We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.

have you ever noticed anything that sent you spinning
off into the empty infinity of blossoming cognizance?

pupils dilate,
sweat beads,
words collapse back into what they imply; we only know
because we watched the footage.

yes, we watched it together
and yes, it is the only father figure that pays for her own dinner these days.

i wish i was worth forgetting in the future.

i wish people didnt feel they had to be anything but here.

i wish people would teach their children about how i could market loose teeth to coastlines.

im laughing at your puzzled aura
from the next epochal shift.

(man enters and exits stage right, nervously)

it's deep is a depth but really nonsense.

what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******* themselves on dove-grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.

we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.

we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet to awaken to.

it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?

i'm done.
please, come and sit.

tell me how you like your tea?

On a scale of 1 to Lord of All,
how important is your
opinion of what others create?

I see you, through these sigils,
pretending every breath you took
is a doctorate.

Did you know you dont have to choose between being the brush or the brush stroke?
You could build boats,
hunt ghosts with broken radios,
climb mountains to commune with the dead,
stare at the stars and make
your own constellations,
or play ukulele alone with a head full of acid.

All I am saying is
there are far better plotlines
than playing sovereign king of the
swamp that swallows you
and believing it be noble.

she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.

"i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter"

we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.

that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.

you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.

"...reasons. things can have many..."

stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.

"the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film"

you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.

we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.

I could waste anything if "anything"
were made to fall like seconds
from a clock face.

"Perspective" was scribbled
on the title page of the tattered
copy of The Merchant of Venice
I found in jail.

It collects dust on my shelf now.

More seconds.

your smiles taste funny.

the taste lingers and makes
me think of the way **** smells
in a pipe
or how seeing a dead animal on the road
for more than one day makes you
look at the established order as a stranger.

it probably has everything to do with perspective...

reading what you write
sometimes gives me the
feeling of watching a
low budget **** film,
with a royalty-free excuse
to let a wah-wah pedal
accompany the wet
absence of passion.

      (a wildfire in a glass box
        or Kali candystriping in the
          cancer ward.)

you cannot expect  
spines to tingle when
you refuse to acknowledge  
the deepening abyss in the
facets of self you wear
like hospital gowns.

sometimes i see the naked
singularity hidden behind
your "this is me" event-horizon
and i bathe in it's impossibility;
i could drown in it's defiance, smiling,
if only you could learn to...

Visions,
smoke rings and grocery lists,
ovaries to kicks;
prisons of genetic streaming.

Kings dream of thieves
and thieves dream of
learning shinier schemes.

Laugh when the moon
sings eternally.

Laugh when spoonfuls of sense
are lifted by my shaking hand.

Laugh when anyone spits into
the abyss forever at their feet.

Laugh when the prismatic facsimiles
of mastery are scattering in the winds of change.

Laugh like it's the last cadaver stacked.

No scavengers.

No glass to crack.

No Saturn's curse.

None of that.

So laugh.
Laugh like the mad *******
you act like only exist
in past saturdays spent
in the bastion that was your grandmother's backyard.


Laugh.
Please, for ****'s sake, laugh.

I could survive the winter in your eyes.

I see what I want.

"if" is no longer
in my vocabulary.

effect then cause.

waveforms to particles.

sliding backwards is
a casual stroll towards a future
i've been wearing like a crown
all along.

tin can transmissions
sent and listened to by entangled  
heartstrings long before
the birthday-balloon-blooming-doomsday-dance-off was
standardized as the answer
to any and all questions
regarding the textured pressure
of her breath blessing my forehead;
a vesper my wretched flesh is desperately stretching towards.

(i know, i know.)

this is a test of will.

(i said i...)

this is that mad dash
into the ashen catacombs
to slash the throat of the
last cackling basilisk
so passionately it shatters bone
into the rapturous jazz
crafted with cracked saxophones,
maps the fastest route
to her faceted fathoms
reconstituting past afternoons
in which i was never fortunate
enough to touch the gravity of her
napping naked beside me.

this has always happened
after a collapsing hasn't-yet
and it's enticing.

