guttermouth

your hyperbolic words--
like wraiths interred--
scratch, scratch at my neural pathways:

i've never had to eat my own,
but with your phrases of absolutes
comes a feast:
nevers, and
forevers, and
hate and love
and Hell and Heaven--

a feast 'pon which you will surely choke.

your non-commital rhetoric
burns like cochlear poison;
a cancer, a sickness, a languid hellfire

with ev'ry parting of your putrescent lips.
with ev'ry word comes boiling bile:
hot, smelly, self-assuring.
death of mind and heart alike.

i opine, i thrive; my words will not die.

i do not dine.
i do not dine.

Minnesota Wildman

boy, you live so far away
in your big blue house
of yesterdays; boy,

you've gotten caught in me--
like a hook in fabric, like
a stone in the sink.

boy, i want to see you soon--
let's meet in the grassfields,
under cover of snow, boy.

let's romp and let's play and let's fall in love, boy.
i'll paint you-- you'll do me-- and we'll drink ourselves silly;
drink till we can't see, till we're somber and giggly.

you're older than me, boy--
but i don't think it matters.

we'll greet the setting sun,
and hide warmly as it rises.

boy, let's fall in love.

Carry your worry in knots... pump
new blood through,
chasing the demons out through
the curve of your knee; into the sea
with your lies and immoralities.

Drink your comfort in water... suck
down new knowledge,
detoxifying worry into
your body's internal streams, channels
come flowing together, fibers growing in bliss.

And newness.

We prance about
cantankerous, the two of us--
and realize nothing of ourselves
'til the sun
sighs, and rises
in utmost disgrace;
lies and fortunes misplaced.

What should be tears turns into laughter;
would-be fears incite self-slaughter;
will I ever grow old, will I father a daughter;
I will waste away here-- need I linger any longer?

shorthand for love / progenitransience

In windows, moments of
hot clarity-- from shudd'ring paroxysms,
the stabbing attempts at drawing breath--

I see people: people
as fragments of my selves,
as bits of my grey matter

gone

to slurry themselves across space
and time--
unbound, infinite.

Newborn starlights;
galaxies, progenitransient

realities; lives, dogmas and
unintended pragmatic cataclysms-- all

(macrocosmic minutiae)

evolved. I spin hurriedly,
forming darker and darker cores
(tighter spirals);
thicker masses,
(denser blacknesses)
smiles; intransigence:


convex vortex cremates palpitating corpseflesh.
Shorn in context, locks in keys flat
make a bloody, disharmonious (hairy) mess:

shards, splinters;
I've something to confess:

(aguey mouth-strings
rippling out:
crackling throatcroak
caterwauling in doubt)

jealousy is neverending, it seems.

If only it weren't for my dreams.

i don't want to be some stinging anemone
clutched to your rock self.

i don't want to feed from your underbelly,
but i want someone
(i want you, my darling)
to be caring towards me;
loving manliness is so becoming
upon your wise and hum'rous face.

i am your imperfect other;
the soullessness which--
with weightlessness--
occupies the recesses which
should house eyes.

i am the Godliness;
the lawlessness;
the occupants of worlds entire.
let us run.

together, now--
we fly into ourselves
(into fits autistic and beautiful
in their uniqueness)--

let us become our
own unbecoming,
unabsolved in this:

dystopian entanglement.

let us be born
into our own
truest selves once more.

to whom it may concern:
i am having a hard-enough time
dealing;

dealing with this
radioactive decay half-life
i call my whole-life;

every breath sees a proton's departure,
each dilation of the pupil or bloodvessel
finds another nucleus fallen to pieces--

and on, unto infinity.

my decay is your mutation,
is your ever-real evolution of
waxing and waning prospective presents
(future-selves, smiling with portent) in their multitude:

and while there may be stars in yours--
mine is the space between them;
uncountable and empty--
and on, unto some forever-vastness:

the cold hell of spatial separation.

concurrence (rational rhyme)

the terrible bells compel
me, drive my every motion
with whips: crackling with fear, fear

of the uncertainty of the sound
which swells and blossoms in spumes of foam--
drops of water, sunlight-filled, glinting in
euphoria, cavorting in joyous

spiral-splatter dances-- and builds
force, becoming the tidal
mighty
thundering surf of l'mar d'angustia.

