I'm a Plath

Sun-skirting no stitches, I'm hurting,
Parting the purse of the city, no-pity,
For god-sake the neighbors are fucking crazy.

The rabbit's adamant chase and flame,
Refine the hurdle,
Find finances and make a line home, idk,
Try to stay out of hell.

I'm a plant,
I walk along as walls warm her,
Well, indifference will warm her,
No meadow, no-spring, then the silence, that's all.

Only two things: all of what you say
And what you really mean.
Cupboard of all I embrace,
As copious came, copious leaves,
Red leaves then December,
I remember everything, the wall,
All in all, it's so gritty, you might faint, fade,
Bare your teeth, fangs.
It's so hard to go into the city
Cause you want to say hello to everybody.
I very gently waived the finite lens,
Less I call myself a liar,
They're all divine, no-less,
I see fire even as I digress...
Every town has the bus,
And who's talking about a fence,
So fine me, I'm finally minding things.
I'm just starting to unwind.
I'm just trying to get by,
I can feel the memory,
Season of my days, and fawn.
I'm stubborn, stubble chin,
Maybe in a month or two
The whole town will be bunkering in.
Again with a 'fine,' do you fashion me late
Or right on time?
I'm applying pressure
And honestly, really,
I feel I could die.

Forever the grey-truth to be our guide.
The better half and I write poems now
While poppies lie wound in the mind,
Sleeping, trying town, I do not try.
I'm not finding any existence, an hour later,
How can I tell you about how spider webs tickle my crown?
I tore into some lobster mushrooms,
Woad fellow, overnight bloom, fuck you,
Crsyanthum purple and relevant grey-blue.
Heron, one leg tucked underneath a wing,
Slain, forever off-white or pithy-grey,
The truth, the whole truth, or anything else.
Lobster mushrooms are parasitic:
A change from before has begun to take place.
Instead I wish I may, I wish I might,
But I don't mind human sight,
I test the line as in,
As usual,
X ppl, y.

'Funland'

I sit with eyes like candlesticks--patient,
Just waiting for you to start some shit.

The baseball player hits the pitch
.24 seconds faster out his head to his hand than the layman.

I said, 'Just try me.'  'Fuck you.'  'Fuck you too.'  Friend.
I'm often late for disappointment, I never believed.

I didn't even concede or ever give-in, she could cry
At any time too, and say how I wasn't seer.  I love her,

She's rare.  Sly and sharp as a Republican
But that is seriously only her Dad,

She's still so young she hasn't formulated an opinion
Except for her face and her friends, and to fuck and then fake,

Say everything's great, claim Zen.
Fisherman.

AK

Third in state, AK.
CA wrestlers are good,
Not great.



I have the best seat in the place:
I'm nobody.

The host speaks
Truthfully, I am the best sort of person:

It is only Truth that I seek.  Alepheuo.
The thinking man's tea:

Green.  Golden mean,
Phi-ration.  I'm patient, gyrating my sips.

I could give a fuck if you're 'hip,' I am
A dirty ghetto kid.

DGK all day, baby,
You can call me Davis, knowl with the knowledge,

A stranger in a strange land, permanent vacation.
I'm vacant, no college.

Gone, crazy,
Listen to the lyrics, homie, do they talk about Satan?

Satin grip, waiting in line with the Mexicans, tall,
Hot cup of coffee.

I'm yours baby,
Dark things may happen.  Suddenly, the Poet.

Some serious hocus-pocus, fiction broke in,
Stole everything

And sold it!
Hip-hop hopscotch you know it.  Wells'

Diminuendo from the barrel of a gun,
The girl, girl, girl

With the golden sun.
Explicitly saying:  Run!~ I'm having fun,

None of you can sue me, win-win
As far as I can see.

This is not prophecy.
This is reality, a literal gun pointed at you and me.

You can decide whatever the fuck you want to believe.
Look at me,

I'm the captain now.
Sit the fuck down, shut up and stare at the screen.

Now do as I say and no one gets free.  Observe the scene:
Obscure little hell.

Lithe Belle,
The lady of good fortune, the lady of the rocks,

Picking up the little ones and dashing them on their heads.
Oh my god.

Thine is the will,
Bastard, thine is the glory.

On Earth as it is with God,
Pearls to the hog.

Post-Apocalypse Modernist

The way the words drip down and fall away.
The way the rain makes me feel today:  small, fallow,
Like Issa, rocking a devil to sleep.
A young girl's smile to seal the king:
Twenty centuries of stony sleep,
Rock-a-bye sphinx.  Dimebag Dee,
Rest in peace in peace.  Underneath
All that apparel:  America.
No dice, unless...
But what's under the hood?
Life, then everything dead.
Woe, I don't know,  
What is dying?  

What is death?  
Why does the smoke ring come from my breath?  

Psilocybe cyanescens and some demotic french.  
Et tu?  Endless, 

Unless...what's good is bad and what's bad is dense,
Making nothing from simulacra, no Guess? I digress,
This is a long drive for someone with something to think about:
Nothing, that is, nothing in particular, nowhere is best.
The limitless void.  The limitless light.
Lemmings or Sphinx, onto the brink:


X,


The birds always know best.
You get fucked then turn into a finch.
Or maybe a nightingale if you're into
That shit, but a very quiet finch nonetheless.

So rudely forced
And still her woes at midnight rise to fill the air
Under her bended wing
And I will always die, I will always die so you can remember me.

Attis, Adonis and Osiris
Speak.

Un Jour Comme un Autre

Un jour comme un autre, but another world, another way:
Another type of Day.

