Life energy radiates within--
literally the energy of beings
exist within your veins;
hungry animals thirst within those capillaries.

The lungs that heave
are the muscular tissues of  little chickens--
tendons that tore to make you strong,
elongated strands of fat from each bite
made the skin around your lips.

Though the calcium of bones
was not used in this current cuisine--
blood was made into pudding
dessert maybe used to make hemoglobin.

We feast on flesh to create our own
same goes for the creatures that we eat
they mangle the essence of life
to satisfy their own longevity.

All must eat to survive,
remember with each bite
comes the sacrifice from the sky
it begins with the Sun,
and ends with the Earth.

An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.

People out here thinking  life ain't worth living
So they take a life.
I guess they find worth in killing
More worth in drug money
More worth in pride
I wonder how many folks died
Shot dead because of a  side eye
It don't make you a man because you ride..
For your crew
It don't make you a woman because you lay on your behind ...
For your boo
I don't love the streets but I love the people in them
Locked in a mindset can't find there way out of the system
Forget the street rules!
The G-code!
The hemoglobin soaked street code
I'm not that guy.
Father in law behind bars.
My dad shot yeah he the one that died.
I will only die for Christ's sake
The one that died for me when I was ***** as a used ****** on cracked asphalt.
I owe the streets nothing!
Yet I must to tell them about the blood of Christ.
Understand if your blood covers the streets it does nothing!
Just death ..pain..a open chest.. Mortician's and Funeral Homes
In the streets everybody stiff stuck  rigamortis

i saw you last night in my dream.
we held tattoo guns.
we wrote the definition of friendship on each others' back.
when i finished,
your back read 'a refuge from the world.
somewhere you don't have to think about painful things.'
when i looked in the mirror, my back read
'a version of intimacy with less lying.
a way to share bruises.
a shared blood bank.'
sometimes the way you speak
makes me think you're composing letters to someone else in your head.
sometimes i think you only approached me because
you like small birds -
robins and sparrows
and wrens.
i like attack dogs.
i try not to project that onto people.
you said your name was the product of shame.
you said every syllable was a lie.
when time changes every letter of your name to different variations of
"bare legs and
brick pyramids and
ball and socket joints"
you will tell me to pronounce each syllable anew -
someone should have told you
not to build your body from bricks
when you're standing on a fault line.
don't you know california's known for its earthquakes.
don't you know subduction zones aren't just metaphors for you
and your latest lover.
stand up.
get off the floor,
stop crying.
it's not my fault you chose to love somebody.
your knees are raw and the bruises sink deep.
you laid persian rugs over all your linoleum floors
and the rugburn on your lips pays testament to your dedication.
while i am with you
you fall to the floor and whisper.
you replay every word you said to them
and fashion better lines, -here,-
-i'll show you that i love you, my tongue's between your teeth, i trust you not to bite-
you say -listen to me, listen:-
-there's a hell. i know it.-
-let's go find it.-
i keep replying but you just kiss the carpet.
when i started smoking you said you were worried about my health.
funny how you only notice something's wrong when something starts to burn.
funny how you didn't notice my white knuckles when you spoke.
funny how you didn't notice when i stopped replying.
i stripped all the color from my hair last night
i meant to dye it the color of your eyes
to remind myself of your
good points,
remind myself why i once wanted to speak to you,
but you know,
i think achromatism suits me.
hair the color of mist and smog.
i never learned the difference between smoke and fog,
i keep trying to smother clouds.
on cold mornings i close my mouth,
cover my nose,
try to starve whatever it is burning inside of me .
i suppose you'd appreciate that,
in your mind,
fire is a synonym for death.
you ***** all the candles that i light.
when i put an ember in my mouth you say -what's wrong.-
-tell me,-
-it's not healthy-
-to keep all that smoke in your mouth.-
-you can tell me about anything.-
i wonder,
who told you that spreading a forest fire
helped it to die?
i wonder who told you sharing sadness was the only way to be intimate.
well here, let's share misery. let's spread it like an infection, like an std.
1. when i am alone in crowds,
i find myself searching for faces of people i despise
that i haven't seen in years.
somehow i want them there more than the people i love.
2. i am a background character.
my only line is, 'let's get out of here.'
3.  i wonder a lot how happy i could be
if i wasn't here to drag me down.
i wonder a lot how i would have grown up in a cleaner town.
would i still be terrified of safety?
4. the only constellation i recognize is orion.
the only constellation i recognize is a hunter,
a human killed by gods,
a man slaughtered for the jealousy of the brightest god.
i tried to learn others,
but they never stuck.
never seemed quite real.
5. in a catholic classroom they taught me that G. O. D.
loved the smell of burnt flesh.
on interstate 580 my father told me never trust
a smiling god.
6. epinephrine and endorphins. epinephrine and endorphins. epinephrine. epinephrine. epinephri
7. my mother told me i was sugar and stardust and i
bled for five years
to prove her wrong:
copper and hemoglobin
and chloride.
8.  every boy looks like family i've never met.
every girl looks like a better version of myself.
9. i collect memories of girls
waiting at bus stops at night,
alone.
heads between their knees,
hollow but not empty,
trying to stay steady.
bleach sloshing in excavated ribs.  
10. sometime in the last half-year,
i have learned to despise you.
i am an american firearm and you give me another bullet every time you make your presence known.
i am a hammerhead  shark.
you poured wax into my gills
and tried to leave your seal on me.
congratulations! congratulations. you left a mark on me. you made yourself more than a friend,
you made me hate you.
do you feel significant now? do you feel special.
you can see the ugly parts now, when i spit in your face i won't make it pretty.
-you don't have to hide from me.-
-i want to see what you don't show-
merry ******* christmas! time to make good on your claims,
hope you were truthful because here.
i brought you my gangrene. i unwrapped all the bandages just for you.
sorry it's not quite as pretty
as those carpets you laid over your cheap floors.
i'll be standing by your fireplace,
lighting every candle i can find,
illuminating my body from every angle.
hope intimacy is everything you imagined it'd be.