and on every beach, the shells (they sing, oh how they

sing:

with voices of impunity, purity--
cackles and shackles and sobbed-out dreams
and screams of anguish [both mortal
and mental,

inconsequential]--

and glee, righteous fury
propel me: forever and on

to no end or rhyme or rationalized reason),the shells, the shells

hum with the luster of a day
that's unsure, uncertain but
never any-thing but dangling-- ripened, and
with portent--

in the everything of the present moment;
and nothing of the nothing which is Not,

which is Without; it
begot not a thing

but hot, deadly Doubt unto a Time
out of time;

which has no reason;

no rational rhyme.

but is incest best? (how nice)

what a thing, to have
within my grasp:
you, so dear to me--
your actions, your words.

what a sight to be heard--
how many times have you fled, now;
how many
times have you died
inside my head? how
many times have I
(fortuitous brother, wife unmarred
[and unnamed, forever scarred, unladen
of/with your fearful perfections])
died, to be reborn

in a blacker ash, in a
less conspicuous dust?

why does the glass of our glossolalia
burn with undue corpulence, o
why o why.

how may we make the conjunct of "us" right?
how may we lay-- side-by-side, in
sighing asym-metry, may we
share thoughts,

opine
upon

beats, arpeggiated chords, and
dischordant screaming, bleeding
vocal
chords, and
quiescent melodies;
snare-hits, tom-
whalloping, galloping beats
beats
beats
beats?

does the strum of the guitar thrum
thrum
thrum
thrum with uncalloused
abandon, sickly-reckless
(cantankerous) soul-
punching, dual-amp-crunching
grungefueled postpunk dooms
and seraphim-sucksiphoned
gloriffic stories?

inside your wholeheart?

can we talk, can we talk--

or are you with the gods, now;
are you the deists'
maker of clocks;
does the time tick away

without you?

notes on Cultural Anthropology 19.9.011

championed by Julian Steward; THE FUCK?!

^
|

cultural ecology - philosophical idea applied to anth-

ropology; human cultural groups

adapt to an environment as a group

UNILINEAR EVOLUTION IS SHIT

only an hour has passed;
am I learning anything?
it's up to me to do so, up
to me to decide;

yet I'm writing sorts
of poetry-prose and

practicing my penmanship
and I'm drawing smokes
and cerebral neuropathways
in my notebook, my

Anthro-
pology
notebook

17.9.011

The great complexities of this world are not so complex; or rather, the complications of this world are not complications of the world, but rather are complications of man imposed upon the world. The world is vast, the world is whole; we men and women and children are but a part. We experience, we assign meaning and roles-- and, invariably, we die. And some of us attain peace. Man is of little consequence. Life is good. Death is not bad, though it causes sadness in Man.

"do something with this?" Seula 15.11.010

these avoidances, swerves in the road
it saved us pain, the decoction of your pulp, to swallow a sinkstone
pump
the break
unbolt and jump the sidewalk
counterweigh the scabsmear across your forehead
your turpitudinous pools
bloodbubbles swell,
blue,
from your nostrils
flares tattered

"did something with that" Jiva 23.09.011

mind's un-weight
bent, battered soliloquiescent concubine
beats, harps unharmed
unnamed
untamed in time, time, thyme
seasalt blues and age, age
for the malarkiest
overlord's oligarchy
an eye-- my breath garlicky--
fucking cracks your hotspittled
brain
in twain, in two
slick sips-- poor saps-- we slip
irreproachably, unapproachably further
into
our own glooms.

My Dreams, I Think...

I flunked out of the "pretty" competition
a long, long time ago.
I flunked my way out of every skin
I'd occupied or had thought
to-- and my system's
been run
ragged; it's
so, so tired
of regeneration.

