sorry bunny

sorry bunny

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

onwards alley-way shift to the side
comatose peg-leg man, woman, child, step to the third right behind the others
the food lays on the floor and it's upside and i don't care i'm right here i'm sitting down i'm wrapped around some small animal maybe even my own soul.
comatose afternoon banana
comatose after dinner mint

and we're right here we got a banana we're doing things we're moving forward we're living it up

what did i learn in those years of wastelessness
hovering in the trees

an imagine-pattern turning like the waves in a river
reflecting it's pattern bounce bounce bounce
i dip my single finger in circles bounce bounce

sure sure sure sure sure.
cesure cesure cesure
happenstance brings two robots together on a street corner minding their own business on a street corner at a bus stop
looking neck dipping too low into a journal, big enough for my face.

and we're right here we're doin' it we're movin' forward we're livin' it up
i'm sitting up i can eat my own food

"i sit up. i want to eat the sun. i am going to fly. i am going to fly to eat the sun. i will try to eat it with my big powerful mouth. it will taste good sunshine cream."

"heavens to Betsy! well we may try to come with you then. To make sure you're alright."

"nonsense outta my way."

"i didn't care anyhow not as much as I thought, i must sit down. lay on the floor. everything will be alright."

[they face one another and go about their separate tasks facing one another rather closely. just going about their business.]

Thursday, September 10, 2015

your crappy dead poetry machine your contemplative dead poetry machine
your divine divination poetry machine
hand held poetry machine
tongue licker poetry machine
death box

Friday, September 4, 2015

i feast on your flesh

inspeech signals equality divulges a basin
wrappedin flowery lace curtains divulges a window
peering hands on the glass and morning cool breath
we make hearts on the way to work
kiss unto the air our dreams and let go

the fantasy life that lives on when we step out in the morning air to exchange seats
rips out of our embrace like wildfire smoke up into the cosmos
the reality life we return to
could be a wet coffee stained car seat

i go home and pull my morning dress above my head throw it to the ground. drink more coffee. fall asleep

in dreams i follow jobs of work-destiny
jobs like mountains
work like ice cream
opportunities like cash flow-berries out my fingertips
growing trees worth of values into the soil underneath trees that already are grown

waking up to no one i realize that in a way no one but me was ever there

i'm not going home i'm there

it's me there in bed naked alone my home
my gaze out the window seeing brief images of strangers, bars of legs crossing by, hiding from me their whole

work with fingertips
they say it's not work
my job inside my body
i gave to myself

racehorses die each year to save lives from
being without racehorses

the commodity i serve as a body
i die alone

then i get out of bed, throwing the covers off in a flurry and run naked to bathroom
to sit and ponder on the best of thrones made for such muttering
my skin belches forward and swells with the discovery of my eyes, how tender flesh i am
to serve

a life of service my eyes crossed the lovers bent over

my stomach bellows in the morning wind a half-mast flag rises overhead

a twitch awakens a voice
a bell from my bosom

i go a'wandering in a crowd of no ones not anyones no hows and follies
feather-leaves fall in colors

"you haven't changed in years! what point is it to love you?!"

colors stale and bright, not new england brightness, a mixture of sad atlantic ocean duff and happy green north west ever-growth

"you haven't ever changed and i have."

how can you not work?
what could work with fingertips be?
if it is non-work, non-commodified, not even nearly a body
from which your value is devised

in response, "but i am happy with my opportunities."
i am happy with my work
i feast on money signs
i feast on your flesh.

