and fuck your christmas right back.

some time ago I think
ing we can’t be all gray
dots convoluted in sentenc
es turn to page five and
read me the
second sentence about my
misfortune as told by
gypsy crystal in
sights

it was a bolt but it was
n’t
raining quite corre ctly
upside the melting window
panes nobody noticed the
paint was bubbled up
and pooled at the bottom
of my finger
tips as I lay on my back
in the static noiselike
brain wave cha nts
convulsions and collars
shocked in tune with
the
nightwave chills

my hair my neck stood
to turn to attention to
frenetic muses plugged in
jutting out corkscrews
from arteries pump
ing vicious contusion melodic
pumping air nothings
fleeing saints set fire
to the
tune of our father
and the
holy ghost
stood in ovation

list 1

fear of heights
fear of smashed face
fear of falling
fear of falling in love
fear of falling in love too intensely
fear of self
fear of others
fear of speaking
fear of ridicule
fear of fire
fear of thoughts
fear of suicide
fear of blood loss
fear of comfort
fear of loneliness
fear of connection
fear of knowledge
fear of others’ knowledge
fear of mutilation of thoughts
fear of destructive behavior
fear of having fun
fear of letting go
fear of ennui
fear of my name

I haven't stopped writing,

I've stopped caring.

let's face it:
we're not who
you say we are

and suffocation was

It was August.
No, I’m still too young
to have kids have them
stuck javelin in abdomen in
esophagus nobody speaks one
word stays with me, future,
you want me
to create something?
It is not a child-
like object, soft and fluid
and malleable, it will
not turn out like you had
imagined it in your multiple
test runs in your head over
a cup of coffee, no, no it
is not relatable, it is
not you, not me, creation
is not like that at all.
not an uplifting chorus upon
salted rock shores
It is just about the one day
I whispered “I don’t want to
say this but I feel that I
can” and the world melted, the
words melded together into
one long entourage of has-beens
and regrettable metaphorical
needs, nobody can respond
at, this time. I should have
mailed it in the post-
apocalyptic ink and pen
matt-er-off-act methodology
that you could better under-
stand me up again and
ignore blatant jump in
ice pond suffocations like
air bubbles like stars under the
walking path above you
seek me under there but you
will not speak if I will
not hear you

will I be the same


tomorrow?

things I say in Dreams

I walk around with a tape
measure running out
of my mouth
my words are carefully
spilled over the tick marks
counted syllables flapping behind
my back, never a run-on
sentence uttered or I would
trip like a protagonist over
sweet ballads of self-image
dribbling across the yellow lines
dividing the road, untied
themselves from my lips to
wave banners from a moonlit
flagpole growing from the end
of my thoughts to stretch over
a scape only found in Apollo’s
back pocket

love poem I never wrote

dear,
I hate you

Dear,
I hate you

what.
what is so
divine
so
emotional
about
metaphors.
what
is it that
makes women
so
attracted to
oceans
tears
rain
tones
sunlight
voices
or souls
Those are
not
the only things
that are able
to
flow
from my
body.
So
what.
what
can I
say to
make you
stay
one more
hour.
My
rations
are dry
but I still
have
my
eyesight
and when I
use it
I see
you.
And that
is all of
my
what
that I can
be,
that is the
me
in my
heart,
that I
thought I
never had
until right
this moment
um I
realized
it is
possible,
no longer these
days I
lay in wait
before a
throne that
is not mine
,
it is
yours.

Dear,
I hate you,
So
what.

I would cooperate with something,
but nothing seems appropriate
every way they spin it, it just
seems more fucked than
it was originally,
is it supposed to be like that?

short volumes

what kind of musicians
would we be
if we played our songs
for others

people have
licked the sugar off
my smile
they don’t kiss
me like they used
to

I am
condemned to
the change
of seasons

Folks I used to

I was just trying to rebel against
the Great White Shark.
that is the reason I bought him
I thought I could fuck with Fates,
damn. I smoked hookah and
pussy through that haze I
spent money on a symbol and it
was his, in a stem of ingenuity
I didn’t recognize he
didn’t say anything
good enough.

I stood my greatest enemy against a wall
and performed mouth-to-mouth.
lace yourself around her hair,
grave robbers taught me,
all that time in the (car) in the (place)
I never got the (motion),
always on our way home
I felt like I should point
out the elephant in the room (car)
told her I hated (her) parents
for conceiving a child
that I couldn’t touch
she walked out so proud
I hated her.