In the midst of all of this dismantling
itself into it's revolting component honesty, I try to remember the way
your arousal changed the hue of the space around you.

Memory or fantasy or dream
or lie or ecstatic state; bottles filled with coloured sand and then sealed up into boxes left by the street.

If only someone could sculpt the dance we do between the moments
of a waking life crystallizing into grotesque simplifications rattling chains in the labrynth we build for loneliness.

I try to chisel some aspect of it into wind and rain.

I try to pick out your breathing
among the howling infinity outside and my edges are reasserted by the glare of life's shadow.

My name is that of any pile of bones ever to have a candal held for it.

My path is undetermined, unfettered from the seething potential beneath all things.

Explode with me.

We can paint the crumbling walls of our illusory disconnection like a drunken Michaelangelo laughing at the absurdity he is a part of.

**** rules, style, message, time, space, words.

**** it all.

Just go mad.

watch me as I burn
this candle I've been
balancing on my nose
all night.

call it finesse.

ive been left in the rain,
my "separate" is praying
for rain and a good harvest.

darkness creeps under your
your bedroom door,
reaching for you,
reaching for youth.

I lost that last life.
just saying.

you're dancing under the light
of my unraveling;
i crawl out of my own mouth forever.

say what you will,
but smile at me as I catch each and every syllable
like fireflies in a jar.
smile at me as I show you them,
smiling like a child.

Stasis to stasis,
stations of the cross
lost in a basement
beneath some planar baseline.

I hate time.

I'd rather daisy chain rhymes
like claymores arranged
in gateways;
bouquets of daffodils
and baby's breath
on a grave.

Slain means dead,
they say.

They say a lot of things.

love for the city.
stuck in the suburbs.
I want to go unlearn
myself in a alleyway
or ten.

spinning tires.
mud is **** and death,
so where does that
leave us?

"I said, there is home."
to nobody.
different names never changed
a **** thing.
we could see no people
to/who/that learn how idle
doesn't mean "still".
they've made a god of progress;
progress is toothpaste in a sink.

who couldve sown those ideas
together had they not been
all blinking buzzing neon sign
in the window of the page?

probably quite alot of folks
had they not been so busy
wiping dried blue Colgate off
of porcelain.

simple, remember?

so it goes.
always.
dosey doe down long hallways,
around puddles of ****,
singing songs long faded
to ambient noise.
please, mumble a myth for the void to posion.
the void in your avoidance.
the void in the poignancy.
the void on the points of stolen steak knives stuck in the hearts of the strigoi
shuffling outside our windows
day and night.

drip gold from the mouths of memorial statues,
we need that.
badly.

fading,
still nameless and splendid,
his eyes were open to
the lamp and the shadows.

"depart from the night"
he said to the infinity beneath
the dark demanding
absolution anyways.

the boy in his bones
screams at ravens
on a scarecrow in a
snow covered corn field.

time elapsed.

the man in his head is kneeling,
always kneeling.

we will not wake up one day
with all the answers
written on the back
of a map of the labyrinth.

we just turn corners.

we will end up keeping to the
parts that we've painted houses on
and calling it sacrifice;
if only god were pulled from
smoke so easily.

have you judged this yet?
does it make the grade?

my ego sure hopes so.

he is the type to leave
apples on your desk.
he is also afraid
of the naked horror of
everything clawing
at the foot of his
deathbed,
my ego that is.

the truth,
mud is just a word for something, ravens do not call themselves
ravens, and a fire can blacken the sky.

it is all just a joke though.

has that gavel swung yet?
have the numbers been crunched?

you should put it into
poetry.
create a philosopher's stone
and force feed it to someone you
love.

please.
i need it.

there is a silver lining in all this,
I'm sure of it.

to the empty mine wailing in a windy
night in some foothills
somewhere,
I hear you.
I hear you.

remember when we would
slowdance beneath indifferent
stars when you weren't backstroking
through my blood?

yea, me neither.
but that image sure hangs pretty
in a frame, right?

me,
so many questions.
as restless as unbroken bathroom mirrors.
I don't know where this is leading.

there are threads between all that,
I promise.

