pink lady
apple
nom nom

things don't happen
for a reason

they happen for
an imagination

slipped glyph.
this and that; wracked
in some silly, heady
packrat skyscraper
of leaning light.

then's flicker of vague regret hangs around, because life.
because letting go is never really, ever, fully possible.
misremembrance -now- retracing my..

it was
as though
you had written,
signed and
sealed those
few words
themselves,
with your own
blood and bone

and yet i
can-
not recognize
my own
penmanship
anymore,

nor this, here,
outstretched hand.

howamievenhere?

*because a winged thing, other,
has this history
by the tail,

and your thoughts are not your own

i don't have anything to say. not really. how can i when my own bones feel like strangers that pilfered a body when nobody was looking? when i speak, small echoes of some one else kindly pull at my fingertips, slipping under the nail and past the cuticle where it unfolds like sad gods found to be made of origami swimming in a sea of memes. it hurts like hell. and so, i've come to know silence. it holds me. brand new shell. my process, felt.

while driving up the coast on rt. 101 the other day
i happened to look out of the passenger window
and saw this
  weird
patch of sea
that was -still- and utterly

p l  a c i   d.

ebb and flow had become
  static nebula mirror,
penetrating the
apparent
blue sky lie; and my sad looking eyes,
were, now, less observing:
looking through  

g l a s s melt

and: my rotted heart composted forth
the most beautiful lilies wi l t ing;
its petals falling
upward
into the glinting red circle circled in the mirror below it.

my grandma just had a stroke. she is unresponsive. on life support. might die soon.. and yet, because of it, i jus now caught myself dreading having to see my family again.

that thought happened.

i am not a good person. or did this world frame me cold? i dunno anymore.

these are darker days
see them grin

my itsgonnabeOK smiles are beginning to thin

i need something
to keep me

going

the nondescript licks
that glitchy part of me gone septic
no flora can heal it
see it choke the skies
see it rope up the sun but

here

this
is

a dais for you

write like hell poet
make it hurt

**** me with your words

winged things tear violent
from shoulder blades
the wet purple skies are mine

https://instagram.com/p/_580FRwJfQ/

i'm so tired
of wanting to become something --
grand designs
doing pirouettes in my little head --

i just
need
more time
to think things through

plastic tines
stab at forks
in the road

silly you!
trying to stop the decision-making process
like a child
with a rhyme

speaking of the devil,
for a limited time only,
**** the walking dread
that paces at the foot of your being
like a thing in need --
how? thought you'd never ask ---
i'll get to that, in due time

-- i will say this though: it's not with an ax
or bow
or some moralized TV show
nope

nothing like that

the need to be
to be --
that

is the imperative --
timeless
tasks tasked with go-forth --

we feed on it --
always pressing forward
always-already doing things,
going places, lurching concern,
consuming steps steps steps

listen

progress is
a stone alone inside my pocket
-- watch it
bloom tumultuous
into a decision to be undone ----

I am
The backward startle
Flesh made text

Know this:
All will be retraced till
All that remains is
a waiting cursor --
Blinking blinking
Blank page staring
Into your you --
The mess undressed, ****** --
Don't unfuck it --
Allow it --
Let it ******* for a time

Then go hardly softly into the night
With steps alighting
Bold events of past doings lit
Given another chance

The was made present
A specter sent
To turn the insides of your bones
Into channels --
Canals of then-time (makes sense)

Get to know the script
Then flip it
Budge its molecular structure
See its words squirm
Make its serifs recoil
And strike at your command

Crazy? Yes
Impossible? Perhaps
But your verse must be heard
The play goes on and on and on
Until you decide
To interrupt it

we all **** ourselves
and give birth to hurt

yet that scintilla still
throbs
little bent columns of light
creeping up this floor and up this wall

globes pendulate from threadbare string
smirks made of lit dirt
reach for the ear
till the room is seen clean through

i saw a crane the other day.
it was foraging in the brook.

