I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****?
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty

I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious

So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes

When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums

Yet I Am Ready
Watching the waves eat away the castles made of sand
Staring at the way wind is churning at infrastructure       land
like a big bad wolf who found the fear and lean foundation of a brick house
I am ready for her hand

I am all ready
Traversing fields filled with fruitless wonders
burning tundras rolling thunders
A Man attempting to put out its grand made funeral pyre
with nothing but a Jack and Jill bucket filled with reverse osmosis electrolyte infused hydrogen oxygen expired prayers
I am Ready for no man land

I have a radio already
Listening to Nokia raven chirps and bubble bee gyrations.
Evergreens whispers as wild blooms break concrete and asphalt and building plans
giving smiles to homeless man and woman
dreamers flowering in the night lights that were supposed to replace stars

I am ready
for the woods to takeover the hoods
for bear feets to take over the streets
for napkins to become extinct
to write with my god-given red ink
so that my being will dye into stone and dirt
To leave my DNA on my mothers belly and hear her cry
As she covers my mouth closes her eyes tearful from radioactive winds
let her know that I loved her and hugged her every chance I could
I am ready to give up me for we have not given back enough
We have devoured the essence and forgotten how to seed and harvest  
the nothing has become us
which is why Earths flesh is colored rust
like  blood mixed with scratching dust
we have bruised the body
and wonder if we can blame something someone else
but US
Every time the finger points the object of our deflection disappears
Rearrange the letters she was trying to help us HEARt
Rearrange the letters EARth is trying to make us Heart
I'm trying to make us Ear

These MTHFCKRS are among US.
We have bred them with our love lust
still unaware that they a fungus
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
they save a life to **** it from us.
they manufacture fakes to stunt us
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
Ideas devoid of what we need to come up
She must go now and rip it from us
We must shed our blood just to fund us
Cause these MTHRFCKRS have out done US

Bedpost gold.
Common contours.
Bare blankets unfold.
Unraveled slack.
Treasured hazel tundras gazing back.

Hollow silver.
Lavender lace.
Stitched up smile.
A diamond ace.
Balanced on a crystal brim.
Faded toil.
A violent grace.

She wore the wild winds
Like wasps in her hair
Flinging locks furiously
Letting them settle
Wherever they will
Long and gorgeous
Raven black and full

Crushed poisonous rose petals
To further blush her bloodied lip
Knees scraped with grand adventures
Arms bruised with strange activities
Feral and fearless
Catlike climber with such feline agility

No landscape was to daunting
No night life to haunting
Just beauty and wonder
Seeing her eyes wander
Seeing each stone turned over
Seeing each sea shell collected
And carefully inspected

No tea parties
No fashion runways
No mindless musings
About prince charmings
Princesses or queens
But books and dreams
Scarlet schemes
Rivers and streams
That ran as far as she could see

She watched it all
Each daring doe that darted by
Each bird that perched or took flight
Each fish that shimmered searching nearby streams

Nature was her discovery
Life was her poetry

As the oceans battered the shores
As the tundras whitened the landscape
As the stone strewn pathways
Searched for new towns
As the mountains strained to touch the clouds
The wild wind warrior woman
Conquered it all

the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas,  which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its *****: acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
(****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.

*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.

Thank you, my friend;
         for reaching out
into the night
for seeing me through
into morning's light
         a little flash
of my phone light
Thank you, friend
      for letting me know I am seen
for letting me know
       how much I mean
for communicating,
    across the wires
how much I'm dear,
         that I'm desired
This means more sometimes,
       than one could ever know
especially when your very bed
has become an ice floe
especially when the one
who is supposed to warm you
embrace who you are
and enjoy, not ignore you
who is supposed to ignite you
with kisses
keep your body hot  
is next to you, but really not
I can extend my hand
and hope to tease
Instead draw it back,
      shocked by the freeze
For the sheets have become icy
arctic winds howl
my cat could be a seal
or polar bear on the prowl
the breath from your snore
rises up as steam
for it is so **** cold
in this iced-over scene
I'm so sick and tired
of this gelid room
So weary of my heart
being pierced by harpoons
I have tried to work my magic
apply balms to the scars
to prevent the ceiling
from growing icicle shards
And my bedroom is shaken
like some chaotic snow globe
moved by invisible hands
that search and probe
for now I am an ice princess warrior
with my map unfurled
researching ways to flee this frozen world
The kayak is ready
as I set my sights
        on warmer tundras
as I weave my lightening
and spread
          my thunder

