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.