to do what with
to crack every knuckle
to say matterhorn
patterns sound good
to crack my whole arm in
to pattern about
around on the floor
to feel the nice carpet
matterhorn matterhorn
to see it sounds nice
though you have to turn off
to mind not be bound on
by every to mind gone
pattern has pain gone
to matterhorn at
to sound pattern
comfort to brain or
to body as found on
the floor to do
nothings
to pattern
to melt to to melt to
to mete from crumpled
in pattern to shout up
to carpet towards matterhorn
to for nothings from pattern
to gone is for matter

Haley says Juniper is like a seed which, in his season, never flowers
Says he finds none beside the blossoms in the bench-worn courtyard
Surrounds, does metal which plants plug; deaf, embroiden, decipher
Does Haley, by talking to paper outstand the barrier what Suns for

Juniper swears Haley, from the trellis cracks, listened. Sweat-dent,
He jokes, like acidosis on the two sitting stones her feet frequent
Eroding because they grew, separate, together. He, a secret, and
She absorbed him, recorded, quickly became like the tangent

More like a seed which, all time, can’t flower
Besides, she can’t much see the blossoms within the courtyard
Front metal, surrounds only the smells of perennial ciphers
Comes Haley, her paper never tells of the shadow so felt for

Haley says Juniper is too passing. Says maybe the court is just desolate
Prays “Oh, fairy— one who, flapping, could some restore his deficit”
Hangared, windswept of oil lanterns which dangle, fictional, redolent
Her fairly good senses in put down that wall sitting, stasis indefinite

Juniper bellows out muteness. Stokes, quiet, her imagination,
But there is plenty to water or duck under inside his veranda
Aging, growing uninteresting even, though hardly unfortunate a
Situation is being captive to another’s not seeing your stagnation

Perhaps it’s her which, year-end, is desolate
In wishes, hope for prayings that float for her before his courtyard
Not wick in candles she can hear whisper sick, circular severance
From Haley and Juniper, whom to each other is definite

“Shine their shoes, boy.” Of ancient Ulm,
Or was it Hanover, or Vietnam news?

Whatever lives in a coptering leaves breeze flail
Burns, maybe, wrinkles over evening-orange contrails.

From ‘75, with backpack, an American teen.
You lay in a blanket that’s jungle green.

Born of tension, your luggage weared
Containing the last, probably-more, hundred years.

Pressured under coupled oceans that wash
Pepper, in the coasts, of gunpowder shells.

Every bit, godless, and landless there tread
Which is historically typical of a golden head.

You wait, with a significant loss in sheen
While much younger shoes uncover you from the rain.

“My, what a piece of ancient Ulm! It sits
Only in mud! Yet, what of the rest?

Whatever hasn’t yet lost its old meaning
That shining truth which, before, kept it going!”

Glossy, in all youth, in all sorts of sweat,
Heeded a call to consult with a death.

This set-on, and scattered, and ducked into flight
Mind unconsidered so decades might march out of sight.

Lo, quiet perforce a deep trench, or its field
Moving, not across that diptych unperturbed

Every hole through the air punctuates, shreds
The almost-last scream of a now golden head.

You run, run, run, run. Count how many feet touch the mound.
You envision how best you could look underground-

“Now, see: pressed up against its own shoes,
This thing of gold, it’s deformed and bruised!

Wherever we bore— past some trees, down a road;
Far from Ulm— we made a hole which, in it, erodes.”

Grisly, but plaqued, and so, covered up
The very remnants that resulted its death

From long ago, “This- It’s ancient!” some people say
Shipped back with laurel shawl now as its display

“Perhaps you are ageless wrapped in the old war.
Yes, tatters coming back are worth all the more.

Maybe, yes it was sent through so much wreck.
Before, far back it was born of some thread.”

“Shine its throne, man.” Of ancient blood.
That, on his deathbed is a golden head.

