key, FL

you are the color in between all of the other colors
you don't care about the spectrum, you are an entity
i don't love you to the moon and back, i love you more than all of the stars in the galaxy
i love the way you capture everything i've ever loved
you are darkness
you are light
you have depth
you are whole
but that doesn't mean you're perfect
you are unlike anything i've ever seen
you are magical
you are the feeling i got when my dad tucked me in at night
you are as sweet as the memory of me dancing and singing in the rain up and down the street i grew up on
you are beautiful
but that word is so cliché
it could never define you
you are something that i've dreamed of
you are like déjà vu
you aren't like the nightmares that follow me into the daylight
you are what holds out a hand and tells them to stop
you are the feeling of having ten blankets on you but still being comfortably cool
you are the nicest pillow i've ever laid my head upon
you are the reason my tears stop pouring
but sometimes you are the reason they pour
because you are so complex
and i long to understand you and fear i never truly will
because you are grey
you are everything and nothing
empty and full
the space in between
you're indescribable
so this poem with incomplete sentences and no capitalization
can't come close
to everything that you mean to me
you believe you are a spec of nothingness
and that people can walk by you and not remember you
but you're unforgettable
you're captivating
you're the emotion in my ellipses
you're... my favorite color

You name: Austin.
To you the definition of Austin is your title. What people call you. It has come to signify the person you are to yourself.
To Her, however (and I capitalize “Her” because important things should always be capitalized and someone who loves you as deeply as she does certainly deserves capitalization at the very least)
To Her “Austin” has a different definition.
To Her Austin means: A good person who respects Her.
Do you understand the rareness of that trait?
In today’s world a good person who even knows the word respect is unheard of.
And yet here you are.
And it is so magnificent
Just know this:
That makes YOU magnificent
Because She can honestly say
You respect her
In this world where values are built on the idea of: “Take what you can, the wholesome decent people will walk away empty handed”
For you to boldly brush aside all of that
And bravely live by honor and respect
It is admirable and it makes you a wonderful person
It is a feat far greater than any man who spends a thousand hours with his loved one
And does not respect Her
To Her Austin means: A smile brighter than the glistening starlight. The  type who can make anybody laugh no matter what the circumstances
A smile that she loves to see, that just makes her happy to lay eyes on.
That is so phenomenal that you possess such an ability to practically display sunshine with a simple grin. For your smile to make Her happy. To be something She loves about you.
You are so, so deserving of her love because you have been gifted with a very unique talent
It is extraordinarily uncommon
To be able to heal people
Through the beautiful thing we call laughter
You can make anybody laugh
And humor is not just a hobby or something to keep television interesting
It is an exquisite
Lovely thing
Somedays, people are in times or frames of mind
Where logic and reason can’t fight the emotions they are having
And surely, many times
It has been incredible, incredible YOU
That saved them from their own thoughts
Without you even knowing what a difference you have made
With your splendid gift
Of humor.
Humor is a spiritual healer and that is what you are
A spiritual healer
No wonder She loves you so much
To Her, Austin means: Someone who loves Her and who She loves endlessly
Look at the beautiful, beautiful soul of the woman who loves you
Look at Her and smile that smile She loves so much
Because She looks at you
And sees a brilliance you could never begin to understand
Yet somehow She sees it in you
And you are so, so worthy of Her love
Because love is one of those things
Not measured in time
Or minutes spent physically near each other
In fact
Love has nothing to do with physicality at all
Your bodies may not be near each other’s everyday
Maybe you don’t hold her hands in yours every second
But your heart and Hers are intertwined
You love one another
Love cannot be severed by the sharpest blade
Or poisoned by the most lethal of all venoms
Love defies all physicality
Nothing tangible can destroy it
So never ever compare your worthiness of Her love to the amount of moments you spend
Physically close to each other
It is your souls being close to each other
That makes your bond of love so unbreakable
So beautifully unbreakable
Even if your days are flooded
With work and hours buzzing with business
You FIND time you MAKE time to text Her
And that is such a marvelous sacrifice
Such a charming thing to do
So worthy of love
The fact that you CARE
Because in those moments that you DO talk
Over text messages, face to face or over the phone
A little eternity passes
And you may not be able to give Her all of your time
But to give Her your tiny eternities in between work and life’s prior commitments
Makes you so worthy of Her love
You need to see how deeply and endlessly She loves you
How your name carries thousands of definitions for Her
In Six little letters: Austin
Has come to mean so, so much to Her
Because you don’t need to give Her all of your time
You just need to give Her all of your soul and heart
And you do
So please smile your wonderful smile
Let your wonderful soul shine
Know that you are so precious and special to this one woman
Who has eyes only for you
Because you are WORTH it
And know that you are every color and shape of wonderful
To Her
:)