the women who came before me
were hurricanes of great power
so when the men of their time would see them, they would run away and cower

the women who came before me
were lush forests of great size
wide variations of kindness
leaving all in awe with their beautiful baby blue skies

the women who came before me
were frigid tundras of snow and ice
chilling all who came near to the touch
because the women who came before me
didn’t always like to play nice

the women who came before me
were the golden glistening sun
no matter their color, their religion, or who they loved
their radiant beauty blinded everyone

the women who came before me
were the moon, solemn and wise
always at peace and a state of zen
drawing people in and out with their eyes just like the tides

the women who came before me
were all the sparkling stars in the sky
connecting together to form constellations
beautiful enough to make you cry

the women who came before me
were so strong and so wise
they rise
they rise

the women who came before me
showed hope even in their cries
they rise
they rise

they’re souls will remain sewed
into my heart and the skies
they rise
they rise

because the women who came before me will stick by me until I die.
we rise
we rise

burst to the slow summit of motorways at dawn
there's a freedom here
golden sun off blinding laurel bridges
people with no need to rise so early
no greater need than you
do you ever think it
when you're going so fast
do you ever think that you could die
do you ever will the combustions
and metals that carry you
to meet their absurd shadows
stretched out before them
faster than you, but getting shorter
and getting slower
roll away the glass
embrace the roar
magnify it
and feel the chill that is not.
the light washes the trees of who they are
the avenues of salute
from obsolete lamps
that draw you into these little cities
whose peoples are the steel and the concrete
whose bridges are megaliths
that ancient whispers foresaw
cutting brilliantly through seafoam wheat
my mother always looked at me peculiarly
but, god! - she tried
i fall to reality with the rising sun
but not of loosening night
simply of greeting stasis
anaemic-light-tunnels
built in visions of what the future used to be
false days in darkening motion
that make the tundras seem so small
and marries the hue of beauty, of brutality
here, upon a hill, something red-brick
there, beyond the mist, something stone
perhaps a church
i care not
the age of the concrete speaks to me
the distances wrap around me

I slash open
the fine lines
of my veins
to let in the
starry breath
            of night
fresh and fiery
as a snap of chaos
left out
in the firmament
                   to chill,
the frigid air
       weaving an
icy filigree
upon the black
cooling my blood
soothing the
night creatures
        that swerve and sway
beneath my skin
restless as tiny demons
always locked away,
                           within
They emerge from
their hibernation
into the gelid
crackle of air,
zipping over the
sheens of ice floes
unstopped by sudden
change in climate
frozen moss between
                      their claws, their toes
In this icicle-dipped
troposphere  
a burning
descends upon
        my tastebuds
just as if
you have
       kissed me
the ebbs
    of time seemingly  
    bringing you closer
    an energetic wrapping
       up and through
                  my being
like the breathiest of
polar mist
and as I gaze up
    at the tiny
      wisps of light,    
lustrous as the
     full moon scattered,
the astral plane
whirrs deep within me
stirring up my womb
ploughing the fields
                   of my mind
creating riverflow
from icy drought
soothing the
cuts and fissures
and rocky edges
of my aching
prophetess
                heart
Fragile yet callused,
toughened with time
as it beats
beneath the ice
soft as the inside of
a wounded animal
blessed by its hunters
for making itself a gift
to the tribe
apparently
      your warrior's
                    palm alone
                        can melt it
                       down
and sometimes,
          as I get
lost inside deeply
wild tundras,
suddenly
I'm
  found

Back on the loop past my old flame's house again
I sleep in and I show up late because I can't get you off my mind
Between failing friendships and endless gap years I feel like there isn't much of my heart left
But I'm still here
And I cry but I don't talk about it anymore. The people I love are a text message and 45 short miles away
But I'm too scared to cross the distance
Emotional or physical I'm too ******* scared to even ask for prayer
Singing out hymns to an estranged father imortalized in memories from last year and in the gruesome images depicted in stained glass windows,

Hallowed be this place in me.
Hallowed be the space in between my ribs.

