let's go home then, both of us,
in a stride we found in asylums,
shaking, burning for above.
let the windows crack and doors snap shut,
never to be opened by hand again,
on the earth where passions sleep.
one day we will return there,
a world that we have never been,
our feet ache to ache after walking.

I would stop the
invention of aspartame. I would
stop my own
invention, just to defy
my defiance
of aspartame.

i'm writing to you because of circumstances beyond our control. the universe just decided to make me scribble down this epistle. my head rains, or perhaps it's hailing. regardless of what it is, it never snows.
i have jumbled, broken, fragmented consciousness, full of drawing advice and some stupid youtube video about a cat playing the keyboard, looped on repeat for eternity.
i was at the arcade the other day when it occurred to me that the world was a blank piece of lined paper and i was the pencil. but have you ever actually had to write from your mind alone? words flee you, coming and going and not sticking to paper.
during that trip i talked to strangers as they crowded around the cabinets, despite my mama's advice to be careful in the world. some looked at me with an awkward smile. maybe there i did write something, the prose of yesterday.
only the rain in my head never becomes a storm, i suppose. just bring an umbrella.

Partially cloudy, 85 degrees low, 90 high.
Sunny, 87 degrees low, 94 high.
Apocalyptic, 213 low, 224 high.

this house is crowded with waiting room chairs;
this house is crowded in general.
this house has a shanty roof.
this house is made of parapraxes.
this house is made of the stuff of dreams, the stuff of sugar glass, the stuff that reminds you you are reading a poem and nothing else.
this house is a spacebar -- empty and exists to separate.
this house is made of cigarette butts and coca-cola bottles.
this house is ash -- this ash is dust -- this dust is house.
this house is broken up with empty space, dissociated.
we are those that stared up at the sky in new york city and snapped our guitars over our knees,
we are those that hallucinated t-shirts with keyboard patterns on them.
we are those that have smoked nightmares and drunk melted ice cream.
we are those that destroyed our howling vocal chords by screaming at the sun for too long, waiting for icarus to fall.
we are those that don't exist and exist at the same time, shooting the breeze at motels on the outskirts of town.

what do little stuckists cry
when their painting talents die?
"this isn't art! you are not artists!
i'm close to art, you are the farthest!"

i cm frm a planet far out -- far out -- out of this world (obviously).
my lungs are full of nebulae. the space between worlds is nebulae. i am nebulae.
fear is what reminds us of our shadow -- and space is just one big old shadow after all.
cmon kid go to bed there are no martians in your closet