t’ximi

we sit opposite mountains
at our knees,
playful cardboards,
and electric crumbs
we do

skies apart, skies together
tin clouds we wear
behind our ears
for each other
we do

she and i,
we talk away colid cants
through teacup
and board
she do
my ear ~
close to that leaf
close to that knot
i do
to hear,
in hope,
her whisper of horizon

i do
with nook
and nickel
and future scrapes
across the shadow of see and saw

the blacks, our tigh.
her seconds are my firsts
a hundred horns my wig wanders by

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.

bye product

i take pictures

so that maybe


i’ll time travel



and be able to answer the question i had




behind my back

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.

the zero breath

had we remained together
we could have become a silence.

-yehuda amichai

white noise

the "artist" i hope to be,

that i always have been

a hueman
is one that does not learn to paint
does not learn to be "artist"
does not have any singular purpose
but rather a purpose entire.
to live, and share, and reflect, and connect
and communicate and disseminate
those collected and experienced moments
of the abstracts of the mind
in the past, of the future, and with the present
-
to do so, utilize the surround to articulate
tangible currencies for exchange between the realms
of each of us. . . and whole of us.
whatever means to mean whatever needs.
-
a hue man "is" because of why? of what?
because they are published? represented?
raise high auction or attention?
because word or phrase exists to classify?
because they are known at all?
indeed, the artist makes quite a disturbance
even bereft of audience.
that an audience is enabled notice at all
is ultimately benefit to the audience, not the artist
-
an artist is the pearl no matter the beast
they are caste by

thus, it is the already-connection that benefits the

artist,  a benefit not sought - already ingredient felt

and known

perfect

i want to be as close to "black" as possible.  "possible"?
"as can be," then.
black as in "nothing."  as in "everything."
continua, the "always"
abstract befores and after, or our perception and ableness to dwell on them - confuse
or do they?  are the answers there?  always there? never there.
black is without spoil. black is initial, and whole.  white is stain and action and mess and fuss.
black is purity and all, not fragmented pieces holed up with intent and tions.
shuns? ..prevail in our human-intellected age.
instinct prevails with it's sex-induced propagation
but i am not so enabled with instinctual patrons.

litote commoner

all these compilations - age, incomplete times - ongoing.
i remain, myself.  despite myself.  never me, always change
rattles in the pocket.
upon the picks and knits of others, i remain
myself
but changing myself
amoung others
despite others
nothing to effort
every the effort demanded
but without condition

red seamer my

my bowler hides the cube
safely, softly, swiftly
i am protected by the same as that prevents
a mirror of tricks
a mirror that know balance despite intellects destruction
like the footsteps of instinct, my mirror in c'd keys feeds balance with instinctual confidence.
sex will out despite the grandioste plans of human intellect and so-called cultures.

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.

hues of compliment

if she is my tiff then i am her jpg. we have our tychs but our pixels blend into a seemless mosaic.

your hand

~let's fly

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

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.