He showed up in the hills at our house made out of glass
He showed up in a daze worn of the past years we let pass
He walked inside knowing everywhere to step
He made only the sound of the depths
The depths
The depths

There
An absenting stare
Over fog lights in the hills
I drove to
Exhausting my last cares

I knocked
My hand felt heavy like a rock
I stood still
With the house
And darkness falling onto my head

Two figures
One took my rock
Looking past my eyes
The other in straight jacket
Poured her gateway dyes

Silence
And I’m heaving, sick
With a racing relapse
On the halls
Plast back my past

We let no apprehension known, there watching as he fell
We met the days as fastly passing even as he dwell
We doubt in him an ability to count his own missteps
We let a ghost of ours go sink into the depths
The depths
The depths

Unfurled,
Cracked, and catatonic
I sat then lay
Into a new black sofa
Detached from reality

Memory
Everything, once, I held
It was all at some point burnt
In a way to not entirely destroy,
But to experiment with life

With hope,
Betterment I thought
By way of replacing
All my body with stone
Disquality laid to ash, and such

Forever,
With stillness, a layer of dust
I could not see
Though I heard no protest
Of two I’d come here to expect

He bould into the black, the depths, and from him rose a fire
We did not put it out, but simply removed all of our glass so
He would wake again, not to face, nor to regret, but
We who drive away into the depths
The depths
The depths

You, I imagine you, walking silently
Beside me, briefly, and so I ask you-

Wait
It’s 4:29, low sun, deep Spring
I’ve got this wire wrapped between
Eating scraps, absorbing the means
To which I maximize a gluttonous,
A dispassionate, down-to-the-bone
White shadow hugging my anonymous face

I would think to take you, shaking
With my arm that has you held into my rib curve
To calm you, or myself climbing this cloudy hill
I’d remind you it doesn’t matter that I’m falling
That you are also not in time to catch me
Though still am I screaming-

Again, wait
We’re on earth, apart, you’re asleep
I can’t just recite the words to my screen
I can’t just jump out of life by myself
Here, under a cloudy new day, and a dream
In which we allow our gray shadows to meet

I would dare to hold you, press you
Over emotions that don’t come so natural
By God: who let you down here in half form
But, I’d say that, and laugh, you would know it’s okay
That it’s human to be born as an imperfect creator
Of love- of love feelings, connections and wires

I think I can wait
It’s night, again, day or
Passing the foothill for the nth-ever moment
I’d remember it by the hue of the shadow
That wraps, and I drift off and wrap you myself
You, I imagine you walking, answering
Beside me, this time I’m quick to ask you
“Is this our love that moves where the clouds go?”

i. ever same

I was feeling ornately gay as
That night I am “Here, I’ll stay.”
As numb and wordless I massaged
Hoping, God, to only meet your eyes
Still, you hugged, and I said “Same.”

I said to my brain
And I said to that man
Whom I wished to be Him
But, I said it. Remiss, now
My heart won’t be known

In still I stood as you were rapping
The words I did not think would stop me
And arms, came two, and too, my shame
I’ve not been there- in here in love
I need to rest, but you said “Same.”

same same same
Do you understand?
That I want so much
But, you want “Same.”

Oh, me- My ecstatical, upon your bed
Wrapped, I admit in perverse growth
I could taste in the air a thing like an epiphany
Of how fast we could move,
And how slow you would say

To me “Same…”
Achingly, seeing myself agree
To your terms, that I absorb to be mine
Tieing, same, down till I’m “Perfectly fine.”

Right? I’m the human for you
I’m the empathetical un-real for you
Amusing, but so unmoving towards you
Mad, but somehow the same in my mood

We can walk, and we never can touch
At connection through the Garden
Copse, through our nature all stirred up
Ever same into disorder I need to call our love

all the same, i suppose, when you turn it away
when you turn back around, engulfing my eyes from

ii. screens

relapse to your haunt for me now
and tell me why im feeling this crash
and why am i telling you now?
ill never know to why you im attached

i am the one with all of the minds
and im ******* insane ******* bipolar, lay i
feeling so hard to connect, to speak, to be,
like now, as i fume youve nothing to say

cried, ******* ******* text
no emotion, no support
what if i snap, like i feel us needing sin?
everything is ******* text on a screen

no humans, none breathe in sight
is it not the funniest enabler
tonight as with same after same
i fail to articulate the absolute failing of my brain?

