lazy sunday

on a lazy sunday the pain doesn't idle,

i wash the outsides of my apartment windows,

straining on the inside ledge wondering why even,

trying not to fall out or daring i do,

taking a shower, still as watched prey,
detecting the calculus in a grid of water droplets on tile,

i see it's just a system superdetermined.
listening to ___ from twenty years ago,

it floods into my ears and out my eyes,
tears falls from the past to the present for the future:
when i returned to ___ and learned that joy isn't for keeping,
when i met ___ and understood the deceit of love,
when i roamed the streets a beast and came home a stone,
when i killed ___ through negligence and stupidity,

when i'll witness ___ and feel the freedom of loss,
each moment is permanent vapor,

blending into the spring air

flowing in through the bathroom window,
laughter and screams aloft.

Each dawn I cling to wishful visions dreamt,

As darkness shows the truth, so light conceals

cherished nightmares unowned but lent

by generous makers of the unreal,

To see them born here would be to heal

one thousand cuts, which signal not

some unjust torture nor dare reveal

an innocence, upon waking wrought,

But do bleed anew with each vile thought.

it's not good it's not wet like the underbelly of a petal
it's not green it's not pregnant there's no bliss
and now matter how i turn it it takes no highlight
plants no shadow

i wonder if left alone
if i walk away
it'll unfold and break into itself and just

be, and be alright

large withdrawal

there's plenty of time to be late

so why not stand in the longest line

turbocharge my zen

here #3 of 5

poor teller

awful undeserving teller

a throwaway moment for

everyone here

want not waste not

is that applicable?

this place is a cozy wreck

there's ample space to suffocate

in a stampede 

it's my party i can cry if i want to,

sigh if i want to

die and i want to

my life in the line

actually feels fine

#3 of 7 now

moving on up

o frost,

you call, imbue

my skin with deadness that i may not

touch the grassy softness of spring,

my mind with veils of ice that i may not

know the birth of joy-giving birth that i may

settle into familiar dark alone-making rest

for long asleeping keeping

still, and in stillness

stay, and in staying 

seek the signs, without seeing

until i can regenerate in reverse

and arise dream-divested,

hollowed, hallowed, starving for the onslaught of life

Out on the trail founded by a hundred thousand steps 

of beasts and beat-upon men do I wind,

ill-received and undeserving, under then among then above

a roiling cloud face rippling from sneer into filmy impassivity,

concealing there a patient darkening presence.

Even here am I watched, ever here does it wait.

Out in the rain and among lone glories in a naked earthen sea,

within the sun at set and wind at rise do I sense

a growing lack, maybe there in the shadow of the fallen pine,

now maybe there in the groaning branches in mossy bondage,

an approaching nothing, like the nearing labored breathing of the mare,

burdened yet freer than me alza el vuelo do we silent partners climb.

Out in the roaring mist of the summit comes one

who is always arriving, who I never meet but always know.

High above in the tectonic song of ancient fire wails a threat

only I can hear calling back through time a vision blinding.

Within the joy of rest and divine affection of nature do I stare into the black

at the formless beast that need not follow as it here remains, 

that need not seize what it already owns.

i took the shape from the cloud and put it on my phone
i took the call from the bird and lost it in the street

i got the thrust from the wind and tossed it in a drawer

i took the life of a lamb and shat it out

i got time to live and sold it for a watch

i got a timepiece and spent

time measuring time

i measured the correctness of the shape

the rarity of the call

the reliability of the thrust

the pleasure from the lamb

the value of time

(in the style of aimee mann)

what a prisoner feels
it ain't wanderlust
no matter what the trial reveals
it's the chair, or bust,

whenever the right time was
to finally come clean
it wasn't worth the fuss
and without the means,

to lead the witness
or doctor the scene
they see a recidivist 
low down and mean,

in the game of crime,

you eked one win

(who's keeping score?)

called in the chaplain

to absolve your sin

(walk through the door)

we marked the time

when the lights went dim

(what was it for?)

couldn't sleep,

three nights now, 2am

dream of school again, or

cemetery, similar vibes

broken by the hushed

sirens outside,

urge to piss, and

god it's hot in here

Mind,

subjugated and stupefied midday,

asserts its power at 2am

  imagination that tortures,

  analyses across time and space,

  pointless or destructive

  or destruction's the point?,

  painted hypotheticals,

  vividly self-evident,

  showy cartwheels,

yawn

an organ doing its thing,

not the soul, not

poetic, despite the poem

it creates of itself, awake

then, thankless and unseen,

eventual expansion into emptiness,

flush to the borderline

between consciousness

and -