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.

Bones in the ashless fire
bright
from the growth of vitalic hands
from surpassing echo
of careless ground
letting all of the roads just
go
into the charging and dug-out
roads
as we walk in one body  
and the uncared for birds ate
with the cared for birds
lifting their heads up and down
in agreement
of shadow suns - sun’s shadow
the knuckled cocoons open
in the hemisphere’s grace  
that are not held back
by the dams that were fathers
to you
and the mothers eating their jammed crowns
of animalised peace
along with the ****
ha!
even they are cheered also, the hunters
of the field, arrows obliterating through eternity,
your heels creating, it
that song that tempers the cities reflection
returning mine
and season less unions inside,
desert storm, and warmed ice breathes
in toasts across seas
force open the laughing cage-

And the farm machine says:

“We will take more animals-
from you
tonight
we will
make you pay by the long tongue
of submissive crawl
and your livers
and liver brought
hum
by the hand-made knife
by the half-made, gesture

the horizons will laugh with boredom, at you  
pummelling dry, the mountains  
if you do not-

light!
LIGHT!
light...

(...//light.)”
...

throw ****** grunts like burping darts directly at the puddled lipped sky

run by, and through
the days of collapsing flesh
raining

Juggernauting mist!///

be unable to find sound

or sand hold

where the lights incept fog

and give it form,

be the crows in saliva
with no threat
as they fly by
between knife and bread
spewing cello grips
along the graffetied walls
of music
and moss burning teeth
in lines of paint  
into the secret wars
and charities
that nothing can touch
and the face at the end of that
brick’s
mind

is a welcome,
face

we walk by//////
sweeps that cannot
smell, themselves
at 5
a.m
fish shattering
by the entry
of our dive
into synapse blue - gulls bound to moon
the waves and the salt and ourselves
moments of dance
in conversation away from the roar
after the vermin
has roared
it’s last spittle
and has dispersed into low
figments
and the juice of that spittle
drapes over our shoulders
in curtainous glowing rocks