******* amazing. isnt it horrible?
like where did this toxicity emerge from, so suddenly?
i swear im not taking it out on who
my friend, after all, you’re used to some break-up

or two psychotics suffused to one life
both so worthless. dont even speak back
how could this be directed at you?
impossibly, do i mean what i say?

im such a nice person, they all agree!
such endlessly nice ******* text on a screen
nice little stupid little sham with my username
representing nothing that i am cause i am nothing

but just only nobody
who sits in a chair and cares
about every lovely word
fixed to my ****** despair

it not enough to stand up
never enough to accept hel-
******* spell checking
adding charade thats become my whole life

it’s* the artifice of appearing nice
in text, forever, without moving from
a single room when twenty springs
insist that maybe im slightly ******

the artifice of growing up
and taking responsibility
in a world that doesn’t even care
about any dumb ******* poetry ever

or any sort of love i put out there
as i am broken *******
crying out to nothing
just let ٭٭٭٭ tire out and

we can all go back to proverbial nutting
as of course you like your ****, friend
you head-case, edge about breaking
though can’t muster *** if its rubbing your emotions

******* *******, edgy teen just
going through a phase meant
as momentary sadness
despite as years pass, same

it all continues still, in prime
so not a phase, i need help now!
cant gather energy to be truly mad
cant ******* punch a hole in text on a screen

i wouldnt even if we were real
drained apathy having a tripping
psychotic ******* breakdown
and this is all the energy i bring?!

please see me as pathetic
and we will never speak of this again
will we? we couldnt do that!
we cannot dare to message ٭٭٭٭ once in a week!

why am i surrounded by this meaningless text?
******* stupid poetic crap, ****!
i cant even escape it when im trying to rant
lifes supposed to be serious and im arranging slants

worthless
oh, but do not ever worry
٭٭٭٭ will stop soon
as always, so considerate

human hates this
and i like human dont i?
so what are we doing?
he should be my intimental

we can split like this
have a hit into
the artificial intercoursal
crying meltdown pixels

i can be cool
and i can scare him some more
every day upon the next future
date of empty words

iii. saying

Me, with my layers of systems. Systems of posture and memorized scripture. That, that amounts to a Bible on people. And, I was scanning you with evangelical yearning.

Passive aggression, I usually call it. Not to believe that you’d pick up on that. Or, God forbid you are entirely aware, but never meet my eyes in their hundred-desperate stares.

Nevermind. It’s me who won’t ask. Though it’s you which will simply not connect, or show care. To emotions, they come from a longing, I think, from the back- way, way back of my forested head.

You’re the reason (always, I am as well) that I describe feeling as constantly encompassed by dread. And loving, and all this wordy sort of poetics I’m leaking, and has actually consumed what I see on our paths end.

That path, what abreadth was I seeing complete? Perhaps the cusp of us as one? Perhaps the youth screens stole from us? I hoped a realness dusted our coats which would sit unused in eternal Spring.

Instead it’s me with my layers of clothing. It’s you with your insomnial silence, and turning away which sees me do the same. Saying so, so close to nothing with two thousand words which bridge near on lying.

Of, certainly, neglecting the actual, non-tragedy, underwhelming truth of us. Are we (am I) yet capable the post-developmental act of accepting some love?

And what even is love? Do I mistake it with thought? Do I return it to that childish, and inexorable cradle of systems I sought?

That inexperienced sort of biting my tongue. Like juvenile, short of saying a lot.

Only after nothing’s said, I say one last thing. Yes, I say it so much, too. An apology leaves, and dies along the path. It remains my laying bargain, everlasting through my quiet breath.

iv. ever sorry

Would you start a conversation
Built onwards? At basics, my hatred
A said, or so-what ignored
Aspect of passion I’ve blocked
With the falling apart of my every bone?

