I’m talking to you
in my head

been cultivating this shyness
since I was three years old

talking to inanimate objects

painted smiles, rubber-skinned
metal frames
turning wheels

the family minivan kept me company
as mountains rose and fell
like held breaths
let go.
playing games with pregnant raindrops
rolling down the glass
obsessed with the shark’s fin triangle
the wipers could not
reach.

I’m obsessing over seeing you.

always trying to be invisible
your eyes beginning to skim past I,

they didn’t used too.

“The voices that once spoke love
but did not mean love.”
the withered rose living
in the trash,
abandoned friends in the attic
forgotten songs
unfinished books

I am the forgotten
I am the abandoned
I am the left behind

cobweb-and-cotton-dust-collector
the silence connoisseur
I wear loneliness like an unwashed favorite shirt

If I die
Will you read this?
Does anyone else think such things
or is Tonio Kroger my only brother?

I am Kafka’s cockroach,
everyone is waiting for me to die
or to change into what you want me to be.

my name will not be in the history books
by the time my children’s children will have children
I am no one.

Everything fades in this world
like whiteboard-marker on acetate lives.

Desolate corners and garbage
tell stories
art is vandalism, vandalism is art.
and people wear diamonds but they are worth nothing.
and babies inherit their father’s eyes.

I am not yours.

You are not mine.
Isn’t ownership objectification?
If a man owns a clock
does the clock own the man?

Let’s be
money and greed
or
greed and suffering.
one cannot survive
without…

Let’s be
the mismatched pyramids
of wealth and population
form a parallelogram
like bricks on an unstable wall
never falling down.

and so to infinity
if things pan out
it'll be the end
of me.

*** you Bonanza
I'm on the verandah
with a spiced drink

you thought
I think
*** you

cute eh?

but it's melodrama in the
panorama
the doctor tells me

'he would wouldn't he'
(and him never knowing the
Christine that I did)

About this time I'm high
or I was
time gone by

the genie is looking after me
thinks he
as he balances on the edge
of the World.

Atlas
kiss my ***
I'm calling you out.

Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.

But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.

Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals

bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises

and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.

Think outside the quadrilateral parallelogram,
Enough of this whinese spam,
I stopped fighting my inner demons,
Now we're on the same side---he mans!

We live in the sunshine of our broken loves,
Where window curtains flow like pouring water from the aqueducts.

Sunlight is the memory of an old world, and we are just
Watchmakers who labor at the trumpets of time
As if to blow from the mouthpiece and unwind
The second hands and derelict hours of our luminous grief.
So too shines the scintilla of frost that covers the ancient wheat,
Snow falls like the listenings of lovers in the dark, and we are just
Cartographers of snowflakes, mapmakers of frozen eyes,
To zone the parallelogram of her strands of hair across the sky.

These and these and these
Were never ours.

I woke up at angles with you
---a parallelogram, opposite but equal,
my thoughts in constant rotating view
---a diagram, showing us where
our homes are laid to rest,
where streets became dead spiders
caught in their own webs.

If we are in transit via tunnel,
aqueduct, or escalator,
it might be cinema.

If we lose atlas in the worship of light,
it might be cinema.

But I can't find you here;
here, where they used to build ships
from sand and steam
and science fiction;
where they used to design
buildings so as to create
a dissonant and mournful
whistling sound when wind
blew through them
---ostentatious things;
dead people’s things.

Through walls and underneath concrete, dug so deeply
into the wide plains
and withered, gnarled tree roots
of an agonizer's conurbation,
is a space halfway to the zenith,
charting the prescribed power
of in-betweenness.

Never again will we draw meaning from
our proximity to one another.

Bare shoulder,
Kingdom of giggles.
my love grows nobler,
with each caressing nibble.

Coalescing, subterranean dimensions.
Expressing, my loving ascension.

Lips of affection,
my heart is stuck in a parallelogram of contention.
lost in reverie, no hope left for me.