Premonition violet
Or whatever it is I'm saying is mingling with the violence

Artistic disintegration, I don't need a book of revelations.
Hench forth I do this:

Carving out Victory
From a bunch of little spaces    pew pew graces, 'New movie!'

'Next!'  Shooting down the Muses, the flavor lingers on my tongue
It's stupid it hasn't already been done.

It has long since begun, rest in line.
I'm crazy, over the rainbow, crazy, truly gone fishing.

My blue flame for midnight might just be turning
Violet in the evening time.

And what is this, mine?  Mostly,
But what isn't is Time and tired old Tiresias, haggard and blind,

Hankering down for the evening, trousers laying loosely
On the Bedside.  Cadaceous breath,

Intermittent rhythm woven, unopen'd
Letter on the desk.  The late greats curtain time, call it sense.

Unless, what's good is bad, and what's bad is best.  Universal
Snickers.  Boop, got you on the head.

Oil and Winter

Action renounced from
The desire to act.

Desire.

Desire renounced from
The act.

Action.

The past, the infinite
The ocean.

All these definitions
To look over,

To skewer,
With our lens.

The present, impermanence
A glimpse.

Our fragile
Withholding's,

Wind's of the fallen,
Bold and emblazoned in the Morning,

The Empress of the Dawn.

Golden and
Destitute,

Wanderers of Eros,
Played out and pitiful.

Retention,
Contemplation.

Supplanting of all considered
'Revelations.'

My mind has tasted,
Oh, the glory of the Lord!

Red juice dripping down my
Jaws.

Blood dripping from my
Loins.

Coins,
Purse or ex-patriots of Carthage,

The worst has been done,
The best tainted.

Save it,
Paint a picture with it.

Savior in a pickle.
Small splinter.

What some men revere
Most others just spit on.

Blood sweat and tears
Oil and winter.

Foul and Fair: The Notion, or Fishing With My Back Against An Arid Waste

The way we survey the land,
I tell you everything is a poem!
Now, what's a drop inside the Ocean?
Love inside devotion, try to be a
Particle, no need to talk.  They walk
With fire even as we fall.  In deed
A hand full of rocks and a head full of hard sense.
No need to be mentioned,
No need to even call, but then
Who will be reporting, who's outline in chalk?
These hands are my father's hands and
These hands are undone fists balling love
In the form of dirt-clod wisdom.
A certain sort of 'no-duh' spiritual practice,
The kind you wake up right gradual.
Whose tent are you supporting?
With what lens do you see?
No interest controlling, I
And I will be, again, it's
Nothing but nonsense.  I plan?
The plan, no-man—one sense.
Crevasse, I am X.
If you close your eyes you can almost see the
Swallows darting across the Willamette.  Lapis lap wings
Laze-uly circumnavigate the cause-ways.  So much rhetoric
Wiggling in the places.
The bright and shining faces
Wiggling in their chairs.  If you close your eyes
You can sometimes see the lines
Pouring loud & clear, out of nothing.
Pouring in the mind, not
From the mind.  It's just a
Fool's errand if you think
I create this beauty.
What is not?  Where isn't?
Forget what you have thought
It isn't all that relevant.  If you listen very carefully
There's something there that I
Won't call.  I don't know,
Maybe it's buried in the snow.
I know there's something there
But what it is ain't exactly
Clear, maybe we'll call it air.
Ether/or and all in all
They sing so silent.  Chalk it up to experience,
My art has transformed into a science.
It's a rough translation and not too
Many have the clearance.
I'll just say 'The Fall.'
Foul or fair is a game of appearance.
Pardon me, madam, merci
Illusion and allusion are two different things.
I reframe trans-continental exchange,
I'm cut from a different pair of jeans.
I offer clarity, often appearing to be
'In the wrong,' or 'just plain mean.'
I don't ask for anything
I just look things in the eye, like, how am I feeling,
And how are you tonight?
I enjoy this instance and
I may enjoy more, my
Only wish is to remain open
And exist in the roar:
The wash of the ocean.
My mother's own wisdom
In me, I am the same but
Different.  What chains have
Held themselves unveiled by
Light of moon be spoken.
Something intrinsically different—
A mark of the fortune, an ever changing fortune!
A song I've held within my cell for
A thousand nights unspoken.  Not even
Remotely close but then I'll sprinkle
Down a portion.  Northern king's norse hand,
Narcissus of purity, no remorse, please, no pity.
Those who want a lot
Work less,
Them who want little
Work more.
Cellar door
Are not
The most beautiful words anymore.
Wanna know what is?
I can give you a hint
But that's pretty much it.
I always hit the hammer
On the head.  'Nailed it,' is
What they said, the diamond pitch,
No yaw.  My lips are sealed speechless,
Cupboards boarded on.  I'm pointing
Straight for the fences, you know,
Right out the park.  A bit ballsy
But a job well done is
Enough for my senses.
I don't need a car.
I don't need a pat on the back,
Or, 'Good job, work hard!'  I'm down
And in the trenches, everyday I'm in the yard.
I need a bed to rest my head and a roof above my hat.
I need a well-balanced diet and time to hone my craft,
The tune comes when pursed lips finally crack...

I am Proteus, old man with
Wizened dreams.  I put rosin on some
Walnuts and shake the rain from my keens.
I am good sense in a
World gone mad.  Lightly
Press the sails, please,
Shadowed geese and the
Overpass.
ΙΧΘΥΣ
The wheels of the
Whirlwind, pattern
Of a well-themed
Husk.  The pearls
Begin bursting forward
Against a sharp exhale
Of dust.
Now, if you can just close up your mind's wind
You can see it for
What it was, tough
Mustard, but the trucker's seeds are even more rough,
Either way I'm a tumbler, 
Foul is fair like
Macbeth, done.