two thin lines
stepping stepping
stopping
observing

it almost looks human
the way it moves
thoughtful, careful, hesitant even
negotiating its footing

gooney majestic grace
unfurling ballet -- for me -- amid
babbling brooks and nature's hooks

i cried
i wept like a child

---- no, i didn't

i didn't cry
i didn't weep
but i wanted to
i wanted to cry
i felt like i should have

i wanted
to cry

i should have been able to feel
to have feelings

night drew in
abrupt
i didn't see it coming
lost in thoughtlessness' pauses
retracing the cursive of it all
left with
blank pages bound, blinking cursor

i killed two mosquitoes

then left

i kicked a stone
down the path

margin of pen offend
rise up till elliptical
last breath thin swim

i pick up the instrument
cold but not aloof
angle and roll my wrist
watching one thin voltage of line
zip up and down
from tapered metallic crown
to broad black foot

glint of bald brilliance
swimmingly alone
one singular streak so very true to itself
reacting to this act
uncut

struck
am i
by the lean careen
i am unstuck
agreeing to its scheme
exact
cupped

i fashion myself
written down
code scrolling upon my being
informing conduct
with form of fury
it glows with obligation
it knows no theory

i do not try
i let it scry  
history's sloughed golden bones
hover above vision's groan

i slip it in the inbetween
wings shook violent
no longer lame
ferocity of aha gained

two saturated pools
consent and
circle the hurt drain
only hue of heal of remains

It's mine.
Observe
The way it careens light --
Taking, then
Jettisoning it --
Slickfastwhirrs stammer about its orbit.

And I
Try to capture it; it being, of course,
The thing illuminating
The space between eyes flitting,
Flipping through entire books of you
with one look --

And with a flick of the wrist
I produce
A pixel of muscle
over might

If I may.

It's silly, really
I know.
But it's mine, all mine.

Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Not anywhy. Not caring pennywise above my lotto-won unslant brow. I simply cannot who this town anymore.

Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....

---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.

(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..

---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/

it, turning
and smirking.

Oh! the its
and things.

And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.

So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.

Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.

Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.

That voice inside: nothing

Me: ...

Chicken, *****.

Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.

I won't flinch.

my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.

the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door

0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,

Denuded, they

corrall it
adn things

white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.

I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.

two slight perforations form
undulate flesh swoop torn
one warm imperceptible caress

uncivil visions of some creature arcana old
pirouette from silhouette less abysmal
than many are wont to vet
warming up to her oblique
touch adroit in crushflesh yeses

invested vessel swell
pulsed obelisk
penning her well

she recalls it
all of it
from sweet to macabre detail
entire spectrums crossed n recrossed
again and again

two slender fingers drop in
wraith simulated till bursts worm up

onions and roses
pushpull fools
sweet something's

whispered

into your
torque

we'll endure
the shade of
spent flesh wakes

together

or
apart

raining
so much yay

i grew up in an evangelical home in the burbs. i now like to think of this brand of belief in christian doctrine as the sorta "star but humble upstart" ---- a shy new jesus on the block. not very showy with ritual. not too brimstone-y with rules. but nevertheless it is terribly aggressive and convincing in its apparent passivity, summoning up a tactical confusion in the believer that petrified the will before it had a chance to bloom and raked in the imagination before it could body forth an inner-whorl.

the evangelical brand leads with a hidden, veiled threat of eternal damnation best served cold with kind eyes. these eyes, they grow mouths inside them to speak to you the truth as they see it. it assumes your consent already. it rips initiative from the realm of possibility. it rents you a god, a "real living god" amid a scarcity of eternal life. you are sold. you must be. it trains a deep, serene dispassion that enslaves any shred of emotionality. it grips ****** life-affirmation with thousands and thousands of self-induced mental strokes against the backside, moving into position various leather tentacles tipped with acute tapered bones that seek out, lick, dig and pull up a guilt that beats subcutaneous, stuck to the very core center of the hard white tissue holding up humanity itself. you are fallen now because of before, or so it goes. it is the worst kind of violence. it steals who you are and gives you back a cheap copy that tells or suggests you hate, with a vengeful love of course, these original pieces of you that keep cropping up, keep emerging through nice smooth paved suburban sidewalks, still wanting, still desiring -- new words worming through old written ones.

it starts with a lack, and it wants to color you in. "you are not good enough" it sez. "you need something" it warmly alleges. "don't resist, let him in" it condescends with a grin reaching for the ear. it is a vamp asking for permission to eat your heart out with fork and knife, only to replace it with himself - all as you watch the procedure. it loves you to death.

tell it *******, kindly. then shut the door.

it
calls from the drain
that i circle
hi-lite
and underline -- twice
just in case

i jus now saw
some dude
literally move
the apt. dumpster
so to paint
the wall white
behind it;

a wall, which,
will be completely ******* covered
by the dumpster,
after putting it back
against the newly painted white wall.

plus im pretty sure they're calling for rain..

that happened.

i actually witnessed that happen:
and, then, proceeded to
turn around
-awkwardly-
to go back inside my apt.,
with two full trashbags in hand.

