i'd

rather
work - cause - a purple
wood - blisters - pinch
than
write - create - a poor
words. - context - poem

alliterate your life with language!
buy a rainbow!
read a book!
imaginate!
and...
...and what?

choo choo train gonna getchu, baby. tomorrow, i'm finding the color orange.

my pirate found himself within a train whistle,
spiral child, paper feet, fluttering in the train wake.

i told him to "say hello" and he said words i've written for him:

'Long be the be that buzzes by my eye.
an eye and 'is' has blurried into a kite
like this, a Y, are'd when i was quiet'

we rote this on his chest with treasure fingers
he found me with less than... nevermind her or hers face.

it left last night in the rain. when my pirate axed my head.

cre-cumbered eyes in make-believe.

because there isn't. remember crying
like a crustacean sunken in a sinking case of crinkled plastic.
dismember lying
like it wasn't. dismembered crying
in a sink with napkins tapered with the insides of your eyeslets.

let it lie like a swollen christmas. remember myne
and find for his. or look on on and lose your sight.

look on on and lose your eyes. look on on and watch them watching.
look on in eyeless frozen nightlight.
look in on my children's smiles. look on on and
lose your wishes. look on on and know your losses.

let my eyes like you know you couldn't. dismember your mind
and cry for his and look on on with your lossful sight.

for causes found, and cinders lost
beside your youthless wrinkle. a poor old woman of crinkled plastic
remembers lying
like a child inside the sunrise
with her children pretending children's game for other's children.

pretend. pretend. pretend.
i don't wanna grow up,
i'm still a toys r' us kid.

she sez she were a skunk

Love thy neighbor, love thy law.
Love thy mama most of all.

Love thy labor, love thy saw.
Love thy babies most of all.

Love thy traitor, love thy law.
Love thy neighbor most of all.

caste yourself as theatricless.

Hello, my name is occupy, I am time. And I decide how we all find.
This is where it’s like the inside of these lines. An invisible stick figure walks amongst large black walls. Straight mountains. Take your birth control and tomorrow we’ll see him stumbling amongst nothing. Then our eyes will white because his time to choose time to end has come to an end. His choice be choicelessness. He chose it.

But. But nothing but butting into time, yours and mine. But nothing but losing yourself in time, yours or mine. But nothing but something is what this thing is. Or what you say. You understand how it is to sit anomic. To noise as sonnentce. To sound yourself as something rather than forgetting. And it doesn’t have possibility when you chose.

Veblen called us all pussy fucks. And he was right. Art is leisure is nothing, a lie you’ve made for yourself to state us. To find status. Figure out. The artists have. When they said ‘live,’ they meant it. Become a blacksmith. Make a tool.

wair.

maybe i need to go sleep and wake up next week
maybe i need to know how it isn't
maybe i need to sleep
maybe i need to sleep
maybe i'll feed your need for finding muses in yourself, sick

why do you sleep with the moonlight
why do you sleep.
why don't you keep your mouthings.
keep them in your sing-song songings
sing me a songing
sing me to sleep.

and maybe i'll wake up two...

we'll be waking to the sunlight
in your car. you're living a life i've lived before
you're living my life. my life. my life
look around. realize you're not you.

or just find the answers
or just make something up
and write a poem for an everyone that you hope will find your angry belly. i want to be an angry belly, and i want to find an anyone that listens to my angry belly. and i want to be an angry belly, and i want my noise to turn around and bellow jelly. jello jelly giggle belly. belly belly belly. my mind is nothing but melly jelly and it's yelling at the way you've hurt me like a cougar that chews on a baby. i like to think i'm a cougar, that my mouth is a baby. that you're nowhere in my little world where i'm destroying everything that i want to see... a baby mainly. you. and me. and lifetimes together that tangle together as children that gather in memories to where you no longer no because remember! you no longer go, belong or know of anything that's me or anything that i've ever going to see or be or hear. hey, i don't hear you. i don't know you. no. not any longer .i'm nothing but a yellow bulb in a garage near a freeway with some trees and an iron that bats away the billets until... untill. untill. until what? until nothing.

i want to beat noise until nothing but my arms are worn before blackness.

DELAWARE RIVER

[The wetland grasses plucked as we pass – whole chords of grass blast by. The leaving, the relief of leaving, comes with loneliness – a whole prune on the sill of a half-room. Greens in the morning that we chew; soy-sauce & krill in the eve. Bridges sprout from the bog. My ghosts miss me, they want me dead or back home, so that they can tug at my breath like a grandfather’s beard. Not to be heard giggling their antique talk. All around, I glimpse them.

