Beds moaning in a give and take
some sort of car crash outside, morning’s roadkill
people choking on their breath during sleep.
I exhale words I do not mean to say then swallow them up again
          just battered croaking –

all these sounds spattered like a Victorian print.
I feel the air of another person whistling on my backside:
he will climb vines to get in my bed and eat me.

I hear night-noises, and that is what I think,
there are cannibals at the sill
big green tree-looking men who fit me whole in their stomach.
                My bedroom, like a cupboard
                         and me the same, we open without a key.

Across the street
there has to be a factory of some sort

where women are put into jars for jam and their skin’s the toast –
they get pregnant by ear. One hundred decibels
given by my father’s snoring moustache
and fifty for an ****** that causes leopard print sheets.

               Then, I am in a dream in which
   someone large holds me
closer than a criminal, but we just ballroom dance.

Then, I open those eyes again
                 and dogs bark in southern accents
                 and my house sweats from a nightmare
                 and the hour hands me sandbags
                 and wives finally get to pawn the rifle for thousands
                               but not before I hear a shot.

There is tar in my lungs,
and ***** in my blood,
and if I had some money,
I'd probably be pretty high too.
And I stopped eating,
because I liked the way the hunger felt
and I stopped sleeping,
because I only have nightmares anyways.
It hurts a lot to think about you,
so I replay every single song
that reminds me of you.
And if I had any guts,
mine would be splattered across the floor.
And if I had any brains,
mine would be be smeared on a wall.
But I'm a dumb coward,
so I'll just write a ****** poem about it instead

I wrote what I could.  
The lump in my throat pressed with such intent that tears were forced to fall.
So I've dropped the ball, and the doors have opened up

Two small trebutaries have emerged with little direction on where to go next
Confined and repressed, they now live a life so complex-
That had their thoughts existed, they wouldn't make it in the real world.

At the chin they met and swirled,
As if they've been meant to be together all along
Yet spiky hairs on the neck proved to be much more than they'd expect.

They tumbled as wrecks, independently til they hit the chest.
Anything but gently, they crashed.  
Apart now but memories remain
They've darkened the shirt as if they created stains.

It was the consensus to trade in the cards the dealer dealt..
But they'll flow on, and continue making impressions felt.
We'll absorb our pains to, establish growth
The one thing that I know though
is that I don't.

There's a persistent stream of "This happened for a reason"
But changes in feeling come and go like the changing of seasons.

It was lightning
and I felt electric
the stopping of my heart
your words illumined
I can never go back there
your guiding hand
tore my flesh
like the lust I kept
that your deepest reach
never found.

Life is tough,
But skin is stronger.
Spilled coffee staining unfinished works.
Forgotten friends, this town *****.
Lost time, keep me grounded.
Marked skin,
Late nights, four a.m. knows my soul.
Let's not even pretend we're in love.
I left my heart back in Chicago, but home isn't anywhere
yet.
you all
make me
sick
here. My stomach aches almost as much as my heart.
But not as bad.
Make it to med school & get out alive
they all fear zombies now.
but instead we need to fear growing up and growing out.
the truth.
Get lost, get hurt.
I'm stripped bare, nothing.
Next to it, anyway.
My life, they all tell me I am a sin.
Can't change how I am.
it's alright, everyone. I hate me, too.
Almost as much as all these lies
they keep pouring from your mouths, from one of you to the
Next.
Like needles in my skin,
you are strong, all of you,
but I am stronger though, alive, barely.
Now though, I'm getting better.
I listen to my music loud, as loud as the dials will allow me to take it.
boundries.
But only to keep the silence
In my mind, the words to stop forming sentences, those to stop trying to perfect what can't be done.
My hands are starting to hurt, to keep
pulling myself down back to Earth.
My mind, full of medical knowledge,
Can help anyone, but,
myself.
These highs, they are dull and don't last long enough, these pills,
they cost too much, can't make it out.
But they keep me here,
safe. And I know that I'm fine, will be stronger.
Not enough to be here, for the rest of my life, pathetic.
but enough not to, fade. You all see me,
Understand why in the dark of the night.
That you spill love to me as you feel these deep lines on my body, these troubles.
My past.
Forever haunts me, holds me,
Captive. My future, as gone as it ever was.
Will be.

knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but  Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.

knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.

sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****.

i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.

Life is a brush fire... dreaming.
A penumbra of the void.
Life is where God left His hammer.
A black pearl on black sand.
The one with the blue heart
and the mad men.
Life is thin air made flesh; the pinnacle of divinity-
with a blunt tip.

Days are optional. Nights are mandatory.

That's Life -
Deep down, where we live
in the Future every moment.
Life is a sad
piece.

Wince
at the sun for a nickel,
and that's almost what it feels like
To believe in your soul
but not your eyes.
Life is all
around
you.

A field of poppies
and prank calls.
A flood of Harmonies
alluding
to your
Truth.

That you have no idea
How to play your
instrument -
Is the funny
part.

That it All seems to work.... sheer genius

We are Alive,
and that
Is the pivotal intent
of the Prime
Mover.
The Lucid Grace that All Creation, Made.
A Reflex of an Infinitely Loving
Conundrum -

We are the Children
of a Living Mystery...
from clay,
say some.

But know this.

[ Life is a gift that keeps on Dying ]

and will do it for nothing....  

if you let it.


Life is a Dreaming Cause, A Sleeping Crusade;
Tossed out of Heaven's bed
Into The Cavernous Crib With The Milky Way Mobile
Spiraling in Entropy... Life looks up.
And Life looks down,
With your
eyes.

We are the null set, and the set of all possible sets.
We are the Premise that inspires Love to magnify.
That Lens between the Sun and the Ant
Is your Soul.

Life is not -
exactly.
And Death's a
lazy-Susan.
And Nothingness
is poetry
that bleeds a
moon to
ruin... as high
above -
stars are sliding
fortunes into
cookies
and everywhere
our banquet -

sprawls.

the world blows up
once again
facebook
twitter
tv
poetry
people....
....people who gave up on prayer
decades ago
have returned
suddenly
i hope all this
didn't just happen
to teach us how to pray
again