The dust of confusion hangs heavy in the air
Obfuscating the vision with thick veil
Until strong wind comes to clear it away

resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions

translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw

crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression

drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille

depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols

making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe

relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?

increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation

lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes

We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.

Nothing would surprise him.
The beast in the jungle was what he saw--
Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . .

He fled the demons
of Manhattan
for fear they would devour
his inner ones
(the ones who wrote the books)
& silence the stifled screams
of his protagonists.

To Europe
like a wandering Jew--
WASP that he was--
but with the Jew's
outsider's hunger. . .

face pressed up
to the glass of ***
refusing every passion
but the passion to write
the words grew
more & more complex
& convoluted
until they utterly imprisoned him
in their fairytale brambles.

Language for me
is meant to be
a transparency,
clear water gleaming
under a covered bridge. . .
I love his spiritual sister
because she snatched clarity
from her murky history.

Tormented New Yorkers both,
but she journeyed
to the heart of light--
did he?

She took her friends on one last voyage,
through the isles of Greece
on a yacht chartered with her royalties--
a rich girl proud to be making her own money.

The light of the Middle Sea
was what she sought.
All denizens
of this demonic city caught
between pitch and black
long for the light.

But she found it
in a few of her books. . .
while Henry James
discovered
what he had probably
started with:
that beast, that jungle,
that solipsistic scream.

He did not join her
on that final cruise.
(He was on his own final cruise).
Did he want to?
I would wager yes.

I look back with love and sorrow
at them both--
dear teachers--
but she shines like Miss Liberty
to Emma Lazarus' hordes,
while he gazes within,
always, at his own
impenetrable jungle.

entering year 2000
rewinding vhs tape
installing napster client
anticipating victorious gore
bursting dot-com bubble
blocking tomorrow's nostalgia
commemorating festival tragedy
examining supersonic concorde
watching election coverage
recounting inconvenient truths
puzzling interface design
booing nuc-u-lar president

rising black monolith
editing non-linear encyclopedia
feeling inaugurally bushed
reliving century's dawn
unchanging state flag
processing royal massacre
escaping insane asylum
sensing impending collapse
perusing city guide
collapsing contemporary structures
initiating quixotic peacekeeping
ignoring conscription threats

entering year 2002
reporting unfortunate pearl
relaxing shotgun porch
exploding roadside bombs
addressing thousand followers
hugging financial meltdown
writing resembling skylines
shocking archipelagic bursts
processing theatrical disaster
tightening homeland security

entering year 2003
proliferating elegant telegnosis
rejecting freedom fries
blazing wartime trails
toppling dictatorial statue
unfurling "mission accomplished"
handling continental blackout
ejecting coronal masses

entering year 2004
flashing multiple sobriquets
populating dorm-roomy website
high-grossing aramaic movie
generating tunnel vision
rushing national anthem
parading goth athletes
letting games begin
accepting soviet passports
continuing obscure flumadiddle
lunar-eclipsing world series
two-terming republican regime
declining personality cult
glowing orange revolution
eroding periglacial drumlins
inundating lacustrine basins
exciting geomorphological processes
enduring tumultuous tsunami

entering year 2005
blasting "galvanize" repeatedly
unforgiving cyclonic scenario
printing controversial drawing
sketching cartoon prophet
overturning hurricane alphabet
rigging medal count
preparing new horizons
rejecting flash sites

entering year 2006
setting plutonian destination
synchronizing new horizons
sighting stellar foison
maintaining feudal system
emerging microblogging service
reading ancient tweets
rotating golden statue
mounting social debt
protesting planetary demotion
forecasting catastrophic recession
executing "innocent" dictator

entering year 2007
declining share prices
building ruby railroad
lifting presidential term-limits
perpetuating oil-rich dictatorships
falling interstate bridge
slugging giant bonds
clothing blackwater mercenaries
disappearing internet personalities
unforgiving writers strike

entering year 2008
stealing variable thunders
relaxing domain names
letting games continue
exploding sunrise propane
requesting birth certificate
electing another suit
disappointing orthodox republicans
microblogging maximal meltdown