Come now junkerd star, trembling
gloats drooling with Cerberus' tears, through space
encountering unwashed books, and curving onyx lips
down hallow of easy river, of moor walk and gait
hares thump the ground of the fields, exchanging
the wilderness for sustenant flight, across it
up flow the silence as it reacts upon your gut
and sends sleep near lass and lad, back by a thousand hands of stars
into sewer skies of rats and eager swans,
growing from the dust of your gone fear,
the penultimate circles that cascade in the sleeplessness
of cigarette sounds and our waltzing vice
Hear Bound the stimulus! Of new sinewed blood
be the one trembling as the dwarf stars explode
into you, and our grips calm, sends them back
and are normal nights of coffeed jokes
sculpted from the clay of time
cascading outer vehicles driving along, the mocking hands glance,
and the hands of menace
ate artichokes
pealing plumes
and handing
one –
to you
the feet of your veins

pouring growth
of root
near mine
stopping only when

the roof top
is ripped clean//////////////

dry from every car, so that it settles
across naked architecture, giants in our hemoglobin
smile, the silhouettes, the wall, and the agonyless
streets, see our shadows standing to attention
devouring the suns toll-in the departure of our being

in the unwavering strikes of our dark hands upon the earth
that bring light to our iris, soaring,
It is this fortune that the soul gets to spend, only,
returning to the work, of life.

I gave blood today; I wanted to be a Good Samaritan, help those in need. My blood, after all, is healthy, pure. The thing is though, is that as I watched my life slowly ebb into the pint-sized plastic bag of rescue, I was imagining how lovely it would be for all of it to flow out, into a bag, into the bath, into the universe. To be empty, weightless, cold. As the blood pulsed out of my veins and my arm became weaker, I wished for my eyes to close and for my thoughts to slow down, for the discombobulate realm I call my life to slowly disappear or at least evolve into a breathtaking pasture of wispy freedom. Once my arm was emptied and the possible end was stopped, they told me - drink up, drink up, eat up, eat up - replenish the sugar and tiny hemoglobin cells that I so gracefully supplied. I took hold of the juice, and I took hold of the cookie, but once out of sight, I tossed them to the side. I wanted the feeling of faintness, dizziness, the insecurity of being caught in between two worlds. And as I sit here now with a muted mind and a slight headache, I am slightly pleased.

mark of cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.

up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.

and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.

1.
Princely I am, as Michigan loam,
as carefully turned mud,
as old, old dust––

my breaths are still and unresolved
and don’t dissolve in alcohol
like snakes or dead, bloated fish––

I am nothing monumental.

2.
Stuttered breaths lie in limp open circles around our feet,
hanging by threads of unmade promises––

symmetry was never my forte.
The bent nose,
the crooked lips,
the slow-ballooning wen where nitrogen bubbles––
my flesh is like untilled soil,
all raw and swollen with possibility.

3.
You asked me if it was probable
to find life on Mars
where the iron-leeched sand
crumbles like dried hemoglobin.

I don’t know about amino acids or genesis
or the first man of Dust,

much less mysteries of lovesickness, respiration,
really good ***––
We’re barren in different ways;

your dust comes from dreams, from heaven,
crimson and majestic
and dead as Olympus Mons

while I am like moon dust,
just as cold as your bone-dry lakes of carbon dioxide,
but paler, heavier,

and more remote.

We are only siblings with one thing
that connects us at birth is genetics
and chemical DNA
Whilst our spirit, soul and energy
are from worlds away
seperated by will and the cosmic fate
All through life we open up
to accept and forgive
to with truely live
We have our differences
even with or without the X's
Theres still a connectedness
that cant be easily suppressed
The hemoglobin blood tissue flow
is where our DNA grows
We share the droopy lid eyes
and the addictive traits
and personality lies
ankles and feet that cant
wieght or structuraly stand
I idolized you both so now
so now im alot like you both
and myself defined by my
own values, morals and oaths

The saddest day, it was yesterday.
Smoky sullen pushy congested lightless sky day.
Wrecked and weathered, gluey, obtuse and penned with
Melancholy and wanton desire. Wanting on and selling off

The Vampires and wretched thieves hibernating back in coach,
Seated in peacock-scoundrel dress. There's was the rudimentary
Yet pertinent foulness of childlike hatred, but they wore it under
Coarsely fitting suits to cover their hefty bags of ginormous fat.

Fatty ***** to scrutinize. Fatty ***** to wallow in the throes of
Dark fatty dementia.
Purses of alabaster filled with hemoglobin. Obfuscating zilch.
Scurvy on the arms, reptiles in their ears, and a million miles of
Stenchy, noisome, in glut. Wallowing, heavy and anti-professional.

Loff-less, un-catchy, unkempt, and in a clamor.
Boarish and obtrusive.
Gushy of anguish and the uncomfortable hide of rhino
Replaced for the swill excrement vetted porcine hocks of a
Kaleidoscope rich, aftermarket slug-pact for the bowels of
This century's egoes. Heavy on the cheeses, Cheetos, and Pathos.

