capitals irk me.
parentheses are comfortable, like my love embraces me, like i slide letters into envelopes, or don't, rather.
uneven lines and fragmented line endings feel more accurate,
real, everything that is not posed or
staged, everything that keeps you
hanging on to the last syllabic
exhale.

i remember someone on this site a long time ago.
they would write unrelenting epic poems that
always made my fingertips tingle in that way
they do when you're surprised art made you
feel something again, you know?

i arrive back here tonight because i've been
doing a whole lotta feeling and far too little art
and i've stopped letting it surprise me.

i keep oversharing when people ask, "how are you?"

i keep wondering who i'm supposed to be at this point on this long path of becoming. i don't know, i've never liked the phrasing but it resounds so cleverly from forebrain to nervous system it's uncanny and unavoidable and ineffable. who am i am i am i am i am i ...

i want to make a map,
a cartography of memory,
charting the granite and
soil, marrow and moss,
river foam, abusers,
flower gardens, wild blackberries --
the purple dabbed away from those
soft parts that blackberries might stain

to wash deep berry blood off
in the public pool bathroom
where she first made you a novelty

to scrape darker
from under his fingernails
with bark from the tree she
made you hide behind

the same park you grew up in

a spot you always caught the sunset
a spot he caught you and the sun seemed always then to set

still haven't gone back

it's time to make a map

Seeking those lonely ones,
Every step watched, *dark shadows hidden,
Ritual of the **** *planned, prepared, precision,  
Is the key to the departing of life,
All will fear that moment,
Looking behind as well as in front,
Kill or be killed,
Is the reaction to that moment of a death,
Life is in their control,
Let the blood seep,
Every moment is a last lingering  breath,
Right now you realise your **time is up.

Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-

   Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.

Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;

Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.

It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.

Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-

These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.

In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.

She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.

She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.

Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but

When we see each other I am superman

Anybody literate can read and write.
But do they understand?
Can they see and feel the deeper meaning?
Do they hear the poets words?
Emote along with the writer?
Find a chord striking them within?
Gasp at the beauty in the imagery?
Hold their breath as the poet weaves magic?
Inhale the scent of sweat the poet gave?
Jump at the twists and turns?
Keen to learn the ending?
Laugh and cry along with the poet's words?
Mope at the end?
Not wanting to let the words go?
Opining their views, not the poet's.
Positing assumptions not the poet's.
Querying imagery, syntax, metaphors and similes.
Robbing the joy from the poet by making grand assumptions.
Seeking to emulate the greats, and join the canon.
Taking what they need from the words written down.
Utilising the poem as a learning tool.
Venerating  the poet and their work.
Words speaking to them from afar.
Xanthic coloured complexions, as they read into the night.
Yanking at the pages of the book.
Z**ealously impassioned by the poet's conclusion.

immortal is to die
it is
when arrives

(cleanly)

out of jerking
lances of
mysterious night

kisses gargantuanly slender

(as the petals of a poppy are slender)

meet furiously with knowing
and becomes unknowing

(faster than a lips become
nothings easily)

eeking from brief impossible slumber
the crisp whiteness of its noose

to hang by all men
instantly into dying forever

on a cold day, quickly turning into night, i labored in the forest, splitting logs for fire, to sustain me through the long winter nights.

looking at the sun, setting, on the horizon, i'd  have just enough light to make it back to my cabin. i cleaned my ax, started walking, into the cold dark forest, to my little cabin.

i'd stopped working, my body cooled, the cold seeped in, touching my skin, making me shiver, wishing for warmth of a long ago summer.

i walked, in silence, i never felt so alone, no sun in the sky, no singing birds, just a lifeless boreal forest in the cold of winter.

i felt forgotten, abandoned, buried in the earth, an emotional pain so intense, so deep, it makes grown men cry.

reaching the end of days, no family, no friends, eeking out a senseless existence, not knowing why, too old to work, too young to die, i plod along.

reaching my cabin as the night consumed the sky, the loneliness of winter overwhelmed me, enveloping my body, worse my mind, in the nihilism of why.

tears start to flow, as i opened the door, i wept then cried, as i entered the house, cold and dark, an echo of my life, no fire in the hearth, no food on the table, no wife to hold in my arms, to warm my body, my heart.

i light a fire, then my pipe, pour a glass, and sit in my chair, in front of the fire, staring into the flames, alive with warmth, my only companion, the only reason, i am still alive.