... do you even realize what that means??

somebody actually gave him
that task: "go paint behind the dumpster."
aren't there other things to do?
or is this guy's boss that much of a ******
that he'd tell his employee,
"heyyy soo.... the wall.. behind the dumpster --
you know that wall? yaa
it needs to be painted.."

i mean, it'd be one thing
if, like,
the wall were
visible. and gross looking.
and people were calling
and complaining
about it,
like it was some eyesore
that offended their
otherwise
aesthetic enjoyment
and anticipation
of approaching
the scuffed forest green
apt. dumpster.

but it's not;
so it's not;
and so
they aren't.

or i'd get it if people routinely socialized
hanging around dumpsters,
like a water-coolor
or something;

buuut they don't;
so it's not
like a water-cooler..

... yaaa, unless i'm missing something here,
as far as i know,
there have been no
emerging cultural trends
whereby large groups of people
are routinely finding some
sorta symbolic resonance with
the object of a
dumpster;

it's gravitas
doesn't exactly
prompt frequent and
spontaneous dialogue
around it.

it isn't a known cultural artifact,
representing something meaningful and
bigger than ourselves, creating cohesion
and establishing an intangible commonality:

behold, our goodly trash-bearer!
great eater of things prolly totally not needed!
humble builder of plastic trash continents,
swirling vortex in the middle of the high seas!

nobody says that.

ever.

and nobody
is overstaying their visit
at a giant,
smelly
metal maw
which disposes things,
either unneeded or unwanted,
long enough
to suddenly notice that
the wall behind it
could maybe use a new paint job.

it's not exactly a cafe.
it's a ******* dumpster.

that man,
charged with the task of
painting the wall whiter
behind the dumpster,
ought to be
painting
on a canvass

which we all could see,
visible to the greater public.
and we would celebrate it, with him.
we could all gather
together, and toast
to his mind manifest, his art,
on display for all to see.

i wanna see THAT.
**** the white wall
behind the
******* dumpster.
that **** can wait.

what visions would surface?
how would he render it?

what would
he make?

i dunno

maybe
he'd paint
a surrealist depiction
of a man
charged with the task
of painting white
a wall behind a dumpster
as rain clouds
rolled in overhead,
spelling out

"i am Employer.
destroyer of worlds,
and vibes.
feel my ****** wrath."

it feels me with
terror and awe
how tangentially complicit

we all are.

this fate:
radial.

radii circling the too-shiny drain.
i'm suspicious of this gleam.

i see the memory of then now.
it is coming.
it is here.
it was.
it's all

the same.

the scream of us
silent silent
it never left the head

metalwing riveted
flying gliding
low-flung flutter rust

the pill
taking
us crush
plush
amid quoted
cloudflower bloom soon

this is -just- a life,
and i am jus you
over there - torn too.
but this tilted
tumult, momentous,
sez otherwise dot dot dot

----- who am i to quest?
i guess i'll jus let the tugshove be(come),
and bleed n cry n stretch these
altered shoulder blades lifted
into something other,

even as
my toes
tell me
hard tales
so ocher.

listening to Nirvana's "Something in the Way"
and i am -now- just realizing how ******* good this song is.

i mean, the mood cuts right to the bone:

underneath the bridge
tarp has sprung a leak
and the animals I've trapped
have all become my pets
and I'm living off of grass
and the drippings from the ceiiiilinggg
it's ok to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feeeeeelingsssssss

something in the way
mmmmmmmm
something in the way (yeah)
mmmmmmmhmmm

it's jus kurt on the geetar alone till the chorus, doing a simple chord,
and, thing is, he isn't so much singing as he is speaking in loose meter;
and it's almost as if between the words he is saying,
".. well how the **** could song survive this thing i am talking about
yuhknow? i am giving you my guts."

you finally get some lilt and rhyme that might be considered song
toward the end of the verse, but this is immediately undercut with,
of all things,
given what preceded it,
a joke ---- it's okay to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feelings

holyfuckingshitdoesthiscapturetheabsurdityofthings

an­d i don't mean a joke as in hahafunny but rather
what. else. can. i. do. but laugh, else i'll cry; and I can't cry anymore 'cause
i'm all outta tears. why??
because this abyss
called "existence" - that history, heh, tells us is imbued
with rational purpose or intent, or whatever -
bats its pretty little eyes at me like a big fuckyou..

