SEE SHE HAS A COAT

brittle black plastic

is a path. 

are you taking it north? 

i was military

making dents occur there.

handily i fed myself

another mile of wind,

slept in a cold copy of tongue.

i pack a borderline now

as i'm moving.

i stick it to ground that is too long.

i'm diagramming my next bite.

i stick it to the beachless edge

where the stairway to water

is slackness then a fall.

my joints swivel in succession as

i petrify standing back a ways.

i'm waiting for my daylight to get 

to a tiny black hole in my eye, 

when my core will meld

to a column of cloud / a river of fire by night.

I KNOW WHAT I LOOK LIKE BEST

we succeeded in 

making books faster

than we burn them.

and we make trash and

we make noises.

right now i'm making a list

of all the pleasant poets

i could lock insides with

to make our attentions

a ductile cash crop.

books of hours. equivalency. 

raw gallons of a matter

that we could stretch thin.

uncoiled, it can span

into and out of the trench

over 900 times.

you could fill a gutter

with what i don't know

about being outside of my mind.

you could pour my mind

down a drain

and verily it would clog.

it takes a lot of disappointment

to drag a laughing through

the dead wetlands of sinking horse despair

and i've done it

with frozen white grapes 

heaped on my back.

i attract a damning heat.

MY BROTHER MY KILLER

do you want to watch with me
keep watch over the flake
that sticks in the tooth of your mouth.
the rustle of a breaking voice
or one that can’t go on talking
and does go on.

this burns a picture in COLOR
until its COLORS cover
the rockface you look out from.
a deadmaking in the desert
the force of your cheek muscles worsted. in thousands of lines,
i have been failing to smile at you.

the amount of time that can finally
push an embankment down.
i spit dozens of seeds
slowly out of a single tangerine. they felt like your canines thorns of your mouth
removed to mine. 

i’m going to have a dream and in my dreams you are
exactly the same, the difference is
that i display the emotions
terror and anxiety,
which makes me older than you there. 

DONATIONS?

i HEAR you down in there

and i could name you insults,

beeping heart. and we are

beeping from you, ear and nose,

but that doesn't mean the group

is exactly sick.  loud.  increasingly

gulping teas with smoke rinds.

burning my nursery with hearsay

pregnant with a turkey that is 

not foodsafe anymore, thanks.

what am i going to do with you,

my giblets, very irony. heart. nose.

ears. neck. liver blown glassy.

throw us at the window?

squeeze the madman's hand?

I NO LONGER LOVE LIKE A CRAZY

it's unclear if i'll ever tear my hair

or beat my steering wheel

out of disinterest.

now screaming because of discoveries.

i get angry and i wallow frantically

in the lobster legs tickling, but 

slow my breath of love.

i get used to you also laugh and feel a lob  i can evade.

i want to spend days getting a parasexual glob together.

was i somewhat full in my head at the time?

to glom is all.

to make us a peaceful, loosely strung.

and then keep my brain, trade after trade.

i don't want a sky.  

there's too many.

i don't want a guide.

there's too many.

if i don't spit, 

people will be happy with me.

i want to spit

with my tongue and lips.

it has sound it goes 

rwrwrwrwrwrw.

GOING TO HAPPEN

just a minute left
before i must wash my face off
and climb in the kiln
with my glasses on.

GLASNOST

my insides
are in a shark
that's tucked in
my thorax

deep in the eyes of
informed witnesses
a cloudy ribbon
obstructs my work

that is
what i intend
to make you see
so you can
convince me

SCREW TOP

voice beat its way out
with beak hardness

taking a long time
lessens all chances

columnizing
the conversations
of kin-like fellows

kids still bury
time capsules

BLANK APHORISMS

this is how they are, now.

the clot of them makes a body

that walks quickly without thinking.

its brain drops out in eyebombs 

that spray blinder visions on impact.

in the rug pieces of glass 

and food exist together. 

they would do the same in the mouth 

and maybe in the stomach, 

but through a latter threshold they become enemies.  

only one makes the body do something nice, 

like grow.

but weird elements

can interchange 

in some body-building

such as The Game of Cootie

though it doesn't have to be a game.