Part 1.
Two stories warn sojourners away.

One claims it is a lie,
the other says that's true.

Loyal opposing view,
legally bound by noblesse oblige
and the ever with us, poor, survivors;

we carry on, wayward, in truth, living.

Outlaw and outcast, indentured
deportee, pioneer, settler
war-bred ordinary offspring,
reared rough
to be ready,
armed and ready,

"Big Iron on his hip" gunslinger ready.
Will to **** bred in, warrior stock ready.

The imaginary last days prophecy,
presented to me, sincerely,
sorry, hate to say it, but
you know you do not know these are
my grandchildren's last days, so
do not lie to them, if you cannot lie
to me and walk away thinking I believe
you.
- and ****** if the fool did not begin
- to preach, claim'that his call to us all.

Part 2.
So, quickly does the day arrive, blink.
You are old, and unfinished, incomplete.

Yet, your use of faith by reason is questioned.
Yet, your use of reason by faith is not.
aha
Aitia, we go back aways.
So, scatter-brained and indecisive
as to whether any remedy is worth the umph
to aim and follow through, the old man sighs.

So, squint-eye, slow-breathe, squeeze…

Richard Corey quiet desperation,
Freddie Nietzsche poor luck with the ladies,
Peace, be still.
Let loose, let go,  
confess to believing inspirations arrive on time.
Live now, pay later?
NO no no, now,
and ever
after, the power needed
to fill a cistern
to overflowing, let it rain,
is in the understanding wisdom brings,
for your use in getting the joke.
Right use, mind full, swept away asgone.
This is water. Fluid reality, specifically yours.
Zeus, Epimenides said, and Paul quoted,
in his Unknown God message, totally
in agreement, the entity
we describe as God, the way and life,
is this truth in which we live and breathe,
and have our being.

Part 3.
Information asymmetry

Stacked deck, loaded dice
- let this mind be in you -
Living stories told to hold us safe,
anchored on sound reason, solid

ever present memory, reminding us,
we, the raw material for future victory.

Fitting this military mind, reminding each
of others lost in past wars to end war,
and wars to secure trade
and wars to reset status quo, for a minute.

Then the spirit inspired to take and claim
beholder rights,
peace given to be taken as granted,
let it come upon this mindtimespace.
Beauty or the beast, attention paid
hook, look
beholds a prophet, professing ancient wit,
"hey, spirit in aspiration and inspiration,
prepare to meet thy maker, conspiring,
to settle the hot and cold front clashing
thunderous
grunts and groans,… Activa hits the gut.

Part 4.
Old,
old man,
old patterns matching

lining up to be one line atop
another
ever along the edge of both sides
-cave wall reality
flat
flat as Texas when the dust rises
reminding old wombed men of
flattering floral print flour sacks sewn

into everyday dresses nobody wore
to church.

Ever fills never with knowledge,
used to stretch the whole known
bubble of we, this observable realm
of ever changing never
remaining unchanging
while ever expands, changing
being the honest true umph
to now being after before,
morph into this moment,
in my future, you smile.

Commas cause breezes.
I rub my eyes, ideally virally dry

Part 5.
Jah,jah, joke's on me… I know, it's light.
Old man me, says he ain't poor,
he is dependent, and thus
depends,
swings as pendulum do, to and fro.

Test my best reaction time,
draw! Hour after hour, gain the fame,
- expertise
fastest cut, softest touch, listen, is it true?
Old knowns, trusted sources, bow before
the internetwork
of faithful textual search engines.
Fact checking. Pre-defining heresy, as
one such as I say the voice of truth, I hear

as may all actual others thinking thus old
yet, never ever dying ideas that ease,

Fret not. Perfected praise, from the child
in my son, speaking out, from my realm
of perfectly good reason to think we share
mindtimespace and often think together,
unwittingly, i.e. un with knowing how ness.