Friday, August 7, 2015

private into public

the jaw opens and the hinges almost pop off to yawn

this morning i woke up feeling sad. because i talked to N. on the phone last night and everything was sweet at first and i think i wanted to further explain my previous anxieties abut a trip we were about to make, and upon further discussing them, i brought them out again, because this time i discussed them in far more detail and emotion, especially since i had drank one hoppy but only 4.9% alcoholic beer.
last night the feeling was slim. It was meeble and it came out sliding sideways. Through teeth. through breaths i could not here over the distance that was not covered by the sort of frequencies that phones are allowed to emit. i heard a sunrise in the background. perhaps the sunrise made the excess sounds neutral.

i had some interesting dreams i can't remeber they were about driving i think. sliding, crossing, like frisbees.

i think. well i started t cry on the phone. i was crying because i din't want to upset N. and i was crying because how i felt and what i was describing was inherently upsetting to N. and what N. was saying, how he felt I wasn't being inclusive was particularly upsetting to me. Actually it was upsetting because I felt like I had previously tried to be more inclusive in my time living with N. but could hardly find an outlet for it.

No this must be the outlet.

Apparently, I have become very afraid of doing wrong. And very afraid of upsetting my friends, and secretly holding.

i have felt left out.
i have felt confused by my friendship with others

i love you N.
i love every part of you.

i dont feel comfortable. id ont feel like i understand much, or at least i dont understand in the way i am supposed to.
evrything feels sad and mixed and mixed and mangled and sad and obtuse. I feel alone outside my family. i feel alone outside my friends, but maybe, maybe they are more inclusive than i realize, and i am not accepting it.

i feel eternally rejected.

and it's okay i really hope that.
i figure out some greater love and acceptance today

- Nur

it think that part of it is i don't trust people to consider my point of view and emotions or to believe i am working for theirs as well.

i feel like everyone gets this entitlement to feeling things and having things, and i am pushed around.

i don't know what this means.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

well, im going to memphis

gary gray goose gary
fine leather he gave to me
laced it, made a purse for my lips to swallow

these fine small palms made to glitter
nails so oily, excrete oil
sold in bottles, pre-mixed martinis
with olives

they float near the top as buoys for my death

the head lies under
above water

i can't handle the meniscus
it curves whilst i see a line
six feet under,
it curves,
six feet above
i swear

the angle seems buried
but to me
well these lips aint aimed to please


as soft as they might be


diverted energy


true love as rough as keying into
it hurts
they bleed
keyed cars do underneath

poor babies

i wonder as this formative coming into age true story embarks

how his grave might feeel

i mean the dirt

will it still be soft?

i don't remember kissing him ever
not how his lips felt
or his arms

but i remember the soft Tennessee grass
the ground that bounced

i hope some remnant pain is removed
when i see his face
etched in the soil
where once we both stood

and the locked gate

i was blind.

now i've forgotten.

this is true.

upon his grave i will kneel

maybe actually not at all, drive. ball.
my eyes out in a bathroom stall.

that's my style.

to cry and hide.

in a bathroom stall, piss and all.
shy eyes
eylash eyes

cry cry cry my eyes out
see i'm b;lin d

cry cry cry

until im black & blue
under the new moon

and the only hope is
i'll be alone

it's only right

like a march you almost die with

well. he never even believed in a soul.

but i am so determined.
i'll meet him yet. again.


Tuesday, July 14, 2015


zeb un sail away from disfiguring mindset breeze

un sunset away from dismembering prostrate angled legs

in ecstasy steam heat, waves hands, fingers stuck together
burned together, held together, move only faintly apart
undulation, separate from autonomy

when once autonomy made light part itself out into different and far away corners

hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched to touch receive
hand clenched, holding, and not enough room to breathe

the bird in one hand, a bush in another, suffocates in spindly dirt dreams

you fall asleep to escape

hand outstretched

broken waves
fingers spread

autonomy, now as a net

the liquid inside one's body sways

the root of balance

the sea inside a cavern

the waves that actually keep still

to separate from all this spinning
to see straight, as from behind closed fingers
a courage to see in between self-created lines
and peek out into a nightmare
that by looking
is clarified with sight

when you can stare at your hand all day, hold it in front of your face, be a child on the ocean
when you can use hands to gather, hold together, each one's autonomy

what dream it would be to wake up into
not the one i fear when the sunrises
not the one i flee from at the end of the day

am i removed? from this holding? just me?

