I was standing in line

at the grocery store

and I picked up a copy

of Cosmopolitan.

I read this article

about how having a baby

changes the dynamics

of the sex in the relationship.

The article said that

the man should not stand

at the end of the bed

while the woman

is giving birth, because

it will bother him

to see her vagina

working in such

a utilitarian manner,

that he might not

be sexually attracted

to the woman anymore

after seeing her vagina

dilated and stretched

over the head of the

baby that he helped

to create in the first place.

Now, we all already know

that women are the stronger

of the two sexes,

but the traditional audience

of Cosmopolitan is not ready

to admit this, and so I can’t

help but be bothered

by the fact that these

women are being told

that the father of their child

would have a problem

seeing his child be born.

So, to all future baby-daddy:

excuse Me for offending your

sensitive masculine eyes.

Blue

Larger mine eyes.

A troubled mind

picks at nails.

A different disease

spawned from the cancer

This is going on

in his mind

and he got it on tape.

Stories to don’t have

to abide by rules,

but they have

to have rules.

I do not exist,

nor do I choose to.

Are you high?

Or just playing

With reality?

Where did all

The people go?

The stupidity

of the relgious,

The anger

of the atheist,

The sadness

of the enlightened

is more like

a reluctance

to vomit.

Ars Poetica

give them something to grab onto,

hold on to,

un-glue

from the paper,

tearing it down

the middle

in two, in four, in eight, sixteen, etcetera, etcetera,

and so on

and so forth,

ipso facto,

de factotum momentum

of Latinate diction is too

complicated

for people to get,

stick with the simple

Germanic diction so they can picture

what you’re talking about,

even if you, the author,

cannot

even begin to fathom what

is coming out of the end

of the pen

and expanding across,

scarring across the page,

raping the white paper

like you would a cock-tease

red-headed virgin hopped

up on red

wine and ketamine,

I mean to say,

that is to say

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox,

in other words,

for a lack of a better phrase,

W.C.W. is an asshole—

so what

does that make me?

someone who takes lines

[of coke]

from an asshole,

that’s really a disgusting mental

image,

if you take it literally,

of course,

who takes anything

literally any-

more? everything’s

supposed to be a metaphor,

nothing is

what it is,

it all just represents

something larger

than the actual thing,

like how I am a cyborg

when I use a car

as an extension of my

body when I’m

driving stop

and go down

the beltway and that big

Mormon temple looks

like motherfucking

Disneyland—why

do we erect(ion) monuments—

the Washington monument is a phallic symbol—

to mythical men

in the sky, old

white guys

with long

white beards

pointing down

and smiting us for sinning—

and by sinning I mean being human,

doing what we were created to do—

you and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals

so shouldn’t we be

a zoo exhibit too?

a creature to be

gawked at,

banging

on the glass

in the primate house

and wondering

nothing

but when the zookeeper will bring the next meal

of squashed banana sompte sanna, winnie, woonie, lani lani—

or however that shit goes,

that shit we sling

at each other, shit

with un-digested

corn in it,

stinking

sickly-sweet like high

fructose corn syrup poured

steaming

all over your body

rotting from the outside

in

and at least apes don’t eat

each other’s shit out of a cup

and then post it on the internet

for all the other apes to watch,

to trick their friends into

watching and everyone

knows

it’s disgusting

but they watch it any way

and the second you think

of something,

there’s a video of it posted

online simultaneously

elsewhere in the world

spiraling to viral

video status, so Tosh.O

can give us a web

redemption—

as if we even

deserve redemption

from such an annoying

little

prick—

the kind of prick that grew

up in an all white town like mine,

popped his Polo collar,

played lacrosse and had

a following of laxtitutes

[laxatives]

and is still deluding us

into thinking

we’re all the big

[white]

man on campus, in congress,

I’ve lost control of this

and left

the author with

nothing

to grab onto

but the roots

of the hair

I’m about to tear

out in chunks and the teeth

I’m gritting

down to the gums and I

watched

this Nat. Geo. Special

about people who

burn their own

flesh

with hot metal,

brand

themselves to set

themselves apart—

isn’t it ironic—

though not quite entirely unexpected—

that I can call them them?—

God, if there is a god, can

any of us truly be original?

are we capable?

or are we all truly

Your flock of sheep,

meek

and wary of the meat

under our wool.