entering year 2009
inaugurating new president
encountering bear markets
cackling risible laughter
dying pop king
deleting neolithic internet

entering year 2010
collapsing presidential palace
prospering cinematic avatar
pronouncing eyjafjallajökull effortlessly
"kettling riot police
flaming cop cruiser"
blasting text-based vuvuzelas
leaking diplomatic cables
fading pre-twitter memories
self-immolating street vendor

entering year 2011
"enervating nine-point quake
propagating harbor wave
inundating nuclear plant
irradiating unclear fates"
raging mid-eastern spring
throwing body asea
locating trojan asteroid
penetrating financial throughfare
resonating oral amplifier
blazing verdant material

entering year 2012
rising chubby dictator
gentrifying weird twitter
exploding next month
intriguing "fake" passport
proliferating single-hued avatars
surging sandy cyclone
inhabiting alternate universe
manipulating another election
rigging people's ballots
perpetuating manipulated world
fulfilling megalomaniac urges
surviving previous apocalypse
surviving another baktun

entering year 2013
descending rogue meteor
encoding festival weekend
obfuscating's very own
approving snow den
searching yaya island
soaking wet veld

entering year 2014
missing plane geometry?
annexing peninsular territory
printing powdered medication
forecasting meteoric boomtime
prevailing monochromatic identity
avoiding aviation accidents
determining auspicious date
revising deactivation plans

You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.

Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.

Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and ***-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.

Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--

Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.

The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--

Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--

Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.

The door opens.

submerged in a life with no todays
a submarine dive in dank water
a muck and a murk that can’t be shaken
awakening to a déjà vu
unviewed in an era or two or ten or when or
then but not now and never next
electrical fences building themselves
unyielding as we scale
flailingly failingly toward
a date and time and place indeterminable
subliminal signposts spray-painted by
anarchists railing against awareness
obscuring and obfuscating
translating into languages undocumented
concocted from alien metals and foreign shrieks
weaknesses in the armor show like
rusting bruises on the intangible
cruising through an imaginable maze
while memory like a rabid wolf bays
submerged in a life with no todays

The barren   landscape sends me shivers
Further enhanced by the total obliteration
The presence of ghosts still lingers
So many years after the detonation

All this desolation pictures
Like a scene from the apocalypse scriptures
A pale nuclear shadow projected eternally
The perpetual loss of harmony

A remnant showing us our absurdity
Was vaporised by the obfuscating bright
The ashen picture is the last goodbye
Relic of the tremendous light
My moods darken I want to cry

This is the last trace of a human being
a son of someone
prevented from further ageing
That from fate couldn’t run

Like a permanent echo of the disaster
a visual silent scream
like a photograph of a dreadful dream
a shout that sends a warning to us all


As we wish to forget how the balance is frail
It’s easy to disregard the detail
and be united by the same fate
that destruction at an even greater scale
it’s yet a threat  not out of date

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but they've yet been stripped of their flesh,
and I've let them loose in this small town
for a game of hide 'n' seek.

She returned a set of my pajamas, unwashed,
her intoxicating scent lingering on hooks in my closet
where her aroma constructs an illusion.

I bury my face in them,
feeling my damp cheeks pressed into her *******,
reaching down below where my hand grasps her posterior
where it takes a firm shape in the loose garments.

I dig into the scent until I go crazy;
I tell myself I'll wash them next week.

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but she's taken it on the road,
in a small town parading it down empty streets
where I can see it clearly,

her oblong sunglasses darkly obfuscating
what I perceive to be her pejorative gaze,
over a narrow ivory face,
sandy blonde hair flowing in the wind.

(I still feel, yes, that smooth pale face cupped within my trembling hands, that sandy hair tangled around my fingers reaching up the back of her neck, pressing her face more towards mine)

I look for the shallow dent
in her ubiquitous red minute two-door seater
on the passenger side, where she was gently T-*****
by a student driver practicing their three-point turn,
and the smiley-face lemon-scented air freshener
dangling from her rear-view mirror,
having lost its freshness years ago.

