frustration
to say the least
to say the most
my thoughts have ceased
to make sense at all
you dropped your responsibility
of standing by my side
I have no concept
of what sprints through your mind

its not me

it never will be

at least not how
all the poets made me dream

But still all of my records
are generally regarded as:
gold;
are golden
are flawless;
are now historical fact.

All of my records
are infallible like the Pope
playing jacks with a superball.

All of my conversation records are mathematics
everything is accounted for;
nothing is glossed or groaned over.

All of my records
of every conversation
that I've ever had are not
just records.  
They are symbols for
bigger symbols for
everything.  All my records
say that art is everywhere.

Somewhere in these pages
the proof is there like pudding mix.
Everything you ever said
to me in pure form




Most are
HEY I AINT A SLEEP HEAD

but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.

Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.

My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.  
Sometimes no lights.  
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.

I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.

                  And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
                 dressing up the few and far
                  spaces as ghosts between worlds,
                 or something mundane as impossibly important.
               I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
                I'm some ******* who thinks art is everywhere

Like a sculpture
perfectly etched  marble

her hips and breast
my heart leaps
then guilt
I am god
does she not understand
that I could break and shatter her
but she laughs
The is hard to come by
So it's come by mail
You open your mailbox
and read the letter
until you cry
the ground is cold
and your bare feet

In fact
I will be
Back after
school gets
out
I watch
my own
boots as
I walk
down the
Street how
oh how oh how
they are laced
i traced
my finger
from
your
middle
toe
to
your
******
until
You said
You didn't love me
I'm tough though
I can let it go
and I can
be Oh so easily
the one
who forgets
the scent of
your bedroom
and the weight
of you against my
side
at least I tried
at least I
******* tried
to remeber
the shotgun barrel
pressed to your
breast in my dreams
it was a long
night and you were my moon
I never cry
but I sighed
when you told me
How his parentsmoney
really love you.=  
I
don't need anyone
who has intentions
just someone who
lives
just someone who will
like
My inventions

I want to write about her,
But she lives in other dimensions,
Beyond what I perceive,
She soars high above this plane,
Searching for prey to feed upon,
Occasionally,
She swoops down,
When voracious hunger demands,
To find sustenance in bewildered and beleaguered and lost lambs,
Bleating going unheard and unrecognized cries,
She carries them aloft,
Like the lammergeir,
Dropping their bones,
On the rocks below,
To crack and expose the marrow,
Of which she sustains herself,
A devil indeed from above,
Yet for her flight,
I am envious,
And willingly give into night.