Ode to I-Hop, the International House of Potheads

French toasted
stuffed with cheesecake
cream cheese
smothered, nay, graced
with strawberry gooeyness
and whipped
cream on top,
eggs over easy,
take it easy baby,
greasy bacon,
buttered up
toast and hash
browns, o! the hash
browns, man, so salty
so starchy
stickin to my insides;
I love I-Hop breakfast
when 3:45pm feels
like 9:00am and I
am hungover as shit
and my liver hates me
but my stomach thanks me.

The State of the Modern Educational System, or, Attention Deficit Disorder

I am fucking hungry
and high
and I wish I could sleep in your class
it's so mmmm warm in here
but your voice
is like a female Gilbert Godfrey
just shut your face already woman.

Robinson Crusoe can suck my un-shaved cunt
he's such a little bitch--
of course, I haven't actually read
any of it
just bent the spine back
for the first time today
in class
when I was still pretending
to pay attention
to the passage
the prof was citing
and now I'm writing just to keep from sleeping--

that red-headed curly-headed fucktard
in the back corner
of the classroom
won't shut his trap
he normally
wears skirts
but today
he's wearing pants
and he must
have his panties
in a bunch
because he's being
especially annoying today
one of those kids who just talks for the sake of talking
who wears skirts to get attention--he is the reason that real transgenders, cross-dressers get a bad name, i mean the dude wears mini-skirts in January, even if he was a girl he would still look like a moron, I want to turn around and chuck my water bottle at his big stupid head and yell SHUT UP already.
no one cares.

Progression

3.

i have ceased
to be
amazed.

2.

i have a habit of not
finishing things,
or,
not letting things finish,
be finished,
finish me.

1.

i will,
henceforth,
be brutally honest
to myself,
and true only
to myself.
i cannot figure
it
out
(out)side
of myself.
it is anxiety over
the future,
the unknown--
i'm not any better,
no better
than anyone.
i have been him,
am him,
am
other,
the other
than myself.
i see myself
reflected
in every
one's
faces,
my own face
is not
my face.

It's Sunshine, It's Not Givin a Fuck

the sky is green
and Russia's invading
the pigeons are talking
i'll ride my giraffe to work
the elephants are calling
on the big red gramophone
the fireworks imploding
on 6-inch cyber cones
we are laughing, joking
pop testing to a positive
charge of ion flow
and the purple lights flash glow

i want to know
i want to know
what makes us click
makes us trip
over the wires
and down the cliff
falling away from me
floating back to me now
i want to know
i want to know

our hair is locked
matted to a billow
our knees are scabbed
with yesterday's peanut-butter
the Russians are screaming
and we let them gleam
their guns their guns their guns
in the District at dusk
the mammoth tusks
stuck through our septums
the mammoth drums
are thumping strong

i want to know
i want to know
what makes us click
makes us trip
over the wires
and down the cliff
falling away from me
floating back to me now
i want to know
i want to know

we are rooted in beat
beatings on the ground
beatings in the sound
sounds ground round and round
here comes the Russians
here comes the elephants
here comes the donkeys
and they all look the same
we're laughing clouds
to unhinge the mountains
the sky is green
and Russia's invading
and we don't give a fuck

what makes us click
makes us trip
over the wires
and down the cliff
falling away from it all
floating back over it all
the termites eat through the wall
"the lunatic is in the hall"
i beg him come in a while
maybe for a long while
the sky is green
and Russia's invading
the pigeons are talking
and we're walking with giraffes.

Drunken Dribbling

So I decided I would take a break--
indefinitely--
from smoking pot.

I'm pretty sure that it's going to be replaced with a mix of alcohol, cigarettes and xanax.

A lot of cigarettes.

I woke up today with a note on my bed that said Never wake up before noon, never be sober after.

The same man who left me the note swayed outside of a Dan Deacon show in Baltimore, howling, how many of you know you're alive? how many of you know you're alive? you fucking zombies and the black bandanna tied around his head Rambo-style slipped over his eyes and he tore it off, chucked it at the gutter that he loves so much, before he bummed a ride home to eat sea foam moldy bread, apple cores, stare into the bottom of last night's empty wine bottle stained purple--

Christ, what the fuck am I talking about?