maybe actually i am the creator

every time I decidedly parse my fingers
and let them lay out-let passages for my sight
to clarify the nightmarish waves of heat-obscuring-vision

and feel the undulation as a pointed arrow

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

a different prayer to myself

the same ideas the different ideas

the same ideas stretch the string, until it gets thin, then it breaks. It always breaks at some point, no matter what elasticity it holds. That's how things go.

the different ideas get new strings, tie old strings to one another to new strings. The different ideas follow a pattern, weave together to make a cord.

you cannot doubt yourself.
the same ideas, the different ideas, you stretch the string, you cut the cord. you tie the strings together. again. the cycle is re-born.

what happens when you deny your own power? the power you have to know what's right for yourself. the power to be an arrow, to point in a single direction, to move, not hover.
a hovering power holds others.

may you be lifted by the wind of your own cord.
may you un-plug the one on your hovercraft merely holding you because you are so light.
may you move into the darkness fearless to light the path. to untie the strings. to believe a shadow is not the entity out to hurt you.
who even gets to walk that dark path alone at night.
who even gets to be led by their own miniature black panther.
who even gets to sing and dance with power.
who even gets to fly like a machine built to fly, with even the schematics under the hood.

you fly now.
you hit yourself in the head.
you birth now.
you birth your own very wings.
you choose your own very path.
you let yourself take the one you walk alone, in the dark, in the brightest of lights. who bears the weight of light and dark so gracefully.
who whispers to the shadows, and speaks to them with honor, because it is all so obviously alive.

who twists their fingers in the air to catch the sun.

you do.
you do not.
deny your will.
you scream your will.
you give patience and patiency to your will.
you give agent and agency to your breath. to your fingers.

you do not stick your fingers to muffle your screams, because you are afraid of bothering someone.
you fuck it.
you fuck yourself.
you fuck.
thee eye in thou, you eye see thou is thee.

spell rivers with numbers.
spell patience with nimbs.
elbows these sorts of things.
nodal expectorant.
hop-scotch. one two three four five ten toes.

one long pointed nail up to the sky, down across the sea of water, that you are blessed to not have to cross with the imagery of falling in and suffocating behind you.

you blast your shame into your hair.
then . you. cut. your hair.
and praise your lips suck on them sweet as they are the most divine taste that takes no hands to lick.

you excise your dependency on external utters.
you reach with your family, who bear your cross like extra supportive limbs.
you believe you are a ball, whose center is nowhere, and circumference is infinite.

dear one.
dear one two three four five six seven ten fingers.
dear five hands swathed in latex gem-ery.
dear effervescent nimble feet, that float on air like ice.
that dance and always have danced.

to tell a lie.
to tell a lie. that you must hide your head in the sand because you are too god damned bright pink.

then taste your lips once more, as many times as you are able to, to under-take the wind's current.

to read the signs how else when you have a map that fits into the space which surrounds you.

the map you breathe. the map you see when lights go dim.
the map you inhale through your godly nostrils.
so godly because god-breath smells everywhere.

you use these legs that hobble and you make the hobble, wild, like candy fire.
like secret rainbow bridges.
like closing your eyes and believing in what you see.

you see a future.
you watch yourself lift your feet up from swampy mud.
you smell the air passing beneath you.

though you listen to wolves, though you hear words from fathers.
somehow you smell it off in the distance glowing.

free. will.
free. dom.
hands that bend to allow your growth.
that allow you to believe you are a special plant.
one who is conscious of its self and its place. and that's nothing to be ashamed of because that place isn't some stale white grey picket fence in south Africa overlooking tall building after tall building like your friends in new York.
you love them all.
and it's okay.
because with these lips the words your big eyes. you figure it out all the calculations with glee.
the syn-energy

it is okay to separate your autonomy.
with a light string onemuch like a kite's.

it catches the wind.
it does not own that power.
it rides it with love and ecstasy
inside the feet of angels.

dear heart.