I have nothing left in me;
nothing left for you to gawk at,
so I'll run riddles 'round your pretty head
instead; I'll run in circles
'til I trip myself up,
take a blow to my temple (is
that what my body
is?)
break my legs and absorb pavements both
hot, cold:

no
skin, no
lies left to live, no
spirits left to liven
the day or leaven a mood,
brighten the atmosphere of the room
you rejoice in,
which spins and turns
fasterfasterfasterfaster;
bastard, banal
fuck, nothing-person:

you don't even try anymore!
Malignance and apathy! a blight
from every pore, a pestilence with every parting of the lips--

the only sighs left are in
remembrance of half-lives
half-lived-- quartered and drawn/dissected
(maladjusted existence, no
benediction left in your diction-- no
thesaurus full
of fucking fakeflaking
fake fucking plasticwords,
styrene-swords; anticonvulsory carcino-eugenics blister
ev-er-y
punc-tu-al blasssstttt-ted syllable) hearts
lie, lay at the heart of your primary existence in
this

current state:

waiting for nothing, and
nothing
more
will come;

you, World, have gotten it all out of me.
Leave it, Dog.
Leave me be. (These asbestos-stuffed

sinuses

are or once were
my dreams, I think.)

Specter

I saw your ex-lover today.
Then I saw the mother of mine;
I turned tail; I looked away
both times.

I could not meet their eyes--
but I recognized his wiggle
from the backside;
red still blossomed about her nose,
so I looked down,
I ran away:
muttered to myself, I
smiled, and went on:

my insides boiled:
shame, rage:
I'm no longer at peace
today.

And I envy your ennui--
your glitter-dreams, and rotted teeth.
Lies decrepit, selfborne deceit:
you're the youth I never had.

child migraine, night-terror

my head is as small,
small as a q-tip dropped,
slopping burger commercial,
circus-blob biker woman
(oversapping lower lip),
dance around in paperdoll circles,
colored and uncolored for the nineties,
nightmare
no-wherenothing
void
void
void
white.

peace? or
repetition.

Is the smoke inside the mirror,
or is the mirror inside you?

And must we dance in triplets--
can we dance in pairs of two?

Must we all be soldiers, and
need we fight in all these wars?

And none of these dusty folders
have any data in their stores.

delete;
reprieve;
relief;
complete.

de-leaf;
perceive;
aggrieve;
no sleep.

No sleep.
No sleep.
No sleep:
Repeat.

Repeat,
always repeat.

(I) breathe DRAG-onsblood;
(SEE) my SIGnal fire?


I breathe dragonsblood;
see my signal-fire?
Feel irrational, and
tempt a serial liar.
Turn me on and I'll
set your funeral pyre.
Come into my head,
and we'll rise even higher.

In the darkest winters of my mind, I
know darkness never fought with light, and
I turn into the welcoming gloom as
a child to mother's and father's boon.

Here's the thing about me dating older men. I like it. I like the learnedness, the maturity-- but not the difference of experience and sense of superiority it can tend to bring to the relationship. That, and I am young: young enough and naive enough to still cling to the slowly-wilting belief that when we "grow up," we all become these perfect, balanced beings. We do not; age has only some bearing in the art of becoming centered and realizing our innate wholeness (and I'm a ways away, to put it delicately).

I don't feel quite like I connect with people. Not many people, anyways. And I used to ascribe that to problems with my age-group; I was in such solitude because I just didn't feel a spark during interaction with others my age; I got along better with adults.

I am also fortunate enough to have an unconditionally loving and supportive family (does it blow anyone else's mind that families who hold their children in a position of unconditional positive regard are in the minority?)-- and that, unfortunately, is still an issue for most people my age-- not to mention members of earlier generations.

But being stuck in the middle isn't quite so bad; with all that space between oneself and others, one doesn't so much shrivel as he blossoms, grows into the spaces between-- spaces which no one else can reach or even dream of.

Still, it's lonely here in the spaces between.

We travel the space between the stars:
You've beguiled my eyes for some time now.
Jump into your fantastic lies;
More truthful than the world around.

Let's never speak of our love;
no verbal acknowledgment could suffice.
Let's never ruin this moment.
Let's live this one moment the rest of our lives.

We've defied each other's expectations.
You've been on my mind for more than a while now.
What a thing to find:
One soul, it beats as the heart of the stars.

Let's never speak the word "love";
nothing spoken nor written could deify.
Not a thing could ruin this moment
as the hours slowly pass from our lives.