In the hutch, a gaily brimming sunswept valley chimes
With the fruitful gaiety around the crowned Pantone TX1333 and Sienna heads that does keep. Homes are heavier, heaving the shrills.
Archaic muted cries of childhood, upsetted tummies serving at the Sighs of Lucifer. There are scoundrels here and in the underwear and in The water and under the water.

Frogs moo, chimney's weep, most other's Mother's have done true **** Jobs keeping their reared up to par with the others to avoid being Other'd. And our own language isn't being kept. It's undoing itself atop The bridges of mouths and the ridges of jawlines, and they have faded Swiftly, and no surrogate or custodial colloquialism has lived up to the Shadows and forethought of our greatest grandparents. And what has Your Jesus brought you except uncertainty, foul-play, and foul players And despondent and boarish chicas.

So now there you have this: brevity.
Another soft-tipped dactylic hand for undertaking.
By the end of days there will be the licking of butts,
Poor movies with Salma Hayek, and the lot of children's books
No children, not even these triplets will remember their fine names:

Tee, Bee, and Cee.
Crocus and sourdough lilies
Brimming over the nostril opera's of
These adopted gospels.
Only the ramparts of our literary apartheid and totally ******
Sexualness in kids and dults of all ages.

Mark of Cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.

up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.

and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.

i have
blood on my hands
in more ways than one
but when you cup
each of my palms in turn and
place in them the instruments
that you use to keep death at bay i am
grateful to be holding your
blood in my hands
as your husband steadies you against
the clanging of the train, the second
strip thirsting
after your lifeblood as parched
earth after rain
and for blood money returning

a number
as though the streams
coursing through your veins
were reducible to
so many pieces of silver.

Of course human blood is sweet!
How else could they get us to eat meat?
We are carnivorous by design, &
Any feeble gesture of Vegan defiance,
Is seen as a threat to the species.
Vegetarians are mocked, marginalized,
Or made vestigial.

Of course human blood is salty!
Oozing red, warm and syrupy.
I am lion-hearted Mufasa,
Swaggering ‘cross the savannah,
Licking savory hemoglobin off my jowls,
My *****, swinging in the breeze.

we are the children and we are not okay.

first is the child who dreams of flying away and seeing the world.
their hair is short and often wild and they alternate between fidgeting and serenity in the blink of an eye.
last wednesday, they wanted to hurl themselves off the vincent st thomas bridge so they could watch the port lights whizz by and boats cut across the dark, glassy water on the way down.

second is the child who dreams of a full kitchen and a house filled with books.
their cheeks are round and their eyes are big and they can spend hours sitting still and focused.
tonight, they wanted to be hit by a car so they wouldn’t have to finish the job themselves.

third is the child who dreams of people that love them and refuse to leave.
their eyes are the most brilliant blue you’ve ever seen and they carry themselves with a careful, learned grace.
last tuesday, they wanted to slice their arms open and bleed out on their bed, tainting the peter pan sheets with irony and hemoglobin.

fourth is the child who dreams of lazy days and warm beds and loving cats.
their body is bruised in a careless way and their shoulders are narrow and they only stop moving when they sleep.
last thursday, they wanted to purge their body of every ounce of food they had ingested and lock their bedroom door and cut off all contact with the outside world.

last is the child who ceased to dream.
their body is scarred and their bones weak and they haven’t moved in quite a while.
last friday, they tucked a gun under their chin, murmured a prayer with eyes turned heavenward, and yanked the trigger with a certain kind of finality that is only found at the end of books and at funerals.

poker face, deadpan
hemoglobin lips, body
gore, angel cake
(tastes just fine coming back up)
sins of the flesh, why
can’t i scour below the skin?

call me baby girl, make me
cry, i’m afraid to say it,
hit me, i want your attention,
harder, excoriated
before you, glimmering
*****, cherry scented and
bleeding.

bile, tabula rasa,
i know better, but
i’ve got a cavity to fill, sweet
heart, rotting
on the tile floor,
i leaned over, retched,
and trespassed
god’s will to be clean
again.

Words are like sharks’ teeth—
rows upon rows of them
sitting like pews in an empty cathedral—
the light playing through the stained-glass windows of the gill slits—
glinting through the busy, flitting motes
of plankton dust.