any part of any game can be

handled as a whole.

my draw four icon card

my ten green chinese marbles 

are complete.

here i am

stupid orant.  

looking cannot tell you 

when glass is the temperature 

of cell death

i finally learn in chemistry

after a decade of burning my fingers.

i get it

and go on burning my fingers

knowing that NO ONE can tell

with their eyes how hot glass is.

this is an EVERYBODY deficiency.

someone has to

hand me a glove

before i make

a connection to put

between my fingers and glass.

pieces like this are too many to put right.

i will climb out of the clot later,

when i am ready.

its head is down 

through the blowing trash

that food is taken out of.

its ears are closed to the wind. 

the invisible ground 

is shifting in clips

under drifted images.

HONOR

i named this

before i started.

the hidden parts

lifted out by alto factions.

singing reading.

many walks are down and back.

pushing into the wall

of a house.  bottom three feet

known, a shallow wooden washpool.

give over the big book of

bloodlet languages.

it's meet.  it's right.

it's dynamite under a friend's pillow.

it's lit, i lit it.

when the short laborer

beats his chest in the story,

i imagine the sound of 

the breastbone cracking

before heart massage

before they call it.

VENTRILOQUISM

cast a stomach out 

for feeding.

this is the wilderness:

know it. lick it like a friend.

i sleep in my belly during.

thumbs plunged 

into my throat

and to them 

my esophagus talked.

i was moving up.

the filled occipital 

burial place

is even hockable.  

i know          i know

i see what i've spit 

already.

it looks pretty.

contained hurl works.

chewer parts.

restless muscle

cleans knuckles to a shine 

it crawls back        

packed with land salt.

that's a signal: now lumber down to awake.

oh flames.

pet those out.

close the mouth.

inert gilbert

who is she?  

i've seen her before, 

and now she's pretending to be in this family 

making spaghetti. 

an old favorite of mine 

i have to be reminded of it, 

i seem to have evaporated 

in the bioluminuscent sand.  

the membrane between

a split sandwich's halves.

paper lanterns burn down my face

when the festival floats 

into my mouth gradually

and fills it.

i wake up towards the end, 

when my eyelids turn molten

and evaporate permanently.

as i walk through the school hall

and my glasses shift, i think

is this acid flashback going to drop me off 

in the ocean?

when i wake up from my thoughts
i notice that i'm screaming over the interstate.
i could see the bottom.
let me sleep and never speak
accidentally. 

when you get in my dream
to apologize, let me go deaf 

with the blood
that is coming out of my erased brain.

my apologies are subpar.  

my heartburn is worse.

mind the records 

gapped and missing,

divots of info out.

when lands take back their artifacts 

share me your line 

i'll share you.

a girl 

whose mind 

is implanted in a chimp

after a body-ending accident.

seems like a reasonable excuse.

PLUMB

i did violence
to a book i love
to take the part i love most out.
forgive me, whatever,
if it hurt.
the trades i'm making
with my words.
books for people.
poetry for god.
sounds suspicious.
but a pin in my eye
and drumming in my back
convince me.
it's not hard
for my body to convince me
because we are in all this
together, now i'm certain.

HEARTY MEATY

i want to take everybody with fucked up parents away but i would probably be a fucked up parent somewhere down the line.  i'm thinking of "the kid with a bike" even though she does it and he doesn't die out of the tree. how do i take the long view.  where can i get in order to see the entire province with a heavy spread of our junk gases hovering over it. I HAVE REACHED INTO THE SINK FROM WHERE I'M ON THE FLOOR AND WISHED BLOOD TO POUR OUT. i trick my slow.  this sentence construction is a mistake.  something is wrong in the left side of my head. it is that i have never spent all my time reading and i should do that.  i feel love and can let it stop fairly quickly after a book is over.  this might be what people learn to do with other people.  feel love and stop fairly quickly after it is over.  I HAVE THOUGHT SO HARD TO WAKE YOU UP OUT OF RANGE.  i could say that i will.  can mice get up on my bed?  now i remember the nightmare i had where after a nightmare i went to sleep in my parents' bed but every time i shut my eyes a stream of organized mice would throw me off the foot end.  it was a nightmare because nothing could stop this from happening. pests in this house are obvious, they are fearless, they are going to get my eyes out of me against my will. in a different nightmare around the same time, it was spring and giant mayflies were causing me to duplicate.  it was a nightmare because people thought they were all me. 