I am criminally insane,
I am caustic and urbane,
your greatest artistic abortion,
your lesser autistic devotion.

I am meant for greener grounds
where my footfalls echo, sounding
like devotions to the stones,
and the marrow in my bones
adds to the cacophony.

We're running out of bounds,
running out of time.
With nothing left to eat--
there's nothing left to rhyme.

Save mine, I save yours.
We are meant to see the eagle that soars
from our nowhere-nothing perch.

Renaissance

Beautiful ties between.
Sadness, slick grieving.
Wings alight with the fire of punishment--
laughter, and soaring mirth.

Sopping frontal cortex--
you are my honey, my cream.
My bleating vocal beating;
my love;
timeless ache.

Meet your eyes with mine, breathe
into me your life. Aguey agate eyes,
be mine, love. Mine.
I love you for all-time.

You, you, you--
I am my mother's son.

(and though we are wholly unbegun--
lucid dreamers, looséd tongues--
we are not yet undone;
we are holy; thusly unbegun)

12.8.011

you sat across the way.
a table filled with food between us,
electric filaments unfurling
like tendrils, finding their likenesses
in the space between.

i never once met your eyes,
for fear i'd get lost in the gap.

i'm far-away again today,
i feel fine, and i'm okay, but i'm nowhere to be found.
i'm far-away again today,
no one sits across the way--
i've slept and lain in bed all day.

and if heaven's just a fathom high--
with olive skin and hazel eye--
then hell's two fathoms further down
and i: a dead man on the ground.

there was no you in the equation of we.
there was only me, and fear.
i fear i closed a door on you,
and spoke through a covered window.
the glass distorts your perception of me.

your heaven's just a fathom high,
with gentle voice, and agate eyes.
my hell's two fathoms further down--
(and i: i feel so far away)

i'm nowhere to be found.

death, and the poetic license revoked

if i don't want your attentions
attuned to my frequency,
then why does your lavishing upon l'homme de jour
rub me in the wrongest of ways?

am i so jaded? do i want these hollow expressions of fidelity
flying at my own face; no.
if i'm so sick of the cycle of love and false love----
together, apart,
it's real this time no it's real i swear----
then why bother?

the anger isn't coming as it should.
i sit here, i ruminate, i jab
at the deflated circus-lion
sitting in my headcage
(once-proud fiery beast)

and all i have come to know
is this:

i don't have the words, the rhythm, the rhyme.
the would-be passion, the florid soul:
it all comes out like grey garbage-spume,
liquefied brain in a hot waterfalling leak
from my head through my ear to
splatter and dry
like birdshit on cracked asphalt.

i'm less out of tune than i've ever been;
even my arrhythmia's got no signature,
it's fainter than ever,
my beats are strong and clear.

there are only enough words left to make my head rattle.

you thoughtlessly throw yours around.

Carnival Song

No patterns, no
faulty
iterations;
no flattery,
no conflagrations.

No thought, no time, no space absurd
to deify
(or demon-ize)
a thing so lit'ral
as the written word.

Speak, as 'twere with your undying breath.
Speak of crimes seen aloft on your perch--

And burn, and spin
(turn, turn)--
this is not your time;

this is your death.
Tempt my gaze,
and meet mine eyes' wrath
with buck-tooth,
chin,
bones of glass:

speak your piece,
breathe your last.

one day you'll find yourself an ornery lech--
reject, abject, dejected and tired.
no boys will your open-mouthed photographs fetch;
your stop-drop rhymes leave them uninspired.

take your shirt off, put your face on.
dance in place, dance in place.

you're gone, you're gone, without a trace--
so dance in place, dance in place.

I congratulate myself
with markings on the skin
which mean so much more
than the markings held within.

mas piezas

and they got tired of your shit
long before the rest of us did.

you burned through them
like my eyes through you;

there's blood on the floor,
shame in your hair;
turn it around;
what will you do?

when dancing turns to singing, blood turns to love

they put an alien in my brain.
they made me think that I wasn't okay.

attention deficit

every
motion, action,
word, and flexion
screams
"please, oh
please be proud of me."

to those who've given up on love

I think I've given up on love;
I've no need left to look above.
I'll look forward instead--
or back, or below--
but I'll never find myself in the eyes
of the unreal.