I am one hundred thousand water droplets
Leaning fast on the oxygen like daylight over the cemetery.
I am that very light that forms parallelograms
In the sun dial of your bare white room in the rail town.
I am the child that falls and does not break anything;
I am the child that falls and gets hit by the train in Barcelona.
I was never yours.
I am your reflection in the back of a fish refracted beneath your lance
Ready to dart away. I am in the air of the prison vents
And in the vents of the court room just before that
And I precipitate within the dew on the monuments years later.
I am the parallelogram of light that falls
On the empty side of your bed after the war.
The same that forms infinite trapezoids of myself as the days wear on
And draws all over your walls in the evening and morning light,
The same that encapsulates the motes of dust that are not mine but yours.
Unfortunately you will have to understand that I am no more
And strangely so, I never was.

Sitting on the bench, hontoni arigato and hakagawa bows
Brushing my hair, thankful for a different language
Touching my knees, thank you errantly erroneously
Sit and gardens stare
Wildflowers in two words
Twos often wonder what was the word
Parallelogram vans wish they could be sentences
Pass me with the deans
Two summers bravery Illmatic plays
Slavery washed on me and flowed words with wabi-sabi
Ignorantly searching for simplicity, and intercepting
Lugging learned that he was sober and insightful
Things change inciting when he says I love you, but, I lost Arizona, leaving with LA pallbearers speaking in hymns for the lost weekend
When the two words, change to three words
And the different hangovers for different times
For the lively souls, rap still pays a visit to the nation that held millions, front and back
There lies a line of shining boundaries on the war that fire
Moving like a lava lamp
Back again, frontal lobe pulsates those ups and downs
Delightful lively and where did I lose my shine, and the fire of eyes flickers with the midnight spoon of flickering night streets
Uh soon, **** is a disease masking the ability to change
Politics is where greed wears the mask of morality
But, **** man the less I know them better, right
in the circus of an ersatz clown, as the frugal fire of the murders of the shining and the power of music, burning your conviction in my heart
Dying with the fires of hell, anecdotes of simple fools who can understand simple things
Fools are the wise men when they learn to sharpen their knives
Leave themselves in the sharp mouth of gorillas in the lava iridescent friends, grins writing your heart, your light, your life like a monolith
I miss your thoughts and knowing, and adding what's my own
What can I add to New York state of Mind, does the midnight strike the good night, and ask it to be gentle
As morning cup of tea of burning brilliance of dull months of April under the arid love, that's a moral desert I cannot stop, I'm on the road of life, the battered suitcases catch the candor of deserted times under the train, had it told me you'd to leave the intrigue of the speakeasies, with your French look and glib iridescence of shyness, Canadian stealing cars under the mobsters that leap out
Falling in love and breaking bad would start chasing you
Understanding good and evil, I've been the prisoner of the holy child
Antediluvian time and all that crap, mice among men we crawl the streets in the friend that remembers on the outside
Familial uproar bringing up the baby under the ****** footprints, under drama and cine lights
Life needs a little soul, and a little love to grow imaginative
These years go by, and the pensive life doesn't find solace in good company on the streets belonging to the streetlights, and angry streets with desolate angels

Desolation angels looking for their place in the sun
Fortifying a lot of observation, and marching band with their meters
Challenging themselves, music and jazz, we talk about inconsistency of the eon
Poems, of thee Buddhahood looking for a friend, in the supernatural darkness
Sagacious beams from the life dedicated to accepting the life of cause and effect where I had only but silence
My faction of the Eastern Bloc, we are looking in all directions and running in de jure circles
Facts of scientific, joking in your book and hysterical and naked surly curs on the fruit covered by the dust, I need to embellish these claps
In the fire times, of the watered Cupid in the Venus allegorical girl
Beezlebub lost his mind paraphrasing in Hell, arrived in Lucifer on the cross steeple
In the land of milk and honey, in the passion of the church
I'm laughing at my typing, and the technology has changed and so have the women
I'm the living embodiment of a ceiling now, spinning like an embryo or test tube vestibule
How am I gonna survive on the ability to live like someone has committed suicide for me tonight as it grows hoarse
Stand the generous suicide, it was painless
You know o'er head her still face has madcap laughter at her soundful something, I don't know after I climb the ladder and yell this is the answering bell to doors of Heaven and Hell's doormat, I am a plenary one
Virile yelling on the catatonic piano, we are imagining peace and lost like a dreamer, just like the flower that grows like the uncle in Albert, we just lost our only photographer from the ashram

If a puzzle was his peer
and a parallelogram was his shirt
while his tangency threw his belt
where his shoes kept aground
and his step to rather George didn't tarnish him;
with the steeples in bay windows on near side of the street to worship a gathering of wisdom where he'd praise mackerels
and the president with a gray suit.

Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.

the crackle of blackbirds...

between raindrops,

endowing snow.

the final quarter of a drawn

curtain.

Our dreams alive, in three songs
You looking to get ******, in the arms of what's going on
Touch about the reality, of the great good of the hearts of the nosegay I took a nosedive, or the opened up fire of the circle's curlicue
Hells burning and sings, and burns the throat of supernatural sordid affairs of the singed dresses, lips quiver and nape the murmurs, closer to your party girl
Listening to the parallelogram lights of nadirs on the cream drop, on the trap, ******* stint rest are we
Sleeping with the nocturne-blonde, wheelchair on the cannibal dynamo of the change looking in product elitism, sold out before they knew they were buying war
You're a bit inside, further into my ferried heart on the wheels of fire of the crossroads of the good,
The hoods out, the special affair sounds like a girl, the number of the pocket
Of the ashcans on Wednesday, so smart about your Hakagaw bows, open doors to my cellar in speakeasies and tensions
On the phone calls, in the terse rhyme sin, the sails determination of confessing our love, in the strong live in the heart of years that do not have any limitation and have no learned lessons,
See tomorrow's is the night that's alive, it's the midsummer's daydream and the midnight cauterized midriff
How do we sell it, and the trench warfare in the solidarity of the streams of dresses in steaming stowaway, maybe we good we have mister magic selling the war in a handful of stardust
Shadow rises in that pass as years go by
Shadow is a pejorative term for copies of running on hurt looks in open books of minds, we have our own wars in piled plasticine in methanol, hydrogen prologue of the helium
Time throws us into the year in the complete word that completes me, and I'm a bit nicer
I'm so lost, I'm a bit nicer
Deep sarcasm in the classroom
The winners have become bad, and no one cares about the losers
What does it mean? I'm not telling you my stories

plaza's synonym
is a parallelogram
boxed cigarette, square

i drink from a glass, that has a star of anise embedded in crystal at the bottom... suddenly having to bleach all biology, pursue it to a closure of the asylum... decipher the croak of a crow, or expect to hear that gurgling creed once perched on a tree... and then come across an event of failed abstraction in the realm of grammar... my... i hope this **** doesn't escape the anglophone world.

for me, appreciating music had to morph,
morph: rather than evolve...
    once i discovered that the orchestra
conductor is: the person of rhythm,
or rather: punctuation marks
      with a backdrop of a perpetuated
static of an audience...
                                rhythm boy, rhythm!
the weirdest form of dance imaginable -
never in a discioteque
        or the other *situ of congregation;
as ever: the technicality of language
weaves a breath...
                        a case for hephaestus;
never mind that...
                lately i can only fathom
two forms of horror,
       the ordinary and the romanced...
for example: having to interchange
listening to
              penta - come in,
and lacey lynn's video
       titled critical condition,
                   goodbye and goodluck...
because would you ever call
a cat, a stray?
          embedded "grafitti* as a presence
in a graveyard...
                   while the Sochi strays...
        no point killing it:
                 if you're not going to eat it.
or as they say in the west:
   when we do media,
    we expect the entire world to listen...
   yet no one talks about
            the ****** union of
Russia and China...
                        i can clearly remember
feeding a mosquito to a cat,
   as i remember feeding a cat
                                a fish eye;
modern language needs a sadism -
                    an army styled rigour...
            we say that people
    are literate...
                              but a contract's
worth of ambivalence...
               to say nuance is an invisibility
cloak?
                    might as well call forth
the men of Salem...
                  and say a chess board
          is a parallelogram...
           coined the phrase (s)he who said:
"think outside a box" -
    or he who replied: geometry is a vanity
project? no problem...
                     think outside a home.      
i still prefer to think of parasitism
        as a form of symbiosis -
         instead of obesity surgeries...
      how about ingesting a tape worm?  
or as one doctor said of the child:
   autistic...
    or as one father (philosopher) said
          of the same child: solipsist.

"YOU'LL BE SHARING WITH AN OLD RAF ACE
...TRY NOT TO WAKE HIM!"

The voice in the dark
telling me his life in a full

fathomed five voice
detail after detail after detail

stitched onto the darkness
so that I can relive it

unpick it
make it my own.