(from a nascent collabo doc shared with Rachet)

if we read to them they would read to us.

the abandoned semi-psychos 

in all those movies are looking 

in a rage of fear and compulsion that i understand.  

one might damage another one to death, i see.

now that people ingest organ-melting drugs in order to unlatch.

this girl's parent, for one,

while she says with her free hand, "THE DOG'S GOT MY FACE, MOM!"

to reach out and slap the too loving or push the too serious in the dung

which forces us to laugh to keep from puking.

are you on vacation from all your jobs?

run off.

leave the group.

snatch out of hand.

crawl under the table.

i say

music crawls in and stays though i don't know it.
friends describing their health overshadowed by years old sobs
remember that time i moved in you?
i do.   remember the holy dark?
i giggled.  i dreamed.
but that was accidental and i came back
to talking with an uninvited pain.
when i get home, i'll know, i said.
i know.  reverse my know and drive me in the windy ocean.
i've never sunk and won't.
so long as.

WRONG WAY

let me write letters down through
the one gut i actually own
and take back out of your hands
carvings and bring together
your cut edges by gliding through time backwards.
let me explode in a collision with a memory
that i have wrong
where i disintegrate.

I CAN'T STAND NOT SHOOTING

no plovers in here keep those out.
it's not alright to pick one star and
let it rip your eyes out over the fact that yea,
you're warm enough to have a complex nervous system.
no giant-headed underwater things.
no things with brown eyes in the front of their head.
no raccoons with their creepy paws saying hi.
turn me into oxygen so slowly that water fails to ripple.
it is science, all the things i say because of
terror at the plunge above which i hover,
unable to touch someone next to me who is
closer to standing on the cliff and not off it.
where are the plovers, i would still like to know.
keep them away from me forever,
but where are they.

BUT NO

i could do everything that i'm not going to do.
for instance, watch a movie once
and if it's worth rambling about then for a second time
that takes an entire day
of rewatching rewinding gathering and writing my ultimate thought
and calling every one of my friends to ask their opinion of the movie
then spending a day evaluating the effect of each opinion on the
ultimate thought i built
then casually dismantling my ultimate thought
and eating the edible part
and going to sleep in excited fits of dreams
knowing i will do another movie tomorrow
until death.

I HAVE NEWS

when i woke up, i called you and said that it doesn't matter how you sound. i believe that. maybe you should stay quiet and lengthen your legs. of course, everything i say is set in a sling and then you say ow. you say ow to make me kiss you. i kiss you and it tastes like sublimated ice air. i call you IT from this point on until you slap me so hard i spit up on your toes.

AGGRESSIVE ABSORPTION (drafting?)

90% of the reason i'm composing in blogtro is made up of j r fyfe.  two years ago my ladyish friend and i started reading each other's writing more and at the same time i started talking to some dude i instantly thought of as a major force for making.  my parents looked away from my poetry but didn't tell me to stop.  maybe this is lucky.  maybe i had to fight a long time for my mom to say that she is awed over how much words mean to me.  i think that love sets a table and asks me to sit and that is thanks to lucky forces.  but the food the food.  it is hard to make the food.  people who have everything waiting to be made starve out of terror.  the terror of movement.  the terror of risk.  pangs of aloneness crank in my chassis, too.  don't you forget this:  being ok with hurt doesn't stop hurt from hurting; it simply stops hurt from stopping movement.  when sadness is spit in my face because i can be happy, it terrorizes my food golden brown and steals a little.  i will leave it out anyway.  i will leave it out all day.  maybe someday i'll stop showing my glaring poison face and then i will nod at my older friend's warnings but bite my muscles juicy til them and chew my enlightened skeleton dead.  have it until i rewrite this.  

