the junkies and 
the lonely 
barefoot
souls

they grasp 
the void
better

A year and a day, my love.

the turbulent soul makes you a trickster
cycling through old memories mostly from
the bottom of the sea where we first locked eyes

I'll throw you up into the sky
so I can tempt you with my arms

I've drifted, I've sunk
I've overlooked expressions face to face
I've sat in quiet reverie looking for some remedy

escaping me

I've channeled the attack of solitude
By the seeking of greater altitude

cultivating the modern disease

I've come here organic and was made
somewhat robotic. I rebelled to become spiritual, 
feeling naked and vulnerable again.

There's a bridge going back to Atlantis
There's an underground tunnel that gets you to Mars

I've put a lease on this face

Third two

We'll some day laugh about the backward 
impossible consciousness that must have existed
for us to exist now, in this way that is so wonderful,
so co-existing and without compromise to quality 
of life, so natural and mighty and full of integrity;
the past some backward echo of humanity
unanimously forgotten about. 

Like the third war hitting
Like the third war creating new trenches, 
new pools of disease, new types of injury.

And its destruction
leaving us alive
with a third kind.

A distant familiarity 
some notion of a singularity
back when science was still trying to find 
the one true subatomic god

Trying to find some big bang and missing out on the orgy
Like trying to find the space between ova and sperm

Like looking at our world and seeing a planet
not an organism. Seeing the sun, not light

We ought to accept we come from a place of darkness

Action insists on reaction
Consciousness creates action
Existence is a spectrum, and every 
aspect of the spectrum functions in duality

Functions as earth culture

Earth culture when we dance on the graves of our lovers
when we dance with their spirits-alive and not fear death,
these days living our whole lives just to give ourselves
a sterile and kind death

Earth culture when we no longer see gender like 
the ignorant and bold might say they no longer see race...
or care

Earth culture when we are human
against the asteroid

I will drown in shallow water
I will choke on clean, pure air

I'll have the surgery long before its due
let the doctors fuck me up
let the doctors prescribe me some profit margin
let all the Medicine People give me things
unnecessary and irreversible

Let the doctors visit earth culture

Earth culture when fractals are taught in preschool
Earth culture when my brave new world is rude and awakening
And especially when the night sky replaces the television, 
which had previously replaced the night sky

When promises are negative affirmations 
because promises sound compromise

 Earth culture when there's no culture left

Some day we'll laugh about meanginglessness
we all share with integrity today.

SOCIAL COMMODITIES

How much breath does life take out of you?

How many pounds of liquid mass
trigger aesthetic in you? 

That play-thing you
out of glory
like hole

Those who thrive on the passions of social commodity
And I who only orbit. I who have circled just enough

I who am both canine and master in Pavlov’s experiment

I who have unlearned ethic code and nursery rhythm

I who have left our modern world for dead
without possibility 


I who have learned how to be uncensored

Learned how to make my honesty, honest


I had been trained otherwise

Trained in faith. Trained in heterosexuality
and other perverse submissions
 
But the way I see it
God is a false idol. I feel no 
container for my identity whatsoever and 
I don't recall being disciplined 
and thus
often crave dominance

I came up in the vomit
I came up in last night’s conversation

I was left stunted
Insatiably seeking self-destruction
as reward-mechanism to self

The outside at war with the inside; the self civil war
And I, leaving them both for dead

I have been parallel with you
I have beheld the superstition as something tangible
I have accepted laughter as a valid passport to my squishy parts

But I cannot tell you the beauty involved the unnatural depth
and perplexity of the caverns of drunk philosophy
that burst into light with the half-second sequences between spins

The greens, the skies and the evermore!

I HAVE BEEN BLESSED

I have observed pain. I have been given pain
I have been born in pain, and this must be why I seek it out

IN EVERY LUXURY OF SOUL, in every longitude and latitude
of emotion there is a place I can be found burning, waiting
for the turbulence and reckoning of another impending flood
 
Just waiting for water

Behaving in every shape
and in every form
and with every possibility
at once.