i think
kurt is, suggesting, here:
laugh back.

it's like Camus' Sisyphus:

i
dare
you

to roll that same rock called "life" up the same hill everyday all day
and summon (somehow) a smile,

------ or at least a    s m  i      R    k

and watch as beauty bolts through your dead fecund heart
removing that
thing
in your way

i am hating myself 
then analyzing and reanalyzing 
why i hate myself 
then hating how i hate me so much
and how self-consumed it is
then feeling the evening cool breeze 
spacing out
then wondering what 
that last final edit of me
will feel like

your cold heavy vapor swims up there and
itoldyouso face and
wild rose distillation, which
always has me coming
hard.

it stills it;
like lakes placid in the beginning back then, it
kills the pill
that takes me
and frames me
in the worst ways, like like like
an oil painting of a bowl of ******* fruit hung
in the abyss (?).

but sometimes i can't come
and then my thoughts hafta
turn the color darkknotsundone
so that i can shoot thorns
and be fuzzy peripheral again.

if i focus hard enough
i can
budge
all my molecules
that once were snug
embedding slivers of space
till solitude is my room

if i died
would you lie

with me?

lay me
down
in my small space,
touching
my chilled
flesh,
caressing me
till i arrive

over there?

i have died so many times.
it hurts.

i
don't
want
it.

so give me it,
dagger deep.

her word is
sun
always on time
sprung

from ashes fast
with one
true
utterance
it
universes into
existence
him

her being
unsung

from
torn mortal to
soaring phoenix
vast

she is
one

and so

he has been won

they
are

some
thing

a thing sundry
a wing from one being
a dream lovely
a gleam starry

a good story

something
worth telling

her word is true
now his word is too

that is perfection
a star welling
a joytear

strummed
streaming

i mean, it was crazy. i got really sick that night. worst luck EVER.
but she
took care of me - she fed me and
played ** on wax
and burned sage to cleanse me, all while kissing me.
she spoke French to her Persian cat. we laid together. *******.
then we jus laid there.. both afraid to break the silence that was good, so good..

my eyes were closed, i remember, and
she started kissing me,
interspersing them with these, like, super
small ephemeral licks
-one on the top lip, then one on the bottom one-
gentle and full of thought,
so light,
almost imperceptible,

like an amalgam of ice and rock the size of Manhattan
wobbling
teetering and
slipping, ever so lightly,
into our orbit.

i slept better than ever that night. spent on ***. lots.
and like dead flowers not yet
we dreamed of iridium petals falling up, wilting in the hot blazing summer light
bearing down on our fling.

"Columbus was a twatface ****** whose karma now entails an aeon-long dharma of subsequent reincarnations as a monkey *** stain spurt on the hard cold floor of an unkempt city zoo deep within the bowels of Fucksville, USA. There, I said it. idgaf"

~ Einstein

-catch it-
deal with it
feel Ananda

watch the past come back
to you
one
with the present

and

be Atman

nobody poets anymore

because to poet
is

to make it strange again

admit it - if you stare long enough

your reflection in the mirror tickles
the ribs of 1-to-1

turns a laugh into a cry
a real hard good cry
washing the world of wry

to poet is
to show

the sheer

terror

that is
alive

it's not outside
it writhes
under the molecule

it tumbles the tumult

dear you
your tools will not will forever

the unfisted wisp now blurred
beneath word is curtains
for your House of Horror Maintained

it beats like a busybody
muscling and torquing just below the breastbone

of your
you

the i is not it anymore

it is
othering
peeking behind
the beat-up chair of your so-called

real

there's wires behind there

they lead some
where

twofist head muscle: kineval.
but really iz jus 2:15
shoelacegazing in a prefab park gazebo.

texty fingertip slinger.
chase that dragon.
kickin fake jordans
in a tomb called Khufu

diffuse serial NOONSDAY scenario:

always
cut
the
pixelated
rainbow
wire.

yuh know, that

jejune
box
hero:

from alphabet soup news to
netfizzle huludoodoo,
twiddling its Neros.

V iz for silent
in the actual voodoo
that’s been silenced
with dogooder silencer.

blap.
blargh.
this is all so
hashtagical.
prolly. so
follow me.

anyway resistance is feudal, ‘cause
evil doth hearts a good fight.

