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Time bespeckled with you, and individuation
sounds more abstract than traumatizing.
Day drinking under unpatterned clouds,
surprised the houses aren’t pluckable.
Pine trees don’t fit in mouth, and I don’t miss anybody.
What design? This glob? This miasmic country?
Handfuls of amethyst, molten skin:
enough to convince anybody of anything.

All these concepts, like months lived in,
every permutation of intention, possibilities exhausted…
like a Kurosawa movie – one of the long ones.
And I looked high and low for cerulean ravens,
extraterrestial tides, a subtle dance in midair,
but the platinum sound contorted my face.
Hallelujah. A silence discloses us, always for the first time.
I held my father in it, and a dark rainbow radiated from his cheek.

Vertigo Discipline (Empty)

Betray the vertigo
discipline, my
masquerade. Tear open
bags of snacks and do
on a floor covered with pretzels
and chips, sour
Run the sinews
and family
Breathe and forget
the pitch
dimension your throat
animates gateways
into: where flesh becomes
metaphor, abstract and
splendid. Betray
the vertigo
discipline. Drink
to vomit and see (to
believe) you’re not

golden lonely

thoughtful queens bound
by expectations dream
of golden lonely steps
through golden lonely
on foreign earth.

playful kings tied
to cuckoo duties pine
for golden lonely days
with golden lonely
on foreign earth.






my all (falling)

statuses about
accomplishment get
the most likes.

and the vines are growing, stretching
outwards, onwards. i feel
the growing through the pink
bottoms of
my feet. the message
of the buzzing
insects is clear.

i am giving my all
to the moment before
the growing, to the moment
the growing.
courage sprouts
from the infinitesimal, matter
from what?

and laughter
in the face of moss, slipping
slow-motion off
the felled tree into
the shallow creek, a spot
of magic hour gloss
for our face, and each
season rides a knowing
smirk for the light.

the plunge

entangled again (awareness
of the entanglement rising,
as far as we know)
and the lake
will not freeze to help
me conceptualize stillness.

riding feelings, sparks
of a knife sharpener, panda
bear in silhouette, and the kiss
and the sex, the plunge and
the thrust, the brakes and
divine anticipation. the bed
will not become the car
just to help me actualize

like red under
wood, lips plant flags
on sand dunes.
love is an escape artist like harry
houdini, but i
am the multiverse.


the man can read
words, and he knows
they mean,

but he can’t connect
to their pictorial

he makes a face -
his wrinkled, cute
face, but
slightly… -

that says
he’s a hitter.

the man can rub
his morning
but he can’t
finish. he just doesn’t

get it.

there’s a cross above his piss-soaked
bed, and his blind
and deaf roommate
laughs and
cries seemingly
at random.

as sleepless again

beyond love lies
so fun.

i feel drunk now
like a regal ball
in a hall of white pillars.

blue tiger, massage my back.
scrape my neck with
your teeth.

who can decide -really -
between dignity and the exotic contained
in a gentle breeze?

as sleepless again in erie,
as that jostling lake.


entertainment (hair)

my heart pumps
carbonated cherry
cool-aid, and
the sunrise is a bug-eyed
look at your bruises.
bill clinton’s
and buddha’s.

my scalp breeds death,
and everything seems
so substantial.
when we want we want
consequence. we want lots of sex.
entertainment means love
always comes next.

peace fortress

what it was like
to be there: it wasn’t
like this, this non-local,
wannabe peace fortress.
it was a flat rock shelf
covered by moss,
a waterfall – the diagonal,
dizzying flow.
it was screaming jews,
the inheritance of iron-born
show me a ‘holiest part’
of the earth, and i will
show you my sacred testicles.

what it was like - 
the story of technology.
your mode of disclosure
is not your own.
imagine it!
& you can rest assured
your participation is taken
for granted, and i mean
gestalt is like salt
on the chemical level:
break off a part, it doesn’t matter.
it’s all the same. sodium
chloride, we’re made out of fluoride…

what it’s like
to be there: terrifying
and irrepressibly romantic.
my childhood home is
covered in dust, and the night sky is yellow.
who is tripping acid
on the gaza strip? who has
the guts?
my mother tore
down the curtain, and gently
handed me to jesus. he just
shrugged and said,
“not my problem, lady”.
we laugh about this to this day.

what it’s like, first off,
is not like anything.
it’s a pussy shining
it is always, at its core,
a new thought.
it sounds like mount saint helen’s imploding
and looks like the prophet muhammed.
it tastes like past life suicide and
smells like wedding grass.
it feels absolutely wonderful, and it
knows who you would kill.
it cares about politics
and loves more than you love.

what it will be like is downright
unsettling: are you comfortable with being
an allegory in god’s eyes?
my favorite philosopher heil’d hitler; now
what does this say about my clientele?
keep simplifying your silence,
and the golden blowjob will find
you across the universe. disappear
like bobby fischer,
let me love you more completely.
raven on the tundra and ganesha
along the hindu kush.
moses got really high and
threw his roach into a bush.

what it will be like
i honestly can’t say. i’m surprised
we’re not exploding.
i want to build a peace fortress,
but my internet has cancer,
and i miss her too much
to let the world crucify me.
give me a baseball game, give me
one more mysterious night.
give me a lake and a woman
to hold and make believe with
that as many people are
dying as there are really children
exploding on this planet.



love is the scaling
of a self, and heart-break
is made
of food.

love is a cloud, and
is a cloud

love is beyond us
fucking humans, and heart-break

love taught me all i know
about dignity, and
heart-break made me

unconscious grin

if there were last poems…
if the apocalypse was gentle -
like a tide that just keeps

there is a terrible softness that endures
nothing, and
my hands sweat too much to form

the future is a lazy dog
that loves you
dumbly, and
it’s summertime.


happy mother’s day

words drip holy
momentum, her long french braid
bouncing up the porch steps, her
expansive chest, the lightning storms.

what she knew i know, and what
i knew i know
she knows.




the move

Munching inertia
the walls need scrubbed.
How long plucking mirrored
dirt from pores

Intelligent kerplunks
and good sex: I
did not like the strangers today,

and they did not like me.

Too heavy to be
lifted, wind-wise,
the move is such
a pyramid.


just realized

holy crap i

it’s possible to
become truth

and that
i have
done just

idiot heart

i am an

today was
mostly light-
standing up
is one
of a task.

all the matter
is me… all
the matter is

the past is a story.
the past is just
a story. the
past is always
before me. it’s
still, it’s on
the ground.

i see pigeons
on the concrete,
and the river is
dead to my
idiot heart.

what am i
going to
do? kiss you?

i don’t think
it’s more than
enough to just
press my hand
into your spine.
i’m not lying.

love flashes
and pops
in your breath. if
we kissed i think i’d
fall deep
a coma, which,
all things considered, would
not be so bad.

there are
certainly worse
fates than being
no fun. right?