Jibberish

Nestled between
The paternal lamppost, the maternal road
Time is smaller than you think
We were locked in each other's attics,
Raised in straight lines
(Loving is going back in time.)
That being said;
Burn up the girl who lives in your head and looks like me
We are not affiliated.

Creed (III)

Ruby on rails and carefully engineered beats,

I really do feel like royalty,

Surveying my dreamscape, trapped between my imagination and my eyes

trapped backstage. glittering soupy shadow mouth of yellow teeth lightbulbs grinning at sticky white tiles. framing the echoless hall.

Sticky webs encasing warm car interiors, dad wearing his coat and mom’s coffee taking reality for granted in the cupholder

Snow covered barns squinting, the first step out of the movie theater

How do you know that life goes on?

My life is bigger than me and is made of everyone else. My life is everything but me.

I work out but I don’t get any stronger.

I can fit into the world, into the street, into the café, into the rooms.

I can’t fit into myself. But I want to live at home wherever I go. I want to find Christmas morning in my thoughts. I want all my experiences to be sensations. I want to experience my entire life at the same time. I am already doing this.

I am the queen of this mountain of trash,

O self forgive me

O self I fear thee

O self be not silent to me turn not away thy face

O self I enter thee, a house with rumpled sheets and dishes in the sink and in the winter footprints on the porch

This is a love without romance, without delusion

I’ll follow you home,

Simply because I always am.

I’m looking for a nice person in the crowd in my head

Populated by faceless revolutionaries, they think everything is wrong and needs to be changed, they are not quite fighting for food or drink. Taste, I think.

The victim is curled up in a corner every dream search takes me up stairs that lead endlessly back down to the entryway, the hallways are infinite loops, I open doors and enter them as though from the other side. Where am I? Where are they? The small part of me that has the strength and form to navigate the home lives in constant fear and worries for the rest of me and hopes I don’t encounter any of them and hopes they don’t find her. They eternally destruct and rebuild.

I want normalcy, plates, a shelf, a jar of honey.

I want to taste.

Where's Everything

I've never felt so empty

And so full of memory

What did I lose by improving

What did I give up for better taste

How did you uproot my sunrise cartoons

How did you sour my art

Authenticity? I never had it

I had soul

Quivering behind a translucent face

I felt good

Rolling over rolling over rolling over into the next

Up before dawn

What's my location

I can't find my tether

I've drifted into space, out to sea, whatever

Swallowing each day whole from a bottomless empty cup

The illusion of a God, the illusion of a me

Dad cut off the lowest seven branches of the tree

A gap in the continuum; a goodbye

Returning feels like leaving again

You feel me

U

you yellowgreen
you summermorning
you dawn on grandma's house or other places you've eaten breakfast or haven't
pale veins grass blades
full of water or something
some fruit, some new day
newer than a blue train west, I'd say
can't call it what it is
call it dawn
wraps morning up in a living room carpet that paves the road on the drive home and the sky away
a silo and an acre of land grew concrete pillars and you
it's all in the big house and the big house is in your bones
and your bones are in your body for now, slow yellow trains headed south
sour summermouth, mean yellowgreen
sitting like an imp in the morning tree

It's Okay to Be a Blake

The garden doesn’t feel better when I’m in it

The garden doesn’t feel at all

But it overgrows, thorns get dew-wet, sunrise, sunset

It feels whole it feels important it feels like dawn all day

Love is not wishing it'll wilt when I'm gone,
Taking it in without taking it away.

Cardboard

Clarity surfaces and sinks

When the moon is behind the clouds it is fine.

When the moon is behind the earth it is fine.

When the moon is behind me it is fine.
I can see my friends
I can't see past my eyes.
Summer days are nose pressed against the red gallery pastels
Hot palms
interlocked tomato brains
roasting sweating buildings blinking
window

The town inhales 

monthly sifts and settles

VR mimics the retina.

Sinking

Every week we look forward to the weekend
Every year we look forward to Christmas
Can't I extract myself from this rhythm?
I know Saturdays can be bad.
Christmas isn't as exciting on Christmas.
Don't make me such a stranger,
Didn't we lock eyes during rush hour?
Make our silent alliance in the hum of the race?
Trust me in my acceleration.
I'll always be looking back, or at least around
It's only water for everyone else.
I unwrap eternally,
peeling back the pattern,
aware that it's already over.
I live impatiently, to see what's inside

TV/Radio

I love the idea of life, but
Buying scratch-offs and losing them with the change made from the broken twenty that bought the scratch-off are some of the things people do every day,
Some people do, some days,
Preserve the time in tile floors
Who will flatten our world?
Who will jump into the sky and render us a moving picture?
We did it to Lucy, and Al Roker,
What can you do.
Are you a communist too?
There's a fireside chat inside my melting head,
I and I and I sit around after dinner,
Mute to the control booth,
Picking up the signals,
Scratching off tickets with our teeth in this anarchist state

I know how you like to adjust the center of your universe

All those suns are still out there

Spinning, cold, nauseous

Work

There is fruit to eat, where death is
Death is a place outside a county
Death is a person without a community
Death is clean dirt.
I worry that it is an escape
I want to exit without entering
I want to leave without coming
I want to cease
Thank god I'm afraid I wouldn't