a streetlight flickers as above
it the stars flicker, too
and below it someone's bic lighter
flickers. he flings a cigarette ****
into the storm drain.
whoever lives in the sewers
must feel awfully lonely right now.
someone's headlight is out:
an illegal asymmetry, a trick
enforced by the galleons of punk photons,
defined by waves (or particles) to ride upon
like the waves of sound that travel back and forth
between two angry motorists just laid off from work.
a new cigarette is pulled. what is this man blowing
away from his self and out towards the maybeinfinite undying
universe of unbearable light
sprinkling on him like rain that suddenly hits
a warm hornet-infested day?

the sensation of a bus on the morning, a morning whose sun,
a flickering light, never goes out, even when unplugged.
you go to get a coffee, i don’t like coffee, so i keep our spot in line.
we boarded, i boarded. you were there and i was there
but really only i was there, in the end. i closed my eyes
and the lingering triggered cells of my retina maintained
your image for a few seconds. i opened my eyes again
and adjusted, never comfortable in the seat, *** and back
inevitably aching around the one-hour mark of a two-hour journey.
where we were going that day is unimportant now.
you brought water bottles, i drank the water bottles
and left none for you. i apologized and gave you the rest
of the breakfast sandwich. the hero’s journey
is a concept in narratology and sociology, among other fields
saying there is one central story, a template that all else fit.
carl jung had a lovely nose, and you have a lovely
pair of cheeks on your face (and elsewhere) and i
can’t help but kiss the ground you’re about to walk on (a blessing,
good luck to the earth for carrying your divinity).
inevitably

i know it’s a dream.
sometimes i wish that it was more than a cloud, a cloud
that hovers over us, frilly and fluffy, seeing me
heading towards the city and wanting to see the ocean
but knowing full well i won’t. neurosis, though
says i will, and as long as i’m neurotic i’m on my way
to the sea. i write about this a lot because i think
about this a lot. the driftwood i fashioned into a knife can’t cut
packages much these days.

do you see the ocean the way i do? no one does, i think.
last time i saw the ocean i cried and my
tears intermingled with the saltwater so now i don’t know
where my sorrow ends and the sea begins. i want to show you
the ocean but i’m afraid that if i do the water will bore you.
i want to feel your hand, laying down at shore, but i’m scared
to know that you’re not feeling the sand, only my love,
and i want to feel both.

i've shot a dog in the back of its head
i don't remember in which life i did this
but it was a life i'd detest to live again

i have no dog inside my chest
i have no cat inside my mind
i have no bird inside my gut

i understand the ocean better than you
ever could, an inlander within a prison built of
browned ivy. i rose and rose again from the sea
after the waves crash and yet i know nothing
of how the tides swirl, besides me being part
of that neverending cycle of salt and bits of
coral. can summers go by without a seagull's
cry carrying me from the inland and plucking my
soul towards the great waters of home?

i had died the other day and from my grave
i saw a hand with rings upon each finger. on each ring
was a gemstone that spelled out the infinity known
in my fearful tongue which bleeds whenever
i bite the knife that cuts the flesh of time;
will i ever understand the meaning of decay?
will i ever comprehend my bones giving way to worms?

a pair of headphones with the mufflers missing
the wire that goes from said headphones to the computer
a ceramic pug in a red scarf containing tubes of paint
an ocarina that i picked up in a ghost town/tourist trap in california
a red cup for water during painting
a book called the artist's mentor
an adjustable lamp
wristbands a lover made for me
a book for savannah college of art and design featuring someone holding a large inflatable red ball on the cover
an incomplete abstract painting on canvas paper, slightly crumbled,
a box for the savannah college of art and design VR kit that they sent me
a book on writing
a book about color line and form in the visual arts
a red squishy ball inside a a fishnet containment, creating organic bulbous abscesses when squeezed
a book of poetry with a red cloth on the cover
a small packet of konpeito, a japanese sugar-based hard candy
a novelty necklace designed to resemble christmas lights, complete with glowing LEDs
a red colored pencil
a red marker
a red mechanical pencil
a gigantic anthology of american poetry i have yet to dive into
a packet of cherry jello

in the cabin green my legs were resting within the
sleepingbag on the floor (parents had the bed) i drifted
then drifted back when the door knocked i saw
the night and the night said "let's go" and we went
to wherever the night went when they woke.
down the steps white-painted wood to
the pit where a fiery group coalesced into flames
the amalgamation was chanting stories of disembodied hands
that grab the ankles of unsuspecting campers (i flinched) then
the night lead me, with their starry hand, to bales of hay
which i stacked into a staircase forgoing the horseticks to climb
upon a truck parked overnight -- i wanted to touch
the night but the night, their ethereal moon pointed my way
had to say goodnight and gave way to dawn.

a kingdom wholesale, loose strings of coupons;
a throne of pepsi cartons amidst the concrete
lights shine over the infinite rows of freezers
so sample the pork and pass by the petunias
dream of the electronics display let the
laptops regard visions of the self inside which
empty bubbles where words should go but don't
flutter across up blue and white.
to buy mulch is to regard the manure as
nothing but what it claims to be.
i ordered a hotdog after checking out and i sat and ate
and there is a vending machine here that only
dispenses water bottles.