Thoughts of disquietude and self-doubt adorn the halls where I walk on past the pillars strong and my meal for the breaking of the fast and the morn o’ double in the interior excellence past…

Wondering why they submitted to remorse. Wondering why.

They did that.

Please, ever, to know, that you were, here, in this way, sinning so righteously with the fervor of fire in your fist, forsaken lady, seems knowledgeable now, but did we ever know back then…

I submit myself as a specimen for the xperimenters. Come find me.

The world is too big. Empty. They get lost in the vacuum. No one is found. I rest alone.

Least of all are any experiments run.

How to terminate the time. How prematurely do I bask. Stupid fool, me.

Fool me.

Why not.


Lesson being:

You can’t catch a fish if you’re drowning.

I submit myself humbly as your savant-sadist, to know pain and communicate it with you surreptitiously. I submit that we shall be interlocuters–no I don’t actually know what that word means–but that with diligent recourse–or that one–I shall be might! And righteous! And do pardon the potty break…

Beyond recompense, to forget saying you remembered meant so little to me, that at the time you were weeping on the kitchen floor, a wreck of bones with a knife and a candle. And in my memory imprinted in my dreams you did not get up for aeons, and I looked down on you. I looked down on you.

How to memorize the planet so that I might may go home. I could not decide, forgive me.

Remorse without recourse is a crime, of course. And yet, so little prosecution does find itself executed under the rule of law. How tragic, our social circumstances. How tragic, that he started it all in a garage.

They play plethora row-wary stymied misdemeanors and all such but no other one will know it but they. This is all learnable, is it not. It’s all classic, post-modern, indeed, it draws on multiple disciplines. But how do you know where I’m hiding? Ring the bell when the meal is over.

I’m hunting winter. Winter’s rife blankets and reflective coats over my surface. I will melt you, you better come down, boy. There’s a sluice–nope–in the breakenstance. It is overall, there, in my high place, without you. You had better come down, boy, the cups are full and need a drinkin’ with apple sauce and brandy high. Things fall, some whether or not you ask them to. This time I won’t, because I can’t see.

Roll on by…

Lye and Rum

You stumble on the stairs to your brothel in the sky. The cairn at the bottom rests as memorial to your emotions of yesteryear. The seasons change, wind makes due with itself, girls play in the corridors of the city streets. Not grimy, but definitely nothing rustic, either. There are ways to go about being yourself that, you say to others, a normal person could not feel without insect feelers. There are eyes on the underwater shrimp which emits supersonic pulses to kill crabs and open clams that sense 18 different photonic ranges. Science only knows.

But that’s the half of it. There are things in this universe which painters would love to get to know, darling, but darling, no painter will paint. The hue of the sky when you weep limits my personal damage to a min. and there are sweets on the table. I kiss you. Your eyes dry. There there, there there.

Simple patterns enter my mind and I whisper in your ear that the elephants can hear us from Africa. The glue drying on the chair to fix its cracks of age are disparaging to the elderly but beautiful in the mend’ment they bestow. Lye and rum all around the bar. Lye and rum.

Not sweater season yet, we must wait nine months to inoculate the generational gap between you and I. And were we older it would not matter the least. So take the stopwatch hanging on the wall and stymy gender, wage, and schooling disparities on the nickel, on the dime. Stopping a quarter past the wheel mistakes no sense to the courier. Stopping so fast does not do.

Lift your folder and smack me across the face with it. I listen to tunes of jazz and blues to lift the blow. Powerful candles hiss in the corner of the room but no one sees them, for they are hidden in jars of rainbow steel.

I left the era knowing some things change into things that victims of hate remember because some remember to hate. It is nothing new. It is nothing revolutionary.

short piece, untitled

Stolen away inside me is the minstrel who croons at the night cock and swoons at the dander falling skyward like hare-in-maze. I make heat, display it, showcase the trajectory of the moon. Nightingales sing at me right in my ears to display their dominance over the country. This careful equilibrium tentatively has things set. Set out, astoundingly, set forth, set over, and set up for success. For future generations and the beating hearts between you and me. There are so many. The Network, the conspiracy theorist’s yarn mesh display, push pins and maps and all. We are the yarn. Be the yarn. Tangle yourself in misery or hope. Quill acceptance, quell satiate, resign mesh. Mesh mesh forever mesh. Mingle and strengthen the straw of the country. The nightingale resigns and I am free to pace the garden. Once more I remember, and I forget. How could that be? How am I so able?

Abscond Until the Dirt Path Behind You is a Grain of Sand

It would be callouse to admit that I do not “feed upon”. Upon something. But that was a gratuitous insertion. (My pinky hurts (and that fits).) What else is there to say?

I am willing. But does admonishment push me harder or farther away? Are those two the same thing? I am not the one I used to be. That was not cliche, it was classical. This is modern. We are in the future so the terminology is updating itself.

That was stupid.


You’re here. I won’t romance you to death but I could push a rabbit. I could push a rabbit into a pile of paper. There once was. To death. There once was to death. There once was to death a sorbent titillation of fugue. I am absconding from my youth at light speed. This wondrance shivel shavel what is it? What fake.


To go on in my day would be to sing a cataract out the nasal canal. I’m not a banana. I’m not old. You are.

You hang me by my nails when I am weeping and I thank you for it.

to be cont.