Words are like sharks’ teeth—
endlessly guarded,
but easily discarded,
flipping like coins in an Italian fountain—
sinking into the cerulean abyss
of the Adriatic Sea.

Words are like sharks’ teeth—
a fatal phalanx
oft dismembered,
seldom remembered
except as but an evolutionary assemblage—
a prehistoric assembly line.

O, but
words are like sharks’ teeth!

The edge takes,
the point drives home—
the carnal hunger of the gums
resonates throughout the jaw,
compelling the incisors
to test their power
against the defenseless tautness
of the prey’s flesh.

The eyes roll back,
the neck jerks.
The water fills with a crimson miasma—
a hemoglobin ecstasy—

a feeling of God
flowing through the machine.

Words are like sharks’ teeth.

I'm digging a knife
into my prosthetic limbs,
imploring my body for a reaction.
--like a prayer;
calling out for an
answer though one
is never expected--
There are these gashes
down my shin, in my mind
I see angry cuts that bleed
out, pouring sweet hemoglobin
onto the tile floor below, coagulating
into a beautiful scar.
It is only a vision; fantasy of the mind.
A quick look downward reveals
only chiseled tendrils of plastic.
Yet I'm still digging.
Knife after knife.
Limb after limb.
--first the left arm,
then the other,
both the legs, soon
up towards the torso--
The knives get larger
now they are serrated,
and sharpened to the death,
begging for a wince of pain,
a drop of blood
to quench that thirst.
Each **** holds new hope;
a magnificent anxiety.
Each knife holds a gleam
of excitement deep in the steel
that draws cursive across
my corpse.
Still, no spillage ensues,
naught a flinch from my tense
anticipating nerves.
But you, my new knife,
are quite exquisite.
Could I, perchance,
entreat you to gut me?
To slit me open?
Dig out my corpse, knife,
find me something worth hurting for.

here's the deal:

I love you. That is something and
that is doing something and

beings of my kind, men, woumbed or un,
are love enabled,
graced with whatever

cognitive and hormonal turbulence
reporting system
signals the truth, I love you
yet I've no
trite ryhme at
this time

love truth way of life
all one
alone

and now, here we are, dear reader.
learning what our minds do,

how might we do this better, this co
munication
mit hi-def meanings and
things
old secrety now archives
pointing
aitia cause accuse response to that
which is unknown abil-ifity

hop

this is where my God of the Bible put his foot down

as I wrote that down, a meteorite fell through
the plane of my point of view,

I noticed:
I do see all I see as scenes in movies enacted
originally

on frameworks of stories we let be true.

Thus one who chooses not to obey an urge
to pray for patience when patience thins,
never learns
this:
waiting is being in reality ification,

wait for it, reread, rereward (a cry to the rear guard)
Read. Comply. Reply. Fore
Read. Comply. Reply. Aft.

Hey, wee accuser imp, where y'bin, lad?
''''''''' (translate) Going to and fro on the face of th'earth
signaling for a runner
to run
with a well told, detailed, message thus
saving the sender, or re
quester, the gesture of shouting from the housetops.

reread,  Shout back and Back reread
the message moves, a runner come, pass it on.

You are new acquaintences to the person I am,
you know what you think you know,
and that works as a mirror works,

reflexitifative, you see. Some things are ideas.

Some ideas are new.
Few words are new
so, I thought we could add a fresh batch of the
old meanings for captive and idle words,

by deeming those once meant, mean, meant
words taken captive by lies and outlaw legends.
Those  are mined for redemption.
All words can hold a fine meaning.

Lost? Words once meant, mean dung.

***** giver. Queer. Gay. Are we five?
Give recrudesence some
relevance, re deem this a word children should know.
Wounds do re open raw as ere the miracle
hemoglobin and oxygen and fibrous proteins
manifest, on signal, damnear speed o'light,
to staunch the flow
where hatred

Stabbed me in my mind,
slew me;

yeah, mebbe, like if y'did in y's mind's
like
ye did it in y'heart. Bad, man, real bad,
Heart-
head-tension all twistednshit

Real, right? Keep on. We role-in. Anono, mos'o'us.
Got voice? Gotta ryhme?
Well, not althetime, that is criminal
crime in al
right
we won. This is the dance, afthshow
incrim-mental criminal be

haviour or havyer be and have as linked
words, that must not be what the first thought was. I struggle with behaving, having been.

