The Trees Are not quite burdened by my past I pick at a bowl of noodles with bobby pins It rained halcyon fish sometime last week. I bug out big time, man. Can you call me when you get home? how I live, Every Day Is Monday! i guess, maybe not. Could you imagine my voice in space God is like winter being trapped in a propane tank I am dumber and sexier than anyone gives me credit for look out! red is like supplication to a really bad desire. I should maybe know Someone put their footprints on my mopping. Maybe you did make them quit. We should burn all the paper. My whole youth in a fraternity garbage can. Again,
grinding your hairpin into the floor the moon breaking into my backseat all the rocks are like pianos In my hammer the sky is copper and delirious miscalculating and falling 14 stories from the fifteenth floor
God! On 81! watch the big one merge with the little 1 someone is getting away i toss the heineken bottle like a football Really Fucken Far
wrapping myself in red is like a really bad topsheet summer and now i’m getting cussed out five times this week
we hung out and we talked about wawa bag dancing off the tree of heaven that mother fucker selling steak knives Subway has a Drive-Thru now!
everything is fun forever! God is like a really fast car drunk on the rabbit ear my mom fucking loathes rollie massimino I’m crying! Voor Nu!
I want to kiss everyone at the Internal Revenue Service the filmic spires draw lines along my face i huddle beneath your good jacket i lick at puddles of your neck I resent overwhelmingly, the grass will continue to grow Not Good!
it’s like a two hundred thousand dollar unit I’m gutted and then i’m just gonna put in those fucking awful cabinets u wanna look like yourself just like me
I’m really attracted to The guy at the liquor store said he would pray for me skateboarding off the back of a lawn service truck My dad’s weird friend, I think her name was Susan and then there was a big mascot that i punched
time is like
I wanna be smart and important like my cousin, the dewey guy
an easter saving the car on bricks down at the 7/11
a pillar of the community
the sun hangs like chintzy wallpaper washing yellow in the glow of new ownership the kind of room that’s never quite devoid of sand i let the rags hang from my fingers
i am moving far away to live out my dreams of ovaltine and a successful high-school football season pulling back the melange of colors pressing myself into the sheets
i support very little these days choosing to be wrong in the face of silence i would rather you found me spinning whirling like a dervish to some invented rhythm
childish in impulse and execution idealized love in abstractions drawing that ‘s’ with all the lines in the steam taking my ninth last sip from an empty glass
will you ever know me as i am? hollowing out to fill myself with coriander and tin i expect heaven will have a number of new and used honda sedans
G is cresting drunk on the incline the ROTSEE kids play War-Crime-Around-The-DJ
In the distance, a racoon on a telephone’s wire entertains a falling girl
traversing the tree-crack sidewalk in the ghastly mandolin of youth lilac skipping off a parked car i am dumber and sexier cracked phone screen against the setting sun looks kind of like a distant past rearing its head i thumb through what i was bits of glass leaking from the tupperware you have a very cool pocket knife
can’t make out the shape in your leg bamboo or some other kind of fixture that feeling grabs you like a half-drunk cold one on the day anthony quit isn’t it weird glass is just sand doesn’t anyone care about this anymore? watching it fall somewhere right of center picking your eyes up at the last minute run home run home run home lightning bug spinning in the iced tea
he left his good jeans jacket in syracuse some hellish landscape of the cosmos but, i mean, it is kinda good it’s like you’ve been here the whole time gwendolyn, or some kind of orbit, takes like a flightless three-winged bird trenton is totally freakin’ it drawing a more elaborate fictional perspective shattering a hockey stick in the past participle the lies i tell myself about myself
endless, you encircle me some kind of unlimited devotion to wit watching my speed in the old neighborhood clawing at the roots and doing an ok job tamping down some bubbling desire lawyer’s kid ripping off all the open garages or some sort of small-town mystery ending up with a form of satisfaction an above-ground pool or glass table no leaf stain to be seen
these aren’t exactly the miracle we all thought a russian nesting doll of insurance fraud totaling out before you had to start over filling myself with red and silver taste testing a fire van hamburger with Em something like thirty years of nine-volt-battery copper before the fancy brick went out glowing like a bud light bottle above the highway arcing just beyond the walls of the southbound lane fucken kids don’t respect the classics
fancy can blowing in the alley below actionable until breaking kayfabe to talk about my undying devotion to bartolo colon and ichiro suzuki and the 2008 phillies there’s a lot more back talk than i get a lot less god in the stitching winding some repugnantly pink flower around irving’s boys crashing into bridge abutments or some freshly mopped floor’s Nike Swoosh i hate to go down to a northern point, but, alas,
iamgaspingintoyouropenmouthbeautifulhoneydpromisesandflitteringredshowersarou ndyourmarbelineirisbeforethefragmentsofyourtouchwashawayforeverandiamlefttowr
my life appears as a photograph of my life trying not to look i struggle to care about my voice gwendolyn is crying somewhere upstairs i forget what i look like more than i remember i think of echolocation as shadow work i know very many big words like walking backwards and holding a mirror i feel very little obligation to speak fluently alex is being really fucking shifty when is it okay for something to die? my voice is my only tether to space the city said everyone needs to be more vigilant about parking we held a funeral for the real sun last night lunch was something like tuna fish casserole it’s g’s turn to take some of the blame the floorboards are see-thru in the kitchen why can’t i taste the exhaust here? i like the way it sounds coming from you it rained copper every day this winter if you start, you either kinda stop or die will you let me hold you when you swing by later? it’s good, i just wanted something more beautiful
you, in repose there is some great suffering in the blurred out-field somewhere right of center red is like the first ray of light bisecting an evening and becoming diodes in rapid succession
falling behind and yet able to see how can you not feel romantic about baseball? i saw the flash resonating around you a sort of glow dancing in the trees i resent the precession of days i bathe in your light when no one is looking
do you still love the taste of garden variety self-aggrandizing i’m really attracted to the annual urge getting into something fucking dumb pulling up weeds to realize they were all the greenery holding steady and believing in the power giving myself to something much smaller
i want to be beautiful just once time is like a car battery electric fence penned in along some suburban walking path spinning in the pasture like that night with Katrina ducks fly but geese just want to play golf THERE IS SO. MUCH. JOY.
