Fighting to stay alive .

Respected ancestors
Thank you for surviving
Such that we may survive

As we yet survive.

Though some of us, in some form of stasis or another,

The breath may still come to the lungs
And words to the lips-

Even if few

These may be spoken
To say
Unto the graffiti of time,

I am here.





For now, I am here.
Rocking horse .
World stoneling.

Breath-maker and
True.

As time passes
It grows
You, too, must grow with it/
Or be left behind.
If left behind, you live in the past.
If living in the past, you cannot live in the present.
If not living in the present, you are lost to this world.

If you are lost, you can return,
Simply by wanting too.

The strongest spells we weave are cast on ourselves.
The Power is to walk through them, into the air of now.
Never forgetful, but always free.

Steering passage
Through the sand.

Loose teeth rattle like fireflies shaken up in the jar - concussed against the side of the glass

We drip juniper boughs into the river
like
Pastries in
Warm churning
Brew

It’s eat or be eaten. Beat or be beaten. And I’m not on to lose
And I came out with a buzz/cut and a badge

Lookin to bash in some soft heads.
And later in bed, I look to the ceiling and think
how lucky I am to be good.

Gun-breath kid .
Petal heart to the wild expanse
Resting stone shoulders upon the axis of the earth

We dig deeper here ,
In search of the birthplace of cold rivers

Finding only veins of gold
And nothing flowing in those of the living

Miner for their last   exhalations

Belly-walker’s daughter

Blessed alter to dna.
Origin.   worship.

Beaded rosary ******* kiss the lips of
Holy men.   and their
Descendents
.
Hell is inside you (only)

The real thing
is       outside

Forever yester-ling, we will not
Bathe above the sea -
Nor where the light spreads its long fingers in first inquiry of future mornings

The mountain’s root
Will be hollowed out before
We are found

And we shall drown in still tomorrows
Before
News of us comes


Silent, somewhere
Between the front facing earth
And the
Peridot      stew.

The best laid plans of motorcycles and minivans
Fall to pieces in between the  long yellow lines

We zip like skeletons down the well
At sunrise
Returning to old versions of ourselves
And playing catch with bad intentions



By dry riverbed I bury future aliases
As offerings
Rivers will stay dry in my time
But someday
Rains will come down from mountains
And wipe the town away

Creature feature
In a Double sleeper
We wag our tails at weeping branches
Dragging feathered knuckles against the softened earth


Inside this house.
Beside me,
Head-like
And thoughtless ,

We
Dine.

To seek reconciliation in the swarm of water droplets suspended in the air around your storm-haloed head

It’s breath and thunder that keeps us .
Still lifted up in
Wonder,
Even now


In time, re will re-condense -
As always - as the natural state of things.
Always falling hard at the end of it all


To the passenger jet in the rain
We salute you, 163 lives waiting to be lost
To secure a spot
On the evening news
And all the poorly written web articles to follow

I’m getting to the thick of it
I’m
Getting
Really sick of it.

I’m going
To
Open

Up

I push sky and space away

Rumble  me into landscapes disconnected from my feet
And my head is the only thing with me that had got anything left to do with it now .
Bouncing back and forth on a too-thin neck
Not holding upright
Crumpling in like  . foil
     Like green moss drying in the
     Sun
I learn to be real
Appreciate
     Like how every knocked over telephone pole
     Happened.


If



It will happen still

///////
breath is stopped
and teeth, like glaciers carving scar-like channels  in the earth .
  
With soil.
ringing in the ears,



Swimming in rivers without bottoms.
Cooling me down in a fever, in time

I “I’m”
And I am saying too much

In answering, I hold us up from getting at the meat of it.

Seat of it. Sitting there,stinging me.
Too afraid to get so   clear

a single dog's whisker has been shed
take ten paces
take ten lives
sun is rising . all are fled

My tongue is taken in yours
like an egg
Being dragged down into the lungs
Choking up
Promises,
As a car door slams
Outside;
As a screen door slides out of the way;
As a cloud passes over the yolk of the sun.






Dogs harm the silence, like I, your waist
Gripping too tightly
And letting
Shoes fall to the ground.

White on maple arms
Three black stripes on the side of branded
Synthetic upper
Style.
My hair
In your eyes .
And yours-
Between the gaps in couch
cushions_

,


I tell time no longer on a grand scale
but rather
In
produce
.watching the bowl full of this week’s
bananas
decay a little more each night
Taking a mental snapshot every time
I get
Home from work
Or as home as I’ll ever be

Dawn gurgles past the horizon somewhere
As the sparrow lays dying on the sidewalk
Waiting for the

Neighborhood stray to to find her.