{Footnote from etymonline.com crudely placed
exactly where my next step was
meant to be taken}
have (v.)
Old English habban "to own, possess; be subject to, experience,"
from Proto-Germanic *habejanan(source also of
Old Norse hafa,
Old Saxon hebbjan,
Old Frisian habba, German haben,
Gothic haban"to have"), from PIE root *kap- "to grasp."

Not related to Latin habere, despite similarity in form and sense;
the Latin cognate is capere "seize.

Sense of "possess, have at one's disposal"
(I have a book)
is a shift from older languages,
where the thing possessed was made the subject
and the possessor
took the dative case.

You know (as in Latin est mihi liber"
I have a book," literally "there is to me a book").
Everybody knows that.

Used as an auxiliary in Old English,
too
(especially to form present perfect tense);
the word's taken on more functions over time;
Modern English 
he had better would have been

  {Too dense sorry, but better is a good idea to have, if you can hold it.}

Old English him (dative) wære betere.

To have to for "must" (1570s)
is from sense of
"possess as a duty or thing to be done"
(Old English).
Phrase have a nice day 
as a salutation after a commercial transaction attested by 1970, American English. Now,
fifty years hence, have a nice day,
followed by thank you, then replied to
to add a layer of common courtesy,
where "you are welcome" played in1970,
"No prob"
now has that role, replacing "you are welcome" as welcome ceased making sense,
you notice.

Phrase have (noun), will (verb) is from 1954, originally from comedian Bob Hope, in the form Have tux, will travel; Hope described this as typical of vaudevillians' ads in "Variety," indicating a willingness and readiness to perform anywhere;
exemplar gratis,
"Have gun, will travel". On Craig's list.

Possess. Have. Same same, okeh.
Have idea. Idea have. Possess idea. Idea possess. What samesame?
Your behavior signals action,
so that Idea possess you. What to do?

Last time I tell. Ideas have men, not other way.
--Think new idea
-- Create new song, sing it, inside outside

Word.
I am the portal,
he who approaches Mot from Maya must
enter
here.

Other wise, he is not here. Simple. Love it.

For a little while.
No wish to be taken for fools, we, the
manifested sons,
watch,
are watched, targeted, it's been said.
We are watching, I say, we who see

and have alwise known at the gnostic level,

we are born to behave this way.
As luck might have it,
were luck a factor. But life's not fair.

The good guys win. Really win, as
opposed to
virtually win, as in a game.
This is ever. This is living.
This is what we have to do.
It takes practice. Old guys know how to
twist grammar into con
fessin', just in time.
---
maybe memes are angels,
awaiting recepeption, old man.

There are two moons,
the one I used to cut my wrist
and the one that followed me home,
bathing my blood in silver light,
its round-eyed innocence gone.
My skin glowed white, hemoglobin
starved, celestial, cementing
my place in the firmament,
so that the universe cried with me,
cratering all the worlds with its tears.

I cannot really it explain,
but I can give it
one helluva try.
It's a million (or more)
fuschia-pumpers,
the spilling of hemoglobin
& red corpuscles,
broken bones
bleached white,
lying in the sun.
And streams of blue
tumbling from
the duct-factory
& the silent
green fields.

I accepted the sky
with these small hands of mine

I was ignorant to the brutal, sleepless grind of a lifestyle:
My radioactive brain chews on the nerves behind my heavy eyes
Who want for nothing more than to close up shop for one moon.
My ribcage desperately tries to grow flowers every fall
but I am not as optimistic as it is.
My legs that dipped in lead like a chocolate covered strawberry;
Ugly gray rag dolls that I drag behind my weary body.
My mind that screams at me to hide in the strange recesses of my mind
like a child tap, tap, tapping on the fish tank
My blood is a mixture of fear and hemoglobin.