 and my brother is a gospel singer to a basement full of people who are just as scared as I am
And He rides the crowd like Jesus walked on water
He lifts his hands caught in the same spirit that torments the angels and demons alike
And maybe god hears him screaming through the walls like I do
Maybe god cries too
But if he does he does a good job hiding it
And my parents are on the continent that I turned my back on a year ago.
I traded family dinners for a decomposing raft and tried my luck at the sea
Only crossing the water to drink wine and share the communion of post apocalyptic dreaming or political warfare we are so horrified and mesmerized by
The fellowship of the modern day saints,

Hallowed be this place in me.
Hallowed be the hole in my head.

Icehead baby don't you come to close to me
I'm friged baby I'm too far gone to see
And I've been dreaming about summer while I've been reading up on life in Antarctica
Cold tundras and odd communities I could work in maintanince for the price of living
Meanwhile I'm surviving my own tundra the endless night never gives way to sun for seasons on end
And my friends grow wings and fly into the sun
 a thousand variations of Icarus they're going to be dead and gone on while I'm still landlocked in concept
Or in orbit far in space
Wherever I am, I am distant
Living on the memories from years past
So I'm driving the endless loop past an old flame's house again
Connecting the dots between my ideas of dependency space and time
And I'm fine
In love with the seclusion of the towering trees
The security of a prolonged gap year
The warmth of the ice in my head
And as the roots of the divine cover my mouth and bloom in my lungs
I sigh and give into my year of hibernation.

Hallowed be this place in me
Hallowed be the expanse of this space.

Icicles dribble down the tip
of my nose as frost fogs
the humid corridors of my mind.

Tundras yawn before me
and sea-foam green ribbons
helically orbit one another.

Streaks of yellow roll between
the spiraling bows in the sky.
Stars twinkle slowly, just beyond.

An icy howl jars the halcyon
serenity as a harbinger of
hardships and blizzards.

But I am not of this.
I carry a hearth in my chest
and open my arms to embrace.

Ah, and now she steps down
from the gathering clouds;
her gown rippling as it unfurls.

Her aurichalcite eyes echo unsung
songs until I can't bare the separation.
My unstrung heart beats on, begging

for another verse from her slightly parted
-- but how much they open! --
lips lying, parabolic, atop her chin.

She meets my pleas succinctly:
her out-stretched hand offered
in tribute to another kindred soul.

My mind is fixated, not a thought
intrudes on my contemplation
of her exotic inebriation.

Does she know what she's done?
How every movement makes
me stutter, slightly, shuddering

(unavoidably)? How could she
understand this intoxication
which I don't even hope to know?

I suppose that's all man can hope for:
a single day, maybe not more than an hour,
where "love" can even be considered.

your days are filled with nothing but Pain
and you're dead inside - so numb - no hope of being kissed awake
from this Land of Emptiness,  dark and dreary
where the air is so cold and chills your bones
and it's all just an absolute Nightmare

except there are no Scary Monsters;
just the foreboding voice of The End -
its silence screams your Name
and haunts you as you trudge
along the Frozen Shores of your Heart

there is no Oxygen here - no way for you to breathe
you're perpetually choking and you can't start a Fire -
can't warm your numbed hands - and there is Nobody
out There to ease the aches that this Solitude brings -
It sweeps over the Tundras you've come to call "Home"

Bottled stars
And extinguished constellations
Melting heat
Warming welcome
Dangerous sparks
Bottomless pain
Hidden behind
Blue shifting tundras
struggling for purchase
So blue
They'll pierce you to the core
Of your being

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

You texted me this morning
When the trees were being assaulted by gales
And the coffee in my *** had been sitting there
For weeks now collecting poison.

It had been a month
And I too, had collected poison
In the form of underage drinking
Tiny piercing viruses, bottle after bottle
In attempted to eradicate brain cells that held a picture of you
On their nucleus.
It didn’t work.

So I tried inhaling glass in to my lungs
Tried passing out so I could land in a coma
But I missed two feet to much to the right
And landed on my frontal lobe
Where you proceeded to dissect me with your tongue.
So when you texted me this morning

Memories came like cancer



I remembered that car dealership
Where you bought the 1960 sky blue Volkswagen bug
With rust on the side,
I remember driving to North Carolina with you
On a Monday morning.
Blistering cold at twilight
And all we did was whisper and hum
To each other
As we drove on empty interstate highways

You taught me how to cross state lines
And eat food so volatile that radioactivity
Spewed from my taste buds,
Down my throat
And in to my rigid spine
Where it shivered like arthritis.