I have seen their eyes :
Dying birds

They watch you

I don’t think it is quite “fear” there .
As death comes, their is a quiet acceptance to the light of dawn
And the promise of warmer pavement on the chilled and broken body
Before
Nothing

[the eyes watch with the same energy
As the sleepy dog curled up in the corner chair when you enter the room.
The eyes open to watch the rusting of bags while you search for lost keys
. But the dog does not stir much. Trusting
you. And being too tired to play
]

It is a casual thing
And nothing much else

That’s how it is with mornings.
The sun warms the pavement
And
Sometimes that’s
    Enough

The clock radio predates my birth by at
Least five years
It must .
Looking like that.
On Sunday morning
The alarm is still set :
And goes off before the sun . Before time
Deserves to exist

Smothered in heaps of (hopefully )clean
Laundry on top of the bureau

The Sunday morning art program slurs
Words between the tangles of sweatpant
Legs
And
Unpaired socks

(Socks I am not responsible for)

/

My mother used to have an old radio in
The bathroom that must have been of a
Similar vintage.
It was a beach radio:black with a brown
Grill - thin red line across the white strip of
The station numbers,

Pushing around the little plastic wheels on the
Side,the red line never lined up quite right .

It hung from a long black drywall *****
From its
Squared off handle on the wallpaper behind the toilet

I think it may have belonged to my
Grandfather
We never took it to the beach,
I’m not sure what he did with it.

He may of just sat out with it on the back fire escape in August.
By the spindly dogwood tree that I remember my nana picking white blossoms from in spring.

The blossoms still come each year , I’m
Sure.
(I don’t know who lives there now)

My radio wakes me up on Sunday
Mornings .
My mother’s radio would play softly at night around the corner from my room.
Sometimes she would shut it off in the early hours of the morning -
When she went to bed.
Other times it would just play



///

“Fuzz fuzz”
The old black sweatshirt
Came out of the donations bag,

At first just to reorganize.

There was a thin scent of the perfume she used to wear in high school.
And That was wild .

I had not thought about it
Much

It was ugly
But was once  comfortable _
It used to be mine
But then was only in my keeping

I can remember
Offering it
Sometimes
On cold summer nights.



The sweatshirt
Went back in the bag after some lint - rolling
And
Other deliberations.

I used to be young.

We were mostly
Happy.

M.

Greendark vapor

Broken over
The body-of-Christ moon
In the sky above the soon-to-be old apartment .

I sit like dewless mornings amidst the
Eves
And the evening’s main event,

Disbelieving everything.


Thumb runway of the
Pit .
In your
Sunglasses
Smudge .a

Way of waking .up

In sharp
Contrast .
Photojournalist

More ******* adds than the weather ch. app

Spooky on your tongue
Like
Liking
Controversial historical figures

Vacation promise land
And a sunbaked balcony to **** on


The eggshell sneaker laces
Bleaching out in the open
Filth pant posture


Summercamp slab of concrete
Camo pattern t shirt

**** that you got to get
Done

Few understand the technique :
The way (that) I push the walk signal
so that the whole of everything disintegrates.with the touch of *******

On the smooth metal
The micro abrasions pressed into the

skin swirls

The indifference and calm
The static reliance on wires that go unseen until they are worthless

The firey sun dripping like egg yolk over the city





[It makes up for the ink stains on train seats
It makes up for the neighborhoods we don’t go to anymore
It makes up for the way I never learn.]




The train had come when I was nascent to the platform
New comer to the expectant (waiting) mob
Threw down my membership card and boarded, back turned towards the moon

Pieces of sparrow against the tourist trap window
The laminated pages of trifold maps yellow asymmetrically in the sun
There as the light dances

The plastic palm
Not growing
Leaves


Irresolute

The

Ac bolted above the front door making a lot of racket but doing **** all otherwise

I was one who thought he’d never let rust form on his nice pocket knife
But here I am- 30 lbs gained in a year and only use my leatherman for opening cans of chicken and tuna for the dog

Rust on blades for leaving in puddles by the kitchen sink

Forgetting to call friends

Being me-less and without laying hands on any thing real, these days


I used to spend all this time thinking about the things I would get, and take care of, and keep for the rest of my life.

Real permanent things.

Now I wonder

Long dying tubes of fluorescent light
Read like far away stars against the blackened concrete roof .

If I try, I can put my self outside - swimming in it
As we make blurred afterimages through other peoples’ windows

Jostling in our carpeted seats, inside the traffic’s galactic hum

We are
Left-overs
From the
big dig

To traveling pilgrims

And the exit

Grass strains are a treasure
traded for dullness
For a long time

Shaking like dry spiders with the cellar door opened
Waking up without .