“evolve?! nevar!”
quoth the flat noted, dorsal
Dept. of Unkindness

mother of this our Earth
enfolded beneath
we know her usual mossy haunts
but she has now been fitted with glinting wheeling prosthetic

and her body has no rejected it

we are being pulled toward her
at
the
end
of
t i  m    e

Gaian mechanism curving us inward
the birth of a new paradigm
where information is realized
in unison with beings bright

she was
after all
star
in the
beginning

and end

this lalala lightly felt
high noon breeze 
has my head stuck
in all sorts of texty zoos

legs hips navel
clavicle ridge line
hands behind binary bars shallow

these wet blues i feel
feel real
swimming hues
suggesting so much

i am the fool who'll 
follow knotty impressions and
fall for that crevice
just beyond
crenelated hipflesh

where woolly strips the color of sea unders
straps across
and barely covers it
 
three
light
taps
of the tongue
at the back of
both incisors 

is all it takes

and i

lick you
from where you came
to where you went

All is a graveyard
We stumble about upon epochs
of reverberating death knells
Living like leaves
upon one solemn tree
Enriched by ancestral spell below

Fallen
Not yet

Organics ancienter
-unknown-
That black-indigo before the dawn
Ground up between bedrock
Churned into an oil

We go because they went before
And we too will go
Gone from this whirl

The skull calls all

Either respond
Or don't
It does not matter

The worm is autocrat
Its dictate: feed
Excreting the creed
Again again

There is death
Then there's the sleep of Fall
Death's second self
As Shakes' leaves once penned

But the reflection of this
In this our complicated globe flitting
Is death's third self
A selfish giver left to leave

A self that is
Because of what once was

A flourishing
Sped forth by inner-whorl of seed
An intimate meeting of bodies
Being being
And been

leave him.
he is a worn-out version
of what once was

he is lukewarm
he squats in no man's land
he is not sure

he is the kitchen floor
after an exclusive dance party
at your friends apt.
where
like
only six people came
and you all drank mimosas
and danced and
the cat did something awkward
and you all laughed -so hard- and
you had such a ******* good time
and you drunkenly swore him off

he is a war-torn region
his heart
is a foxhole
his heart is not peaceful
it is in pieces
it bears teeth
he is
not a bad person
but you-with-him is
a bad mixture
it makes his heart-teeth gleam
he changes
he is different around you
the moon calls for him

he does not listen
he senses
he hears with his gut

your light feels like
a fast getaway from
all the things that "matter."

**** all that **** ride with me babyyy

till we hit

white
hot
screams
of
conscious ne s   s

happy is not
a crime
it's just a circled thought
on which you cannot climb

twist of wood
gnarl of segment found
there will be sad enough
after you **** it
with slants of sounded furies
dropping you a line

my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.

the moonface
pushpulls me.

i am
moved
too much.

i am
not enough
mover.

i am *****
given,
all too often.

i am
not
me -

i am you
in your supine
palm.

i matter
little.

my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,

vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which

seems real
-so real-

real
like
when

the kitchen
sink
disposal

runs.

tears

in rain

you are not written down
you are always
almost poem

let me yoke to you.
twist mine into yours.
***** me in at the hips.
lift me into your if's
and have me, present.

our torquing bodies
charging each other,
holding back the

bloom of darkness.

yes, it is true:
we are
closest to the dark.

but we are also
sown to the broadest urge
that wrote us.

this ebb is lit with written poems,
receding into the lightness of dense being.

so,
jot me
into this

and i
will
exist in
your margins,

like nice little notes
that mean everything in the world.

rooster crow.
goat horns clash.
sudden sutured glow
for what is left

of
this

soul,

comes forward
into thought.

soon i'll know
what it feels like to find roots;
or i won't,

idk.

afternoon slow
blue sky flies
off the tips of treetops;
old-growths,
ancienter than dragon bone femur,
scraping aged skylines.

im

earthing
in
my
mind.

us uncoiled
the whorl came
now laid between legs and arms shedding on the floor
shiny carbon lattice wilt

i slept
like there was no later
glyphs of ink winked
upon flecked paper

i wept
i thought they were gonna stay
but they slipped through the brink
where my blues become rain

i love you - i
always have -
like natural flavors.

and just as the sun's hurt knee
is yellow number five,
my pale blue flame is underneath
the bottom of fate

looking for a good home cooked meal.