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oh sink me,
the child wanders out of Idyll
a tree-lined ferme ornee, manufacturing young ladies
does not make for solid ground when relegated to memory
how ancient the thought that one could always be In Uniform
married this year to this canonical text and next year to that
and the once springy ground, mossy and leaf strewn and musky
that heaved back at the step of her lined calves
which were all tennis tennis tennis
proves now to be a sinkhole
and she finds as she tumbles into the pit
not Virgil
not even Cicero, Lugubrious and hand outstretched
no Elysium alongside a pond
not even an eerie moor and a big black dog
just an endless plane of muck and more muck
unpopulated and reaking, Grendel's fen
which squelches underneath her sneakers
and to distract herself she looks at the sky

the twinkle twinkle works its magic on the hardest of hearts

how strange! an occultist borne from the shucked skin of an Enlightenment size-queen.
though if soap actors can become consciousness freaks
and groomed conservative child-kings end up writing for Canadian Zine-Empires
then perhaps not so strange
and now believing:
each human body giving off a certain frequency
music working only when it resonates in the body
hitting some strange inverse or opposite
and
spirit guides like saints but with much less strenuous standards for beatification
calling upon the dead for strength
in any foxhole
especially those with dirty lipstick red mouths
each one for each purpose
and
Charlotte Bronte's notion of strings
broken ribs strewn all over the place
the dust of bones ground under our feet blanketing the world
and
THE UNNAMED AND UNNAMEABLE
the ache that will always be and always taunt
the whispering thing, "yes I am here, I am here, come home"
and
emotional vampires/energy sucks/soul killers
split souls and lies so perfectly opposite to each other to cancel out
and
liberal rage as being so lame
and
language not needing to be preserved but fucked
in the nicest sense
tongued and licked and rolled
and
CLOWNS!

which is to say
belief can be so pure and flat and white and smooth
and explode of all a sudden into something else entirely
the shapely, gentlemanly hands of history
can slide off your neck and you can breathe

oh the cracked back of the chair will just heal itself?
what's next?
the tree that was this chair will start to grow again?
through our floor
and up into the apartment above?
you can dream a man a new set of lungs
but you can't cook them up

you are the man in the center of the room
saying "I'm dying"
i'm across the ocean
composing a letter
"pater, odi et amo"
can i make it easier for you to die?
if i write
Cruel Man! He Who Belittles Even the Caesar! You never feared the noisy, grinding gears of my brain and so neither did I. Days were I learned to talk real big at your feet. Days were you smashed girlhood on a marble floor of derision. Day was I put it back together again and realized your fear meant the newly glued together object was oh so powerful. Joke's on you, but thank you? Ah Progenitor, he who gave us our family name, Eternal Peter Pan, I wish I could wash your embittered soul in the cool water of mine.

what do you wear to the funeral of your personal boogey-man?
what do you wear when you loved him?

Portrait of new friend

me on a good day

happiness is a grave

And I intend not 
To be that kind of yes

But yes

Yes to everything 

Yes to nothing

Yes to you

Yes to me

Rain

Rai. Ran

The rain

Down upon baroque growth

Limbs of green 

hills 

Are a romance 

To humiliate

Man(un)kind's make-believe

Not busy with fear 

this great pretending called life

Little do. Fear you

Holding hands easy as breathing

Easiest breath

All We have to do to make shapes 

In such a night as this

"he could be defined by his make believe"

I am in Tennessee and

There is a tornado near by

I have to go to the basement

here is a growl

apologies.
i've been reading a lot of Andrea Coates.
i think the revolution may have been compromised.
there's poetry dying on the shelves of Quimby's.
and my new haircut is hella dumb.

MOTHERFUCKING
WHAT
DO I HAVE TO DO
TO GET IT RIGHT?

christ in heaven

both the morality of self-expression and the morality of our judeo-christian forefathers twine around each other and continue to limp on

offering us only a sense of compromised logic and relativity and disconnect/disjunct/disinfected junk

WE ARE ALL EXILES
YOU CAN NEVER GO HOME AGAIN

shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit
farah fawcett hair and me
kit kats and diet coke
somehow
sit beside
strange loops and bdsm royalty

what what what what
motherfucking
what

here's a sound poem for some undergraduate class
and a lazy bones dilettante
I never want to work another day in my life.

SLUTS
IT'S AUTUMN
EVERYTHING IS DYING
TIS THE SEASON I PRETEND TO BE A CATHOLICK
BY DRINKING A LOT OF WINE

IMMA TEAR UP THE PROLAPSED ANUS OF THIS TOWN
AND OMG, GONNA RECLAIM THE SOUL
AS AN OBJECT OF STUDY
NO GODS NO RULERS
STILL SWIMMIN IN THE DIVINE

PIERCE MY HEART WITH THE PINPRICK OF THE WILLIS TOWER
I
WILL
BE
GOOOOOOOOOOOOD

crickets, new hamshire

screaming, car brakes, creaking spires.
disintegration has noises that have no place to go
they ricochet off walls at random--one enters my window
where, like a spider hungry, i wait
once eaten i say i have disintegrated
now and again under and over these sounds
i havent seen any of your faces in quite a long time
tell me where i am:
silence.
ill ask a stranger
instead.