(I still see, yes, us in that hardware store parking lot,
in the closed evening hour,
sitting cramped in the passenger seat,
her knees on either side of me,
our shirts off and skin warm and sweaty, nervous,
trembling, trembling, lips aching and souls yearning--
where were we headed to again?)

I look for it so intensely,
I forgot my goal was to never see it again.

          Young love looking for little things in a small town.

For years I play this game of hide 'n' seek,
and part of me should realize
that at some point she got up from her hiding spot
and moved on with her life.

(and no, I won't look at her engagement photos,
nor the photos of her newborn child,
nor the Happy Anniversaries and the congratulatory sentiments--
I can see them without social media's derision)

I still scan the streets
like a vulture over roadkill,
yet I thought I was the one
engraved into the grainy streets
where she commutes over my remains.

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but I let them walk out of my life
so I can chase them all over town.

Getting progressively less aggressive yet
Regretting regressive Tendencies while
Obfuscating observations never rest at ease
Wherefore in the hell am I?
Introducing revolution of myself and higher
Notions of positivity, hope and resolution
Getting better at forgetting, and accountable Black Betty

Oh darling, keep me going on and going strong
Let me know and help us show the power in the now modality
Duality of reality, uncertain inevitability, love is the language spoken by the best one.
Every mess another lesson, every action an int(erv)ention
Required equilibrium, balancing of harmony.

Occupying other spaces, distant times of contemplation
Ragged lines dividing nations, abundant labels redundant reservations.

Becoming who we think we are exeunt what we believe
Every step towards a tepid order of a shorter quarter pounder to the ground
Taking one's self life as validity, intrepid sense of depth wrecked by anonymity
Tirelessly questioning, ticking box for poor & war decorum
Either tired or sick of fricking chrysalis, yet perpetual metamorphosis
Rampant maturation, semi millennial cycles of illumination. Falling floundering freedom of(f)light.

All day
He stands at the tree
Doesn't touch
And does not speak
Stains linger
That way all the onlookers
Know:
"This is his tree"
"This is where they"
"This is"
So while for the
Neighbors, friends,
There may as well still be
A body
Spinning up there
He comes again
And again
And again
To stand
Where the stool stood,
Looks up to the obfuscating canopy,
As He must have done,
Again
And again
As He twisted and twisted
For three spectator-days
At the rope-hugged branch up yonder
Before they cut him down
Before the crowd.

Both touch the grass heavily
Both are mute
And they don't touch.

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.

Dear Estranger,

the only boy who has called you father
is your buried best friends son;
Sorry but Secretly, sir I don’t think I would have wanted
you as my dad.
I was never the athletic athen or the sporty spartan
I was the kid who could create.
Create a world with words and word those worlds
into a willed waistband that held my reality up on the hips
of hypocrisy.
Although, I never could see
what you expected from me
because I tried to wrestle,
wrestle the writhing rapids
of emotion I now choose to hide.

Dear Estranger,

You choose to stay out late
Keeping the company of neatly lined papers
and that was a stab to our hearts, a ****** with a rapier.
I garishly grinned
grabbing at a grasp.
grasping your grip
a grip with a twist
or rather your twisted grip on reality.
I never could see
what you expected from me
because the lawn grew overnight
overtly obfuscating all the golf green
grass grinding I had completed
just to please you.

Dear Estranger

Your television shows are
brimming with bottles
sans ships, but full of ****
just like you I guess.
“We are what we eat”
but
“You are what you See”
and I hope that that mirrored mirage minimizes
revealing the rottenness
wrought on our innocence
I never could see
what you expected from me
because I tried to make a movie
filled full of wounded warriors, you collected my camera
and gave me **** sans soldier.