My body isn’t hollow; it’s just frozen
Because tiny tundras fill the fissures in my rotting skin
My bones are brittle ice cubes bulging out from underneath the surface

And if people were snow, I would be a particle on a flake
And you would be Antarctica: vast, mysterious, uncharted, vicious, brutal, untamed,
And you would have had frozen me in to an arctic sculpture
To be hung over your brick stone fireplace
As you stood there watching me melt
With your blue corpse eyes.


It’s 8:34 now,
I’ve stood here for thirty minutes remembering what you once were
A continental mystery on my western cerebral hemisphere.
There was America,
Specifically Georgia
But you spoke Alaskan.
Talked about going there like 18 year olds talked about Europe

Everyone wants an adventure
But all you wanted was to know how it felt like
To have mountains under your palms
And snow peaks over your head.
They called it climbing.
I called it searching.
But those who climb would inevitably know how to fly

If they knew how to let go

So let go darling.
Stop calling me in December to tell me all the great things we did back in August.
If I’d had written down our phones calls
It would be enough to fill a notebook full of parentheses
Because all we did was whisper and say things we didn’t mean.  

So don’t come back and try to freeze me again.
I won’t melt this time, I’ll disintegrate.
I’ll fuse with my fissures
Become tundra and dissolve in to the soil


Where your body is, buried
Beneath layers of cement,
Dirt
And ash.
I place flowers on your head stone every week
But you still keep texting me and texting me
Telling me how great our trip was to North Carolina
And how we can do it all over it again

The whispering, the humming, the parentheses

All I had to do was drink the coffee

I will
melt a thousand suns in my mouth for you;
sink a thousand seas in my stomach for you;
freeze a thousand trembling tundras in my calves for you
eternal frostbite;
live for you.

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf 
Became dog.

Art knows no racial borders
Nor any ethnic boundaries
It doesn’t give two *****
About gender lines
Or ****** borders
Art bleeds and blends
From the deepest darkest ravines in the south
To the highest and whitest tundras of the north
It ***** with love in all of his most tender corners
And with all of her naughty spots
It flows from one gender to the next
Intermingling leaves us tingling
With the mystery and majesty of life

I conjured with my very hands.
Rays to tear the Sun from this land.

I conjured with my train of thought.
Witnesses to scorn the blocks.

I conjured with my weary soul.
Ravens to gore upon their demonic bones.

I conjured with my mute like voice.
Solders, halos shining radiantly with a crimson gold hue.

Whom of you knew that life is more than just what we see
Through lost time in the lost minds of the lost trines meaning

I am believing there are more in the minds of the man

I am believing in Divine corner slabs.

I am believing that the heathen has control of the world so torn
Until Holiness kicks in their doors.

Lost in a Mind
In a Land
In a man

Where time spans don't exist
Think about a hat that can't fit
But you still squeeze it on

Depicted as a hazard
Flabergasted
Drug Addict

Surprised he ain't in an attic
Dam nab it
Flow is drastic

Like a flood
Taking out the lives of the lost
Are we lost?

Flowing thru subconscious
thoughts


Rawr from the tundras Michael is a monsta'
Spittin heat
Eating pasta
Words are like that, coming from a mobsta'

Bats breaking necks
No naggin
Know that I ain't dense
It is hard to get out my adolescence

Mind still on herb and finding Truth in existence

Pitiful poem
Sipping on chrome
E.T. is still in need of phoning home

All dogs need a bone
Need to bone
All dogs need a bone
Need to bone


I've...
Lost my brain...
Lost my game...

Lost in strange sights...

Dismantled...

I just might...

Stuck in torment...

Cannot move...

Thoughts seem eternally gloomed...
Doomed to a recession.
Lost in the inception.
Is there a redemption?
Repentance.
Thirst from women 'cause its pleasurable

Need my play- that audible

Hear me scream; need audible sound waves to come out my brainwaves.


