occurs that should a day Spring wet
nubile prim laughing with tulips
geraniums roughed sorely heads
bobble in a light breeze jouncing
some buds opened unopened
tightly shut petals a fist of colour
like a girl golden brown texture
like sun for whom both day and
night long to touch ineffable
shoulders wrought gossamer
unpale quaffed of morning
brightest hot Springwet and laughing with tulips

i do not write a poem it
from "who knows where" comes
in its body
is some words
i think
some words
but

why       ?
and             i

"don't know" cuz
like lithe
from out of
sleeping hair it marches

adamantine

unstoppable

invincibly fragile
it marches
doe-like

its eyes are pretty too
and in the terse clutch of its stinging copse
i s
pythe
gleaming rind of life

foamed in sweat
it is nubile strong delicate

but

i do not write a poem
it from
"who knows"
where
(idon't)

.















































"It's so hard because I've loved so many people, so intensely.

And not one of them ever really loved me back."
















































.

.































































­





























                               "You're just going to die someday."























































­
































.

Her is




                          some




    some drowsy

myst of being;            a





palpable drift




of



white white white sleeeeeeeep,




from the curt
lips of
dark waters                    



with tense sheen
of dull light



she fits
she slips


1 pill somnambulant


through drunk
through dowsed
coils in scarlet




laying
laying
laying



(in xanadu


           where




k  u   b  la          kh        a              n


a



                ­ s



                  t



                              a




t­               ely




p lea s ur edom edid de c
                                            
                                                r
                                               

                                 e
                                     


                                                e

.

























             "Promise me you won't forget."


             "I won't."























































.

thatsh itlitt lepunk


           bitchshe

herfuk


                    inhair's

shortshaved


an

           dfu



    ckshe'


******>


                   'erhandssmall




fit so easily

inmy'andssmall that





fukkinbitsch

punkassshiiit.

my wife that i love you are sleeping
heat over heat
of my ankle yours ;

the trilling
thrum of
your snore is long

longer than the long night
of unsleepingly my body,

heat under heat

of your body mine.  .  .

i hear occasionally our son
also whose snoring
is small
small
sma
ll er

than he is
(can you believe?)

i will be dead someday i wonder are you
reading this and who are you and where
is it that you have come and been and
have your eyes collected between them
each word of myself and this is the only
thing i suppose being but dirt and a little
scant ash (maybe atree) grows above me
and did you ever think the same hands
that held your son would be worm food
mud and birds meal (a robin maybe) R
there still robins i hope you kissed a
pretty girl last night I love you more
than anything .
                          .
                          .

not to live is normal
more normal than to live is
to eat and sleep too late
on saturday mornings
or to meet with cloven
skin the bare rawness
of your chest .




more normal than to is,
is to is not wasn't never was and
won't be ever more than
the gesture of your thighs
threaded with moonlight
on sweaten summer eves.

and to because
i assert it is more normal
than to kiss to with lips
,the dirt, i

my hands and body
would like to unusually be

in your breath and body's lee.

.



























                  "I'm objectifying you–you're an object to me."





























.

who has been my own heart
that within its flesh
there is some self
as i could touch;

after my own touch,
which within their own heart
beats?

let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–

drink dreams
rushing with flowers

(somewhere


alone

and with gin   ) carefully

intercoursing with females
and speaks coursing with
hares a lark and suddenly

it is winter

(into who barely he fits himself)

a radian–and spring.

"Maybe someday I'll find someone that actually cares about me."

it feels the each,
the mouth into which
sun crawls
moon sings
and trees

suddenly bluster
with and with.

a lark
a poppy
and the breaking

of darkness before

a fist swollen of
red newness to be:


(to be hard ; to be naked ; to be great)

not i




                               ,







                                                                         Turn this lift
                                                               upon its shoulder
                                              into up making music of
                                        neck:


sinew febrile alive with dancing electric sometimes sound of mouth; and
  by how of fingers alight with such ungrace to hurt is a beautiful poem
   faster than light is quick through the blinds cut into a trillion thinness
    of glowing dust–

                                          (it can barely to feel)

                                                         the
                                                  stroking
                                                boy sigh of
                                              tonguefully
                                             aware thighs.

                
                                                                        flah ton decarb
                                                                     by girl cheek of
                                                             inching into seams,
                                                           pollen thickly sealed.

(a rose of night and sword of day;
with which vein'd marvels play –    )

tumbling trill and awake with sight:
to see where dark and skein are tight )


                                                  –––––––––––––––––––––––

a not caving self of into daring stem
******,


                                                                    burnt
                                                                         ,

                                                                           reeling


                                                                                                                  and said .