"i heard thunder once." oh yeah, there was thunder!

what you seek for, you don't find
{she by the bayside water, in pin-striped coral shorts, wears the weather by her waist, as a sash that accidentally dipped into the toilet water, as she sat down, now she she just stands there wading.}

what they called eveil was a scrawny boy in cut-off jean shorts, not too short, covered in freckles, with a reddish beard hardly growing in at 22 years old.
the kind of face with one eye closed revealed feminine, with the other, masculine.
wonder if this half-vision sat in him deeply on the daily, now in the aftermath of his death. on this day, over 3 years ago, now.

(please don't red my blog please don't read my blog, please don't read my blog.)

no it wasn't just him that taught me how to recognize that look, some of you only see in the movies, of when you're doin' something but you're not saying nuthin. you're feeling some things. but you're not there. no. you're somewhere else. you're in the space that collides with the heart you left somewhere else, and that place ain't a nice place either. in fact, both places twined, spare your mind the extra javelin thrust. (you know where too, or do I have to explain what centered is)

it's a certain look, one could say, "out of it"
it's what you do when you don't know what to do, when you don't even try to know.

I will find that mother fucker in my dreams. and I will take him to my bone-teeth-jaw.
I will find that mother fucker. and I will reveal his sins, but not so much that I like that ice-cream so slanted sugary sweet off the ground and reach dirt.
no i'll stop right before ice lifts above ground.
I won't lick his sin.
or her sin.
yes, i'll be open minded.

and when you see that look, that face, that far-off glare, and the holding still of eye-balls, and holding still of body-cage, you know what that face is.

that's the the the face of yer child self trying to get out but trapped in by imbobilizing horror.

Friday, May 29, 2015

emotional blob seeks emotional robot:
emotional blob seeks emotional robot, spots emoto-iconic robotic hu-man walking across a busy new york L.A. sidewalk corner, a diagonal cross right-left to achieve maxium efficiency
underneath asphalt is screaming childhood white lines and yellow lines (denoting various areas of patience)
emotional blob watches closely as emotional robot crosses the street, overcomes past and reaches towards the future.
in the never before seen will have been going to have been, emotional blob with future-past inclinations rises then sets like a presently cooking quiche
and crosses the street only after every designated zone of childhood is processed.
emotional robot is many blocks away by now, and emotional blob in suspended patience manages to elastize outward and inward for what we call, 'the snap', which sends emotional blob forward through space=time and standing right next to emotional robot.
they meet. emotional blob says, "hello"
emotional robot says, "hello"
emotional blob takes out a diagram of arrows and circles, many lines describing movement, and physics of hovering to explain to emotional robot.
"won't you look at this? i'd like you to analyze this for me. this describes my constant hovering. the way in which i can fly. does it make sense to others? it feels so simple to me."
emotional robot takes the paper in their hands and reads it lovingly, swims in it, submerges its mind with the material plane, and hands it back to emotional blob.
"it means i love you. in a cloud offering. stillness."
"are you the blue spirit? the one that visits me in the womb? i've only written plans for flying."
"i only see clearly."
"and all my thoughts are vague scribbling."

It's like a wave-cloud. The gift of hovering. One simply picks up their feet when the wind comes by, and in the grooves of the air=ether spins inward and thru-wards, round one way then another to go straight. It's like a wave-cloud.

"I must teach such scribblings!" screams emotional blob.
And emotional robot spins wildly at this. In such. A. way. to kick up the sand=dirt, create a cloud and disappear.
They do.
with heavy breathing make love.
make love of teaching.
all the hovering.
breath which falls out of their mouths and dissipates to make bread.
for the children.
who now are born on wet land.
the moisture of love their mother father brother lover.

practical analysis and intuitive knowing.

join when steel and glob meet once on a street corner in new york L.A. Johnson City.