Dear Estranger,

When I was 7 years old you
chucked a block of cheese at my mother
when we should have been at chucky cheeses
enjoying the recess
of the life afforded to youth.
Where are the kids? 'Who cares” he carelessly
croaks
I never could see
what you expected from me
because i grew grumpy and grim
from despairing disapproval and
maybe just maybe thats why my sisters cite
superficial substantiation
on their lack of physical attraction

Dear Estranger,

the life of a rockstar
is the life of a shiny silver stone
set in a slimming silver ring.
Pretty to look at. Not much else.
Beauty is what you seek
but the shriek of your ugly soul
seeps through into our toxic home
Lullabied loathing lasts longer than you think
and is heard louder than they speak
I never could see
what you expected from me
because I spent time with celebrity
and celebrated there celibacy
of a live lived fully
and quite frankly
that life just doesn’t seem very fulfilling

Dear Estranger,

I can now understand
who’d stick around
when there is people to please
saying pleased to meet you
words filled with friendship
a necessary work trip
well let me tell you our ship has sailed
I am lost at sea and no one is out
looking for me and I wish I could just drown
but I still can’t see
what you expected from me
because the other boys built boats in boy scouts
with their dads,
While I stayed home building lego dreams
stuck in the fad of boys with a too busy dad

Dear Estranger,

Pictures this, framed photos floating
on the sides of white walls.
Full of a fake family that
feared their father
Strangers are dangers
and nothing is stranger
than an estranger
in this the mormon Mecca called mesa.
Yes I called you a danger
so would the slits on your daughters wrists
and the poems pouring out of your poor
sons lips.
I never could see
what you expected from me
because you never told me.
Christmas came and you left
my eyes were left bereft of tears and
my journal was stained red from the dead
I felt when my shoes wore out and your
feet dated dockers new from the box store
Mom sold her ring to a rock store
to pay the studios electric in may
may I suggest you man up
or get the hell out.

Sincerely, a ******* who found his father ******* around

The Dummocraps and RepubLIE-CONs
Are engaged in a devastating war.
The RepubLIE-CONs hate everyone
The Dummocraps hate decisions more.
While the RepubLIE-CONs are engaged
In selling away the public’s rights,
The Dummocraps fight among themselves
And bring confusion to the fight.

So, the RepubLIE-CONs don’t need
To bother tearing Dummocraps down,
They just stand back and watch while
Dummocraps knock each other around.
Any effort the Dummocraps try to make
Ends on a pathetically useless note
Because over half the Dummocraps
Don’t even bother to go and vote.

The RepubLIE-CONs, on the other hand
Have an insane, but vocal minority
That are paid very well to do as told
By an even smaller, rich minority.
So, a country that is mentally lazy
And generally stupid in the bargain,
Lets itself get tangled up in lies
Propaganda and obfuscating jargon.

It’s all really that easy, it seems
When you look at what is true.
The voters in this country feel
That voting is too hard a thing to do.
So, they sit on their ***** and then
Complain at every law they pass
That robs them of their place in life
And destroys all but the upper class.

What he knows to be her lamp,
Exhaled bronze light.  
Obsessively unflinching mid-range stare,
Front teeth pushed forward, from the placement of his tongue over the years.

A vague un-answer,
Obfuscating, leftward facing eyes complete with matching set of lips,
In an unusually high voice mentioning predictables

Dragging behind the boat.
Purple refracted nylon extra tensile-strength line.

Half mesh half polyester, with a carefully closed-door shave.
Couch ridden drone strike 3 floors due north.
Considering the symbolism of when I got my coat back from her room. Saved her the trouble of throwing it off her bed.

Forward through brick, laid algorithmically and FedExed in, he could have an answer but would have significantly less automobile.
Both first and last name lower case tonight and many others.  

Silent E Novocained.
An on-again off again lightbulb.  Colander as lamp-shade.

They salute the setting sun-
The invocation of eternity in a dark glass bottle
Colored in by the furious scribbling of a black marker
Always on the verge
Of empty;

To the dull cacophonous squeak that erupts from the tip of that thing,
Irate in its placid path towards obscurity,
Censoring the callous morning light from refracting
Into the chasms of some finitely empty infinitum
Otherwise dedicated as the blunder of nomenclature:

Reality.

But to the muted and forlorn residue of the aforementioned,
The fiery chill blazing down upon fair human hearts,
Only meek eyes and ears perceive You in Your squandered state,

Your quiet quintessence,

Your opaque perfection.

