human1: to some people, this is the best part of the day . . .

(human2 is confused)

h1: 5 o'clock.

(h2 now understands perfectly; Kevin Arnold Facial Shift coupled with Knowing Nod)

h2: yeah, but for others(!)--

h1: it's the worst! so anxious!

h2: yeah, released from our slavery, thrown into freedom, for those of us unwilling to merely perpetuate the dominant practice of post-work recreation only serving to reinforce the status quo, only offering a more comfortable shackle upon our wrist, the pull of the throw pillow... we feel the tension of flux, of who we are trying to become. and our hearts ghosten?

h1: yes.

h2: it's called becoming alienated from our humanity.

i don't know what's right
but i know this wrong

-t's all i've left rubbing
two sticks held in tongs

no fire, no loving
pacing into abysmal

contusions i conjured,
i feel like i fear

damn the fluid wave
crashing the static pier

spacing away the days
until, until, until, until...

some magic moment
prophesied eons ago
as a tucked-in lullaby
promised into hieroglyphics
prayed toward in drought
before magic died
reckoned to death

i guess

i think

i feel

like

people aren't sincere

mostly because

it means

going into battle

without armor.

 

i'd like to,

like, 

have some steel, too,

over my heart

under the gobble

loop

swoop

and pull

--

but i can't find 

the season to hide

with no reason but

'survive'.

entertaining to tears
                       laughing
into unoblivious abyss
                       straining
throat to shreds boring
                       in-
to pillows but i can't unhear
                       my voice
wilting flailing galeful

loving
          anythingeverythinganything
remotely approaching hearts
                                            so intensely aortic
gush and burst astride towering unripe
                                                            frightened
quivering disuse

i would like to look in the mirror,
                                                     smile and unfeel lawyerous
                                                                                                 :who
                                                     is guilty but me                   ?if not                

                                                                                                          me, then community
                                                                                                 ?if not
                                                                                                          community, then me  ?

                                                                                                                                              nihilism,
                      
                                                               too exhaustingly exhausted
    
                                                                                                                                   apathy,

                                                               too pathetically copacetic

 i choose the idols

i choose the gods

come what mayhowwill

 i don'twon'tcan't unme .

morning, an excerpted short message service conversation from the one year anniversary of mom's death

thinking of you<3

[ . . . ]     heart just swelled    back to  nearnormallevel

:)just keep it beating                                           

                              (ed.-emp.add)

from a cubbyhole
in a tree house
at General Sherman's peak,

your nascent, still quivering, synaptic ridges
sit etched beneath my ass:

there will be a bridge
there will be a bridge
there will be a bridge:
the prophet said so!


no: one day there will be a slide
one day, i will build a water slide

out of your

at once, enquilted
at once, enwombing
and next, cavernous
and next, volcanic memory

i will careen down your thigh,
a fucking beautiful nylon run;



we will teem

nuzzlin' on the couch
------you by my side (on my elbow...)-

draw bridge simmers, trembling
lips await the word
brandish your sword
cut down the rope!

gateway of validation
sweep my rug under the rug
sweep... over and above
pull me into the station
gateway of validation

SURPRISE ME,
you Charon of circuits!
bring me old ghosts
in your wired ferry:

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet, please


redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover

you are at least five rays of sunshine


sent from the back of this universe's closet

reaching my dying pink heart



at the base of a Kruberan stalagtite.

shy-green pistil
emerging beneath
impatient Sun
barking schematics:

drown out the superintendent;
walk into the abyss,
and smile at the bees

she leaned in hard, again,

while the train rumbled overhead...

her dehydrated lips planted onto my own,


and we stuck the landing;





it was only weeks later
i knew she knew
that was goodbye.

all my back hairs rip out as question marks

white rose blooming
in winter as always,
in winter -- only:
the white rose blossom...
her fair skin tumbling...

timeless,
suspended,
a feather aloft
entangled limbs
hanging on for Dear Life.