I aim to get to that point whee my sinuses no longer wince at the whiskey in my gullet.

Leaf

A brown leaf I found out front our house, flitting around in the grass waiting to be crumbled but just before I was going to snap it at the middle along the curve and let it be winnowed away, it struck me how early it was for the crumbling leaves, the kind that have dried out and hardened on the sidewalk through September and October and into November, but here it is intruding on August, or rather August is intruding on it like wildfire and maybe I'll light the leaf on fire instead of crumbling it, it is awfully soon to be crumbling, I don't want to seem too forward--do you suppose the leaf has a preference? Like how people put it in their will to be buried or cremated or eaten like a holiday squash, I don't really care as long as there's steamed crabs and beer--yes, but what about the leaf? The leaf, right, the leaf I found out front our house, and by our house I mean the lunchbox we rent at the end of the street with the whole wall tiled in mirrors, except for a few that must've broken or fallen out and were replaced with cheap linoleum floor tiles that used to be white and the bug crawling across my laptop screen is so shockingly green it must be a cyber matrix bug, sent from the internet to eat the leaf before I can crumble it in my greasy palm, because I'm so busy trying to write a goddamnKeats Ode on a Grecian Urn about a leaf I found out front our house today, around that weird time between afternoon and evening, when the sun is still hot but you can see the moon on the opposite horizon.

I Can Be An Asshole Too

shitty rhymes for the sake of rhyming

timing imperfect

motions jerky

meter twerking

lurking in the annals of your mind

find me, lost in the grains between the wood-paneled walls,

or under Walt's boot soles.

Verses on the Jersey Shore

1. Jack Kerouac perched by the surf at Big Sur and lost his mind trying to understand the garbled language of the wide Pacific. I sit at the Atlantic, trying to looooose myself as Jack did and I can only come to a calm reason. The Atlantic is overlooked but here is where we all started on the grainy brown shores of the East where the water rolls in consistent and brackish and saltier than beards.

2. My lofty tones of natural wonderment are disturbed (welcomingly) by throaty calls down the beach:

Fuuuuudgie Wuuuuudgie!

Love your child, buy an ice cream!

A guy about my grandfather's age comes rolling an ice cream cart down the part where the sand is packed hard, between where it's wet and where it's dry, the cart's the kind with the oversized blue plastic wheels and the man wears high white socks with orthopedic tennis shoes.

3. Oh yeah, you know I bought a fudgie wudgie.

4. I remember sitting out here a few summers back, back in high school, reading the Cliff Notes version of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina (one of those awful Russian novels where everyone dies) and the man on the lifeguard stand turned out to be a teacher and knew immediately that this must be a summer assignment because what sixteen-year-old suburbanite would want to read Tolstoy in the summer time?

5. The fat kid next to us with a Philly accent is tossing potato chips to the seagulls and all I can think of (4 beers in) are the gulls in Finding Nemo

mine, mine, mine mine, mine

6. Okay, Kerouac, here we go again whoooosh, woooo, kerplash, sash, waaash, wishing, whistling on a limb a while whistle while you work, da do do do do dooo--

7. I tried to loooose myself like Jack again and all I can do is arrive at old Disney movies and so I end up passing out sitting up in my beach chair. Something about the Atlantic won't let me be lost, keeps me from wandering too far inward, keeps me looking outward, but not so far as the horizon, only far enough to point out dolphin fins arcing up and down just past the breakers; to laugh at the dad next to us who let his three sons bury him in the sand and give him a mermaid tail and pointy sand boobs; to grab another beer out of the cooler and arrange the sand with my feet just so; to the blue ink spreading across my page, methodically, logically, steadily as the choppy waves at Cape May.