For there are two realities, and two only:
the world of the dreaming present,
and the world of no consequence.

And the drowning serpents are swimming in both
pools. Your reputation precedes nothing, least
of all yourself-- shortcomings and comeuppance
and all.

You're
twisting
in the wind,
writhing
in the fire of my abject,
whoring stare; my black gaze
bores spiteful, nightful
black spores
into your tepid brain;
from the skin of your hands, your neck,
spring sores.

By the skin of my teeth I've
escaped unscathed
(i: unscalded by your eyes)--
and as I come wrathing down upon wanton smiles
and complacent haze
and concurrent opposites, blithe mannerisms--
you quiver, but without the warning

sign
of anticipation. I

can not wait for you to show up at my door,
yet
there is a voice
(he calls himself Logic-- the drunk bastard)
who tells me that He
(meaning You, meaning You, my Darling)
is never coming.

And my Laughter grows saltier
over the passing hours, as
I begin to think the voice
(Logic-- confident fucker)
is right.

My laughter is drowning in sobs.

Yet you reappear; every time-- and only just
a little farther away, this time
and this time
and this.

But I can still reach you;
I can still save you;
I can still get you;
I can still have you-- until
I decide to throw myself away again, until
this skin has
(once again)
grown far too thin, far too small--
and I: far too slimy, far too
forever too far away.

From Here; from Me;
from You;
from truth and all the lies you've proposed,
from truth
and all the lies I've exposed;

my head's been lying to me--
I'm not sad; I'm happy.

Love comes not from the World,
but comes from the world Within.

the ghosts i experience when i choose to look back

friends and family mean
everything and nothing
to me, apparently. i do not know myself-- he who lived more than three years ago--

and i find myself living from hand to mouth:
eternally, once again, for the first time.

these words which do not so much slide out of me
so much as they
fall,
decrepit-- like a blackdead fetus-child from the spot between a negligent non-mother's thighs--

these words are no longer mine. and i can't help but think that the effort it would take to reclaim them
(these aborted thoughts and coathanger-lacerated old selves)
is both grandiose and minute; miniscule; entirely within my atrophied grasp.

i have taken ownership of nothing.
nothing is mine, nothing is right.
nihilism and buddhism now occupy the same space in my cranium;
capital and lowercase letters, too.

kierkegaard, and the other guy-- the guy with opposing thoughts?
can't remember. the love of wisdom must have left me, for i remember everything
(and by everything i mean nothing--
I REMEMBER NOTHING).

and my meter is immeasurable, and my assonance is nonexistent,
and my rhyme scheme was never there, but add it to the pile and let's watch it burn.
i used to have a midas touch, an editing eye, a discriminating taste; i used to have something i gave away.
a burning torch tossed-- halfheartedly, with no real remorse or heartsorrow
feeling of soulplague-- into the ether, into the black, into the place where

forgotten memories and lost dates and inconsequential components and garbage and seafoam and polystyrene dreams of a child's creation of the futureself all get blended into a grey-snot slurried mess.

this passage has no end; it has no thing to say--
and i will pass on into the next day
(and the next) without a care, without
any promise or hope of a future;
without myself; without you.

give it away

When I met with the director of undergraduate admissions at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago-- when I showed him some of my work-- he took interest in the fact that I gave most of my favorite work away. He said there was something to that.

And that has bugged me for some time; I hadn't been able to really figure out why I gave away the things I'm most proud of.

Staying at my dad's house this weekend, I've seen various pieces of metalwork I've done over the years which I had either sold to him (because he wanted to pay me for them) or given to him as gifts. Part of what kills me about seeing these things is knowing that he liked them so much and was so proud of me that he wanted to keep them. He even wears a ring I cast (four, five years ago now?) every day.

But what I've realized is that I give these things away because having them around reminds me of happier times and of the things I was once capable of creating. Because of a lack of materials or workspace or the fact that I work full-time at dead-end jobs-- and for a thousand other reasons-- I can't produce like I used to.

And for some reason, I am also afraid to create anything. Keeping my past creations away from me lowers the standard and the level of pressure, in a sense; it makes it easier for me to forget, let go, move on. It makes growing up and growing weary and growing sad easier.