Sunday, May 24, 2015


when i close my eyes
visual grid grind absorbs into my body
i become the night sky
lines of neon steam exhaust
feathered movement
nothing is clear


skin is no where


there is no where

i see heat cannot feel one another

ive lost my voice

little birdie singes

ive lost my voice

and it sounds like screeching and i know im in not the best care

oh oh well
in the best care! not my own
hands of an angel!

while they wait in the hot hot heat

hear them
in the a/c manufactured calm

hear them in the boxes inside on top of boxes

find some confidence that

the anima is alive while sufferring

waiting for you to leave comfort for fortune
the fortune of allowing animals outside by the side of the road
to die or live by some feathered gift and luck

hands of the angel!

hands of the knobby kneed boy in the sky who makes stars with his scars
and skateboard marks

hands of the angle!

when i close my eyes
a ribbon wraps it up
wraps my tongue and a bow on top
a present for my present.

a node for my knot.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

I don't think you like me

Inside if i search my heart I feel less wounded and some sticky soft cloud like fog of fear

i don't know anything

have little trust in the process

i don't know

i just don't

it scares me
and when i have faith
i feel vulnerable for injury

hey but its cool

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

ode to delaware
foul smell wrapped in flowery antique lace
historic historic historic river
made of endocrine disruptors

fuck it...

you can't swim in a river made of money
founded in gunpowder
they say you can't i don't know why

when the fishies seem fine

but it's all a lie

when we grew up we knew we had to leave and leave we did
catch and release
and each time we get caught we scream to ourselves who forgot
jesus christ there are some

who will die when they bake too long

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

soul mating season

soul mates are a farce
in fact the soul-mate is a truth
in fact the soul mate is a fictional reality one that rises up like steam through the actual reality

the soul mate represents an individual with as much idealisation as you have
how much you hold onto that idea how long you hold onto it
it falls away as you see it's foundation-less spring of wealth

there is no soul mate, no soul mate feelings, no counter part

love is contra intuitive
built on hard work and hard nails and hard dirt

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

these there so many riffled feather s with clotted blood underneath sticky and dried up and resinous as joints move past underneath cartilage an open space of movement
on the surface hurt face
quite a shock

Saturday, April 18, 2015

no way

new moon free write

jesus the cat antique store opened yesterday for a few brief yellow moments yellow curtain. yellow starshine.
a delivery dose of yellow patience and dance machinery upon the tune to i dont know dont care

my mind a sliver of violet flame
and lavender rose quartz

we have in corner number one, all the mistakes youve ever held
a bird too tight in your hands

and in the corner to your left, a problem of sight

held in palm to the sun
the only move you need

a simple triangle

two fingers two thumbs

dear one know that i see that you are suffering and
i am here for you

so far away

a finger turned in the squishy jam of the center of your chest

that bone i press my lips up to
when you are asleep

so far away

a point in the furthest pocket

in the middle of my chest

which is marked
by the inverse distance to your heart
and i love you


Monday, March 23, 2015


writing was never meant to be anything to me
never printed in a page or nothing

thee is one hungry cat if she cant get food she gets the nibs of my wrist

there is writing to be found

there is writing to be found

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

"do you have cards?"

"stretch the ribbon slapp me"

"do you have cards"

"one half way ribbon rides under side belly screams shouts"

In patience, windows dressing up to go to work. We are one half minute late, we will make up that one half minute by running down the street to the bus stop.

It was just like the story she told, Olguita, she brought it out in the open that smell you give off that tells recently let out patients that you are wounded.

In the sunlight while we wait for the bus to come, the air is dried up, and happiness is pushed out of the spongy manner with which we stand on the corner. When the bus comes we sit down and men look at us to sit next to our seat.

But today is a pretty funny day. Underneath my palms, as of last night's singing ceremoney we squeezed juice out of the last eye ball.
Underneath the seat, any man who sits down will get punctured. will get rimmed.

"do you have cards?"