The voice in the dark
young and vigorous

so alive
so full of life.

"Jerry shot our guys...did so they did
as they came down in their parachutes."

A dandelion blown
by a child.

"Fishing is nice..fishing is calming!"
The man I can not see

moves from past to present
like a professional time traveller.

"We'd wait for a Jerry train
to go into a tunnel then..."

"Have you ever fished for trout..?
...then do a loop de loop and

bomb the tunnel at the other end...
...casting the fly far out on the water then

fly over and bomb the end of the tunnel
**** and bury the ******* at the one and the same time!"

Finally the voice in the dark
winds down as if it had been merely

a mechanical toy that
time forgot.

Sunlight invades the room
throws itself upon the floor

a parallelogram of morning
etched upon the floor.

The voice in the dark
is a gaunt old man

corpse like
mouth open  in a final plea

for forgiveness for
still being alive when

"...better chaps than I
died."

His story seeding itself
inside me

before turning
into words.

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog. lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

"YOU'LL BE SHARING WITH AN OLD RAF ACE
...TRY NOT TO WAKE HIM!"

The voice in the dark
telling me his life in a full

fathomed five voice
detail after detail after detail

stitched onto the darkness
so that I can relive it

unpick it
make it my own.

The voice in the dark
young and vigorous

so alive
so full of life.

"Jerry shot our guys...did so they did
as they came down in their parachutes."

A dandelion blown
by a child.

"Fishing is nice..fishing is calming!"
The man I can not see

moves from past to present
like a professional time traveller.

"We'd wait for a Jerry train
to go into a tunnel then..."

"Have you ever fished for trout..?
...then do a loop de loop and

bomb the tunnel at the other end...
...casting the fly far out on the water then

fly over and bomb the end of the tunnel
**** and bury the ******* at the one and the same time!"

Finally the voice in the dark
winds down as if it had been merely

a mechanical toy that
time forgot.

Sunlight invades the room
throws itself upon the floor

a parallelogram of morning
etched upon the floor.

The voice in the dark
is a gaunt old man

corpse like
mouth open  in a final plea

for forgiveness for
still being alive when

"...better chaps than I
died."

His story seeding itself
inside me

before turning
into words.

Getting puddled
Whilst piddling
In a paddling pool
Purposeful Poodles
Poo
In a private pond
Whilst picky Pekinese
Prefer
A pretty privy
Perchance
A plain parallelogram
Has a poetic ****
As for Peter Piper
Got pickled,
And ******!
by Jemia

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog. lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!

college is a lot of fun dad
today we hanged the psychemetrics professor
and that's how break dancing began
in yesterday's semaphore seminar we learned
that excessive nuance can make you crazy
the human mind is but a word game
the right combination gets you in
otherwise a Hieronymus Bosch picnic
at the edge of the Lake of Fire
but sometimes I digress menacingly
into the blazoned uncharted subjective
the campus necromancers are not house trained
consequently they can read spoor like a road map
Professor Phoebe lifted her dress and squatted
took an interpretive dump in the snow
which rapidly melted into its own hole
in the shape of a lyric parallelogram
and I contemplated a change of career path
since majoring in cognition is a tricky business
one marginally deduced sink hole after another
wrack your nurture brains for the nature solution
working with the pharmacy to create a better world
don't you roll your eyes at me
or you'll get a lecture on the mood swing paradigm
when you outwit the voices you have won
quiz on the interior pantheon this Wodenstag
we'll prepare the way of pain
with a ray of sunlight and save the world
believe that and you'll believe nothing is derived
our academicians went into wedge formation
it was an uprising over a lack of continuity
between the wild eyed number crunchers
and the pale tubercular simulation priesthood
the picture took on a vivid rosy hue
because it bled from every pore
where relativists appeal to universals
and tyrants call truth a tyranny
forced my conclusion all traps are invisible
which is why they are called traps
both sides are in on it do the math
it's political suicide everywhere
wisdom is just another commodity
and all vision is parallel up to a point
hold your head still see with your eyes
that's the continuity I'm talking about
the first university of its kind
an effortless engine of didactic beauty
this is obviously the partial reality from which
we piece together the rest of reality
the internal world derives from
the external one every ******* time

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon