I added my date of birth to my profile.
It updated.
Next to the numbers is a "-" reminding me it could be over in a dash.

hello baby rat,
have you come to eat my food
and cry when it's all gone, waaaah
with a sharp tooth on each end
bend the rules
a bit
and let me take a ****
"you're
fat" you say

“Hello,
I would like some poison
portioned over the night. Yes,
I would also like to stand somewhere
like a subway car, but darker and louder.
100 bucks? Wonderful,
will that also help me feel like **** tomorrow?
Great.”

“Hi, yes –
please cut into my face
for no apparent reason.
Yes, pull out my tooth
to quell an inconvenience.
Substitute it with a worse inconvenience,
and bill me $1000.”

I’d like to idle with you as a rock
but you’re the sea and moving constantly.
One day I asked to sit in quiet: talk,
you didn’t want to think, but crash and be

the ocean (thoughtless filled with life), a wave
(a moment on the shore, or rock away).
I am that rock; you taunt me, and i crave
to be the sand swept up in sea, to sway

in your finicky storm. I’m not a stone,
but the sand I wished to be. Your song
is hazardous, monotonous. A drone
of boats I cannot hear sails on.  

You are the silent siren, of the sea
who breaks all men from stone to sand ennui.

that's the issue
all i wanted to do was kiss you
but i tried, and then I missed you

on every corner
i've warned her
to stop fighting
i guess writing
is the answer

i want to stab my wrists
with the pain of carpal tunnel
feel the passion in my crackin knees, please
hurt me more so i can bleed the pain through +pain
and then i want to let it drain the page with pixels; they
used to say ink i think, but now that metaphor is dead. today's
youth, weave a thread through art, digitally; crack a new trail in the rift
without breaking ****; shine a light with LCD. Gee—time isticking
and so is the wifi, my brain attune to it, the birds come near
and fly away. the sky is gray because i see it that way.
i know because when i ask you if it's blue
you say, "no, i see it grey too."
and then we fight about
who spelled it right.

faces, faces, funny places
everyone untie your laces
run up the mountain,
implant the fountain
and let the nymph ***
if the wet moss'll be

Last night I saw you
but I was asleep.
You were blushing,
rosy-cheeked and almost mine.

You looked like liquid,
but were pointed
and everything came back to your eyes,
which I know well

although
i do not know
the color of them.

I wanted you
but you were liquid
and pointed
and I could not have you.

brothers

for whatever                 it coulda been
                        [reason]
makes me a seasoned senser of sensation-
alism altruism and any other ism
makes me wish
we coulda shared this
slice, but any way
i see you're doing nice
and boring

the rogue scent
of her perfume
through the a/c

If i were an artist – and most importantly everyone knew it –
I would paint ****,
sculpt dung,
write crap
and see the masses awe in it.

becoming and unbecoming,
trying to wait and waste
time away from doing
the necessary objectives
life is the same
sim sam, tim tam see saw
whether you don't or do,
just make sure you check
the weather before you go outside
and always confide in the 1 u <3

With you like
You struck with
A stroke of
Luck, lightning
Of beauty,
Your hair hot
With humid
Air, your full
Breath sticks, breaks
On my neck
And my cough
Of coffee
Down the wrong
Hole after
Seeing you
Whole stark bare
With delight
I just might
Take you, tip
By top tongue,
My lungs soon
Wet, heavy
With words, birds
Chirping now
You're mining,
In my bed,
My lines, beat
Banging red
And gentle
On the sill
It takes all
My will and
Attention
To mention
Something but
What i should
Not mention --
Your tough tuft
And my hand
Every hand
Busts with lust --
We pitter
Patter on
Together
At one time
Singing out
Coming or
Going songs,
Fleeting like
Vagabonds,
Butterflies,
Or gas and
Air, right there,
You burst, then
Lay down white
With what did
You just say?

my ******* hands
are attached to
restless wrists wresting
control
of this keyboard.

I’ve got to put something down
and I don’t want my fingertips to stop dancing on the keys.

My hands move faster than my mind can think
today. Today,
I am a writer. Yesterday I was a poet
and my hands could not keep up with my words
which could not keep up with my thoughts –
thoughts (n): dreams computed by the mind.

i am strange, i
am not real.

i
am complex, simple.
i

am
important,

interesting,
unexpected,

and (
next to nothing
) the most

significant unit in the world

i!
is something poetic,
and especially not.


i am one – no
i am the root of one,
negative one.

stillness
floating, falling forgotten feather
pigeon flies away

Living without a root, but
with a flower,
you know as well as i
is
a terribly large and
loud void. Let’s call it
hell.
do you see the pattern, do
you
blow your fuse when the ducks don’t
dry in order, when the towels don’t fold according to
your structure and form your
hair—which is
just a vessel
to appear beautiful and
annoy the senses, upon which the hair falls on
me?

lives at the connection of my spine and brain,
somewhere in the spinal cord
and in my brain
where things
go bump
lump
a line
and a rhyme
together with lime
shake it up break it up
and the crack the ice. have
a bowl of rice and let it EXIsT
thru your hands typing your toes
tingling, ms. miss, mister mark sullivan
singing the song of your death, yes it's ms

everything
feels that it keels
over
like a
pinball
in a machine—
hits green

and falls to your fingers.
save it
or you die

but you have two ***** left
and that's all you need.

i feel like i could climb the room
when i see you, my
baby whom
ever biology tells
is lazy, why does love tell sepearate songs why
dont i know how to spelll it but tell it, why
don’t you get it i think thinkgs exist to say something orelse
they just exist and that’s the same thing
and you think so too,
what is this besides
something new

Every pretty girl
is skinny. "Beautiful?" No,
he'd never mean me.

isn't a thing you should expect
or demand, otherwise you'll be left
with nothing but your
**** in your hand.

that isn't the truth, but has a dash of it?
Like vanilla extract, the truth smells sweet
but tastes bitter, and drink enough of it
and you'll get drunk.
But no one has that much vanilla.

the problem with girls
with smart
         phones
is they don't know how to use them --
that's just wishful thinking
from a guy
who wonders
why you'd give me your number if you aren't going to text me back,

maybe the same reason
that I take her number with no intention
to ever call.

Your lips retreat from mine
as a wave receding
and teasing
with its
rich, wet
beauty

approaching my
pleasant toes
to give me all
,
and just a bit
,
of the ocean
leaving the shore
still wet
as it returns to mystery.

Hey dummy,
wanna sit
on my face, ace?
i’ll what your mouth, and bust
your blouse, open
your lips, give it a lick, kiss your clip-
ped fingers, your must have fun
rough and tumble, gargle and gumble,
oozing *** appeal, i feel
like a crazy person when you stare at me, see
my bulging, iron bind and rewind
you to find a little bit.

windless heat
a whisper of rain-
bow, relief

trying to unchew
the pit in my stomach
death

the best way to ward
off potential suitors?
trying hard,
that's why i like computers.

be content with soup
contend w/ soup
can't end with soap
can't eat a stoop
what's the scoop
loopdy loop

of desire
is painful and pervading my body
physically, like literally, i can feel
the heat in my legs, the
stinging lightness in my joints
and of course the throbbing in my head,
funny that the stunted, clogged,
wheel and cog of my hog
is frozen solid
and you're turning every corner
to make sure it stays that way for you
but it cannot. everyday
i imagine what it would be like
for desire to meet desire,
and it disgusts me
as you've defined my normal
and scared me shitless into thinking otherwise
through classical conditioning
and punishment of action.
Don't try to kiss me,
for fear of me lashing you
with my tongue, but no not literally, don't
even try it.
Tell me about everything you desire
and I will shove it back in your sick head
and beat the **** out of it,
so the sly fox of desire is a ****** ferret,
****** too many times by a bear, and then killed and eaten.
It's a way of life, you tell me the circle and nature of things as they
are. And you say you're just a bee buzzing, and I think the opposite
you're a bee struggling on its back on the ground,
doused in water, and unable to fly.
And I'm there trying to buzz you back to life,
but I've lost my stinger, and here's the kicker,
yours is ready to sting me, mine, back into drive
but you just want to stay on your back,
even when the water drys.