Shine on, though I beg!
For even this obfuscating cherubim
Is depraved,
And wicked,
And lacking substance
To combat they who stand aside from the narrow mouth of that empty bottle
Where emptiness becomes palpable while beauty has no form;

Shine!
Luxuriate the few and linger not on the fearful and ignorant,
Scintillate and commiserate with us,
With them,
With those you find and who find you--

Do not confuse yourself with
God!

For God is in the bottle

And God is the marker!

Confess your presence in our souls--give a name to what we cannot
So that when we wake we find no compartment for our passions, no boundaries of love-

Roaming freer than the dancing light made pale by that blasphemous credence of philosophy awry.

About past there are regrets
With the present we are entangled
Past is yet to arrive, yet, doubtful
Seeds of unharmonious thoughts
Deeply entrenched in our mind
Now, they have grown and flourish
Becoming weak in the constant shade
Obfuscating the light of awareness
Life, we interpret in darkness
Until we cut the branches of uncertainties
Uproot the negative thoughts
Embrace the light of truth and grace
To live and grow stronger with every step
Nurture the harmonious thoughts

It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.

The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity
and a tragedy. As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.

Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.

The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless

people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.

Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone or armor.

Whispers of death
   crawl through the protective cloud of smoke,
and pierce the worn armor
   built to protect all dreams and hope.
They funnel in their doubts,
   silencing the crow.
Whirlwind round and round,
   while obfuscating home

A quiet voice at first,
   like a stranger shouting fields away.
Yet still it steals the focus
   and turns the sharpest hues to gray.
There seems to be no plan.
   Crowned chaos rules each day.
One by one they come and go,
   but still the voices stay

They are masters of volume,
   calculating for the optimal strike,
like when they scream during sleep,
   keeping the children up through the night,
or softly during work time,
   counting all that isn’t right.
They reach out their hand,
   but it’s nothing more than a vice.

Now laughter’s no cure,
   but it sure can help the pain.
And if no one’s telling jokes,
   three tall bourbons will do the same,
No one ever wins this war,
   but they can be kept at bay.
Oh the fight to cling to sanity
   is enough to drive a man insane.

Evicting ideas must be done in earnest
For the vultures of radio-static thought will feast on anything
So purge! Purge your consciousness!
The tempest nears! brace yourselves
or be thrown into a sea of cognitive confusion!

vacuum up those pesky anxious fears
the dust-mites of uncertainty, crumbs of confusion
but never, ever open up that "Pandora's box" of a vacuum bag
the dust gets everywhere
–– I'm allergic

shove them in a bulletproof aquarium
maybe fog up the glass a little
obfuscating them behind a breath or two
they'll slither around in there
you can just make out their silhouettes if you tap the glass
careful
it makes them angry
trapped within their own misfortune

With or without them, time ticks to a new era
our darkness shall not cover laughter. hope.
overlap? possibly
like a kaleidoscope
simply deconstructing beautiful into a tsunami of color
making monotonous moments unique

a peculiar blend of all this world has to offer

Smalt sky smelted over running sky: swoop
down for me and switch (very lightly!) your blues.
(No dizzying aches, please, because of too much
hurled change, speeding spirant through my loops.
It would tunnel me, with its head, even more
abhorrently
in two.)

Okay, I’m—great!—upside down now, float splashing
with finned wings in cloud falls and snowy rapids!
Up above, before now I guess, was just a bedlam
like below, and below: just reflection of its head spun.
The running was glinting, mirrored tails shimmering
of wind fish. Believing them, I fed them, then laughed
under wet sun.

I am lying, truthfully. I am inside my house. There was
no sky or sea. Maybe somewhere, but not here. I think
of my love when I sit down. (I don’t really think
much anymore.) And the blues is a saying.
The dizzying aches I do have (It was a joke.)
and the hurled change I am is inside me making
me this.

My loops, me tunneled—that is no joke, that’s the
timelessly wrought result of extruding what hurts
from my sockets and chambers and lobes and pockets
and the given gifts to me I hated, never used, only
wished I could—I can’t—because I can never
pin me down. So they can’t be really
for me.

