three arms crossed awkwardly

‎"find me," it read.

waiting.

somewhere in the breaths of all air in the world with everything between the fingers; eyeless, foundless.

waiting.

a familiar skin much too silent on the cheek.

waiting.


for you.

ajar full of simple need

what should i say when you are amazingly entire

the words that would reach you
crush from their own wait

i am the social whisk,

you are the batter

without a boll

silver naïf

we need to see each other

somehow beyond

what we each think

or know



we need each other

too much



when you are all

i am



we grow

spooky knuckle

i’m too happy to be sad.
no, correction, i’m too appreciative to find rest at any polar end; any end.
the way i see it, there are no ends. birth? death?
not: “in the middle,” “gray area”;
“all”
concepts, not beginning, not end; abstracts we arrive at to situate ourselves and make nice the continual congress held with instinct, intellect, intuition, wisdom, and the rest of the insinuate parties present.

my fragile outward crust gives fragile outward abbreviations
inept needles poking about exaggerations
trying to find the stitch in time to rhyme
along lines that cut the dime in half

my left nickel
upon a spooky knuckle
can be worth the whole of sentiment quilted in our nuclear present
its value sticks on the keys of our xyz’s

correction in the white out
noise of the clack and clack

the stable
where all rest just fine

and i’m screaming, “hay!”

get your halo off my affect

haphazardly stitched with wine.
a vague brightness from my own scratches against the sky.

what can i say
when the breath to say it is hair as hog
and spoils everything else like carthage

airs become the roll, spinning
and curled
with sugar on top
and cinnamon to disguise the noise.

montage

back when i used to swim in the rug, casting the sheets as my blurred cloudy friend,
i was conduit
i was invincible.
the crumble has been fierce. the ‘brades are tight, but i had never forgot this one thing
something i thought i forgot because everyone else had
but i couldn’t shake it loose even if i tried.

singularly
familiarly
strangely
apart-ley
i keep losing what i knew
and finding what i forgot

in you.

and i must thank you for your struggles
the panes you mend with reflection
with every little verb~
a mason of my foundation

and you’ll never know it
because the walls are too thick
the distance, too far.

and i’m much too determined
to honor what you’ve given me
not to let it go
and spill invisibility in my pockets
where your change still rattles my heart.

derivative of experience

the inflated planet above rolls around my brow; my lunatic infinite sil.  it happies my wig. shakes the knits in my knots waked - furious pans to sizzle the math of confusion; the hocks of nonsense. -to mix the stubborn real into my temporary excited calms.
enable is my palm, upended, to grab the ladle in the blind spot.  all amazed.  all at rest.  the rest.  of days.
i play my flute sharply-puncturing the 500-second flood into flat speed that flows and knows no frame.
it is my silver belt. for safety. for the sky.

tickery tock

memory is like a tick on a pillow

all cried

we felt butterflies

when we fall

we may forth and more


[author commentary – “parasitic phrasing”:  “we felt butterflies when we fall” and “when we fall we may forth and more”

turns of the canopy

the local maples fell into crazy over the weekend

the airs mad with confetti

exhilarant

mr. clean

i’m not embarrassed to say i’m drowning when finally the knuckles break and the cancer leaps away
it is the skin smolt before erosion smote.
his tetrad skin eyeless before the ink. overwhelmed, the side by side makes it one.

edible

the infinite morsel is attractive to me. it is my surround. “it” is not it, not singular but whole but part. these breakdowns and buildups of boundaries and form fascinate my brain stuffs bewildered and overwhelmed. consistently, constantly, tirelessly, unrelenting; an insistent eyeless beast popping me with its static discharges and ambling pounds.

the shadows of my surround, the grays in my peripheral, the blacks and whites of my parallel and fore, and the prism of my aft are all my joyned chums; my old pals with fats to chew and fires to stoke.

my behoove is befuddled asunder a hack-shaed shag. tuft-wondereds hit my synaptic altitudes whilst sole and toe keep sod familiars.

in the aperture of curtains

well you know what?

i was wrong

and that broke time

but i’m just going to be here

and be here

and hear    and say

and there    and ways

and whots and wheres

for you~

times fun

~is we.

regardless of our funks

those moods.

besides our pains,

our moots.

i love our soup.

it may be strange, may not be likely

but the aroma confesses the truth

contrast and blend makes it so

in the end

sentimento ondulato

every morning i must take my bocks out. it’s corrugated intentions are very immediate in the mornings’ early. “but i’m still asleep,” i tell it. does it care? not-in-the-least. but it doesn’t even know it is an element to care about. it’s brown instincts and random labeling command it to seek out that perfect spot to lay it’s styrofoam keepings; it’s extra stuffs. “a relief,” i think to myself as it scoots about the earth. but at times, it takes a dang-long time to decide on such urgents. around we go, me looking out for post-mens who might try to collect my bocks, and bocks – getting distracted over immigrating trashes and visiting tossles.

but in the end i am simply happy to know bocks with it’s ciphery skin and peely tape parts. bocks likes taking trips to people i know. it loves this. we have our funs and it’s tough to see bocks go. but it is only a temporary go.

and the inbetweens keep me sensitive; reminding me of my values.

(i am) no longer the witless fool to ott and too.

i can bleed once again. ' wonderful to be human

shrinkwrap dragonfly

street is olive loaf on pumpernickel without a plastic sword or cellophane-fringed pick to hold it together.

urban neighborhood is black gum shaped into a casual lawn with hidden plastic animal ornaments and a rubber hose that makes soggy newspaper gnomes.

nature is dried mustard clogging the spout.

the half brat

a beautiful shoe

i cannot wear

will sit on a sil

flip top

the wig furiates.  it twists it’s hage shaple.  it so much wants to wring the hectre shates; an incense burnt beyond rational construction.
abstract aggregates and fools, it rathes to gnag. the enraged stoke peels the sensitivities in whole rips and burns from the face of acceptance.
it wants obliteration, against the fit nots.  no times out to its game, it flips until it’s over.

the tendered edge

i want to be mad flown; frustrate; annihilate sown.  but you stand in my way.  my way-    lost to the toe you draw about me.  am me.  forever backward-  i find.  and i cannot argue with consistent or prolonged conviction.
my twirl-around fools none of your shadows.  your deeply is my in me. a voraciously stubborn charm on a crack and dandle.  strop the balance, venomous tear.
with somehow your touch, a reminder, scraping, and soothing.  you are where i see, and where i won’t see.
and you hold my well despite myself.

the eyeless everything

i am not the demented ornament sought.  ' neither strange enough, peculiar enough, valuable enough, subtle enough, accessible enough.  i see and cannot stop the ask; perspective is my peripheral curse.  the verbed song in my occulatim occursari.
whose song am i?  my own curse; my own cure.  a cause explaining itself to the hundred white.  but the eyeless needs no explanation.  a timeless second surpassing the articulations of the invented.  still, i am dipped in the gray satellite; a float between the shouting black and white polarities.  defined and deafening.  strange and compelling.  familiar and repulsive.
i glide there but never fall.  not enough gravity to make an impact, not enough momentum to fly away.

magic's in peripheral

the sit is so close to an endless reach; seemingly, perceivably.  the half-inch underwater might be five leagues of a shoe ~ half-size too small.
i might be reaching to a scraped sky long left of cloud and slight.  a vacation of the void that used to be my pal, my medium.  and with little left to crutch and chew i am my own myth amoung the wandering question.  discovery imminent; knowledge an abstract zanfona playing a piper's song.  weared my textures go?  lost in the lint trap?
but all along i am the everything blanket shouldering the flying boy.