Lying saints, deceived disciples, cry heresy, blaming
God for all discrepancy
in the ever ready sponsoring
of the innocent and despondent.

Enter brown Franciscans, little grey Dominics,
flying nuns, and holy terror inquisitive tradition,
grace is not free, i.e., Jesus failed.

That's right, so, we had to fix the fools who said
truth known makes free, non free, oath bound minds, every child must pledge actual child
faith wise under God, as in, so, help me,
God is real in any American model child faith.
It don't matter
if every uttered word,
ever swept into a storm
of stories living long, longing
to be told
there's that temptation,
to be led away from,
rise on your own version
of the same truth told,
as all men do, we lie
say we deny the flesh and
feed not the pet lie, oath bound, we do.
We must, when we agree our bubble
becomes all the truth we feel kin'ly so's
to imagine Jesus did not finish destroying
the useless boogie men and witchery wombed men, evil manifested as war's own reason,
first child of pride, father's anointing oil, son.

Cast away your anxious mind, take a line, hold on.

Chreia, as you may know, say things intended to teach.

The man with a grasp on the simple why, why, why
did god make man?

To survive the last days. Ok. To reach ever,
after what? Now,
right. So, immediately…ever after

Feelin' right ghine, noghucking way, but win
just once

Part 6.
Value first.
Worth next, time to attend to price.
What's a unit of human bemusing worth?
Whole thought thread assistance
isisting is isting being in and out at once.
Insisting a will to stand, corrected.
existing yet-i
The authorial reality POV, me
first person to the second I involved

ready reader reading inky slow, each
sigil sign if-if-fine lining the tray,

a dust about a carbon atom thick, taking
form as the other shoe drops, you know.

Tryumphant self insured, we got spares.
ekdotos "published,"
from ek- "out" (see ex-) + didonai "to give"

EEKING OUT A LIVING! that's it.

The first hit. Nothing ever changes,
and where we remain, goes on, that's all


-- Part 7.
Rules for ryhmes crimes and times
evolve along a central point,
once made,

clearly to be seen right through

you imagine, there are more of me,
more of my kind, lacking proof,
have will, may travel, no guns
or other forms of self defense work

in the realm of words, authorized
tele-real, to feel tomorrow from today,

if it all works out this way, one day you
read this line and think,

what it is ain't what a reader thinks,
and the first reader readily agrees, so, what?

Slide passed past outsider angst,
slip into the answer to my accepted
prayer, to be led away from needless leaps,
and delivered from useless endeavors,

given peace that functions as fire does,
a little

-- Part 8.

Provocation --
Authority to prophesy,
it is true,
      there is a lying spirit,
learn-ed prophets study under
-- here there afterrrr
learning to rationalize, y'heah
to call the Bible, any version,
or any locked down revelation
backed by kings and priests,
hear ye
holy secrets only saints learn,
routes out of any hell
aha
our kind stand before kings,
we never once grovel to stand
we must, we exist in this as like
National governing entities,
under girded by ontology myths,

ordained by the triumphant one god.

Opposed by the Manichean Heresy,
made use of after all, as fearsome
spiritual weapon,
with which to defend the story churches are.

I sneeze a *** of gnosisnot, it's viral, just
a cold
hard fact, as the old point finder found,
chreia aitia and I and little-i- as inspirations

wisht you a merry life after christ mas was
announced

Peace, on this
Eretz, right ritzy here, the ancientssss life pod,
we developed from, if creative evolution
is not a local solution yet, just wait, let us
as we say in this realm of free association,
breathe, and let patience have her perfecting
function.

Ai, on the battle field, calling all three medics,
Christ, it is as if

Easter, is a season, some times, some places
always perfect outside being in weather,
where I would go, if this were heaven,

and from here, I laugh, when you learn
I learned, yesterday, to invest mystery

Part 9.