I am furiously disappearing in obfuscating, invisible,
paralyzed               paradoxical                paroxysms.
Such as: I am not here I am just here. Lying down
sometime. Today I think. On my bed. Napped or slept
or just wrapped. Barely awoken. And more gone.
Each day awake. Going.
More gone.

I go to sleep again, eventually
After hours of fitful tossing,
Unwilling to surrender
To the nightly unknowing.

Some nights bring forgetting of everything;
Self, days, events, time, life itself.
Others fill themselves up
With a sort of coin, of wavering moonlight
Seen through the haze of obfuscating dewfall.

Reflections broken free from the sea of self
Raise unobstructed to float,
Hanging in the cooling ether of dreamscapes
Where in the fog nameless dogs bark
And dark landscapes prevaricate.

Where clocks do not follow rules,
Where gravity sometimes suspends
Or history rewrites itself.
Judgments come down and are executed
Beyond the dignity of reason.

Nights pass slowly through a watery realm
Where nothing is concrete,
As we wade clumsily through clumps of time,
Skip through a children's maze of nonsense riddles.

And when the knowledge of being in a dream
Pierces sporadically, through the body's paralysis
We awaken, amazed to find
That we are simply ourselves again,

Then we stretch back out, into the other dimension,
Ready to dream some more lines;
Sample some more realities
Till morning awakens us with hands
Of impatient brightness.

And abstraction slinks away
To wait for the next evenings
Entertainment of amnesia.

Wasteful wallowing in a crumbling hollow dwelling
Obfuscating the obvious problems, scared from telling

A distracted dubious damnation,
I have craved temptation into
cramped every solitary sensation
and turned them to them sins, too.

So I fantasise, and rampantly
Agonise the logic in my mind
I dream of worlds without proportion
and engagements of moral absorption.
Til' I saturate my soul with images
of endless time and space.

In a stale solitary dimension
I weave tales of honorary mention
but forget their ascensions.

Broken wishes of impossible ambitions
With uncultural and isolated renditions
Of self-indulgent ordeals.

Brought upon by uncontrollable feels
and reeled beyond sense into the light
where my mind cannot be healed.

A slow eating evening
of a supine day,
obfuscating the vaulting dome
of the sky,
inviting the crickets
to take over the night.

I had a dream about the world
a barren of dust, a shattered reality
an affliction had spread, a curse too strong
like cobwebs woven across ancient trees.

Curious, I went to touch the soil
I felt the despair of each grain
the scent, nauseating, obfuscating
each breath chokes me, makes me insane.  

I found a cliff with no end in sight
I steeled my heart, I stifled my cry
to abandon misery, I knew what I had to do
eyes shut, I flew towards my dive.  

The pit in my stomach grew free from the bonds
pulling me, killing me, slowly from the inside
my courage and all my haughty demeanor crushed
falling like the one who couldn't glide.  

I awoke with a startle, a hand on my chest
my heart beating pumps of despair in my veins
I saw the cracks of the world exist on my skin
I know what they are, they are my shame.  

Rub! Scratch! Tear them off
I try to shed the layers I hate
Cover? Hide? No, Burn it all
I cannot escape the cages I create.  

I wait for time to cover my wounds
gently hiding them in innumerable scabs
then slowly I peel them off and bleed
I dissect myself on a desolate slab.

“If you're not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”
-Malcolm X

I once read “The history of the world
is but the biography of great men.”
I read those words slowly, then paused
so I could take them all in

Show me a great man
and I'll show you a history of lies
historians cleansing blood from hand
muting the truth, no matter how loud it cries

The biographies of the "great" are almost always
inked in the blood of martyrs and greater men
scarring temporal lobes, and obfuscating memory
the sword, falling prey to pen


"Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as ravens claws"
-Jim Morrison

you are a poem
you are of few
words, visible emotion
yet you are sweet
poignant
direct with your thoughts
you are a poem
in all of its
obfuscating metaphors
and timid lines
meandering through
whimsical dreams
of imperfection
you are a poem
soft, abrasive
holding my poisoned
veins in an eternal
embrace

moving always gather dust,
swirling plumes
stuck in tiny granules of sweat,
and tears. secreting pores
cl0gged with detritus
of past life stirred
in passage to a short
sharp future.

a shocking c0llection
of earth, keratin, and
electron sheen on me,
confusing
or submerging
or subverting
0r diverting,
obfuscating or
simply schmooing
in a l0osely trailing
tendril connecting fragment,
piece, & sticky speck.

i join more fl0aters
hidden off in forgotten
co0l corners of history.

