oh. sorry, my very best friend. you look so tasty-lish.

i ate a photogramonster on 47th. he told me to chomp chomp before i chomp chomp'd. later, while i was rolling on my table a coaster for my milk, i made my maginations make and make and maginate until they made me and my photogramonster on 47th. he told me to chomp chomp and, with my maginations, saw the sandwich 'tween my fingers.

the sun seeks
dramatic silhouettes,
the way to appear charming.
a current opens for another,
having forgotten to hold anger close,
letting all the reverence rush in.

the result is a silvery dazzle. a film
upon your outfit,
which no amount of sweeping sheds.
you step out of it
to the skin, into a bled white
instance of perfection.

the objects of the cast bow obvious.
now absence as aperture,
every breath struggling to fill itself in,
having forgotten
all separation is escorted
by a jubilee of horns.

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.