it happens in a moment
when blood doesn't hasten
to boil and dance...
the fireplace crackling, laughing... 

new orbits slow as they converge
while seconds linger and thicken.

nails divot into skin perfectly,
a hard three iron to the green in two...

quick: flip onto your back'n
i'll climb aboard the jungle gym,
stare into those pale blue orbs
samurai slashing through possibility,
now stark, bare, naked.

we fall back, sighing,
to take firm hold
of limbs, once again.

listen,
i'm telling you the truth here:
i honestly can't budge
for the happiness of me.

i'll leave and come back
to find the stove hot.

i'll steal away, write
poems on bleak dinner bills
only to find the check's
paid in full; the table
is flaccid. they saw the
winking idols on the wall.

the jig is up.

i just need you to know
  that i say these words
  that i walk this line
      as awestruck and gun-shy a straight line as this is...

because i am broken

because i am lonely

because i have nothing but these broken statues, tattered maps

that if i could just take anyone
i'd save my people

but my people see

they know the paths are beaten
they have seen the flowerless field
they have retreated back to camp

so, we don't take just anyone
so, we don't eat but twice a year
so, our ribs cry manic arias through soft, thin flesh

we have our pride
we have our idols back here in this cloth in this satchel
quick, hurry: they're coming!

most recent edit, i think...maybe.

 The End of Shot Clocks

My heart is single occupancy.




Sometimes, there isn’t room for me in my own heart when you make our bed and sleep in it, and when you leave your socks balled up over the vents, when you string your underwear along the northernmost rail of pictures to cover our faces, when you turn all the blinds down, when you turn all the frames face down into oak, into maple, into deep hickory, and finally into bloody cherry; when you exist in my room with me smiling, then frowning, then furrowing, then burrowing deeper, to be buried alive eternally under the covers … after we lie in the bed we made from the wood we chopped, from the wood we sanded, from the wood we finished, from the wood we nailed together: I awake to singed half-brows, to frayed topless winter hats, to scalded rawpink scalps, and to our charred heart.



My heart is single occupancy, and, sometimes, there is not room for me.

running rampant round late autumn trails,
through memories of the breathing, the still here
and the not-still-here, the vanquished, stone divine

this is a prediction, this is a beautifully dug entrenchment;
this is a scalding habit, this is a carefully drugged patient;
but, now:
now, enthrall, now, withdrawal;
Now, NOW, tighten the blinds!


it's too, far too, bright, and it's August 23rd.
just stop it, man.
dont't let the narrative narrate;
remember the living undead:

this is a prediction, this is a beautifully dug entrenchment
to lie in when the dogs are near, to exit when the clouds are clear;
i don't have any more will, more will to hemorrhage here;
grab the pen: grab the shear! grab the pen: grab the shear!

the sun shadows your skull

blazing on, elevating

the alright and the fabulous alike

do some wells store and share

while some merely drink

the scraps from our forks

feed our people's families

feasts for the gods but

you disappear into the crowd

down, down, down, drowning 

the best love is homeless

you can't find it on google maps

youll only see it in the street

but sniper blimps seal our fate

the adults will kill us all

words wont win badges here

only time can send the wind to move you

only the world can show you our beautiful stars

again amid the deep rank scars of blah

drowning your waves ashore

this, my greatest fear

that you have forgotten

how to look at me

with arms for me

with arms for you

a child's love is homeless

you can't find it on google maps

youll only see it in the street

but sniper blimps seal our fate

the adults will kill us all

smile at me
and ill cry
cacophony
desperation

pat me on the back
tell me i did alright
and ill well
and ill well
cacophony
desperation

rest your head; it's ok
i remember my friends
and i cant forget
there's a better way



smile at me hard
i need you now
i need you now
i need you
now
now
now
now
now
now
now

cuz shes rushing through dirt
screaming tearing soil to mud
her words awash
her words run

ill love you forever
ill love you for always
as long as im living
my baby youll be