How did I get to where I am
Only thru the senescence of life am I
Sensing nothing earthly at this time
My spirits instantaneous apprehension knows
Shadowed by flora, contained by earth, I lay down
Auras obstructed by man made
Satin and teak, what do they mean
Slowly rising, I sense light, aromas and movement
Invalid dogmas in retrospect , passing obliquely
Obfuscating life as it was
More light, I run before the wind
This is future, I'm free

a piece of you
is in every
letter
a momentary
stutter of an
amorous stupor
produces a rhythm
for me to flow
back into you

scratch poems onto
parchment with
ink and pen
or with my
fingers flirting furtively
across your skin

i carve them in
like calligraphy tattoos
and lay them to rest with
gentle kisses that
give you gooseflesh
and make you curl
your spine as
your eyes roll back
and you invoke
the divine  
that's just fine
because in this
polysyllabic string
of words and images
i am god

a pleasure of elation
growing
somewhere deep inside
bursts with
not-so-quiet
ecstasy so
come
under my spell
beguiled by my charms

what am i to do
if you're susceptible
to flattery that flushes
your skin like cherry blossoms
burgeoning in fertile fragility
can i be forgiven for
following my bliss in
iterations of thought
that might serve as
temporary kisses
touching the *****
palpitating in your breast
as i imagine laying down
to rest with you pressed
tight against my chest to
fight off the emptiness

if this tongue's simple rhyming
makes you blush
imagine how you'd quake
if you let it touch your lust

so give in to sin
when i knock on your door
don't be hesitant
lay anxiety by the wayside
open up
let me in

let your fingers slip beneath
the lace obfuscating your
forbidden fruit and pluck along
the strings to this tune
thinking how i'd savor the sweet
juices leaking from enflamed flesh
turning from pink to red to
soaking wet and saturated

i think thou doth protest too much

let your mouth go dry
as your breath catches in your throat
peel back the gauzy veil  
enter the most holy of holies
the sole authentic steeple
use your fingers to speak
in sign language
languid gestures of affection
come inside now don't be shy

bite back your tongue
hold on to your objections
this isn't some conjecture
or feigned misdirection

breathe
sharp
quick
light
just
let
go
i

think it would be best if you
forget about the fears and
latent thoughts that flow
and in this instance just let
go so you can explore
yourself the way
i wish i could every night

with lips pressed
indiscriminately
i'd climb the
mountains of your vertebrae
and find a home in the buxom valley
between the twin hilltops
of your chest
howling like a wolf as
i admire your waning
crescent moon

it's not too late to
disrupt the peace
that leeches
all our joy

in case you didn't notice
i'm just making this up
as i go along
does that turn you on

can i watch you
spontaneously combust
panting shaking wet
i can see your face as
you clench down
on your jaw and
bite back a soft groan
and try to run from
what you're feeling

but
love
fear is your
adversary
not me

don't fight me on this
gorgeous
i don't aim to be
misunderstood
the cadence of your
****** is generating a
fragrance i can taste
on my tongue
even from here
go numb

succumb

Retiring from reality, I am once more,
To close my doors and open what's another;
Fall into a very deep slumber,
Fall into a world where mine's all power.
You seem of a distant dream,
I think that's why I can't get you off my head.
Now, I play my tuneless hymn,
Now, I become what is already dead.
You are my rise, you are my fall.
You make me feel good then toss me on the floor.
Though I know you reached your toll,
I still hold you amidst reality's terror.
I know we can never be counted as one,
I know we can never be real,
So here I am, screaming with words,
Trying to tell you what I feel.
Although none I say seem relevant to you,
Losing this game seems more relevant, too,
Jactitating for nothing sounds fair to be true,
Obfuscating the fact that love is my waterloo,
None I say, is relevant, still,
But I know, my love is real;
Farewell, my love, though it's just a deal,
I hope I see you in my dream's reel.
See you in my dreams.