"are you asleep?"

duction duction
in duction duction
re pro
duction duction
in die gestion gestion
suggestion gestion

2 hands 2 fingers on my tongue to the wind
two th two two fine strands of hair
find these lines
strands of hair
the finer the line the finer the find

mean lady
eats your third eye father's asshole

(in progress)

mr. cat

(words let out from the tired little girl part of some hearts right before their heart got better/bigger again aka ode to robengle/or whoever recently cut me out of their life abruptly aka)

mr. cat


if itnvrr
to me before i started this living

what love means
please delivereeeeeeeeeeee
obsession telling the truth but tells it slant

laying in bed (mother)
the most terrible outcome (money)
losing everything (your shit)

to a child (me)

love means lying about girls
binoculars for bird watching
an open field of wild flowers in spring
happiness in front of denial to YOURSELF
thin lacy hidden modest under pants

to a child's love she hoopes what happens when he/she goes to outerspace
the smells of waiting for pizza and Captain America sweat are more the memory

love is obsessively grinding eyeballs
love is realization you are not alone is longing for something you never really wanted

love yells and criticizes
blindly love hides and makes secrets and hides
wears too much make up
is never around
is alone is not around when you talk
is balnk stare into no one where

what love means
turning your back to this miseducation
when one wants to die (one knotted expectation)
and it tugs and pulls you down your skirt screamingMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA

b u t i don't know what love is.

'he stares and with his eyes
catches birds make them pray'

Saturday, February 7, 2015

the most difficult shield observer

is a point
a reference where words fall away an dlose meaning
flesh falls away

obzvoidoid observer serves swerves a platter of diced eggs


these hands backwards

like intimate touch my figertips
touch the inner crevices of my palmistry


shut open shut

open shut

case by case space is the case is the space is the case is the spacce space
base base
alll words lose meaning

share share share rare

honety honesty honesty honesty

we hand down the ribbons


the single point observer knows where the nose goes
the single spoint observer sees out from its viewpoint
the single nosed point observer comes out of its ear wick it so thick

oberstserver one two three

me wee

the single point observrer pointing out endlessly neevr thinks to scartch his nose
the nose knows

the point observer become nothign when in the act of abservation

look at me! look at me! look at me!

shake my hands make play do make rinds make cameras
make pinwheels
make ear rhtyms

the single point observer through which a lens would be an additiional filter.
knows nothing is NOSEKNOWS NOTHING

red splats of lipstick nuthin\\\\\\\\\\\

not trying to be anything

the single point observer disappears though sideways windows in out side of side ways walls in out side of incandescant sprinkles of light that shine in on in on in on in on in oon

a single speck of light

a single point of observation

an eyeball

a formality

a story

the single point observer knows nothing.
knows goes.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015


injustice scalpel

she picks up the new york times with her broken fingers and her broken pen leaks ink from her broken breast pocket with her broken heart.
she was born with the broken heart, but God made a hinge for her. so it could open and close. it just takes a while to open and it takes a while to close and sometimes it sticks.

sometimes her soles stick to the ground and it results in falling over or jumping up into the sun or just rubbing up against concrete and making holes in her shoes.
usually an ankle goes loose.
heavily weighted on the right side.

a tv car crash burns on electric tele phone wires over head

we wonder why when she enters the train the train stops
it is not working or working
it is not
it disappears

xela solaris is left standing on the empty platform the world she knew underneath her on the floor like some scrap piece of paper with a doodle on it. the doodle you couldn't understand was the entrance to an ex-dimension. well good you through it in the trash. you missed. we all bled.

the sun riseson Xela's left shoulder
the sun rises on her right shoulder.
she looks over her shoulder. still no train. and the rest of the world is alone again. i mean they became separate.

she walks down the tracks. it's a bridge now over destroyed industrial garbage a gentrification haven in the waiting.

there are a few back pockets when this happens. when electricity combines with water and it stops the weather (and all other humans disappear but the animals who live outside of time linger to support). and as she looks at her wrist watch, the reflection of the round glass gathers sunlight just enough to get the train moving again. the passengers return. XelaSolaris out on the platform still and the train leaves right on schedule.