i would settle for not destroying something i would lean in to shield your light endless, you encircle pausing to discover an unmarked space marveling at the frozen foods living
in the center of the grocery store somewhere there is an answer to everything coming down on everyone following the liminal space between myself and myself and myself crawling back to find only fragments
stitching newsprint to a totally fucked 2002 Ford Focus leaking fuel parking on the thru-way for a sense of self slipping farther into light in an empty house again and i am fucking finished with whatever hockey stick divet in the back of the oldsmobile crying over empty cups again
i’m starting to think it’s already broken mining for some kind of depth easily accessible driving at a better angle to find you somewhere north of center again grieving the loss of some silly happenstance a piece of the rest of my life or a cut of the slush fund i’m trying to find a more clever way to say this
somewhere in the ice cream section walled off into our own reality “glory days” is playing and we foxtrot ever so slightly for fear that a mother and her rambunctious children might come and remove us from the only love that has ever existed
i’m stoned and taught-kneed in my skivvies tin pawprints in the snow
toeing between fraying synapses did this really happen? i’m singing and singed pink-tickled by the rests in the dead-tree-branch-sway harry and i in harmony
washing dishes and inventing mysteries who would steal a recycling bin? i wonder if you think of me like this fretting over things free and close aspirating the fancy air in my tires feeling like a rode spike sew the webs where the knife passed through i am nice and stressed
blanketed to head i kick my feet in the puddle still and ashen written thick on my forehead i wanna be sweet if you say i’m sweet
kissing off the skyline heading westward the robin, swooping low grabs the pieces of a broken bottle glowing green along the Exit Twenty-Nine Flora i toss my apple’s core into the mid-day sun somehow intact at phosphonetic speed
Everything unfurls faster than anyone would like.
redolent, gnawing on oxblood digging pores into an elm dull knife, blunted housing the stars don’t shine as bright here
or anywhere i’ve been i like the sameness muted lines divvying themselves up singing their skin pink
pulling at the rope a little too hard dancing just off screen crying with too much familiarity porno improvisation
do you ever remember loving it? cheap pounders and lo mein nickels dropped in the radiator i wish i knew you then
sloughing off any resemblance pushing away the bangs from your eyes shaving little lines in your brow you know he made the pros?
if there’s something left it’s kind of like dying just paying bills and not really bumming anyone out
at least for a while hollowing out fragments of bread sticking to the right lane angling for some greater position
or even just a look at it all if i’ve gotta be something, i guess there’s some kind of greater hum i could sing along, maybe
The stillness of forever is anhedonic in my joy. I am restlessly still in the thrall of connection. Somewhere I am speaking tongues to a saguaro and kissing the sweat gathering at my lips. The full thrust of mirage behind me. I am small in the vastness. I quelch the urge to sing along with the hum of the universe. A432, or some sort of bastardization. Harmonizing with The negative space between the stars is earnest companionship far outweighing any sort of winter.
burdening yourself is some thing sweet and shimmering pacing around the filament and gathering little fragments of the hollowed cumquats tossed at that odd cement cube what felt like thousands of yards away watching the snake vine encircle your gorgeous milk-white ankle whirling in mud yard divots along the rhythms of something like a crack in the hose pooling pond scum in the alley or just the rush of cold on a hot day tearing a paper perfectly in two giving you the top half of a bagel and swimming amongst the diodes lapping at portions of your neckline the tenor stink of your cigarettes filling me in on some inane gossip but life goes on forever now i think