theres something so final about a period
which is as it should be

commas always get in the way
coming and going like anxious insects
trying to make themselves important
as they scatter over a page
already overrun with too many words

question marks have a slightly
swooping profile curve just above
a period
theyre kind of elegant
they remind me of a swan
with a regal attitude
i saw once on a pretty pond

parentheses embrace words like **** curves

and brackets are like steel gray bookends
fencing words in

exclamation points are so abrupt
and rude and angry
like an outburst
in a classroom
like fireworks
in a funeral parlor
dont mess with them
they mean business

hyphens dashes colons semicolons
apostrophes
and quotation marks
that surround what we say
and dont forget the ellipses that
take the place of
words we omit

sometimes i like to write stories and poems
with no punctuation no capitalization
no grammatical rationale whatsoever

dare i ask

how did i do

While watching Nick Jr.
At 3 AM,
I realized,
That I should comply,
the best word out there,
the one most up to date,
top of the line,
descriptor of how I view this,
that a person,
On that personal journey,
Has the ability to take things,
as they come,
The right to comply and accept,
subtle resistance,
sparks make in the dark,
or complain and argue,
With our fair lady Reality,
Our comfort zones snug in the couch,

Softening our undersides,
cradling our egos,
tingles of nostalgia tickle the nostrils,
A temptation of non-timelessness,
Themes have evolved,
While evolving the themes decreased,
Sensation dwindled,
Mankind found daily interaction difficult.

Rallying in treasured desert halls,
Painted absurd pink propaganda soliloquies,
Fill the hall,
Shut the door,
See it all come down,
The exhaustion,
The living nights,
Scarred Skies,
Makeshift holes of the soul,
Realign and try,
For the love of God; try,
Better that your tethers are secure,
It makes the construction workers,
Safe; all up there,
Cold as can be,
Shivering at 100° desolation,
moving like creme statues,
Up there,
That tie to the platform
Preserves the sonder,
That fact that,
Someone is up to what they are up to,
Paranoia shouts find out,
Passivity says let it be,
midsentence it all makes sense,
tat the net of being,
flies along the bleating radar,
the seismic adventures of man,
Trampolines collective consciousness,
Floating together in the void,
Finding our footholds,
our tethers,
they are our feathers,
ironically,
the bonds that
caress in segments,
the grand confusion of time,
the singing buffoons in the void,
the crazy madmen we all are,
daily psychosis pills,
Excrement recipient,
that moment to moment,
preservation of existence,
Seems everything is going to hell,
in a hand basket,
yet the cave blares within,
a source of nihilistic capitalization,
Banging infants in Foot Lockers,
It should outrage,
All that progress is accomplishing,
segregation,
The isle of a certain strain,
The mental stimulants are similar,
they age appropriately,
it is comparative,
that we all understand,
Complying,
Sizing up and making the gentle leap,
In the wake it wouldn't mind,
if the time was right,
when you're ready,
then the exchange may happen,
A future can be fathomed,
Braving the Unknown's womb,
Past and present collide,
They lie,
Side by side,
like tin soldiers in the mud,
Anguish,
What fortune lies on our sidewalks,
What can be said,
About O so crazy madmen,
As they contort in the Unknown,
What is the amount worthy,
Assessed in some lab,
Looking down the lens we'd assume,
Kerouac atoms abound,
the Samsara principle,
of all them principles and none,
because we fraternize,
we tempt the fates,
Gerald said,
We exist in the scripts,
we sing on the shows,
we don't accept or comply,
we should look around,
and see Others,
A renouncing of old habits,
Don't call me a Dadaist,
*******,
I'm into the  primitivism,
in respect to our attention span,
we have a grip on ourselves,
almost,
Fatalistically we are born on the,
crest of a wave,
eternally throttled by chaos,
when the wave sank its teeth,
into the sands of the immediate generation's side,
That reins are there,
Now more than ever,
I guess we are too far gone,
That's what those fanatic fatalists think.