What is lower than dirt?
It's I alone
rock bottom and I think that I might just go off the poem
and find my way home
please I need to be the be
and the be has I so let us go holmes.

I've lost my mental
black teeth who cares about my dental

* treat a ***** like a rental*
if she a Bentley I keep her for a week, then move from my GT continental
I set my soul on finding truth
where is, who needs proof?
I tried to break the bars raise the roof
a left the scene, gone, aloof
moved with the wind but still sat still
killed myself
brought me to the deep darkened will
of the uncovered man that I have found
in this land
hi son of sam
I am high
son of am


**Use your mental

It is essential

Get on the mic

**** em good

They call you daddy don't mean to be disrespectful

Not being neglectful just choosing words

If bird was the word and the word was on shurm

Learn prophecy confirmed to the date times unturned

I recognize my privilege.
I recognize my uselessness.
I recognize my inability to function.
I recognize that I may not be capable/disabled physically. But I am emotionally and mentally.

Though most of the voices are dimmed and quieter than before. They are not gone.

I feel them at the back of my mind.
Pressing at the barrier that is inforced by medication.

My self-loathing is stronger than ever though.
At every and one situation where I keep failing them.
At every and one situation where I keep being a disappointment.
At every and one situation where I am a disgrace to my mother's memory.

I know I am garbage.
I know I am worthless.
I know I am privileged
And Gods do I know I don't deserve anything I have.

Maybe I am proving that ***** right.

But the thing is.
I didn't ask for this.
For whatever broken thing that makes my DNA.
I didn't ask for this existence. This life.

I must have done something terrible in my past life to have been born so broken and in disrepair in this one.

I want to throw up. I want to die.
I don't want to be a part of this collective.
I don't want to breath anymore.
Let me drown.
Let me break my body into pieces against hard asphalt.
Let me suffocate in a car filled with gas.
Let me hang from a tree in the most secluded part of the park.
Let me drink the poisons under the sink.
Let me starve myself until my heart gives.
Let me burn underneath the hot sun until only the crows come to great me.
Let me fall from the highest point of a cliff.
Let me drink all the pills in the bottles to numb me to sleep.
Let me slit my veins vertically across my arms.
Let me puncture an artery so I may bleed out.

Let me
Let me
Let me
LEt mE
LeT Me
LET ME

Let me breathe into the icy tundras of the north where my lungs will freeze and toes will turn blue.
Let the bite of a most wondrous creature in the humid south taking me into fevered dreams.
Let me bite the built so I swallow it whole and paint the walls, red, pink, grey, and wet.

Cant, you just let me pass on and away?

"No," says the instinct to self preserve the only thing that keeps me tied to this place.

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to graphic language, substance abuse, suicidal ideation and opinions on religion that some might find offensive⚠

~

I do not
deserve
the name I was given--

Jade,
after the (semi) precious gemstone.

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
give strangers the finger
more often than
they hug their mothers
or
say the word
f  u  c  k
more often than
they tell their fathers
that they love them--

are not supposed
to say
(or write)
the word
*******

at all.

And here I am,
having banged out
the word
*******

t̶w̶i̶c̶e̶

thrice
upon my typewriter.

Real charmer,
aren't I?

******* in front
of open windows
just for the ******* i n g sake of it.

(four times.)

Pounding tequila shots
as I grind against the moonlight,
Lana Del Rey's lyrics
throbbing from the speakers:

"My *******tastes like Pepsi Cola..."


Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
get plastered on school nights
(and tipsy before class)
or listen to music

(and the music is
always
too loud.)

about p u s s y.

They don't say
(or write)
the word
*******br>
either.

I've always had a ***** mouth--
this is what a man from church
had told me at eight years old
when I said "****" in front of him.

Girls named Jade
are supposed to go
to church every Sunday--
are supposed to believe in god.

Instead,
I outgrow religion
by the time I am sixteen
(perhaps even before then),

only ever consulting the bible
when I need inspiration
for some tragic poem
narrating the pangs of betrayal.


(It was not Womankind
who betrayed god,
but god who betrayed Womankind

just like I have betrayed
my own name.)


The only thing
I have ever truly believed in is
poetry.


Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
write poetry the way
I write poetry--

all *** & drugs & rock n' roll
tundras & hurricanes
infernos & molten lava
blood & violent minds
suicide & broken hearts

& broken hearts
& broken hearts
& broken hearts

& purple souls--

Girls named Jade
are supposed to
wear their souls
in the colour green.