Like hurtful, natural freedom

I have mistaken eternity for the moment
I have mistaken sobriety for the rarest high
I have largely loosened my grip

Juggling 

I think I may have become used to this spontaneous version of normal
I may have gotten used to stagnant hormones
raging euphemisms and over-processed
practically candy-coated food

Holding onto youth like a bottle of distilled alcohol
Holding onto courage like greeting strangers after the fact

Those who thrive off hangover and poverty
I who only get sick

I who can laugh with makeshift monstrosity: I don’t 
intend on bringing my serious-face to the funeral - I don’t 
intend on cushioning my space from this fall

My life,
sprouting in a mason jar

A joke. A josh. A jest. 
And so be it.

It's all just turmeric for the soul.
Freshly baked muffins for the soul

Taken and devoured for psycho-nutrient, vital-micro-minerals, 

and omni-biotic; seedlings of psychological pathologies manifesting
elsewhere while I recline and psycho-kinetically have myself

Iodine for the soul.

This whole thing connected by dots. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND
THAT’S ALL THE STARS ARE SAYING IN CONSTELLATION

Let the dust settle. Let the dust collect and be used like salt on the trash
before we decide to hurl it all in the incinerator
Just waiting for fire

Just waiting for the crunch that made this place go boom

Like a seedling in the perfect moment
bathing in a gentle sunlight with the perfect breeze
unconditionally alive with perfect emotional temperance…

Your heart would fucking explode.

Your heart would mend brighter than before its first heartbreak rejection or loss
Your heart would be capable of so much freedom

But… there is no magic anywhere.

How could I excuse myself between these pages of poetry
pretending like there’s not snot in my brain?

Pretending we don’t judge the parents of our lovers
as if we weren't investing in their organs

It’s almost like music like dying from being born
Like being the pig at the party the cathedral 
that converted you the plastic that 
gave you cancer but kept 
your food fresh

ALL YOUR SOULS DEEP FRIED IN A VAT OF HUMAN FAT

Is it worth the cab ride home?
Is it worth the hours spent not sleeping?

I go to bed, warm and comfortable 
and I dream of the hours
I spend not sleeping

It gets to be in the night
It gets to be about the lost and found
The culprit spirit
The rebellion just after it’s first casualty

A lament at DIY Doomsday

YES. I will go inside when it’s cold and I will
be reckless otherwise
I will tattoo my soul with the seasons of earth
and with your smile

these polkadoted dreams I’ve eluded
Ending down streets of poetry instead
to withstand the urban of my wilderness
to withstand being born into a preheated life

How much life does breath take out of...

I need something new. Different. Like my old self coming back to haunt me. Like my old self reminding me there was a time I felt authentic.  I pursued the interests I admired. I pursued the things I wanted in sex. And then the world took hold. And then the world was very convincing. Well, fuckers.

The world is over.

An observation to save for later

All these junkies of love in hidden corners
People off the street getting comfortable inside
A dance, a show. A great stripe-tease. 

But who's kidding who. 
No one's really teasing.

I browse through escort ads.
The proper bitches look like they've never gotten fucked before. 

It's nearly cruel.

Inner Alien Landscape Gives Birth to Itself

I had to explain to her,
I'm cultivating an internal environment
I'm freeing myself up to the twisted
and devious places in mind and soul
and I need the deranged .
I've been repressing it all this time.
I haven't written in years, really.
I haven't let chaos do its thing.
I have to explain to my friends
I'm cultivating an internal enviornment
where fucked up things always happen
where nothing is simple by virtue
of being complex and full of pattern.
This is a field of space.
This is where creativity thrives.
This is not health, this is disaster.
This is pigment and oil mixing together
creating a richness of depth like a ritual
of death. I have to explain.
I have to disrespect it.