With the
Personality of a carpeted bathroom

Belly hairs
Stiffened outwards

Inside the deep wash of dry baseboard-heatered air


It’s good.
To think back sometimes


With waxy cuticles     against the chapped    
    lip’s
open
    curl

You throw my shape on the ceiling and walls/
It’s a fury that burns with cascading light.
Jittering inside the rooms we fold together for each other

It’s quick and flash-like.
Striking often,
We are strobe centers for hot fingers of electricity searching outwards in molestation of the quiet august night.

Y

The hungry wind prodding the meat on my bones to measure its tenderness
Tugging at my outer garments and tracing its icy fingers across the folds .and reaching further into my
(core)

We cook slowly in the dusty window light
Splitting apart as we dry out, [denaturing our lignin ]
As the hazy rays sweep up

They will be scrawled across the floor and our bodies
Like the thin pencil marks of man made gesture

In the shapes cast about us
Wheeling
As
Only
We can

No good news is the news - and
The witches’ brew
Bubbles over
again

Flanger fire .
Dragon spire
Call me .crash me .cook me inside
And over and over, I rolled
Down the grassy hills. Down the dying dirt.
Down with man and his upheld promise
Breaking bread beside me
Bedtime brain rot binds me

Hold me. Hurt me. Hit me, hurry, with something good.
Or at least better
Than
it’s been

It’s crass enough out there
Without your green scaly eyes
Take some time. Prepare a surprise. Make me feel alive.

It’s about time for us to finally
explode.


It’s about time we took the *******
End their ****-eating grins

Skin head ****-faces must die

The spermicide in your voice
The sink drain spinning
     .After much coaxing


The hair clumps climbing in bromine drips

As the acid burnt label’s yellowing edge
Waits for  further  corrosion  in the cabinet

As we seek to photosynthesize.  Into greater     limbs reaching

We shed the jitters

Humble before the promise of our own smallness

We feel the growth in our bones.

Thin.

Not yet as a door.

Not as an ear.

Not yet as a scar.

Not yet as a shadow.

Not yet as a self.

Yet.

Yet.

The ebbing

Of your eager look

As we roll our eyes,

And are no longer noticed.

.

We walked up and down the driveway

Each pace, a page turn
Bringing distance : One dog-eared creasing, by one

Sharp stones skittering bird-like and brittle

We speak
My un-doctored photos

Hanging beside

We swing, as juniper
We shuffle

Caught in a barking fit
As the trucks roll by, rumbling up dog feelings.

Hands clasped together in mutual observation

As the moon swallower slithers legless    in its embryonic mess

Looking through a stack of old Nat Geo’s found in an art room cabinet is
probably
one of the most sublime and authentic human experiences .

It,being untouched for so many years.
I, being the fist to cut it up for picture projects .
I remember
The
Transience .

And the dusty ficus
By the window nearest the closet in the further-back, less used part of the
space.

The very aesthetic that I’ve been searching for
Since

Your name is a desert flower
Handed out to me
In the readying dusk.
The canyon walls
Pass a soft light back and forth like Rumors  

Nourishing  no lost soldiers in this valley .

In breaking several fat leaves from the stalk,
I expose cross-sections tapped for undrinkable  fluids


It is spoken again.
And justly.

My wool sleeves push dry against the earth.
Padding me.

The smoothed edges peel back for flesh
The torn finger hangs from the skin like dumbed ornament
Wagging falsely
Unwilling to begin the slow decay now promised .


Give me time.
Time.
I will ferment a new thing to drink you
And be domesticated [ by the sea ]

don't worry.i can guarantee
that if they where handing out participation trophies
  to humanity

you wouldn't get one

supermarket endcap : ingredients for smores reminds of summervacation and being in thecottage and going to the store late for snacks, and the phone call that comes aboutthe dead friend

as the dog grows big enough to steal the kitchen sponge right out of the sink,
as my arms grow thinner,
as the kimchi jar breaks against the inside of the trash
as the a/c sits tilted and dripping from the window onto the front lawn,

<a̶s̶> people are forgotten.
<strike> as <strike> mouths become softer.
<strike> as <strike> patches fill in.
a̶s̶

It’s always trash day somewhere pt. 6

Like convection currents sitting atop pavement in July
Like white slices of paper dragging across the air between your words
You write me off like -
I think I can wash you from my fingernails but-

A new perspective on old music videos I always hated
Not that I like it now but just that I’m different.
I jot you down like
Growing up doesn’t stop
Like a fathers shirt in a picture

I bury my self in my head
Mouthshut and wanderlust wonderful
The wonder years
Are twisted


A couch in my mind
Plush and rough like old stuffed animals


The shore sheds me and sands me down to size
Like a frame on the side table I
Sit tilted to the sun of the window knowing only cool air from the vent while outside cooks the earth with grease and greasy hands
The diner fans push air but don’t let you breathe
Stuffy and heaving
Like
****

And
If I were to remake the world it would be dim and orange like darkroom lamps .
Full of ferns and
The appropriate
music

Like an art installation .