tea time with coltrane

solemn muted brass

out on the cool summer night

winding like smoke between iron fire escapes

and mellow soft piano

black

keys

lower

lower

lower

softer, please

my head is heavy on my neck by 10p.m. it felt like midnight

purple black night

All Good 2010, II

A ray of sunshine through

the dust that laid un-

disturbed for a year,

a full year,

before the down home dancers,

the flowing barefooted wood

nymphs return

to their mountain,

the Mother mountain

of Masontown, West Virginia,

Marvin's Mountaintop,

a Mecca of Music and Remembrances of a tribal way of life,

dancing, spinning as little balls of swirling sunshine,

goldenrod and glimmering green goo upon our bodies

Bluegrass

I AM A BOOT HEEL STOMPING

A CRACKED WOODEN FLOOR,

WANTING WHISKEY POURED AS

AUGRED AMBER IN A PAIL,

A HEARTY DANCE TO APPALACHIAN

FIDDLES BACKED BY METAL

BUCKET BASS BUMPED BY

BARREL CHESTED WOMEN

IN BLUE LINEN

AND WHITE APRONS,

DIRT UNDER THIR NAILS,

COMPOST UNDER THEIR

TOENAILS, COMPOST MADE

OF EGG SHELLS, SWEET PEPPER

RHINDS, COW MANURE, COFFEE

GROUNDS--

All Good 2010

glowing speckled swamp boogie toads

gullets bubbling out, pulsing in

quivering, bouncing to the tribal drums

and animals calling, howling, awoooooing to their dozens of lovers

ow ow owwww into the night,

shouting out of primal delight in the rising stars like Chinese lanterns

hundreds of them glowing against the black backwoods night

we pound the ground, we glee at our feet stomping the hard packed dirt, kicking up dust for our limbs to bend and wander lithely through, blithely turning up our open bony necks to the sky--

the dust, the smoke lingers,

lingers

lingering on the fresh

mountain dew--

jubilance

awakening

clarity

ethereal

subliminal

MOTHER EARTH: consume us, possess us, move us:

THIS IS MY BODY, IT SHALL BE GIVEN UP FOR YOU

take of my shell and pour out the purple of my soul, dance and splash in me as I weave out a path through the weeds, the briars, the drums of the MOUNTAINSIDE

Lunchbox Prelude

We are all each of us drawn to a state, a state of mind along the warbling inconsistent warp of time that is our coexistence, white existential eggs waiting to be cracked open, or hard-boiled and then peeled back to the meaty yellow of your caveman mind, finding your element and at the same time feeling out of your element watching Jake kill the spider drunk outside his house with a garden hose and I've been waiting naked in the woods for you all night but you're forever on the beach so you said let's go to Oregon, where the forest runs right to the ocean. I'm feeling the motion of our collective brain waves arcing and pirouetting across the wood paneled sky and Lazy Lion Ryan just keeps right on lyin' on the couch in the corner, laughing inside at all us searching for the spot that does not exist. There is no spot, there is no bowl, and that's Zen Buddhism for silly little kids who aren't really about following what someone else came up with first but rather trying to find their own way through the crawling vines like ink expanding across your shirt, blue water colors that you flung up and around yourself, dancing in time to the twinkling of the stars hidden by beautiful polluted gradiated skies blue to purple to yellow and back again and the best people always are.

Kinetic Lollygagging

wilted with the wet

from the arcs of our spines

as we try to find

where the nerve endings

bend between the firing of synapses, the hot-wired threads

through our bodies to our heads, you said when was the last time your toes went numb?

Toes go numb, unstrung and shudder as a hot white light clings to an clears the clutter like green acid rain, brain waves are gone, and replaced with a radiant, third eye'd clarity as we bare our bodies like sunning reptiles,

dizzy and tired

from too much exhaling

but too much

is never too much

rather just enough to get things started between two souls grounded in two bodies inter-twined and open blooms of moon flower vines wrapped in the moon light streaming through the cracks in the burgundy blinds,

you sighed, and turned to face me, encased me once again and I want to fold into your skin, go back to your rib as I dig my fingertips into the skin on your back, leaving white lines through the red surface in the moments before we bend and contort to ever angle conceivable, limbs interlocking

and hips rocking in time to the palpitations of our synchronized blood vessels caressing me and we're bending, roving, up-ending over shoulders, and your clinging to me fast like petals on bees wings when the sun blurs the dew out the valley giving way to blue mountains rolling on and on and on and on

to the point of yellow element in the distant back beach, bleached on your brain matter splatter-painted blue water colors flurried up and around and around and around and back again, white linen