Wiseassenine Netflix Dylan grin,

"But there is nothing, really,
nothing to turn-off."

Really, I say, I shared my dreams,
made all my portals open,

tell me more, mister wizard,
when was war your best work?
when you came to bring this sword?
-- imaginations exalting themselves,
-- as corporate monstors are wont to do.

There were a few,
inbetweeners, unstable
in all their ways, accepted
as right by virtue of being self
evidently
standing upright after all's been
said and done,
judgement begun
in the area where Jesus,
has been known to reside,
with his father, since ever,
you imagined it true as it is.

Uniquely your house of God,
find all the words you ever condemned with
and redeem the roughest ghucking foul spells
full of filthy wordcontainers of filthy thoughts,

as are hidden in the deepest recesses under
the vates, come, listen, to the story
'bout a man named Joe Bob,
who's yer uncle, back aways.

Part of what makes you, soul wise

unique to the same degree,
and often more unique
due to fewer shared
chins and noses and the like,
family spirit and image, like,
like, like, like, like, we all
think like
each other thinks,
in the internet common place
attention based economy,
your time paid as attention
to me,
extremely indirectly,
so subtle when I say a million thanks,
you feel the briefest imaginable ASMR.

Kinda, subtle clinch,
nah, nothing, eh.

I am suspended with grief
Wrought beaten
Placed about the coals
Endothermic crimson coalescence

Ferrous singularity
Tempered ingots impervious
An extension of god's arm
Sledging **** showers
Compacting crash lashings
Descalling with cold fire

Not shaped but contorted
Deep sloping concavities
Who's smooth walls actuate with convections
Apexes so thin
Whipping winds would make holes of them

Quench after quench
No closer a semblance

Extruded from the stone
Womb like enclosure

My last suitable home
Surrounded by my piers

Eeking a creep
Seeping into a mold
Ardently effervescent with aptitude smoldering
Akin to the gorgeous and gaudy
Gold, diamond, and pearl
All are flawed in the raw

A perforated structure
Riddled with gaseous pockets of base desires
Rendering a slugs mass
Insignificant as deadly
Miniscule as harmful

Eliciting a bold reenactment

A raven haired imp
Rebellious heralding divine
Angelic crown
Ringlets of white and blue
Peeking fontanel
Adorned with a rose colored center

Breathlessly pleading for impact
Contact
Of any sort
The instant where you feel the most alive
Ironically, you unwittingly find.......

You never were

I can't find
why I'm here

in my cereal
or

in my book
my tv
my mutts

my scribbling
singing
saying
what  you should do

which pays
the bills
hmmph

no reason
i suspect
just to see
why we
are the same

just to see

just to see
what is in me

thee is no
different

than a lie
on a thursday
in february
eeking out


Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

the city is alive
on every street
on every corner
on every person's breath
from the ghettos to the graveyards
a host of martyred memories  pave the way
they’re getting high at the gates of city hall
the cannabis heroes
******* their way
through contagious clouds of euphoria
and grappa handshakes
the dream elite smatter down broadway
steeped in the radical
a sallow skinned man thumps his bible
while **** jesus rages from his forked tongue
long legged honeys in tight shirts
and short skirts
saunter down sidewalks
like cosmopolitan documentations of grace
busy walkways garrulous
with nicotine stains and hard-ons
engender a throng of philosophizing junkies
who spit a material language from rooftops
that echoes off an expanse
between austerity and madness
cosmic layers of protoplasm
and pornographic revelations
fashion gestalt ****** and love parades
a vast dream machinery
of wet pulsating components births
a jamboree of internecine warriors
who drip like mercury
through time and space
etching out their own evolution
poetry readings in coffee shops
tai chi masters and rock n roll slaves
punk rock chicks in fishnet stockings
and combat boots
hang out in doorways dancing like fools
a half-baked guitar player in a train station
screaming for a fix
a whole lost battalion of  nobody’s
sniffing through the gutters
eeking out their cause
and through it all
I sit watch groove and know
RIGHT NOW
WE ARE ALL ALIVE!