Despite the pressure of failure; the sky escaping me to kiss the ground
and crush my porcelain bones,

because the two lovers haven’t talked in a while.

the night sky and I watched in
silence as he lay there
hemmoraging to death on the
side of the highway
staring up into
that celestial witness
there was only one tiny
blip of light
too close to the city to
see any others
but he stared at that small
little light and saw salvation
in it's beady, off-white eye
'oh god oh god' he wailed
'save me if you ever saved
any of us'
and I stood there
careful to not ruin
my shoes in
the blood
and the police
arrived and the
emergency services
arrived and
all these other
lights crowded
and competed for
the vision of
this man
pumping hemoglobin
onto the concrete
but he stared into the eye
of god and he felt
destined for salvation
he felt peace amongst
the cold pavement and
white double lines that
held his scattered corpse
he died knowing where
he was going
and as his innards
got cold on the median
of southbound I-76
the American Airlines nonstop
from Atlanta got ready
for it's final descent

The light seems *****, second hand
Yet scores his eye with a purple brand
With no more ears to fall upon
Unheard is the voice of the hopeless one

Certainty replaced by doubt
His words are vacant, hollowed out
And cynical his lexicon
With a tarnished soul, the hopeless one

Hemoglobin understaffed
The blood bank in its overdraft
Prescription fed automaton
A neutral mask for the hopeless one

Wriggling infantile amoeba…
barely a bacterium,
adheres biomechanically
to passing hemoglobin,
introducing alien elements
and corrupting the hosts purity…
experiment completes
within 6 generational spans
and man stands –
foreign bodies infiltrate
meteor dust inhaled
joins broken genes
and imposes slight variations
on the double helix…
possibility explosion
exploiting the environment
granting the upright ape
voice and reason –
volcanic ash and the passing of Venus
universal suffering and pain
misshapen faces contort
gobbling petroleum based mana
from the nearby fauna
bottle-neck and inbreeding
nothing to feed on but the flesh of those past
5000 ****-sapiens
give rise to 7 billion lunatics
roaming lost and *******
on a little blue marble—

I long the lie of love that tells the truth tonight

The testament is usually in the pudding, but now the proof is in the mud

I'm hurting ,
So no wonder why I'm *****

I've been rolling around in the ooze all afternoon; since I heard the news

Maybe I wouldn't be so blue if I would have picked up on clues

That the lie of love is true

My true love lied to me,
Because her new love is surprisingly

Couldn't even dare remind her of me, nor would she recollect any average joe

gents cannot be gentle
jack cannot have her back
She elude from dude
Because every ******* was joking

Now how a cat like me suppose to land back on my feet, when felines is her hoping?

I'm not a hound anymore,
Though I can still smell the love that our bodies cook, and the hemoglobin we partook

I cannot believe; not even in my dreams, because I still go to sleep instantly waking up thinking how is it that I can make up?

But it ain't enough Mac in the world that can attract this girl

However, I take full responsibility for my lack of durability

We went astray about 48 months back, and it still effect my agility

But the psychology is hindering , so I am remembering how can you stretch your horizon with such great expansivity

I am skeptic of your security, considering that it is in the nature of anyone who is of femininity to react gently

What happened?
Don't you have muscle memory?

I never suspected you of this sort of mingling

I apologize if I have harsh opinions on these kind of atypical tendencies

I wish that you can understand my reasonings

Look if that's yo flavor then I respect your seasoning, I just hope that it's like Fall and not overall

But wait don't be annual, and even if it isn't me... I just want to remind you of what makes life substantial

Reproducing and evolution
Caused by interactions between the female's canal and the male's channel

...here, I'm handing you back your manual

Gender roles
Gender roll
Gender woes

Fish is the worlds problem
Fins and gills a and poisonous jelly
Resting in the crevices of their more vulnerable kiddy-make-cry
To slice at young flesh is exquisite
Knowing the scar you're leaving behind
Will vanish within hours
Yet
Will remain fire-hot and ******
For the rest if the kid's fish-hating life
It's a small pond they took you to
The deepest water beneath a lunky wood and metal bridge
E
Which creaked and groaned begging to give in
We say on that bridge, poisoned legs hanging and dangling
Looking at Aunt Terry coming up out of the water much too quickly
Gravity deciding it wasn't through yet with her swimming suit top
We laughed from emberassment
But even the rowdiest among us clammed up
Breathing harder and deeper than they had ever done before
On the cusp of puberty every single *****, heretofore shrunken and shriveled from the unfortunately cold water in that unnamed pond
Every flaccid, dripping **** , when the brain sent down the message concerning the incredible size and girth of Aunt Terry's ****
Ever little immature Ramma Lamma Ding **** got a fresh infusion of prime hemoglobin straight to the juju
All we knew to do was hide in bushes
Pretend we're taking a **** while in reality we were expending the last couple of minutes it took to coax out that tiny gelatinous goop.
We spit it out of our manhood, unconcerned with where it may have
Eventually fallen. It had lost it's novelty long before we hacked it