My friend, drunk, once screamed at the cab driver. Knowing we brought echoes with us when we came. In the Philadelphia train station, this slow land calms down like a child caught in a giant puppet suddenly -- panics. Then gains awe. Then is released, unknown to itself for a moment, un-horsed.

This must be what happens, every breath, in our lunglings, I mean it. Colonial blue, brick red, marble, slights of gold. Whose colors are these? Were these the paints that lasted 4 weeks on a ship over the east Atlantic? Or were they here when we arrived, packaged inside this idea, portraying a country?

On the train to Atlantic City, a king of green wire grows all over everything. Barrels of noise just keep getting shipped in: still I realize it is all home. After the pigment trucks & the geared garbage goes breaking against the power-plant’s house, we could, at any point, stop & grow an apple loom, perform the delicate tradition of surviving. I hadn’t thought about darkness until I was born and now we are strung over the Delaware River. Or packed on a platform, or on stage, just trying to stay alive our own size.]

i was twelve when i found a flying shark below a christmas tree

difficult sometimes to find the time. difficult to walk. diffi-diffi-dee. for you. for mellowness in autumn. for our health in our autumn. whence was when we went to the window with out-swept hands and sullen candles. whence is the white-checkered skin. whence is whenever i decide to scream toward your touch with my smile or a toothful snap.

snap snap.

tomorrow will find another of our flowered churches. a steeple or a mast above the corner store that sells a comic book collection's stool. we'll wander to our faint and find our friends frisking in our bed. friends! we've found you. leave us to our homelessness. let us curl without your sweat sticking to the inside of the backs of our white shiny teeth.

snap.

like a kite that stalks school children sitting on the sidewalk with black strap leather clap-claps that clap-clap as their feet tap-tap pitter-pat as the kite swells to within them. eeeee. and they scream and their little white laced feet make, so heavy, quickness in slick. swish swish. metal'd heavy. tick tick. soft, golden hair. braided halo.

smiles don't make sounds.

Acme

It is cold enough here
to be both dead and alive.
What I mean is,
my boots cleave
snow from scrub flowers.

It will become more pronounced
the further we go.
We will stop seeing deer
and find empty
wildfire watchtowers.

The hills bow desolate and magenta.
I pull on another sweater.
There is no telling the wind
from the rest of the air.

Nobody’s listening.
I see a red busting
athwart mountain faces.
There is the Devil’s Tower
off in the distance.

Sheer rock seals us
to the remaining path.
In crevices, yellow flowers are
stashed away.

God has weight
the more I transgress.
I begin to bargain
and care what He thinks.

A white chalk
covers my gloves.
The summit is also
the color of bone.

We become still like frozen.
There is less obstruction to the eye.
This is the highest point
between the Rockies and the Alps.

something about this weather makes everything smaller

On Falling in Love with Japan:
In Three Parts


I.
Consider the way her last summer rains fall quietly
onto your shoulder. See me, take what remains of me,
she is begging of your upturned palms while undressing
her landscape for you. Glimpse her sky blue mountains,
rounded like the curve of a thigh or the deep hollows
between your lover’s breasts. Do you hear the water cranes
calling out across the river? The wind is carrying something away.

II.
Someone kissed your mouth. Someone cupped your chin,
asked you about safety and weather on the other side
of the world. Is there a word for loss in Japanese?
Maybe it is composed of lotus and winter frost,
the latter being something similar to you when
you told someone watch this: keep this safe: this is not yours
to have.

III.
She is stealing your heart. She is rearranging her forests
and streams to better match your expectations. She is persuading
the flowers to blush a deepest red just for you,
my love, she says to you, don’t turn around .The rain has
started again somewhere you can’t see. Everything
weeps for you. After this, after not so long, you will
learn to love the storms.

an alphabet above a skull sketch

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S Test

found along a boat in calligraphy

i didn’t die on a ferry
it wasn’t a lie
not to me,
not to anyone.

my plans just sat and stared
at me
as they, their feet
dangled free
above the sunlight.

he didn’t… with them
asleep…
think to say anything
to me,
to anyone.

do you like the angiosperms

in the window? do you like my hair?

the robins making sails within the
spiral from his mouth. he sticks a pillow in her sigh
and she shudders toward the twilight nearing
my eyes, my knees, and the grasses at our feet
as we wince with silence to the
searching arrows sent into the wood, a fallen
acre, and a
deadened bird.

remember when? remember when the robin
was an acorn? eyes remember. they remember
robins, their acorns, and my finger on
a bird cage in the fall. my eyes remember
memories we haven’t. i eye’d a memory
from…

oh. well. nevermind. my mind wasn’t made for me.
not me. no not for anything but the silence it forces
me to speak.

flow, we've,n

let's circle hurt. still, purpled,
her kill turned dull, curled. an error
built here, elm'd for years below
our lucky breathings.