shoe boxes depicted cosmic

happenings at science fairs,

in elementary school.

in a gymnasium--where the

fairest one of all was washed

out of the eye of obscurity.

intuition may not just be a word.

nor any other--because they never

stop doting over those shoe boxes.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.

I can't hear the voice in my head, because I affected changes in the way I spoke since I was able to manipulate its medium.
I never thought about it--another incarnation just toyed with my vocal chords.
as if my foundation knew it would tilt what sat on it.
I was compelled to make sure that I would never know myself, its origin hissed like pissy holy water.
all the rest that crank out humanity would revise their approach to fiction because of me.
it was never enough for me to know that I too am God, I could never share my image, yes--my image!
of jellybeans & colored time capsules,  let me dissolve in this sugar cube!
I'm astonished that I was unhanded by so many once touched, they will thus feel the chills of my mania without the ability to shiver.
this will dull them with empty-handed inspiration, they won't be able to walk through deep-freezes of cloud to ground lightning.
how the psychologists circle-**** to me,
I really want to symptomatically convince them out of their misery.
I lower my gotcha-green head like a worry sick Madonna for them, all this superfluousness authenticates my unknowable selves.
now to my voices, how do they sound in my head you might ask--well who's asking?
I talk to & at my selves, so the voice is most certainly vexed--but in a whiney & nasally way.
it's an exorcise/exercise in futility to describe, nonetheless...I always sound like what I'm looking at, I can sound like a chair.
It's all the voices inside that do this--they don't like company so they become it, anything external basically.
it's reflexive & creatively fruitful, you should hear the voices in my head during vows of silence--they both regurgitate & originate.
I'll gift that can of worms to the head, head-shrinker...picture channeling a phone book into the ear of a whitehole.
I can speak in an assertively calculated voice on a slippery *****, that gains the footing of trust, I favor that one.
I also do famous serial killers when I'm most peaceful, it helps to fertilize the soil.
I need to cultivate one for the books, premiere it right here--the egregore of this
eyeless capstone.
I gouged it out in plain sight--I have a voice for that too.

I eat for three, I must be showing--they take care to plump me up with elite takes on food-a.
*******, dust, ****, *****, glass, staples, *****--you know.
a pizzazz that heaps years on to their vidas,
finally cutting the key to the teeth of their monsters.
I see those glued to the veil, struggle like flies to avoid what I singlehandedly spawned.
A hatred that runs so deep it almost comes out as love, the potentency of its vacuum is unmatched.
I know how many thorns are on the crown, fashionably so--like any good dramatis personae, I try it on.
the wrists & feet are a bother of fixity, I'm still spreading my gospel--no Paul, just three of a kind.
I have been dutifully informed that I am a danger to myself & others, that I will most likely spend the rest of my natural life in confinement...
"for the criminally insane" is too long-winded, I prefer: behind bars.
I may be a danger to myself in here, I've endangered many out there, & there are some for whom danger is over.
These are but minor logistics, I offer them such a prismatic sacrifice, a darling rarity to be carried out like a festive procession.
I Am: The Who's Who, whose seasons will never be canceled--I Air.
I Am a slow cult suicide--I run the risk of rays, I encircle before they encircle.
I will  encircle them once more, as all good things come in threes my friends.
You must know that I've abstracted them in blackout blood all over these padded walls, like Francis Bacon's studio.
his murderers' kit of paintbrushes clotted & snapped, forgotten in turpentine.
I would rather they do it to themselves, think of one buying rope for the purpose of straightening up a tree--only to **** up its posture with their weight.
hanging there with burdensome repetition, ******* by proxy.
they've all gone limp with oppression, they know not what they do.
I must whittle down three possible outcomes: Nicholson's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit professional suicide by sampling the flesh of his underlings like hors d' ouevres.
Ledger's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will separate a blade from its handle, into Three of a Kind--
will commit ******.
Phoenix' Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit suicide.
well...from Gotham to urban areas all over the world, iconography of: "Three of a Kind" is handed out & sold.

I.
genius in the absence
of color,colors--room for the
subconscious to stretch
its legs like a weary *****.

II.
greasy rats nibble through
a maze of waste, upping their
collective intelligence--emerging
from the thickest night, beady eyed.

III.
an anbandoned seven story building--
peels away at architectural thoughts
left to disuse, spoiling brilliant
silences while falling to the floor.

you see how famished new yorkers

are for communication now.

virtuosic conversationalists extra,

extra-ing it up--soothsaying the disaster

of a hot minute.

beat by the path, and genuine as ****...

tidings through folding streets.

held still for what's administered.

rats brazenly showing their faces, as in and

out of step as the rest of us.

the mad dash of a coast that's clear.

with diametrical opposition.

In a substantially backed corner,

stranger than the safety of deep

thought--a spider throws off a dot.

In a house in part, sunlight lets on

in the same way.

As the sound of temperate beams

throw off a house.

an oxford comma

clears the throat

of a subway staircase--

as a pigeon feather

would.

snow shares a captive

field.

rubbing the belly of

water breaking.

as waterlog swells

the bravest crystal.

there is only expectance,

when again is there.

a spring holding timeout

picnics.

a spotlit clearing on

the greyest day.

flying monkeys knowing

where to  land.

While negotiating comfort

on a squeaky recliner, a tiny

rubik's cube solved solidity

in a forgetful pocket.

With its insistent dimensions,

paradoxically driving color

toward isolation.

As if to challenge egoic

alignment, itself a sentimental

unit that was part of a garage's

purgative wave.

Having been mindlessly

salvaged from what survived.

Nervously pawed & identified

by a poet who was contemplating

the nature of hatred.

The real thing, the sort emotion

doesn't know what to do with.

Just as a tiny rubik's cube was

rediscovered in a forgotten pocket,

arrogantly insinuating.

Hereby charmed & burdened

with hatred.

Let it house & astonish hatred with

the speed of off-color assemblage.

~I was an accomplice
to the crime of wasted
Beauty...upon noticing
her...she acquitted me...
laughing free...dom.
She saying: "What do
you mean accomplice,
you were the sole perpetrator
until you noticed me...never
forget the Beauty in Ugly!!!"
I took on the ineffability
of you...my prized buffoonery.
You are massively disruptive...
my only mourning commute...
peace be on you ...as the rain
you love to hear at night.
I can't help but now understand
what can't break its fall...and how
deeply the earth drinks of it.

Starting to emanate a song--
can't say about the 5 W's.
It doesn't belong to me.
It starts in and pushes, pushes
and pushes--till I can't breathe.
To the melody of the way things
gotta be.
I'm lost in composition, it's
far greater than me.
Steadily taking hellos and goodbyes
for all their worth.
It cuts through all these senses in an
attempt to multiply them.
What a song... I'm caving in
to the point of entering a new world.
There's nothing but space, seated on
the ground cross legged.
Riding vibrations that take what they
want.
Till I don't want them to stop, because
there's nothing left.
Only this song at the drop of a head,
as if every note picked a flower.

smoky white diamonds

in the canticle-crest of

a wet sun, sudden with

bursts of moon.

enmeshed sound...

slowly rewound

to the oracular mouth

of a ******* moan.

rankly blotted out, by

doornail-stiff hibernations.

fleshed out by a ******

wilderness to lay low in.

again.

never save the best

for last, it is to maximize

weakness.

even if it be saved for you,

see it as what is--no further.

irreplaceable and found

out by a prolonged sleep,

fear thwarts what passionately

retires.

as i furiously dig up-- bare handedly,

that buried guilt.