I JAR

smack on the crust of our planet.
shimmying doesn't help me walk
off the mountain. trotting
that blisters my digits unmindful
but carries me.
i could quote 'the adamant' only
by quoting the entire.
mouthing around the dry pit
of the peach.
another era made from learning words
where the words are
felt understandings of song phrases.
pouring slowly and forming
an encasement of cave particles
around my face and below my face
and under my face and in my face
and over my face
and in place of my face.

WATCH IT

i think it’s weird you think
that it is lazy to use the words we all use
in order to say what i think.
where do you think anyone gets
the combination?
from the melted energy core they are?
i think it’s weird
that we are chopping
but do i ever love it.
simplify something that still exists
into a new smaller thing
the emblem of one take.
this could be what is so great about having kids
except for the fact that they
overcomplicate into us.
don’t talk about kids like that.
some kids learned too early
how to cut parts of themselves away.
they grew up into my friends.
i arrogantly assume the roots of problems.
no no i hypothesize.
each one has these things
that everyone loves
and these other things that
some love and some do markedly not love.
that’s why you can’t hack out what someone doesn’t love.
or why it seems like a real stance to 

take a specific opinion into your wiring
and let it flip the burn switch without any oversight.  

LEAVE OUT

i don't know where to be for my friends.
my idea of "here" is stirred by a love for sent text.
flipped over by fifteen hours on the
brittle strip of nothing that skims past
the Flying Deer of the universe
who pretend to be standing on "ground"
while they drink from my headlights
and i cruise away screaming. 
my friends include someone who broke off in my guts
before my guts were grown, and i think about how
little i was and how little i knew him before
the day he broke dishes accidentally, trying to
help me get away from my entire life that he lived in. 
the span is an albatross of years.
not the kind around a neck,
the kind me as an elegant mouse can fly on.
can a child ride an eagle?
/can a child ride a dog dragon?
windows move.  earth moves
around windows that stay still.
i heard you yelling from that space between
that and that that a familiar man calls
"the slices of twilight pie on your tongue
though they escape you while you're still tasting the story you'll make up to see later instead".

THROW

armpits smell like limeade now
food smacks of rotten tooth.
it's too unproved to say it, yea?
blankity blankity verse.

you know when's the last time i wrote a poem?
i've never written a poem.

how moved i was along the bank:
dad asked to hear me read
even more than i'd planned to read.
and it lightened far away.

my foot has cracked its foot-spine line
and i knotted when i ran.
i have stretch marks where my butt inflated
the day i turned fourteen.

this must be where i stop wondering
what the internet would think.
there's burnt beet sugar smell choking the house
but i'm going to eat the beets.

154 KIDNEY LUST

shaking ejects food from my mouth and i fall to the table grabbing all around me for it:  the thought which will describe my structural failure. my noises are strangled out of me and it is exactly like i am vomiting from the center of my brain. i sit back down to try and eat. a whiff collapses me again.

heard length

i am born to understanding in this month from where those pleas originate. i feel them prying my throat and readying me for my bursted scene. people have been collapsing this whole time and though i haven't withheld comment, my draft is unmade and rises out of no bed. bed bed bed. everything is a bed that i hallucinate from inside. draftless an animal. all sexes appreciate beautiful girls. the right sexes appreciate innerlit mortal beings, especially but not limited to Joan of Arc. open the window. may you never want to crawl out it more than breathe it in.

151 KIDNEY LUST [FROM 149, 150, and 40]

make my lungs double me in
guessing. there’s too much beautiful
blank fuzz to dedicate.
it’s more than ok.
take me into sleep and
get the roof out of it.

physically in the desert
where nothing compelling happens
until sunset.
from now on this
lesson is learned.

was i repairing?
your skin, once it busted apart,
along your bended seams.
you must crawl on your belly. 
all over.

even when i was a bomb’s
fat growl,
you covered my ear
and muffled the effects
to take the world easy on me.

i remember
everyone i love the most is shaking.
don’t think i’m going to stop that now.


- collaboration with PHC

HE NEVER STOPPED HAVING A CIGAR

somebody snuck into my house while i was locked in sleep. i know what they were trying to know. it's where i do research. at my job, there is research far in a lobby of ours. am quite simple as a rod of will thru the jelly, which doesn't stay put. i quit my job. i haven't stuck my hand out to light the stove to burn my money work. but i will. still eat it or patch it up to eat. repair my eater and my fuel container. take sips from it. boy or girl. down the street. who's your husband. tryer.