I'll take all of those terrifyingly gorgeous photographs of you
just to cut them into pieces
and use them like paint.

That is me pulling your visage
down from the heights only
to confuse it with the dirt.

It is also me showing you that
the pervasiveness of your form
is never lost on me.

Every particle, entangled.

I don't need to see you.

You will make a science of yourself
before me and I will ask,
"why?"

I drew your viscera by candlelight
before I ever watched you avert
your eyes from mine.

I wept while shrines built in your name were pulled to the earth, your disciples chanting as they bloomed black into the hungry sky.

Every particle, entangled.

"Seen" is a stupid term.

Although I am still seemingly
bound to it's use because of
every single one of you.

leaving is relative.
"you"is just a view of an elephant
up close.
melt a bit,
then tell the splitting
elegance you'll help it
blend back into the hues
you've given different
pet names to.

headspace.
moon.
deadweight.
truth.
a ruse?
a route?
a mutiny?
a few ravens loot putrification
of any useable patience
in the pay-to-play waiting game.

get over it
or get some beauty sleep.

you have to stop
holding onto
every ****t thing
that happens to you.

Tracing the lines
of your light in my mind
I vibrate; "blind me, please"
I try to scream at the vibrancy
to no avail.

Waves to particles,
handshakes to arsenals;
it's all background noise
I avoid while my darkness pulls
your shine closer.

Blind me, please.

I've resigned my faith
in being reshaped into anything
but just another face in the crowd
if your light ever fades.

Blind me, please.

The wretched treachery of the flesh
is a sip of nectarine tea in the shade of a willow,
a reoccuring dream,
a for sale sign in front of a derelict funeral parlor.

Inroads to wisdom
are just slopes to slip off of,
off into open air to elope with
unknowing; the oldest whirlwind ever to be tricked into a jar.

Really it’s all just counting stars like heartbeats
and then taking them for granted.

Im sorry for that ****.

alacrity has always eluded
me; always the dumbstruck
drunk stumbling through
the realization that his revelry
is past it's shelf life
and immediately forgetting
what it felt like.

displaced perpetual.

still, i write love songs to
the hum of an empty fridge
for no-one in particular;
call it a romance or
call it pathetic.

i couldn't care if i wanted to.

even the sun becomes a myth
to anyone who stares
at it long enough.

so i'm ok with it.
all of it.

at least, that is what i tell myself
over and over until even
the love songs stop
spilling.

it's the "what" in the meantime
between here and sleep
that fogs up the lens.

be still as stereo,
so you can peep the wilting filigree
of the blooming expanse
we rarely ever care to choke on.

breathe is a question
whispered by oceans and i use
it coax this **** out of
lotus seeds.

why?

"Never been one for dancing"
would be carved into my headstone
if it weren't for the fact that
my grave was robbed of it's
distant dreary locality by the
winding rattlesnake of a path
that I now stumble down.

It isn't me who whistles
that tune you can't quite taste the name of,
even as it dances on the tip of your tongue.

I promise.

I promise this is homage paid to
whichever lofty lord or lady
decides to descend from
their alabaster irrelevance
and keeps the change in wind
direction to their ******* self.

It's not oxen driven off a cliff
or anything, but in this economy
it will have to do.

You mumble your myriad mantras.

The hissing mysticism crescendos.

The whistler switches the octave.

Me; dizzy again, ******* off the tip
of a cryptic world with a pristine grin
as the dense twisting mists of mystery
beginning to drift betwixt the...

The whistling fades.

Tricks of the wind.

Never.

treasure leapt from an ocean
i've never tasted on the air.

surrendering.

dirges meant to be learned backwards
shuffle on into the dark unknown.

we ask worlds to spin on our tongues.

we are always unfulfilled.

we hate the word "we".

we use despair as a currency.

we are disgusting.

do you remember those dirges?