(she) Never knew why I stole all her shirts but
it was just to smell her when she wasn’t ()
No I don’t like (Eric Clapton)
but I want to like you so
shut the fuck up and take off your
pants while I make you (dinner).

in-

in this page I will remember what I was here for
in this thought I am thinking about
in this thought I am thinking
in that house I was sitting there was a fire and
in that house the fire felt me it was a cold liquid
in cineration it told me it is that way
in moments my limbs were white again
in my skin liquid skin fire and
in thought this page I am thinking
in consistencies, that tree blew down over
in the neighbor’s yard there is a fence
in it coerced rabbit trails, child play things
in primary lego bricks melted
in candies found rolling under the seat
in years of pouring out sand castles from shoes

another lesson: repeating

my brain/mouth are inconsistent
my brain/mouth connection has a lisp
a forked tongue synapse or
time lapse between
the motions and the viewpoint
not doing this for you,
not doing this for you,
not doing this for me
not, seeing cross-examinations
of experience what-have-you-
done here for us, was there a second ago
cross-faded out of the room
in static, it is in static the
in it a world of, sighting a,
the woman you, was in the binoculars
all wind-blown and sun-tan and
melting butterscotch eyelids
drip onto me why don’t you
say “unto” like you meant it
before that door slides closed,
cut your hair off your hands off you’re
cutting it like that violently before
the priest could bless the stray
whimsical split ends now
rest counter-clockwise
who do you think you are not
doing this for you or
for God damn it doesn’t exist
fucking nihilist where has
it gone? turned to pointillism at
lisp cues now only seen
in select closed lids not
for you only for doing this;

dreams, re

i.e.
endless white
ocean-spins
toothless nightmares
jawbone spooling,
monogamy
four/eights of the time
on counting
on the, a
limbless hollow core
can’t take time to
lookoverthere

re: infinitum
what it feels like to watch
people other than you
moving forward
while you are stagnant
and growing bacterial emptiness
until you are a void stream flowing outward


cc: excess
this is exactly how you contract rabies
get bitten by THE MAN on your shoulder

it is all slippery and it is basic, it is
a nail sticking up from a step
catching socks

there was no such thing as paradise where
she was headed

missmatch

i’m whispering into your grave
“re gur gi tat e”
rational . time flows. out.
eye flows. out.
i’m talking into a dance.
stop.motion.
in.flux abbreviat.e xp.ience
flaps wings over chest over deluge
half moon wings’ tips “th nd f tme”
i’m scraping my core behind mirrors.
spills intuition spills arms. spills
question words’ direction-fall, lust-full, ab-sent
“no am I not” 0h-neg-a-tive
polarity miss/match
i’m watching sand in a vacuum.
color wheel opposing, flash
into a depth. dialllated. in Montreal.
destiny scalding its tongues
smiling .reflection. points
i’m unused books on your desk.
point.illism fragment.s
black ‘knighted ivy league hush’
fall off roof tops; locked;
whip lashed on all 4

rant 0.01

poetry is not a project.
I did not put all of my effort
and hands and joints and blood into it
didn’t formulate for years and years, it is
just something that falls out, an
eyelash on a pillowcase, nobody
knows it’s there unless you really
stare at it long enough
I did not have any direction
like those woman poets talking
about mountains and rain and
how their love drips from their
windowsills and turns to mist
evaporated into their lover’s lungs
complete bullshit vomit-inducing sugar.
I like my metaphors volatile
because they are ejected from myself
as unwanted malignancies, I
don’t swish them around
until they feel right and
let them dribble down my chin.
I have not sat for hours re
working re working re working
what is done is just that
because poetry is purest
the moment it catches fire.

