spoems

“Darning his socks”, I think someone will see the tilt of book spines in my cabinet, fantasize about my secrets; 5-year-old ceramic handprint, hand spun letters and fond remains, sent by whom; they might be dead. What changed the world when I was gone, brands in dust lay palmless, Sedona rainbow obsidian the 1939 Dussaillant Sauternes no one wants? I’m part of my own frail collection bourgeois vivisection. Not more is known, not this repose, unsought by seers, psychos, lovers. Though invisibility is willed, the shame weeps through the hourglass, fracture of convenience. No one chooses to endure it more than once as one by one, each talisman will lose their saint their arbiter, who knows the contours, dog ears creases, phrases held in reverence, who pines for its familiarities, pictures of Colorado sunrise; outlasted by its slow sepia.

she says the Beats were ugly awful shall never speak of them no wonder m'flowering pestle

Ex Nihilo there comes a flood, blood ice skin, a wake full of blight, irrelevant sorrow; O Makers-Be, after this storm, give us lists of lists and hobbled forms, aching to salvage Illimitable space, another one, sun- shine crawls out of an orifice of withering mothers and motherless ‘like, codes to transgress their thrice born debacles, pregnant evacu- ants thawed by dawns and dawns ex Materia!

yes, i do recall our song but moronically so i deadpan the litany of our affairs like an alchemist of the inerts i kept my blood away from you buried inside witches' bottles i would have thought its opposite; Mandela's most hidden and blithe dimension where ankles sunk in muddy woods and tribeswomen round their fiery pits and many realms would opiate like firefly mass behind your shoulders dancing, drumming, blearing out worlds, i would have thought so you became the periapt gleaming ecstatic on every breast brooding within the music's breath a monolith risen from the heap, no more a rostrum in the breach the soft enigma that never passes a willing fear i brook the terror of your sisterhood i want inside of finally

acceptance is not joy but here's another twig moon

I walk and I hurt the sound of broken parts is the one of the soul and that is what I see if only they could flow like new wishes of turning deaf because I hear them now that everything persists and in this depth they convince me I am blessed I open my arms and fall in the abyss something I long for truly and something I truly long for. I walk and I hurt the letters came small and that is how I feel where do they go the old pieces of myself because I need them now that the void exists and in every step they drill whatever is left and I don't even know anymore if it is something word-worthy or something unworthy of words.

Whether it be the overwhelming, teeth gritting anger or the excitement, on in some case both to the army of imaginary and persuasively perverse, creative desires it feels incredibly like a sense of steps for an endless set of nights ones of the long march There are no, neither shriek nor screaming songs just a militaristic boil deep within that’s what it feels like Forever general forever colonel absolute emotional admiralty treaty That picture-esque moment that split second seeing it, the instance of feeling where the expression or emotion is suddenly felt, the start of it to capture it like the guns, fires, the works going off… I feel the battle at that intersection of time at full force either hit by or expressing it…. that immediate high… Who needs the uniform that’s only an accessory to go with what’s buried deep within you….

After Map The roads have always been in us, in the way the repetition of spoons against china hums us into ourselves, in the way the company flies by like shadows of the foliage we missed; in the foot sinking into the heavy ground of a sun-saturated room -- how where we've been is only defined by how the corners and routes angle their way back into our space when we've been still for too long. The New Map We go inside ourselves to remember how a place was we once visited passing each other by too busy to gather but the highlights of the other, maintaining our inner paths; the corners of the room edging from us into its parameters -- how an elbow could jostle each other's oceans like waves. How we encroach until we're too tired -- the laid path of our belongings (your hats, my candles) shifting until they crystalize in a shared nostalgia of which we'll need one day. A Finished Map The roads are in us now, in the way routes have sealed themselves to

I became afraid of the goddess. I couldn't look her in the face. I didn't like the way it ended Because she vanished without a trace. I became afraid of the goddess But the mirror was in front of me. I guess I just felt proud to know the lady And the secrets that she let me see. It happens in cycles: You find her, you lose her. She treats you like a stranger Then a long-lost friend. You're never sure if you like her But you know that you love her Even if you never see her again. (The chances of that are slim.) I became afraid of the goddess. I think I'd like to see her again. I became afraid of the goddess But I never used to be that way. She made me move like a dancer And I always knew the right thing to say. I became afraid of the goddess. Conscious of the way I behaved. I thought that I could be her water god But she wanted me to be her slave. She's so special, she's scary. She's so scary she's special. She's hard enough to cause A piece of metal to bend. She picks you up

He: Baby take a look at this fancy stuff I bought ya'. Lady at the store said it was flown in from Sumatra. Got a wild smell, stick your nose into these grounds. Cost me 20 dollars and I only got 2 pounds. What's the matter, baby? Why's your top lip curl? Why you drink your coffee like a mental hospital girl? I think you drink your coffee like a mental hospital girl. She: Honey, there's no need for you to raise your voice. I want my plastic measuring cup and 4 scoops of Taster's Choice. Got a wild smell, stick your nose into this cup. Cost me a dollar/two fifty and I always drink it up. What's the matter, honey? Why can't you enjoy? Why don't you drink coffee like a mental hospital boy? I think you should drink your coffee like a mental hospital boy. 1984 Used to sing this driving in my Fairmont after someone stole my radio.

I'm slowly transferred through time without knowing if it's morning or night or sometime in the dusk through clocks on a passenger side in a house on an icy roof top in a constellation with a memory I didn't even know it existed of you that I thought of sometime you would be there with me inviting to write down what I feel words though, are not feelings where were you? Lost in space chasing fame how you worked everyday for it and greatness I thought that, maybe, you need me or that you, maybe, needed me for just this little sometime.