If I keep anything I've created, I will do one of the following things: I will give it away; I will throw it away; I will change it; I will paint over it (and be disappointed); I will destroy it in any manner I can. These things are at once a mirror of my self and a window into the past. They measure just how far I've strayed from the path I wanted to be on. They measure my loss. They mock me.

The few pieces I still have gather dust-- and they have either been painted over, torn up and thrown away-- or they have tarnished and corroded and been bent out of shape. They were things that I was once so proud of. They are my highschool yearbook; they are the infamous "skinny jeans"; they are evidence I need to get rid of.

They are also pieces of myself which I give away in the hopes that they will be better cared for and better appreciated than they might be in my possession.

I can see myself in the still-reflective surfaces of some of the things I made my dad (incense burner, metal-box-turned-votive-holder). I don't like what I see. I never like what I see.

But the fact that I'm too blocked up and fucked up to make anything new that I can be equally as proud of-- it makes me so sad.

arm thyself

had i tried, i might've been
where you are now; i might've seen

a future-self, a something-else-than-where-i've-been-and-what-i've-seen.

how much should i give away? how much wind
'neath withered wings
will it take
for upward movement; lift; flight--

why should i go; where do i miss you; and why not?

far away; heart, head; i never knew you.

from where does this loss flow how may it be stemmed why do i care sitting here again i've made a loop conked my head why again why again where am i to go what means stream of i can't continue doing this it doesn't work in plugs and meters i have none no rhyme undone i have no meter i have no measure i have no song to sing

anymore.

arm thyself against yourself,
prepare for battle every day.
amidst the fires, amidst the rains and gas-filled trenches
of the everyday--

you've yet to find any peace. i'm telling you
it will never come; the battle rages on.

in the silence between bombs;
in familiar impact (lead kiss chest)
inside your tomb (lead lick flesh)
and among dead friends (lead bite bone)
you'll find your peace (lead hit home).

you've gone nowhere, you cannot run you've done nothing, you're never done you cannot you can not you can not do a thing you are paralyzed by what you fear by yourself by what you love by the way i forgot to mention the tracks are hot and waiting for you they are hot they long to kiss you heat rises from the tracks on your arm there is nothing and your futures are one and everything and belonging to another being which you have yet to become through falling from where you once were and you and you and you can do nothing to stop yourself from movement in any direction you are pong bouncing, bouncing without the laws of physics and it is yours to take control of yours to find the meaning yours to do something with

but you refuse you refuse you refuse

and why?

arm thyself against your Self.
the enemy has you trapped.
he is in your heart;
he is in your home, and suddenly--

none of it is yours anymore.
and in a few years, it happens again.

do nothing; do something; be damned.

04.4.007

"Spatiotemparalysis"

I hear, in my mind, all of this music-- and it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart.

It's been 2d 11h 38m, according to that small window next to the digitized you. Corin reminds me that God is a number.

You could be any of an infinite number of places right now, the central role of any one of a million-million possible existences. Statistically speaking, the chance that I may know which one of those million-million you are living right now is close to zero; the Heisenberg uncertainty principle states that the simultaneous position and momentum of a particle can never be certain-- I can either spot your location at any given instant, or I can determine your speed and direction, but not both at once. This small window is leaving it up to me to decide which of these possible presents or futures might be the right one.

How can I be expected to sit here with any measure of resolve when in my head I see a million images of your death and your suffering, with a million more filled with contentment or mediocrity or happiness-- all brimming with overwhelming uncertainty-- crashing into one another, and breaking like a surf against the very last sand-castle barrier of my inner self? How do I keep these things from tumbling out of me into the sun's light and the world of the categorical imperative, where they may gorge themselves upon Truth and swallow me in turn?

I can sing through my fingers-- though the worth of a singer is nothing, I'm told.

I can sing all these things to you; like a siren, scream these thoughts to the heavens and the wide-open sea in hopes that you'll hear.
I can draw you to this shore--
this, the existence and the world that I know--
and hope that you are not so deafened by the thundering sound
(which has broken the last of my sand-castle dreams)
as I have been so blinded by its comprising water-droplet images
(reflecting truth, the light of the sun)
as to crash upon the million treacherous rocks.
They and the respective futures they hold for my One have left me marooned on this sea-washed shore.