I do.

intransigence,
streets refusing rain,
all syllables march back
into my mouth;
i'm drowning.

spinning faster now,
this is spiraling now, so
where is the drain now?

the early hour silence
reminds me of shadow puppets
I could never guess.

oh well.

the apple's loved with the oranges.
the swarm is sick.

oh well.

the outside world is eldritch,
inside the crib is meanwhile...
meanwhile, inside the crib
I'm hellbent on using the
downtime to drift
through the ceiling.

pulling teeth out of the maw
of an almost perfect night,
I'm getting lost in
talking about my allergies.

ceiling still solid.

some sanctioned grandiloquence
and what i actually write
fight one another
for height in this blight of a hierarchy.

in other words, they are ****.

i want you to feel something,
even if it is negative.

you would be surprised at what is combustible.

What depth does the foundation
of my bastion of atoms
crack at?

The adversary,
that nefarious nature
laughing madly throughout the ages,
knows the cracks by heart
I'm told.

He could speak of the stones ground
to dust under the glacier of my soul
for days without repeating himself.

Then he has to know I'm a sucker for romance.

I hear a low hum constantly.

Imagine diamonds falling
in slow motion,
facets catching light,
soundtracked by
Whiter Shade of Pale.

I've long since mastered
the subtle art of getting sidetracked.

I'm also told younger generations
can hear electricity or something.
Still doesn't account for the hum
because the fridge sounds
like talk radio.

wading through fields drowned in blood

i listen to the sound of my pounding heart

dissolve into the carrion-song

of the ravens

while you shimmer in the glow

of my absence sipping dandelion wine

from divinity itself.



do the gods love you for it

as much as i?



**** them.

it doesn't matter.



their might will be mud

and they will choose oracles

from flowers reaching for indifferent sky

in a future far beyond the reach of

their miasmic mythologies

while you smile at me behind the same glass

of wine.



again, **** them.

smiling,
you were constellations
I had never glimpsed before.
I'm shivering at your door
like its nothing
because it's nothing.
I'm just lucky as ****
to even be here.
trust me.
it's "keep clear" mostly
if you haven't noticed
already.
not usually the one
at parties at all,
let alone the one
throwing confetti.

throws confetti.

stars, stars, stars;
the sobriquet is "heartache".

why give your energy to that,
you ask.
my dark day is a lonely
afternoon,
I'll be fine.
honestly.
I'm fine.

its all because being present
has always been
hard for me,
head in the clouds,
or searching for clouds,
or...

baby,
you don't want
to see what being
in my orbit affords you.

Paris is still on fire.

Finding myself in paper warped
by the ink from a stolen pen.

I lose it again in the lonely
void of smoke filled rooms.

Our need for a better vernacular
is a cup of tea sipped by our ghosts,
somewhere.

The night sky is so far beyond
being described by some
primitive technology such as language.

I fall in love with her over and over.

My lips remember her feet
in every sip of anything.

Over and over.

have I fumbled and dropped the chainsaws enough for you to
feel anything?

besieged by the sky,
my lungs have already burst.
never found the words.


i still drift nowhere,
first to find out I'm alone;
I would hate to hide.


the smell of honey
and lavender paints the walls
of mornings lost to...

de-focus.
being alone as a kid
in a parking lot is poetry later.
de-focus, please.

hope is deep, i know.
the lack of it is worse.

Suffering is a hovering
mother ship made of cheap tissues
hardened by ***** spilled
in shame and shadow
by (fill in the blank).

It's a crumbling mobile home
awaiting the day it's replaced
by the space it defamed
with it's sloppy symmetry.

We could raze it with a lazy
string of syllables, but we...

We flicker; pixels on the screen
of a digital camera discovered in a yard sale
under the tyrant-sun of a southern summer saturday.
"I'll give ya four for it.", we mutter to the resplendent deity sipping her ice tea from amber pressed glass in a neon pink plastic lawn chair.

The ice clinks in her glass
and the cicadas answer for her
and I think to myself that this has to be a dream,
that the Japanese have a term for the sound cicadas make that is infinitely more fun than "crepitation".

zing-zing-zing.

I'm laying on the floor of some kitchen
ive never been in and can't here a ******* thing besides the electricity coursing through the endlessly twisting-turning wires hidden just beneath the drywall.

I'm actually not anywhere at all.
writing from a...

I like destroying what I create sometimes.
It's easier than never finishing something,
sometimes.