Engage, in deep conversation not just hollow pleasantries. I want to see what is deep inside of you, let your universe unfold. I am certain through intense dialogue we will peel back the dark mask you hide behind. You are more then your previous relationship. You are more then the binary politics of society and all their simple slogans, and obfuscating talking points, you are more then the religion and ancient texts you turn to to find meaning and morality. You are a set of unique experiences, in a unique vessel, in a unique time, and a unique space. You are transcendent flesh formed from the cosmos with consciousness. Please do not squander that gift.

They resist
and I respect this
social movement
connective bliss
of purposefulness

They agitate
and aggravate
but in this state
they perpetuate
their own intolerance

They volunteer
to make the sacrifice
but look down
on those
who do not try
to give every thing

They say
silence is violence
but I object
They do not
know or suspect
because they
never bothered to
look or listen to
the centuries
of suffering
I waded through
to find the glue
to bind us to
the deeper truth

They say
to do nothing
is to support
while they purport
to be moral magistrates
while looking down
on me

With venom in
their gleaming eyes
they reflect
the attitude
of those they despise
the other enemies
who are ill-informed
to storm the gates
of those who accept the hate
and perhaps
even celebrate
their own stupidity

But they
are not my enemies
Though they
frustrate me
with their
mindlessness
their sublimation
to their political
philosophical
and spiritual beliefs
I still love them
for they are my family
even though
they make me
want to bang my head
against the wall
till I fall
and have to crawl
off to die

You see
you are also judging
confusing
your own identity
obfuscating
while stretching
and skating
around your own
ill-fitting patriarchy
When you fill those pews
when you let
the church use you
submitting to
the found fathers
of the philosophy
you eschew
the one you
view askew
while not listening to
other minorities
who were oppressed

I do not march on
because like the strangers
you claim need to be unfriended
I am a prisoner of this system
of consumerism
this schism
between a better world
and the one we live in

And your ideal matriarchy
does not fulfill
the objective of
a good will
because I lived
in a world of pain
created by the mother figure
Sustained by
the other women
The angry math teacher
the confused lesbian
The frustrated poet
who objected
to my objection
of her religious indoctrination

I struggled to share the truth
directly and indirectly to you
While you walk feeling attacked
because your identity was attached
to certain fake realities

But just for the record
I am with those at Standing Rock
I am with the mothers and fathers
of the Black Lives matters
I am with the masters of the metal moms
who stand strong with their awesome *******
that no man will be allowed to grab
unless she permits this
I do resist this hate and violence
but you cannot equate silence with said violence

Despite my kind heart
I hit my steering wheel so hard
when Trump proclaimed
Most of those people were
professional protester
and his fellow jester
just repeated said claim
My knuckles bruised
almost bled
and I cried for a while
while I lied in bed
because I have been fighting
this battle inside
and outside of my head
for most of my life
and it took you all
this long to come along for the ride
but I will not demonize the confused
the betrayed, belittled, and abused
no matter how much you want them to
Not everyone can feel
exactly like you
Now my struggle has become
four pages to much
when all it breaks down to is
that I am still in love
with humanity’s hopeful nature
Even though it is still stumble
in confusion
on all sides of the issues

anger the vice
carnal and base

lovey dovey the gimmick
obfuscating and ardent

propagation the purpose
of our gardens of eden

and the vice of the gimmick
is normalized mental illness

diamonds and pearls
jealousy and hatred
marriage - divorce
attraction - repulsion

carnal and base

anger and love
hunting and *******
protecting and killing

carnal and base

and all from the same

feeding a hunger
with a purpose

carnal and base

our hallmarks of survival
they are not what they seem

not today
          (it's all roses)
manufactured and clean
     like a dream
                  (like commercial)