Of course, contorts my avoiding
Playing with words of emotional
Marriage; performing and demure
Because all that you’re unlikely to tread
To the past and dig up such pain I extole

So shall I blame your thinning skin?
Your ***-grown hair, and fearful brain?
One which hides, yet somehow gives
Support to me, that sort of man
In madness, I come, take, and abort

You, who I want to start talking
I’ve seen it that’s why I grabbed you out
A lean on which we could actually see down
We, which so faithfully still get along
So it brings me to tears as I escape into doubt

As my same, ever same screen is shattered
As I stand, but always sit when I greet you
As, behind a cursory limit, I think it all matters
That you and I ever thought fate saw to greet us
Or, only I thought I’d ever live with that promise

Streamed upon the open tracks
There was a being of short form
Gas, like, amalgamous
There was it still being one

It’s teeming about, in carriage, in seat
There, was its permeate; a thing of few need
Suggested in subtle, like-preenster supine
There, being now presently undone from time

Every eye meeting back and glancing fore
To this creatures past in another train car
Attempting, and so far failing to judge
The smoke and the rain of its body language

Exits, its— and so much more entering—
Shiftily greeting the sights it’s still mesmerizing
Locking our looks, but it floats there, and free
And, later down rail then, it stands in marquee

Existing, it is imminent in illusing that
It is mistily fixing whatever paradox pours out
There will be naught to worry which clouds are sat or stay
When they’re out in locomotion, out into our everyday

It’s relatively, extremely cold
In a manner like I’ve just been born

Your heart is quiet underground
When before it was frowning, perfectly sound
Maybe not perfect, but talking and-

Please, there is nowhere left for me to love
Supposed before like Spring turned from

It’s these months
Cold and envied
Of the last inbudding
Long ago seeds were doing

Those life-full alonging
Vibrant as you’re buried around them

As colored as, silently beating,
The pestilent grey of your heart

“God!” Fading apostoles of time
Sneaking such blood through your gut
Has me afraid to look down at the truth

You leave. Me, who has eighty more Springs
Me, who has failed to connect with your being

We’ve these hangups
Real or in mind
And, you’re crushed
And, I’m over here, hardly a child

So I’ll act-like, staging around
The loneliest art form, vague and deformed

Each a petal off my stagnating stem
Forever feels the same when I speak in mhm’s

Attested, and stress paced
The coffin needs cracking
Its structure will not meet
The breath of a human

As long, with the Spring dirt compression can last
Us, both keep our splintering souls to ourselves

Opposite the water
Meets the current
In his study

Motionless, Fabé
And his study
Into trapped
The brain above,

He shades the
Sieving tea the
Leaves seep and
Blowing and woven

Winds like
Throwing over
The new breeze
What, as always

Sways to be
So, and light
In-poured will
Touch sore Fabé

Or, the beam
Uponto leans
Wooden, atease
Supports still

Fabé who studies
Opposite the heavens
Writes of stars
Sat all above him

Or a portion of silencing,
Calming brain sport amid
Its blood primed gently,
Yet so engrossingly violent,
Final, like, slumped there—

It’s order
It is impatient
In this mind, baying
In-timing, in cycle so
It can shout down
Its very survival

Pour, the metal will
Out, and score or fill
The air when notes,
And rhythm flush towards
Those that must find me there

It’s order
It is me on a wall
In that I proclaim
In my death I know all
It thought, and shouted again
It’s screaming, screaming survival

—And when order in-churned
I was spilling such pain
I will never return, yet
Much life remained
Thinking, or parallel to that:

Is order much caring I bleed like I am?

Where I’ve shivered and tattered, made everyone stay
We’ve chattered, I’ve sended and clicked, I repeat
In smoke goes a day and a day and a day
And I-

In trench, in a bed, in my first for a life
So cold, when I warm up it’s under a micro-light
I’ve wept for my clothes and I’ve wept for my mind
We’ve hardly sat down when you get up to check the time

Through stories I mumble, I turn, you’re online
Type one for the masses, type one for yourself
Read one that’s attempting to just turn your head
That same went a day and a day and a day
And a-

Cracking interior, the sun floods my brain
Whose white monitor on my eyes so intrudes with-
In bliss and like wombic: the heat of your room
I feel you neglect the same love I can’t give to you