("i love you")
        the
sweat smell
the
kiss spitly,

fork tongued
and paired
swollen of

pollen drugged
and cool sweltering

pale chested and
tight limbing

of neck throat
hand swallow
finger filling.

i think i shall die
that there is a rose in my lips–
the sea everywhere
and the barely sound
of washing over
the sand
it.

turns leaf over who through rain divides the world into muster and bluster of almost autumn nights thick with near darkness; it cannot feel to shift or move a muscle only to roll under the deep muzzle of rain and stem.

"One question I find I ask myself more and more as I get older is, 'have I ever really loved anyone?'"

simple is works hard
and stupidly grins
at little this joke and
little that story of
fishing or going to
the zoo one summer
with his kids–

breathing and is
alive he (simply)

smiles and knows
without knowing

it is good to live

by the way,
I have always loved you,
unwonderlingly which
I do not think
another hand
would be so nice
in mine

a hand last held
—no void to fill:
(the hand that grasps
is empty still).

so wait this hand
to holdest yours
when shut my eyes
as closest doors

no part, no rent
will bear the breaking
of flesh’s joy
a join making

so lay in still
at slumbers ask
a morn will come
where loves a bask

.





































                                                           Your dreams will not come true.



























































­


                     .

luscious corpse meadow salvation
wet waxy journal scrawled generous

be straight narrow crooked armor amour
fractured ferrous magnetic skin
dry husk sheathing thee: she spun metallic

so, yes, i will



                       but just this








                                                                                                                          once

My Dear who's come through winter
Growing with soft roughness
How you have become my kiss,

The pressing of my heart within
my breast,
And the pushing of my breath.

Oh Dear your hands are small
And move into my hands
With smallness, their pale beauty.

Dear, in Winter, who is dying,
You are life made skin and health;
Your lips are always playing
With softness as their wealth.

i love
you've are
been:

           (alive) and i,

kissing within
the sleeping dawn:

wide white awake.

our small shoulders;
who's naked makes
our heart perspire
1 leaf of grass.

you are gold.
your hair is.
your mouth does.
i sometimes.
and have always.

love kiss laughter sleep argue sweat dream kiss kissing inside laughter

christ you hang tinsel on a wooden cross
(drooping) your unsmiling figure
by the christmas tree tinseled too
silver clever ringlets wreathing
hung by hands delicate
ornaments dote 'pon
the boughs swinging
swaying

in

some unfelt
breeze they jounce
those
lovely sparkle sprinkled
spheres

mingle in the arms
of pine and soft
cinnamon
smells

cru
mbl
i
ng

wafts increase
from
the hot busy
pocket
of
the kitchen

into soon sleeping hands
my body enters
to the sound
of small
laughter

(Alive)

and again
i am here


dreaming

of somewhere
(withyou)–

alive         –

and

d
  r
e    a
m i n

    g.

this makes sleeping,
inside your slender,
the beginning song of life:

my lip;
the shoving of sudden fur;
your own quaking;
and the collapsed nerve.

and the each new little thing of it
(ever day)
makes life in smooth jolts.

love as a woman,
who wears within,
our love in something

very alive,
quickly with 10 fingers
10 toes and grows
inside that hive
where my love as flesh
has lingers.

how i came by
this lush trickle of vocabular erupting passion
   i electrically shovel

  in
          digital grunts
i
   kno

                ,w
not
                                only
    

                   i           :T,s

HA'b,i:Tu
                       a
l l
          y

i've some power fingers terribly monstrous
knuckle deep in

hair too,thickhair

in bunched fist

strung tighter

pulling
pullling tighter(and from where parts

monsters powerfully

                                        

                                          )


wait instantly unsleeping
at a little slick with spit
lips between lips barely
teeth press and press and

monsters (unsleeping instantly)



                  ReleaseD

i will be A Poem someday,
(or will i)?
being some earth
maYbe or (whynot)
a worm, and who
will remember nothing
of being what
i WAS NOT being
(apoem?)
someday when i
was, and will U
be there 2? i
wonder laying next to my wife.

there is nothing. And the wide night seems to toil outward into dark space of cut with just a strand of light it peers gauntly through rain up climbing with difficult precise silence seems to wander into the nooks and crooks its deep blanket of void stirs from which not a whisker or a claw of the fast cat sleep into nighting with deep purring of smooth body.

