unconnected dots may soon lie dormant

is meaning's ambulance enough?

enough to squash and splatter

the now disparate back together again?

my mind is the intricate lattice of

intersecting tree branches:

each rising from its trunk, its mother

each lying to me: for they never, ever touch

- but my thoughts do -

they:

fornicate like romans and

teach like the greeks, but
their halcyon dreams will die in utero,
for they are:

American:

They know not how to choose:

(which is to say: what)

They do not do.

(which is to say: dead)

you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:

a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;

Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;

Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,

begging

that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.

must find actualizing, not paralyzing:

my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes

i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.

she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.

it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..

heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint

acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.

so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems

her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.

and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.

the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.

there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try

don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess

when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?

and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle

i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.