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
cling.

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.]

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

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.

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.

moreso

shame
ame
me
shhh...

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




anyhow





as soft as they might be








anyhow






diverted energy









anyhow









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
white

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.

now.
that's my style.

to cry and hide.

in a bathroom stall, piss and all.
hide.
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
alone



well. he never even believed in a soul.

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


dearest
aaron.

ebb-flow

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
waves
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

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.
nubs.
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.

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.