solitude white of hand knuckles crippling
muscles strip out of skin barrier
of solace feign presence feign hands

directionless unwavering tone of voice
covers and covers and, covers
wing tips floating not flown

crumble letters between hands fingers
rub off under circumstances run off
under pressure ring fingers rubbed

incense of childhood burns familiar
smoke plumes inhale nostalgia, nose
bleeds essence of exit memories exit wounds

tea steeping in father’s
eyes tigers and hair loss untangle
auburn healing calluses trace back

confluence of internal voyeurism
discharged identity, incubates passively
insert tremors fertile insignia abscess

deceased in wind’s glanced crucifixion
a burnt down an ash an abstract
smudge on backward scraping hand

the voice is in a
mason jar in a
fridge in a
soup kitchen
the sea queen’s
wrath in a
handful of herbs in
a pepper shaker
she cries, in
a lethargic metamorphosis
in a subway
station in
sine waves wishing
for her voice
in the mason jar
to be devoured
in a song
that reminds her
of home under
water, all the
patrons in their phones
clicking away in
choice lives now
in a cellophane dream
in a line in
a shotglass the
subtleties abstain
her in a
cocktail dress in
phantasmagoria in
an asthma attack
the siren
sits on the edge
of her chair
wishing for a
sailor in a white
robe in a passive
aggressive kiss
with chapped mouth
licked her neck
in a straight
line to her
chest in a
flashback in a
scent connecting
dots of other
selves images in
a night in
a memoir in a
book read over in
her head in
her voice
in a
mason jar

My conscience is a crow
rattling rusted tin cans against
the cage bars of my jail my heart
thick oiled feathers in blood in
paint splatters
his calcified talons scrape
the ground digging
finds memories hanging on
naked wires crackle sparking
names of forgotten nomadic finitudes
involuntary in their actions
they did not choose them they
can not choose between death and
low hanging rafters

conjugated poems from March

I was dripping wet something
electronics drunk with
forceps clenching up jaw tight
like it's something real
today

oh God, God, where is
he now
my friends are dumb
interns like they've
never jumped off a cliff and
thought about it

She acts like she has nine
lives while she wastes her
one
the chair with the brown fuzz
clumps enveloped her
for five days we
thought she had suffocated when
she didn't
call back

Yes, yes, yes,
I can kill that spider for you.

well at least you have a job.
at least you are yourself,
most days or all of them.


the atmosphere
is so heavy these
days, some day
I'll write my outsides
in

It's the second time
she's used that word
and I still don't know
what it means even
in context


God damn it, I'm bleeding.

Dear flies,
Get out of my mouth

it is my tongue
not your youth

binding my gold
fillings shit fillings

brother poems part 2

Remember Grace
across the street
I couldn't tell
if she wanted to
play with you or
me
then she got older
and mom
called her
a
Jew whore
making out with a
boy
on her front porch
They had
a water
bed


Remember that
k*nex
roller coaster that took
seven hours
and we left it up
for six years


Remember Brenton
was always over
in the computer room
teaching you electronics
and porn
we wouldn't let him over
unsupervised
he knew our lock key code

abridged

I’m having trouble thinking of things lately
I’m wrapped up in too many layers of clothing at least I’m warm in here
though I lack ventilation; I draw myself on the glass in condensation wisps
a remnant of or what should have been a form unseen, a strip or morsel
a chalice of our decadent lies poured out slowly, curbside, in front of
gawking usurped neighborhood watchounds
run your fingers through your hair, feel them staring at you and your
pores open, feel your insecurities in drips congealed on your scalp,
bite at your freckled lip you’re cracked and they are muttering to each other
behind their fences and wrought iron bedposts, about you, they are twisting

twine

a crack sutured shut in my skull still showing, tar lines spilled on cement sidewalk
a crack sutured shut, soft spot rages, shutters closed, shaken babies rock cradles,
a crack, sutured shut, soft cry river waging war, raven sought, crave release, resignation,
a crack, sutured shut, soft on corner, staple copies staple copies staple copies spilled coffee
a crack sutured, shut, soft tracks spare parts, rabbit tail shift right, tinfoil wishes rust
a crack, sutured shut in my skull, still showing tar, lines spilled on cement sidewalk

twitch redux

my pulse is a twitch, an echo of a twitch
I lay on my side and the twitch
doubles over grabbing its’ abdominals
its’ kidneys throbbing gasps for air
double-time rhythms tribal rhythms
erratic the strings knot up watch gear
pulleys, circular singer sewing machines
monogrammed cardiac arrest twitches
bloodshot eyes mydriasis opened holes
eyes are blue dilations of and blink over
imperfections drip into my coffee
drips under my floorboards I can
see my reflection it is formless
and I cup my hands around it but
it drips through my fingers twitching clenched