in the flicker of a blink of an eye.
all this change.
she yet, so used to flying, drops a single tear. Because she was almost human enough this time.

her boots are made of purple steel. rings of saturn, her laces. he feet are heavy in snow and light in air. cutting, herslef and others if she is not careful.
her tongue made by an ancient Piscean woman of the desert. hard soiled and cutting with hard roots, holding onto the past. so her tongue spins fire that twines the weight of the past and releases it with burning fury.

she turns and looks over her shoulder. purple auric glow on the horizon. a whole series of past actions burned to the ground and a whole series of future actions spring up with new buds of the never-before seen on television rumors.

when she sleeps tonight she will make a prayer.
she will ask her angels to destroy any false wisdom from her life.
she will beg for forgiveness for her tongue the one that keeps her mouth bleeding.
she will require the angels protection as she meanders onward. without a concrete notion of what is ahead.

there may be nothing.

she closes her eyes to the brilliant winter sun. and a single lavendar tear drops to the center of her chest inbetween her palm sized breasts and falls all the way down to her womb and enters in through the bell button. a secret passageway to her rootedness to the cosmic order she came into this world under, and a silent prayer is made to her as a mother. her as Nasrah's mother.

and she remembers the sorrow of Mary. and drops her head down under the blue sky to celebrate that single tear which resembles awareness of our singular insignificance, and embracing the whole of union, as a united entity... she validates her existence with two hands to the sun in the form of a triangle.

one foot ready to step forwards away from the space cowboys of the world.and into a future of pale unicorn blood. or opalescent rainbow breath.

she wishes her feet didnt cut into the past as they moved forward through time. she tries to shuffle around to reduce the damage, but she can hear her latest victim in a treehouse. his throat slit and full of the barfed blankness of her being. the slight of hand ribbons. an overgrown story. the babysitter done it.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

that is all

it should be enough to grab lines of coke on a rope hanging from the sky

you shouldn't hurt me
you shouldn't leave me

you've left me
you've left your body

you've left your eyes
I don't see you.

there is no joy but from my own motor

I don't understand your eyes and your sky-grab birthday bag surprise mystery destiny

all I know is my heart is like a clogged motor from all the bullshit from people I love

you don't know me you cant hurt me

as far I am concerned
my eyes as olives

slowly breathing concrete

square shaped roots of a tree

some place to squirm

I feel these feels

none of it is me

no love is me
I am already love and do not have to feel it.

my chest hurts

I am sitting up straight

I am making a sphere

I am protecting myself

there is a sphere around me

I am protecting myself

there is an apple around me

I am protecting myself

I am not hungry

I am no ghost

you wandering wanderless waif

leave me all alone

i'm tired of seeing people abuse other people under the guise of love
and the only way to stop it is to stop it, to stop it myself
and let go of any hopes soiled with baby shit.

from the dumpstered diapers you invisibly wear underneath your material criticisms
and lack of care

it feels like day-walking humans are hunting me down and trying to destroy me so I can't spread love

and it's with control
and it's with accepting control
and it's with one hand behind your back
and the other hand is handing your neighbor a cup of sugar

it's with your words and your body

and the dead eyes you try to fill with life

that is all.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

sisssy is apparently snoring sissy is a parent

what is a parent

what is apparent
what is apparent
what is apparent

what pains on a parent
what pulls on apparent eyes which must be clothed wool and sheep's cries

boy who called boy
who called
who called
who cried
who pulled wool
over her boy eyes

what is appalling
what is appalling
what is screaming

what is rolling down a soft and grassy hillside
a head ahead of the race

a blanket wrapping the body out of a bush
a race
to get to the top
to roll down
a head ahead of all the rest

what is a parent

a parent is some one thing river wrinkles lines sand
some two three four five ten fingers
that provides love & protection to a child

a child is a tiny god
who knows more in every breath than any apparent bone-eyed hope

a child is a flower whose aroma is so sweet
old people try to steal its stamen
to go fishing with such a nice lure

what is apparent
what is apparent
what is apparent