you know,
i think you
‘re
probably pretty

easy to kiss –
i mean that
it’s effortless,
something
we both

just do. me

and

you are mine

and also yours. are the bees
having trouble
kissing the flowers?
no,
that is what i mean by easy.

“God,” I said, “what do you want me to do?”
“Child,” he said “whatever you want to do.”

“Satan,” I said, “what do you want me to do?”
“Child,” he said "whatever you want to do.”

I write this to show you
I don’t care
about you
at all.

the snow flakes could be
cherry blossoms falling soft
past my dark window 

political correctness and affectedness
overtly appeal to the need to appeal to
everyone who thinks they aren't everyone, but
truthfully, are a worse form everyone,
yelling yawningly boring lines about
raw fruit and other metaphors, published in the New
Yorker

Be picking upyourused contact lenses

I sit idle,
awaiting
life – life
on a loading screen
inching forward
at indeterminable increments
one fraction at a time,
waiting for the screen to load.

What
could it
be – be-
yond the loading screen?

404
object not found
please return home,
your mother is waiting
for you
there
for you
to become
something

or other. Or other-
wise – wise
guy – you would have wasted her time.
For God's sake what is living for
– loading
?

You can
abort program at any time
and stop the loading
the result,
in
the end
is
the same,
it's
the end. The end.

the thought of my grandmother's house becoming a memory
fondly fading
deteriorating
fall leaves always fall

cigarette
does not consume my rage
humidity

waternlight mixd = god and spite
Do you feel frightened?
Or enlightened?

Theremin arsenals reverberate sunsets to connect tin units.

I wondered when they'd call me sir,
Now almost 30, always almost 30,
I wonder if they'll ever stop

you don't know, some things
you never will. you never will the things
you want to
be, to be be-
cause you're afraid they won't ever be,
so they dangle on reality
waiting for your action
to free them from imagination. Imagine
it was your choice. "To be or not to be?"
is not the question
about life and death like we thought,
but about death and life, or doing and
not doing (but not inaction, that's 4 another time).
What I mean is this, to be is to live is to act is to
take the knife and stake it in your flesh
of the earth and call it your own, or easier than that to
say hi to someone
you've been wanting to say hi to. You've been wanting to
say hi for an hour, and maybe they've been waiting, maybe not,
but there are some things we'll never
know, no, not doing.

You are no flower but if I picked you
you’d bode unwell in this environment.

The pepper's broken
I tell you to fix it
You moan and whine

You tell me to get wine
Your favorite is 30 bucks
You say it tastes like sulfides

You tell me to get rid of my boxes
You tell me to get rid of my boxes
I leave my books in a four foot stack

On the bench
(That i asked you to clear so i could sit
To put on my shoes)
In front of the shattered print
That you always hated that my cousin gave me
And next to your bags and bags
That you won't get rid of.

You tell me I'm an *******.

You tell me nothing
and when i ask
You tell me nothing's
wrong
You tell me go away
You tell me don't leave
You tell me not to type so loudly
You tell me not to sit alone in the bathroom
You tell me not to write you letters
Well this isn't for you.

You chase me around telling telling yelling me.

Makes the words hurt less

i love you because
you don’t mind if i have all of you,
always,
and are always ready,
and don’t mind being spread thin
e.g. on ritz.

These flowers I have ripped from the ground:
stolen from thirsty and bright bees, humming
birds
are my gift to you that will soon die
but not before their beauty does,
and that is what you mean to me.