I WISH I WAS WITH YOU NOW

the art has typos in it.
what it means flashes across its forehead.
typos hanging from the ceiling
of a gorgeous former bowling alley.
a story dragging on the floor.
the age of my skin wells me up
when my shower beads on it.
someone is swimming out of the
moisture in the air towards me.
this storm of green is going to
belch me out into a unguardable position
and only later will violence find me.
typing more wrong more often.
crittering on the roadside
wondering what a road is
and where it comes from.

3rd iteration of an ongoing collaborative poem

i speak with speeding and hear
the weakening of my goose fat tongue
with water gushing
from my hands like a dead drowner-
bloated-
that comes to on an oily floor.
crawls.
makes it as far as a corner.

a vast emptiness is my sex void.
i'm gunning to get in it
pushing all prickles off the skin.
I AM GUMMING
the rear leather interior--
roughhandled saddlesitter hips
keep pumping over and open
across waxy walls i just made up
of vented air darkness.

losing a bodily battle
pouring favorite damages
down my own chutes
on my own.
everything works out
in the end of my brittle brain cube.
hear that.
everything.

i am knawing. this time it’s
rocks in anguish.
you therapy me by
sneaking my sleeping fingers
into a key hole.
i wake open the lock.

so more dead fish have died clumsily.
we eat the poor suckers
without breaking a sweat.
i have died many times too
in my memory, slowly.
the language i speak
is with and around broken tusks.
why i languish in shallows of
what i am.

and my desire for static to numb me
is vaporous.
i can't hear
whether or not you are coming.
the light shines
and then it is dark
and this happens
forever.


(written with J Ryan Fyfe)

SILVER SHOTGUN

my grown trunk organizes its sections
and stands. i’m hearing
coffee-colored bile pour over my cutlets.
working to prefer the gods of luck
over lights of force,
i don’t explain that i am only cooking
a book to eat it
to overlap its stressors with my need.
futures bang their heads inside the
white fudgey fists of a new class of adults.
boats will bring them here, lands that yell
for gentry.  a chorus of rattling tables.
dropping fists, i imagine.
i don’t know. but now i’m reaching
tensile for the hell.

I’M FILLED WITH STRIPES

i may have to flip over my own bowl in order to have an all-out domicile.
language is what i do with my tongue and my other tongue, licking out
the bowls of others clumsily, and salivating very inappropriately.
in a sonagram, some thing i could later say is seen.
i hear myself later saying it and i can see it but i can’t read it.  instead i see two colors
overwarming and sliding away from me, sliding across ice on the melt made by their last fever.
dying heat.  an utterance that rotoscopes me: previously sunken, i now see,
beneath the underside of the hardened cortex of the living world.

PILE

saying “no
i have a name
i have a flag
and a cramp”
the grey girl
lady grey
lady with a groping fearful silence
finding the stump
the stump that will help her neck
it wasn’t really a neck
to begin with
her usurping is arrogant
the mental leap she might make
in two or three years
to sit

you are making a fold
and men break down
and hug corpses before their deaths
i stand in deafening sprawl
with my eyebrows up
in a seat of stocks
in a field
with a priest
watching an actor
the only actor
lonely lonely
lonely adventures

i think she moves her blindfold
in quiet
i think there are minutes
before her act
i mean axe
her stump stumpy neck
and looooong awkward arms
hanging on the floor
hugging through the tower
to floating hell

we climb
the adventures
to have interrupting
to serve a goal
i mean


(written in collaboration with Paul Clark)

FLURS

lay down this frozen plant.
scrape it across me.  froe.

UNDERFORCES

a late-steaming heap of late faces,
etc. thousands deep.  the ice pelts
they all wear, a substitution for air,
a substitution for being unheld.
i thought or knew that it could resolve,
the pile.  also the pile’s problem;
the information was waiting on me
in a different part of my mind,
but the port misaligned.
my mind moves.  it begins to sort
so quickly that it becomes a knife.
it may be the knife of us, now that i
am in the organform hill. but
i find myself in here without a schematic
of will, or of joints between
the spinning pieces that can
click into channels when they meet.
this is still.  the stillness is
misassembled complete.