(how many more totally unimportant ultimately priceless nights will pass like from me out of lips and fingers into nothing without random seeming jounce of colorless minutes?

i can't know wouldn't want to even if tomorrow was the last sublime gasping of complete mundanity.

washing a dish is like that.

flush with hot hands in water drinks around fingers and lather coils in blossoms of vibrant tininess.

i cannot say i love Anyone or Anything perhaps i can love the rust of an old dying city the gable of a church girl and the collapsed rushing of immanent life.

or maybe i'll press into days and nights my body to be of some excellent stuff most economic.

nots now the time to think of such a thing two hours to wake from going work in a boring old amazing flash of perhaps the last moment you will live.

a poem doesn't mean a **** thing and

sum wut werd 1 means
i dont think a single think
will mean.

And how should 1 know it?

By what name will you call this thing?

the nam'ed thing persists
resisting itself nothing
which unencumbers,

the still pistil
of a blade between
the toes.

Have your feet tasted much?

Have you been so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

(there are thousands of poems left).


                                                             .







                                                              .











                                                                 ,

(being just flesh)


pulls a little something softly
of smile over sleep;

tangles a breath
in noon light–





                                                                                           wh isp e r i  n    g





          




                                                                  S.



a hanging finger
of loose
Spring

twixt lips:

    (spearing silence)



tugs into arms
a trembling rough




                                                                    Of
                                                           s
                                                                 t
                                                                       e
                                                                             a
                                                                                   m      

                                                     s   i      n       g     i           n     g



                                        

kiss.



       .


       .

       .
       .

your *** is like ****
(i think) and the backs of your knees
are like
i think. very nice to be inside of

i would you,

do you think too?

your lips and perhaps?

i would like oh dear to fit
like rain fits in April;
very wet and strictly.

oh dear and to eat you tinly i would hurt myself
with the hardness of earth. i would climb
into your fist very stiffly a flower. andear,
i would lay a hand against your unmeeting(
i would enter the primness of your heap
A mountain of unsleep. ) andear

i think you,

(do you think tooo)?

.






























                                                             stars are the body your face is
                                                             the wings that crowd,
                                                             by pinions brilliant,
                                                             heaven's perfectly eternal neatness





















































.

which utters coolly out of totally sleep tingling
the unclosing voice of Summer
an enormous prism of kissing waits in sweat
and lakes about the necks
of mountains where the uncoiling bodies are
hard in skin of gold
and nothing hurts

and nothing's old

root
about
you feels
how warm the
earth in)just spring

and root
deeply how
(in tightness
uncoils your love fist

totally

lilies lipped in dew
and coming morning's
health

when (root) you
singly divulge

one mute word of slender making light
and all that's quiet lives suddenly

in heaped burning

to lustfully cry:

SPR!NG

closedness
the
tighly
opening of
your
fist is


                   SPRINGwarm

                            wetwarmSPRING

                             cloaked in flowers
                             and reeling
                             with tough ***** tinder
                             to splay as girl lips

                              and




                               r       l
                                  e          ea       s       e

I've never written a good poem.

niTe?

do stars hang from you nimbly

dancing in breezes shook the

apple heavy bent boughs of

laughing gargantuan trees

                                            nite you are first me

                                            and secondly

                                            you are quivering with intense

                                            feverish quips of ladies

                                            so thick and exacting legs

                                            are completely tumbled open

                                            waxy perfect thighs

                                                                             (you are skinny limped

                                                                              skirts of light

                                                                              about the hair of forests

                                                                              you cavort with

                                                                              ***** sighs

                                                                              and you are so

                                                                              indescribably still

                                                                              even on balmy summer nights in the moment of an hour you are a park filled with me

and going about the beauty of your small adept

cheeks i do the terrifically kissing thing

and i love you

)

what the **** have you done

laugh whole mountains                 ,

you got sinews deep as

rivers in you(they’re sle

eeping down there in y

ou and they fan out toA

narrow hairless delta)an

d that’s where i am

what avarice it doth crAVe so greatly in the odor of gold so a flavor is guilded our minds and we make our arms for it so we may hold more, i loved the dawn. gold enough for




                                                                        






                                 i

this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

"In most people all I find is as sense of vacancy–a vapid emptiness. To call them stupid would a be gross exaggeration. Many of the most intelligent people I've ever met display this same quality. Simple would be a better term–they lack substance, complexity.

I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to meet a person of real substance."

"Goodnight."

(i am alive)there are three
thick fingers of dawn
pushing into the throat of
dawn gags on the spending
of a stream

          –steaming–

profuse
and

        Red.

eating you out in the back seat of my car
your strum stinging
from where your voice
is quickly singing

i pluck and seem
– i reach and touch
– i, still and clean,

finger the itch stitching
of your corded and
dasmer throat .

i hurt with
knees to
garble an' streak;

to make in mouth
(where all sound i' meek)

my fingers
(as deep
in your throat)

as you can keep        .