Everything I write makes me sound self-important,
So I’ll write about something that’s not me.

she does not have a face.
she does not have a name.
I do not know what she looks like,
how her eyes refract morning light.
I do not know what her laugh sounds like,
or how she answers the phone.

I do not know what color her skin is.
I do not know how she will take her coffee.
I do not know if she will drink coffee at all.
I do not know if she moves her mouth when
she reads to herself.
does she know how to dance?
does she love to paint?

will she like roller coasters
and cartoons?
Whataburger and late night rendezvous?

will she like rhyming poetry as much as I do?
will she hate it, as much as you may?
I’ve abandoned all structure,
First, third, and second person.
What even is this?
It’s 1:16 am right now
And I’m tired
But ***** it
Let’s write down some more things
I don’t know about her.

What will she study?
Does she like science and math?
or is she a freak who likes history?
Will she understand my repulsion to Styrofoam?
from which side does she peel a banana?
does she sleep on her back or her side or her stomach?
How much do inconsistent capitalization patterns bother her?
Will she understand that I am marvelously hysterical?
And that no one should seriously use the word ‘marvelous’?

What color are her eyes?
What color is her toothbrush?
What color is her hair?
What color is her favorite shirt?
What is she thinking right now?
What is she doing right now?
I’ll ask her in 15 years.
Maybe she’ll remember.

How many hearts has she broken?
How many times has hers broke?
How many summer nights were spent outside looking out
At the limitless sky wondering if there are any stars left or if all the lights in the sky are now airplanes?

Does she think about me?
Is she asleep right now?
Does she live down the street?
Does she live across the country,
Or a few towns over?
What’s her first initial?
Does she believe in aliens
Or is she wrong?
Does she appreciate this poem’s organization?
This isn’t even a poem anymore and to call it that was offensive.
Sorry.
Goodbye poetry.
Get it?
Because it’s hello poetry but like, not.
Ha, I love myself.

.

Does she love herself?
Yes.
Yes she does.

The facade of happiness crashes down again like everything else ever built on lies.I fall down another metaphorical hole today,just like yesterday,just like that last time Fate ******* me over.if only depression was an equation I knew how to solve without a shrink and a calculator.suffient satisfaction for the lithe,hungry beast within me is as scarce as absolute trust.but this flood of 'if only's will drown my sanity(or whatever this mindset is) out.

late nights of Radiohead,bad capitalization,and venting have taken their toll.prose and verse trickle out of me a little smoother when in darkness,anyway.writing is so much like bleeding it scares me.nonetheless,I told myself I'd keep writing in third grade and I haven't stopped since.all humans bleed,it's natural.the most ******-up part,though, is our wanting to leave stains so not every trace of our existences are lost to the void.

Forget me lost here
I'm right behind the
forgotten soul survivor

                         you're the Truth
I'm the lie

sinking in the depths

what do I need
to crawl back up
my muscles tear, my body aches
                             the same button stops working overandoverandover&overagain; *******
i strain it all you're the light to my day the sugar to my tea
yet my tea is never sweet enough
bitter burning tongue tasting wallowing sadness ****
                                
             Simple words, the curse of my being
how powerful they seem
one affect over the other saying
~hello, I am death, destroyer of words
how courteous thou art, how brave, and wonderful

(I'm onehundredandten%ready, dear)

informing madness slowly softens me so I dare not respond
i forgot now did i, same capitalization as it ever was
I i I I I i i I love you, I love your idea, the picture the
bitter burning tongue tasting wallowing sadness ****
that's how I live and feel, it's not that bad
waiting it out, waiting it out
time's a bunch of different strands
notes played by Orpheus
come to me my love, where you go I go
staring at the water I don't
you're my own reflection to love
burning O song of the Sun
waiting it out, waiting it out
I love you, you love me
hopefully
waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting
you're the most beautiful girl in the world
that's a glorious fact
I'll keep waiting
waitingandwaitingwaiting
lying sleeping dreaming writing waiting waiting
blasphemy mouth of the Universe, tell me
why must I wait for her in eternal strands
waiting longer shorter faster slow down slow down
over and over again waiting

I'm the most patient man in the Universe.