BURDENSOME CITIZENRY

in sleep floated to the bottom of
the schoolhouse losing my air
opened my eyes and ran outside to the
thoroughfare and saw in the mid-distance
a cognate broadcasting handsignals.
wait for me, now.
let me wake to explain.

people are piles of
each other.  pervy occasions
of post-acquisitive hugging.
accidentally important.
i understand this,
tuned in to phantoms so that
i run into the sewers for a
legendary risk, chasing
it to the fabled light of
a dmz with cottages and
everlasting bullshitlessness.

it could be there, but i lose
the scent and regain consciousness.
listen to what it seems to say,
i always say.

yelling

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT
i hollered and i cut my hair off to find
are there doors i’m missing where do
you keep all yours all the forms you are
subtly manipulating with bare fingers
on the unsterile table with poisons.
i ask WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE DILL
IN HERE while the day of someone
famous for partying is no longer than
my day and perhaps shorter for want.

whisper the order to intubate

a guy's job is: crush the parasite
species for its behavior. with muscle.
at night he keeps standing up from bed
and walking into the kitchen,
sensing the light crashing out from the
chamber he makes of his hands all day.
the light hot enough.

everyone has killed a couple of
houses with moldy breath.
why exit the real? it is bent perfectly.
it is bent like a dancer running away
fearfully.

i’m not one to talk
about animals or viscid remnants or the
gala of running girls sinking into their
racewaters, a dream i had of thoracic
compression.  it’s only the
comprehensible edge.

​INDIANA JONES DOGGEDLY QUESTERS

if it makes you killful, cut it off you and
burn it, applicable even to your hands.
put a mustard seed in every arteriole
you truncate in ridding. i think it'll
make you shit perfect figs?? people smell
as if limes are gaping on them.
it's driving me.

TENTH RIB

possible that i am wrong
to slice my mind and yell
that it is words are oozing out.
competitive drinking would be one way
to make more misspeaks.
who am i near a person who
touches me as my own arm.
or touches i call utility.
i assume to make the lives of you
people more better than worse.
what's the point of getting
happy to see you. i just witnessed
all the people in India sitting in their
rooms by themselves,
tilting the scale towards universal
introversion.

anomal

a longtime girlfellow but i tried too many hills
and maybe the hills deflected in shimmer.
i was proud of my mother with chopsticks
and warm and awash. i am proud
of my way of life-getting and rooting around.
the most important slats can't be seen between,
though burners lick my staves with causticism.
i am at home in my narrow bed.
i am a narrow hotbed unmoving.
thrown to the floor i am the floor,
it's a floor adapted and accepting of feet.

EYE SOCKET

being the uglier twin
my hair is always waiting to fall.
photos reveal the difference
between twine, wasn't it obvious.

gotta talk myself out of a
crushed box again.
it's the worst when only one remembers.

no gawkers
in this gun case, there are no sleepers.
the guns stay up talking
until the instant they wake up bashful.

IT'S ALL LEGS

what makes me so immune?
probably lack of incoming.
it's important to remain
where guys were
playing flexible with time.
when scheduling, a mom
and her teen son
are looking around
she says "i've been to allentown
i've been to reading".
that's what i would say
to that kid. to instill a
desire to find out
an ecstasy of body that involves
pure shape.
and now i
would do anything to keep
adapting you.

THE I DONT KNOW BOWL

raised to admire
an unreadable environment.
though
if i had to title
my people i would do it.
listen
you accelerate my gash.

what a harrow does
a winnow doesn't;
so it is, your name.
for label, for i forget.
for labeling.
humid words furnishing
all i see. a blank bowl of words,
root prying riot from prior
because.

lit out to varnish once more.
did and shook hands
in the tunnel through a brick of light.
i can't see that light going off.

clean bowl blank in the
cabinet next to
my cup, a darling among cups,
and an extra
i will smash in you.