Who are you
to tell me the verdict
of a case
held within a suitcase
enclosed by vines
and repression?

I suppose it's somewhat
of an obsession,
if one can be so apathetic.

It's not pathetic.
I understand a panic,
but when the sirens sound,
would you even care?
Would you sit me down
on a slab of cracked concrete
and be able to caulk and sew
anything that would seep?

Or would I be left at sea?

I suppose one without emotion
cannot feel empathy.

So with my lowly, unholy,
hollowed-out chest,
I lie on the melting asphalt
pooling
and
always becoming warmer
to sweat through
another fever.

There was a beginning.

I was stringing.
There were threads,
but there was something simply dead.
I can't say I had any idea
of its permanent location.

What are we to say of any deceased?
Is there something to observe
about those whom have failed at living?

But it's the ultimate goal.
If a pearl exists within the oyster,
it breathes nonexistent
persistently.

The difference between fear and sadness
is some blurry line.

If happiness is there,
why do I not cognisize
what it takes to epitomize?

The oyster sits.
I will wait.
Life will hate
at altruistic bait.

I dont' know.

There's so little difference between
frowns and freckles now,

It's like stepping on aluminum
cans ripped opened
by cigarette smoke
and my attempted assimilation
have manifested
some profound sadness.

There are no butterflies in the field.
There is no text on the line.
There is a coyote
working the lines
until dawn breaks,
shaking my world yet again.

If only the power would give.
If only the can had no bottom.
If only there was never a romance
of egg and *****
forcing this ringworm
of a human being.

I have dropped my value.
I have lost my voice.
I have lost my fingerprints.
I have boiled too soon.

I have taken a heart
and I have chewed it
dry.

Even the wounds die.

there's no instruction manual
for the day that cotton and
broken ceramic sentimentality
both lose their argument
and the bedsheets bleed
a blood better resembling magenta
than a dream-filled agenda.

there's no escape when
night time travels
come to an end.

there's nothing to knit.
Enough of the yarn
has covered cortexes,
capitalized on insomnia,
and nullified touch-
the only common sense.

it's common sense
that bruises don't heal
by applying pressure.

and brown eyes
and blue.
formerly, there is
underrated hue.

(If underrated could ever encapsulate oceans and the stars giving us light abundantly and concurrently from millions of years away.)

i unravel years as I lie
not sleeping,
reading up on different methods
to stop the bleeding.

of all of these shades of vibrant blue,
I choose the one that is brown,
but true.

i see these shades in unison
and when they inexplicably combine,
they are you.

Life is tough but death creeps
on you like a spattered image of
your yesterday's self
on the concrete
mixed with paste and oil
and buried under six feet of cemented soil.

And when we can we are able.
And we assure apathy
is a right and not psychopathy.

We are able to identify with those
who do not feel.

All of my voices have told me to shy away.
They don't truthfully know what to say
when dying leads to something far more gratifying
than any euphoric rush of ephemeral dopamine.

We are unseen.
We live in dreams.
We touch with enough distance
to transform an absence of rust
into decay and indifference.

The path ahead is limited.
Lying six feet underground
is not adequate recreation,
nor daily transportation.

And so you ask my preference,
I'd choose my comfy bed.
But for repercussions rampant,
I continue to walk while dead.

My gums hurt-
the toothache is hard to swallow
when we
mend the broken bones
with the loose change in the couch
and the buttons from
worn out cargo shorts.

Take standard biology,
an ideal economy,
and authentic authonomy
with a grain of salt.

We can't find or feed
while we bleed.
It seeps from cortexes
into yesterday,
into today,
into some
puddle
huddled around the fire
for warmth.

We melt just as the ice cubes
in your lemonade
on days
where
nostalgia has no
tranquil, oaky shade.

Stand at the length of lions.
Its breath is about as tolerable
as greed is swallowable.

While these dreams go hungry,
we feast.

While wolves
eat our spines as meat,
we are sheep
turning yellow from the heat.

There is rain
and it is Saturday.
But that's no excuse for shame.
Nor is it more of an excuse
to watch self-inflicted wound
run loose.

I think of the sweet
crackling of
a summer treat-
branches burning,
newspaper receding.
THC,
butane
and stems of
a neglected yesterday
meeting.

But today is what's to be missed.
There are floods-
even on the weekends.

I am a floating hoax;

I will always be
a box of half-peeled jokes.

To flourish within this exposed state
is to self-paralyze and re-create.

But the nerves just don't want to listen-
that's the biggest part of the condition.

This explains rain on Saturdays,
absence within summer's crackling,
and hollow bones
floating like stones.

With luck
my torn skin will reach the ocean floor.

The echo of such a collision
will resemble my
inconceivably
indifferent
indecision.