8 ’til midnight

Run outside, you’re dying anyhow
tear your muscles from the back of the apparent hand
when you’re staring at the sun, it’s hard to flinch

Your dancing god will smite everything
and the jewels will cut your feet
as you stride across the floor

strewn with the blood of love and hate

strewn worse yet with the glance of apathy

Ouroboros of well-planned mediocrity

and look now, it’s midnight.


The blinding Narcissus (Pity’s Grace)

Seen and felt, considered yet –
the open eyes of an inconsiderate state –
Mute, her voice never returning, but ringing forever
In the heads of menial, partial, tangential lovers,
Their psoriasis-claimed limbs extended in dearest gestures

Though flowers will dance
my hand extends to know them,
piteous, cold.

The glorious tears which kissed formlessness!
Like mopping god’s floors
with peerless regret.

There can be few things precious which do not die.
There can be few things precious which cannot live.
This, the most spiteful truth,
the burning pitch in my chest,
knows the time it keeps, though quiet.

What is the morning, kissed of winds and the vapors of love?
What is the dusk, purpled with memory?
What is night, when we cannot see, and have only hope
which brings us terrible reminders of damnable agency?

To any far point
no great thing shall endure yet-
such bifurcation.

Facile, and false thus

As you have choked, so now should you continue
and, bereft of gifts, fall silent.

So falls paradise, like black dresses when questions are pushed into minor keys,
their music the march of a hopeless parade.

What brushes with tender skin, what lackadaisical rain, and anxious lead in your throat
have you mired so in myopy, the levity of joy, in others?

in crease and fold, in turn of point, in parsing of language and sin,
the sea rolls in to defy the king.

in calamity, in partiality, and in the desire to be useful,
the commands to recede
bounce off of your pretty dress
and stick themselves in the pitying sand.


On equity, and tears as righteous as the stars

What of I-
a shameful, bounded pronoun,
kept in serious regard
by fidgety masters of angular homes.

but for you, though tired,
though cut to pulp and sinew,
and grave through trials,
my soul is choked by your tears.

for 114 minutes i find slow words faltering-
and consider at length, the thoughts of another-
“the same heat warms tears
as bears scars on a home.”

how keenly love wells up-
and after love’s death,
like fireflies glow, it returns-
momentarily de-focusing the world

Love is –
the most beautiful ,
lapse of judgement.

and you deserve somebody who appreciates the beauty in lapses in judgement.

the incorrigible manner of song (and how it spills from god’s eyes)

Though symphony plays
and the snowdens of yesteryear fade
through small packets too tiny to see
the tiny pinprick in my bowels
gives me pause, though unrealistic.

The trees and bushes of spleen,
of ideal,
of surity –
remain their welcome dearth of flower.

They beckon with the promise of fruit after precious care-
and yet the gardener dozes.

in trying to question a smile,
there are made pistoning,
shit-rendering answers.

and why are girth and breadth of my neighbors field
so pre-eminent?
and milk-white lenses so clouded-

perhaps, as you collapse, weak, you think:
“it’s been too long for regret”
“i’m more now”

and as long as either of those are true
you’ve done well.


Though relentless, and pressing more force than the seasons
i find myself duplicating the fumbling crawl
that lead to blank years.

god himself points
at the flaws i have yet to efficiently name
and the words of the deity sing deafening tones in this soft amber light

upon reflection, and listening to the half-cocked droning,
circumstance’s absence creates a vacuum
directly beneath my fidgeting heart.

and you’re right.
and you don’t have to think of me,
and i don’t want you to see me this way

and you’re right.
the glory that you find in me
will fade.

sepia tones do a good enough job
of fixing our breath in place
and i can taste the anguish you hide yet

though i will suffer like priam’s daughter
there are parts of me that try
but who fall ever further into the sludge on my shoulders.

i miss you so badly
is that why my brain feels like it has fused together?
or is it because i’ve been idle too long?

i know only this anymore:
i’m just wasting time.
and none should be wasted on me.

mauer im kopf

bricks and the stuff in between
angry fetid turgid bland
_terribly_ uncompromising

the faces though,
as they spread across this myopic sea
wouldn’t dare be caught listless!

it’s been years now
but where do i start
and when am i finished?

your violet trembling peach skin
that recalls drowning for the only second it’s pleasant-
it yearns to tremble for nobody in particular-

how this, banal, unbecoming, disillusioned
is what i’m supposed to yearn for
instead of clean proofs, こもれびー *

i am posed against the monolith of hours
the sapient judge of my worth,
and excuses are, as expected, lacking.

but why supplication to this unimpressed god?
stars, though fragile and constant,
really only seem to exist for half a day.

this room, いらないものだらけだ。**

my head, heavy with syrup that won’t slosh.
my heart, filled as it is, spiteful of a head who wont share all the pancakes it so obviously has.

the valve just shuts off half way through anymore.
i don’t know how to reset the timer or anything.
it’s real fuckin’ annoying.

at least we can have lunch tomorrow.

*-(komorebi – the light which filters through trees)

**-(iranai mono darake da – filled only with things i do not need)


in the hot and choking advance
of decisions incalculable and apathetic
utility comes to a sludgy stop.

in days where god dies
and those structures we’ve rested our thoughts on
leak out of our ears,

will you accompany me
to a beach-side sunrise
where it’s too cold, and your stomach hurts?

your normally smiling face may be made stern
confronting so much light-
and perhaps you’ll retreat into me.

what good are pearls, once strung?


with the myopic tremble
sprung from conjunctions
undulating in warm turns
and swimming down my throat like antimony,

let’s be frank
your eyelids will mark passionate calculus
in the framing and allure of paroxysm
but the limitless bounds of tomorrow
still won’t really matter much.

tumult notwithstanding
and the black of your eyeliner twisting
gnawing at the coals glowing calmly
in the center of your chest,
the ochre tones of your walls
the same as your un-seamed skin

how fast, i wonder, is 10 Hertz?
and does that really matter?

Easy game

when’s 2 and two?
in a pink and fluffy chain of deuterium
active conglomerations of capitalism
smackin’ greenies ‘cross the ol’ Width times Height
think love is nothing!

but isn’t it nicer
you and me sitting here
drinking weevil poison
and lamenting how not dead we are?

the dream of a dream you can’t wake up from!

i don’t like those little things they give you
when you don’t make small talk correctly
little tiny glass beads
useless little things

why can’t you and i lift up above the clouds
and the salty stacks of meat in expensive eyewear
trying to look like expensive eyewear
will cook like zucchini

didn’t you say something to the effect
that inside man there is a wandering child
and inside the wandering child is
a grief-stricken smile, tired, resigned eyes?

despite it all
maybe because of it all
no, definitely because of it all
otherwise what is there–

maybe this is what the psychopath thinks
when he tries on people like hats
on cloudy, boring, midwestern days
when multiplication tables have lost their charm…