So soon is the feeling I lean on unfun
So moons come around and they’re due to go down
I’m doomed in the decade of just about done
As next goes a day and a day and a day
And I

And old; it burns

A cold, and how thawing,

Aged down to the ground

Some pelting with furious

Assault wherein snow

Will not melt, where

Trees and their burned-

Like, and sounds and their

Stowed withfor sitting

Here withered; intimately

Burning up, wind still

Hits me. The morning,

Fresh, hell-grasped

See, eyes to the ground

Up, the wood gets old,

And old owes a right

To, in peace, burn alone

Falling, with my eyes, tight

Tiny, does the sun go
Followed by the snow down
Ever as a shower in steam

Shallow, goes the systems
Out like a fire, rising
Sparks and they spread throughout the brain

Mythic, misting asteroids are crashing on the brakes
Swerving and you’re missing but you’re christ-like all the same

Glyphs are losing meaning on displays of melted grass
Gasses matronize a pattern, tanning on the mass

Squirming, does the chimp go
Crashing through the planet
Taking selfies with the blood and its core

Comment on my face
See, stressing for this weekend
Acting like you’ve been to space at all before

I would be an astronaut but who would beam me back
As it’s clearly known that Texas ain’t now on the map

Piling into a void, a horror seldom met
Practicing a breathing technique as it’s time for bed

Forward can we all go
Float and look away from
The past as none can spin themselves awise

Sky’s black in eye
And masking in between
A passing glance of our in-passing souls demise

Mourning what’s a bed of little matter accidents
Morning corks the breath in which we sigh its savageness

Storming takes the moon across our bodies limp orbit
Torrenting that morbid, now red heavenly orphan

The tears look dried
We exercise
Our broken, fated pioneer

This sense, this blear
We’ll all ascend
In death us surely owed a new frontier

I’m going to do what I’ve seen
Many others apply
To their mind as they watch another’s body just die

Wait and beg after
Under judge of monuments
That are so very quiet in the hearts cradled resonance

Followed, bounding, cold and unfeeling
Sent into the towards
Of winter with, in horror, is rest upon one score

Come God in the next moment
The war you’ll discuss
To snow when it bombards that grave of my trust

You laying and such
Laying my life
Laying, that’s more than I’ve done with a scythe

You pouring me out
And pouring accounts
For more than what little of life I recount

Over and over
You’re sick and I’m sober
Into buckets, begets; we sink only closer

Until,
And I’ve seen,
Until the water’s mixed up

Your blood with,
Nor life, nor
Denying regrets

In from the mist of our material plain
Out far in the East lay a trail by the sea
Dotted with wells and the sounds of quails
Crusted jets of shined Earthen fits
Rubbed down from its shear as a mountain
Played out by the watery, rusted brass section

The Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs sit and wait on the water

Slowly lowing pours of passes,
Brooks and weathered ravines showing
Tracing inwards, out to pasture
Winds the coastline to these towers
Birds of Dover hover, soundless
Mixing air gusts line the pipings

Where Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs right down to the bottom

So may a beetle missing wing
Come eventually reach the sea
Gull by way or ever scaling
Geologic clock come sailing
Scoring drums the cheer of tides
Into when years are fossilized

As Cliffs rise and fall on the water
So Cliffs sit and be on the water

And all that stone bore out of time, styled
Dark and plinthed come moored day round
Ornate platters, restful gravel,
Granite or a painting gathers
Art and sky are matched as one, within
Centered over sunset blazing on

And the Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs soar beauty mined on the shores

I remember when I was young
I saw the lights on my knees of the golden sun

Wither. So from night I aged around
Years of a soul to peel apart as I’m found

Singing. Gaze to a wall in its porous decay
What four seal away the few mornings awake

Sitting and wasted on me tending my time
Dies the mind, ignored, drifting unwashed into prime

Apart order, eyeless, and gluttonous grown
And still years pushing faults upon thin root and bone

Based in about the endless same
Best lazed between each days soreing name

Forgotten like what else and frightened of
Change laid before my slowly keeling tree of love