Terry was embarrassed, to be sure
She knew what the boys were doing
It didn't bother her at all
There was a time when they fought for it. As if were spoils of war
That delusion didn't last for very long

What could she do? Her swim shirt was ruined. She had to get out
They jerred her as she found her way to the door
On one side freedom, albeit bogged down worh mamy many secrets

This could be the last time anyway
Rumor around town is that the slaughterhouse bought the land and all it's water ways. They planned to use it as  a reservoir for newly killed swine within six months you would not have recognized the ole fishing hole
The hooks baited with frozen shrimp
Grown ups helping sons find minnows gone, ahh, long gone, like the best years of our lives
We stood up as one in order to survey
The carnage, carnage even at this early stage wasa harbinger of bad omens to come
In every inch of the pond, diluting it if possible,
Pig's blood swine blood
The rats that ran with the pigs
As if they too had been specifically sent to insure that enough blood was let into the swamp
Dead swine, harder than a hobby horse, eyes still open, hopin' there's been some mistake
A lack of regulations combined with forced apathy kept us from caring
Much about what e believed was an injustice . We were children. It was enough hell to see the clean waters replaced by pig blood, pig guts. offal, intestines and other items that remain inside the body for a very good reason

May you find streams and brooks
Lakes and. Oceans
Of baptizing water
May you remember with great fondness your toes playing in the sand
Remember, my children, how crystal clear and pristine were the waters
Good, well tended salt water for catfish
Not a pool full of crimson stench.
This is my childhood. Shouldn't someone have let me know a long time ago that you were planning on turning it into the slaughtered pig open grave
It can't be
It just can't be

(And yet, it is)

darling,
you're made of
stardust.
not to be scientific
but
the hemoglobin found
in your blood-
the only other place
its found,
is
in
stars

Spanish princess
Searching out her long lost prince
Got lost into a galaxy
Of a king of strange glint!!!!

This king may not be a prince
Though he's far enhanced as much more prominent
He worships her with bubbles
From the froth of her lips!!!

He giveth all to showeth her
Tis him who gives his soul
He crowns her with thanksgiving
He apaxe's her in gold!!!

He curves his humble knees
As for her he's much obeisant
Submits to her in hemoglobin
A pact of all allegiance!!!

He was scorned for her by his jester's
And the court of u.s.a
He plays the fool daily
To tack his love on poem page!!!

Though for her he loves being foolish
As for him she gives him meaning
If he lost her he shalt die
And his heart could not stop bleeding!!!

He's worried daily she shalt leave him
As ghastly that doth sound
If only princess of Spain knew,

Her king for her would be her muse!!!

He'd give up the poet title
And chattel to her every asking
He'd be a fool again
Just to show her love and soulful blessings!!!

Oh how you flood
hemoglobin blood

a consummate machine
until you meet my spleen

Initially you start
from my beating heart

arteries deliver
to brain, kidneys, and liver

smaller as it goes
capillaries next in flow

returning promptly through
veins of red and blue

to give the body breath
until it's final death

I am, highly outspoken,
and, overtly open,
wear my, heart on my sleeve,
where it's not, hard to get broken,
I love, live in the poem,
a life, full of much hope and,
'Love' in my hemoglobin, good emotions keep me going,
Don't take this life for granted, we're all granted special moments.

*I wish I could spread the word to the world,
   Love, be my slogan.

there is no good love
anymore
all these little treacheries
scabbed wounds
scar and bleed and
the love is lost
in the hemoglobin

there's no good love
anymore
the drink and the
drive leave you
****** and forgotten
on the side of the motel room
picking at the scabs again

there's no good love anymore
all these little treacheries
like needles in the arm
or bullets in the brain
the act is drawn out
and overplayed
the women are all torn up
and ******* and
thrown out
they sit in leg crossed
anger in the corners
bitter and apathetic

there is no good love
anymore
to **** is to ****
everyone's running away
from something
the act is drawn out
the treacheries are
bleeding us all dry
and then you're hung
up like the carcass
in the butcher's freezer

there's no good
love anymore
no good no good