Let me sail, let me sail, let me crash upon your shore.

We two can do nothing better than harmonize with our million-breadth fingers between us. Like merpeople beneath the water, fingers separating our dual stores of singing singularity into plural realities which catch on our eyelashes as they-- and the music they together contain-- rise to join some greatness above us; each bubble a window into one of a million-million beings.

I can see these parts of you through the gaps in between your fingers. And when my own digits (God is a number) pass before my own eyes, you peek out and see gaps of me between the static and the wires. You can hear the music emanating from the infinite space in between ten fragments of perfect solidity-- what we have been taught to think is reality. You see the remainder between five sets of perfectly-balanced digits-- equal and opposite one another, and opposite your own (God is a number).

The digits pass before your eyes before they have been given a chance at meeting the other side of the equation. Equal digits on opposite sides will go to dissolution, as grains of salt in water, and reduce to zero. The answer-- call it a "solution"-- lies between. The two of us; the sum of our respective selves, as remainders; underlying.

Gazes meet. Fingers dissolve.

God is a number.

simplify

simplify;
black and white.
hairless heads;
minds in flight.
we are flawed,
hate is trite:

simple thoughts,
simple life.

what means apart? -- for Eitan

sometimes i don't know what to write;
sometimes it won't stop pouring out,

but

for all intents and
purposes, this is
a poem of promised love--
falling
neither upon
deafened ears, nor deadened heart.

what means apart?

an upturned face will catch the rain.
an outward gaze will find its place.
where the siren kills, the lighthouse calls:
beckon is as beacon, and mice
and angels
sing thanks in chorus--

for lovers united,
love reignited
(burning as fire on the lovelorn rocks)
and the manifold waves:
curling soulless seafoam
into the shore.

a rock-bitten embrace
for merpeople unabsolved--
but not so for us.

we will meet in the golden light of September:
saltless tears, neither yours nor mine.

we will fold into every last recess;
we will repeat, we will echo;
mice and angels will sing their chorus--

and every day, we will begin again
with our thanks,
our fire,
our saltless tears
and something that's left to be sung.

chapter 21 27.2.011

didn't i warn you?

there is a single instant in every relationship when one or both parties realize that said relationship will not work out. i think this is me pulling out-- again. part of the problem is that Hurt is too familiar of a friend; another large part is my subservience: having been taught to keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself, i have and will continue to be the silent harborer of doubt, hatred, self-loathing, mania, skepticism, and masochism in every relationship into which i endeavor. i will continue to put my whole Self into these matters, and not remove my Self until pieces of it have been bitten away.

each piece retains a memory of its wholeness, and i become less whole with every broken connection, every remembrance of some former self. i cannot break the cycle; i made a promise to a higher power long, long ago. it is perhaps the only promise i have ever kept.

didn't i tell you that they all run away, eventually? run, boy. run.

not at home in this skin

ignore me, and i'll soon fade away--
just know that i miss you every day.

and i don't remember where you live,
but i remember all the things we did--

with fluttering eyes,
lips parting in sighs,
learning how to take and give.

your hand pulling away, and I'm devastated

hydrocodone

brainbits

Now every gentleman in Rome
is wearing Saigon cologne--
and the farmer in the dell
has gone to Hell, gone to Hell.

no title

Heaven's just a fathom high—
with olive skin and darkest eye—
while Hell's two fathoms further down—
and I, a dead man on the ground.

new year 06.01.011

your belying eyes—circumspect, ring-scribed
in light—fire my insides, blister my lips
and sizzle my skin.

kiln to my earthenware, you glaze me
in love most pearlescent-white;
I deny you nothing.

we are; you are mine; you quake at my fingers' behest.
your plushsoft lips quest, seek presence and rest
within the fleshy pulp of my heart.

covered in blood, you plunge.

sweat rimes your soul.

your agate-eyes flash green and gold;
myriad bubbles, pinfire sigh—

take me down this time,
down inside your light.

scry into my soul, leave me half of Whole.