Or supposed love
As I spoke before of: terror comes

I remain as I was
And it shades me as I still am and still am I young

I wanna work at a laundromat
Where the carpets are flat flat flat
And the washers are egg shell white
Soon to find me there overnight

I wanna work across the street
In the dollar store off the beat
Thrifting modernist wood-grain mats
Someone even sold their cat cat cat

Come on and find me with the Pet Stop freaks
Canaries and wild flowers leased in heaps
Pleased to find something that’s pink pink pink
Pleased to come to find that it’s extinct

I wanna work at the registry park
Renewing leaves for sharks sharks sharks
I’ll speak softly but make them spat
For the last pen in their habitat

By night I will toil beneath a black sky
Cough cough and inhale my pride pride pride
Watching the men in my watch-men-machine
Breathing towers where you build your dreams

Somehow, somewhere is a job for me
Come the morning I will scrounge and I’ll bleed
But I’ll look great as I rise to the sky
As there to catch me is that twelve ninety-five

I was up
Biting scars
In the moon-lit sunlight
The hands-up of stars

Wishing
And curling seams
Of the thought which
Is lost within minutes release

Pour what’s
My cares seep
My total alright
Into where wreathing digital deep

Soil that’s left
Damp, dark and yet
Blinding the night
Stitching up holey, blanket regret

I’m dying
Not now, but
I ball up my feet
Watching, this white heat, lying, will shut

Away
In a little
Stitched skull
Of alright

The data streams
Are in my head
They're in my dreams
That see me pitching
Above, briskly, trees
Like a squirrel does
Jumping my house
When I wake up
The data streams
Have come alive
And now advertise
Directional breeze
Lifting flying machines
Uncaring for my eyes
It's just my hand they
Squeeze to release
My data streams

Janis, she just mocks, how they knock off every berry
And the snow, on the branch, now “Calandra, never worry.”
Seasons come, like they fall, and they spring forever weary
In the Valley of the Orchids, rare are birds unto a journey

Feeble, does he brew; with the stones, shall he marry
Corralled is the smoke, tossing hills as it carries
Fuming seas in the sky, past the bricks and the rye
Cabaret, hear him, nigh does his skin peel and fly

On an arch in a prairie in a province in a land
Where the children are told how to fear their hands
Atop smoky pine feathers that burst when they're touched
We stomp, and we squeak to the air on, we march

A prison laced in reddened storms drones on mountains ever-scored
Looking north by north bygone, the test, remiss, we’ll move southward
But on the sky sits Cerise Range and all around in spheres, a cage
And then, a beak we see invade! A crash and splat; of juice we’re made

May the fly, the mayfly evade the day the children hang
The Brewer, haste has made, pours his broth, begins the day
Hide, little child, like the fly, become the blanket on the marsh
Become the stock, but don't give up, next month won't be so harsh

Jude of June, that's what she’s called, she grooms her quill and tests her ink
The One of Blue, another name, she writes for everyone to breath, she blinks
“O, small brown bird, you speak the path? Well I have ever shone on some.”
The Summer Sun, that's who she is, who waits for Janis, soon to come

Jewel in the eye, dome of peace
Returneth casts our masks beneath
Iris besets “Berceuse, my mess.”
Sad, for slowly nights a guess

Part-time, will’o’writs she can dust
A cat's tail christened, paw in a gust
Dystrophy, no galleys waste strewn
The suns of Aude across its boon

Deliver us Toulmask, lost and protested
Past bejeweled Silken in millions, nested
In Scepter where embers aroma holds on
To the sands like rocks destroying its spawn

Into the nest, deep. With Man, reborn against winds and dusk
Will best the heaps, lifespans of each, in caverns each a husk
Cut deep with scythes. The Trembling, Bellowing, Festering
Reckoning, unending Octobering deathening, surrendering:

You! Bird, the bell rings
Brown bard, the sun sings
Sky guard, no venerate
Berried lark, thou emirate

Welcome, into ends and to makers
Watch with, admire, be your desires
Forget time, velvet rubs you and penetrates
Valley’s of orchids that start, to disintegrate