Tears are bound to fall in the winter time.
When thoughts becomes frosted over, frozen,
outside of the primordial locus
of fleeting, flashing feelings.

Dew drop diamonds on cheeks,
Become icicles,
That stick out like vampire teeth.
Painfully piercing through the gums.
Early morning cigarettes leave a permeating sting.

Icy thoughts of weakness,
How we won’t make it through
this frozen tundra,
winter,
with its thrashing and bludgeoning.

Yet,
Hopeful for spring,
That icicles will crack their caterpillar  cocoons,
And our tears will ride bicycles
on sunny days,
and board wayward trains
to far away destinations.

But For now it is December….
Fading into a soon forgotten January.

An expanse of characters unknown to me is all I can percieve.
There is no prompt dictating my choices, and therefore none shall be made.
The day and night have become one, and heaven and hells interests coincide.
Tangled forests, icy tundras, calm plains, and inexplicably dark areas exist sporadically everywhere.
Indifference fueled by emotion makes for a strange perception.
There is no certainty that I can discern from the tangled mess I see.
The characters shift and change color into an amalgamation that almost appears solid.
You can see figures shamble in the distance who constantly dissemble their motives with a facade of good intent.
As choices shall not be made I let them pass me by, but without my unease being assuaged by their lack of presence.
As they pass I look again to the characters that make up the empty space on the ground.
The nearly solidified characters become words: creativity, speech, calculating, organizing, and creating.
The words fluctuate in location, and start to become paths to the different places I can see.
They appear fractured by incomprehensible darkness, but the path can still be tread carefully.
Is sitting in silence what I should continue to do, or must I choose to abandon the indifference where I took shelter?
Must I tread a path that is broken in my own mind simply to achieve more uncertainty?
I will end up on a path someday, but what word the path is given is the last question.
Will my unease at these figures be ameliorated when I take the path they refuse to tread, or must I follow them through the straight line they walk?
The word is stretched too far for me to understand, but I question it's competence due to it never breaking.
I'll move any day now from this perch of indifference to where I can read more words.
Though some words may cause me to feel pain and others regret, I understand the consequence.
I can't stay as I am though because there is no reason to sit when there are choices to be made.
This world must be explored, and I must know what the characters mean.
I want to know what will make the world that I can see change into a world I can understand.
Even if it means repairing the words that I covered in darkness.

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

Tiger, i
swim at night to keep my skins
Pale. And marinate moon-dipped tundras.
Splash, ripples as i spear tides with flesh and bone, collapse into waters taut as untested brides. 'Paradise,' I'm told, though my eyes reveal but shadows upon the shores. Not to be depressing.
Stay under with me a bit longer my love.

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

.
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

it's become something of a cliché but
like most trite adages
for all its faults
it is not necessarily
lacking in validity

the journey itself is the destination

a phrase that conjures images
in one's head of subconscious
sojourns across arctic tundras
and windswept plains
savannas and mountain ranges
or perhaps astral and ethereal
projections of the psyche into
some pseudo-spiritual metaphor
for overcoming corporeal suffering
and psychological anguish

but it holds true too
to the metaphysical revolt
explored by Camus in
chapter two of his opus
on the spirit of rebellion

it is not enough to merely **** god
acts of deicide are at once
reactionary and revolutionary
imposing subtle dictatorships as
we merely claim a despot's
stolen throne for our
own whims and fancies

no
to resist the urge to become the master
to destroy dominance and empower each
other is the greatest test humankind will face
a constant struggle to pursue the
better angels of our nature

the means don't
justify the ends
the means
are the end

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

suddenness,

greatest flows of displeases
pleases the sides sights can never see
way out, wave the signs the tundras in nordic planes
blue catches purple but purple swallow blues
strumming all the life in powerless houses
on monthly rents and problems
we rebuild life with coffees and cigarettes
on dark rainy mornings
light on the ceiling
a cockroach a fly a moth a butterfly
creatures never to be seen out of the dark
the last yearnings
cold hands lay flat
soft lips lay still
kind intentions and premonitions blends,
in
suddenness

i am the only one

who longs for irretraceable yesterday