pop song

i know that you've been waiting for it
boy i've been waiting too
i know you got that fever for me
but i'm nine'y eight point six, see?

don't touch my body
don't throw me down
or wrestle me around
or try to play

i'll make you feel nothing
don't touch my body
want my legs around your waist?
let me wrap my hands
around your neck
baby just a little taste

don't touch my body
trynna lay me on the floor
boy i know you love my curves
let me give you what you deserve

Maze

A maze of red sand
under red sun
ceaselessly shifting
rearranging in red wind
You are lost in the labyrinth
The Way moves like a snake
before you
behind you
The exit scatters
The dead end rolls away
while the red eye looks all directions

a la carte

Bird

bloated corpse of a concrete-colored sky

ripped in half by something alive

excessively alive

a blight on empty air

Self-progression

Pain - Expression - I.

songs to live by

pillars on the old, old road

on the way forward

from the way backward

built in mineral - strong, sequentially, and slanted

by imperfect minds, now dust.

the continuous line of work of man

forms an asymptote of immortality

Creativity

urge then action then judgement.

soft segregations into

 good v bad 

 woe v rage

 proximal v distal

easy to lose the lust

small bursts of ejaculate

splatter ineffectually on plastic

Would you rather

Would you rather die in a fire or by drowning or by Disgust, literally.

Disgust.

And what would it take.

To what.

Be that disgusted.

Something worth killing me, something with the actual power, a thing I didn't have the power to stop and the weight of shame crushes my chest like a bag of cement.

Like what.

A bag of cement.
No, like what would that disgusting thing be.

Oh I dunno.

So you live.

the rim of the sea

is chipped

sails furl
and float away

we tilt

beads of rain

rise from the ocean

to fall on black clouds

above/below

god yawns

yet even so

yes even he

lifts the candle of the sun

and blows it out

nyc mornings

the mist-smog grinds down 7th

thrashing papers and bits of dreams

from the hopeless dreaming homeless.

lights shine for no one.

men drive, men honk, men growl.

their hearts are stillborn, but their fists work.

they go
to battle in boardrooms

while women seek another way.

a bird hits the glass and dies

and falls
and dies some more on touchdown.

patters of tears from a nearby fountain,

sponsored by jp morgan chase
in corporate plaza,

open to the public

dawn to dusk.

this dead bird is not public

yet here she is - or was

well anyway thank you

says the doorman.

no thank you says the doorpasserthruwoman.

each remaining separate forever,
thrown in the heap.

stress test

if enough time passes
we will be forced to.
who is we
who forces
how soon is enough

breaking
plane ☐
line —
point •

my systems are stress
tested
my pain is
topographically
hard to measure
yet known

define the shape of a mountain
the length of a coast
the surface of fog

sleep fragments

The Falls

do not purify; it is pure
do not defile; it is pure
do not change; it changes


Knowing

I hate the winter because it’s cold. I hate the cold because it hurts.
I feel lonesome because I am alone. I feel what I am.
I know it before I feel it.
Do you
know it?
feel it?


Plover's Trip

from open sky to

open mouth of the cosmic crocodile each tooth is the arm of a spiral galaxy
each grain of sand's a grain of sand each a beach of grains of sand man

call me the bird of the universe along for the ride on the edge man

open never close man

Driving Thru

Smashed turtles on the highway

Five dollar foot long

God in the trunk