No words - just looking at each other ,
Dull watery eyes and understanding

On the edge of thunder  .  but never quite breaking

I’m small grown over big
Not big to to begin with
Not contending with giants
Not engaging in casual conversation or understanding the want of it

Glow.

my long belly fills   with air and moisture as the door closes
.pushing currents into the hallway_ disrupting dust and heat

     the hair on my limbs is matted and hidden
behind layers of world proofing,
about to be shed

Home.dead

the windows shake as I look through their ghost bodies
     the floor is silty and
     cold  t o  freshly shoeless feet

the lights come on and all is shown
and that’s it.

     the furniture will be rearranged tonight  .

the dog, crated, waits patiently for the coming of morning:
and with it, breakfast.
still in her red jacket
delivered today
she lies somewhat uncomfortably in it. but not
angrily, as before.

the dishes pile up in the kitchen: not caught up from the week_
they will remain too, sleeping until dawn
standing as evidence of time passing
and of bodies being fed.

minds will wander to other things
but bodies have been fed
and they push into tomorrows (because of it.)
[.    ]

the tar -
the tip., slides in as the fingernails grow slowly outwards from the body
sun hits the vinyl siding of the houses across the street
raking sharp light across them like cliff faces in famous photographs
whose colors were only seen by ansel adams himself
chevron patterned blankets are folded over themselves in rosaceous limp hillsides

window . split

And me,the

there is a term applied to religious
   paintings : mandorla which
literally means "almond" in italian.
it is an art history term referencing the shape
of the halo around
gods
and their mothers.

the word seeks to describe
the shape only.

w/out context
the almond shells in my hand .give way to
the metal hand-held ******* of years passing from
(those pictures)

i speak,but

my _breath.is caught in the jacket loose rubbing
elastic cuff
ribbing
stretching out
reminding
.hairs around the toes in the shower
stay behind. even under the sock
throughout the rest of the  work day
trill
evidence that memory connects to
event
[]][][[]0][]]
looking through my husked fingers to block
the light of its halo,
the sun bakes dark objects only
in winter
with home dragging along ;*****
in wool'fibers
home drug
like old music
unlike new music which is recorded
forever;
stomach pangs for sandwiches but the
mouth drags.along
      a l m o n d s .

the s-curve of the soft **** in the bathtub

wrapt around one leg
and pressed against the hideous yellow
ceramic.
the water is turned up too hot
it rinses over the back like a failed ritual
,the sins will not be washed clean
,no one will be forgiven

hair is only pushed around in patterns
around the body  from the dripping
flow .
art is not seen or remembered
amidst
the dangers of winding down for the evening

It doesn’t rain the way it used to rain any more.
And it doesn’t really snow either

(Insert office scene)
( insert childhood)

I am changed
And everything I had is
Gone .



**

[
The sounds outside my windows]

c.

there are no white
chalk portraits on the wall like we used to
draw : bukowski, haruhi, and the ghost
line symbols.
but it's
the same orange vespa-knockoff sitting
on
the other side of the fence -
thesame withered brambles reaching out
beside the train tracks and dripping with water that
will
soon freeze. and bend them down to the
brown . earth . .
i am bowing too, .

w/out reverence
w/out  hitting the cue


i mark where i stood in microscopic pieces
of the bottoms of my shoes only
i go unheeded .as of yet

it will be
  the same as not at all .for most


these mornings are
  Flowers.

Wind tinted blue eyes sitting atop  the car radio
and scanning the Ch.s up and down in
search of
Seattle
Some lamb headed city
Dome knuckled in fear of
Wait times at the register
Wailing in the backseat forever

Keeping me sane between
insane-leaning morning lights

I fight to keep relevant  beside
Your suede smile

Amidst your
Life-like passion,
Daring to dance like sheets of ice skirting across the road rather than deeply, like beds made without love

Drastically reducing the recitation length of
Origin stories
Before they are told


Dreaming of sparrows where
Cooper’s hawks only - reel above sunroof skyline
(Owl-bellied in the breeze)

Restaurant restart until
We hone home.

i am the doe-eyed and
mop-hung. dripping dry in forests of dull pilgrims
the shirt rubs on the belly,
damaging the pale skin-scape for the 1/2 hour session.
we need the vigilance now
look away and i

grey-same to glass

you,
dulcet lung.
photo-smooth
laying down, pine-black
in my fluffy gun sights

guns in the snow
write stories that stick around
until spring.

i want to skin the wilderness off the rasp in your voice

our legs are good.
but we are going nowhere.


the curve of your forehead is sloping away from us,
the ugly gems of sweat are suiciding off of it_
and
the sun is beating down.

through a carpet of skintight stares : shoes untied and slipping.
combing though it all
cowboyly

it's time to go home,
she says.




*ok,