on tree trunks, hips sunk down to roots stretching out to each infinitesimal decimal point of synapse firing, firing out yellow caveman egg shell linings cracked open and peeled back like zippers opened, the metal button weighs down the flap of fabric waving in the breeze of the fan, your breath on the back of my neck and down my spine, a thin river of mist shaken off the mountain grasses rolled away the dew in the morning the moment when the moon sits below one horizon and the sun below the other so that

we are the only celestial bodies in the air opal cleavage flaked off the ore and refracting our reflection through bent mirrors, bulbs of water balanced on pink petals like your skin up against my skin, I can't tell where yours begins, I can't tell where mine is or where the ground is and what are branches

when put next to roots that shoot down to points past where they could have shot up where if we stretch too far we knock the stars out of alignment, but when we go down further and further and further and further we just flower out the other side of the globe like birds let loose,

sheets cling to curves walking through hanging laundry on wooden clothespins and the sun shines in, running our muddy hands through the clean linen as sound-waves caught between outer space and atmosphere,

we are still here, the widest of tree trunks with roots protruding up through the ground like tunnels are still clinging to the white shoots further down, and if you touch me again, I may just unfurl like redwood twine and start this whole thing winding again, and again, and again, and

we think about it,

in the brief moments before sleep,

your eyes

mist over, and we

collapse back in on ourselves

and let the sun do its job.

my sexual liberation manifesto

when you so frankly asked me about my sexuality

i told you that it was more fluid than anything, and you

looked at me stupid as if to say you're crazy

but what you don't get is that i wander in the hazy

space, the place between what's already defined

in your minds as straight or gay or bisexual or asexual,

but why can't we just be sexual beings?

to me it seems we get too caught up on labeling things,

too caught up on trying to define ourselves

in other people's terms instead of just defining

ourselves as indefinable, indeterminate and inter-

woven with clothes woven of Saturn's rings and celestial things

and only in spreading our wings can we fully understand our own state of being,

our own state of mind, body and the soul we all share as a whole:

it's the universal mind--unbind your senses from your physicality

and start to sense reality as a commonality of our in-betweens,

and our grey areas, and the hazy spaces that blur our sense of the real

and the divine, it's like when you say it's fine

but i know by your tone that nothing is fine

and nothing is real anymore--

my god i think i may be going insane

because i keep jumping the train

of one thought to another track

and i can't keep track of where my mind is at

or what is just my imagination--

i imagine a future of collaboration

and widespread participation in this radical expression

of our individualisms and our imperfections as what binds us

together, forever, as humans or transhumans or posthumans

or whatever manifestation of beautiful androgyny that we come to embody,

and calling out in one voice of many voices,

calling out from our guts, our roots

and from the center of the room

my homegirl shouts, fuck the boundaries

and we all sound our barbaric yawps wrought of dirt and earth and all things visceral and fleshy

they tell us our flesh is our sin,

that a woman's a slut if she likes to fuck

well guess what: i like to get down and i like it rough,

i like it raw, up against your wall in the back seat of the car

on the way to the airport going 80 down the highway, and if we would all just be fucking

honest with ourselves, we'd be a hell of a lot happier

and hell of a lot stressed

because, baby, sex releases tension,

releases endorphins each time we orgasm

when we are in the simultaneous throes of passion,

the simultaneous action of just loving

and touching and sucking and wanting each other

on top of the covers and baby i don't care if you're

boy, girl or something outside or between

just be in between me, split open the peach

of my mind and come inside as we coincide our lives and our minds through our bodies,

our warm bodies, sticky and heaving, breathing in heavy gasps,

not needing to ask what feels good but just knowing

by a lover's intuition when to switch positions

and which nerves to push over the edge

of the bed and spilling out, crying out, yes yes yes,

again, beginning life again as a single atom-ed being--

not adam as in eve, but an atom, as in a microscopic organism;

this is an extrapolation of that minute chaotic perfection

made of ions and protons and neutrons and I can try to explain it in words

but the problem with words, the flaw with them all is that they limit us,

limit our thoughts that are really limitless,

we can learn to think not in words, but in feeling,

feeling our feelings as what they are and not what language or society or a dictionary describes them as, because it really is true what they say:

that the best things in life cannot be explained in words like "love,"

if i wanted to express my love for you in words i'd be writing for all eternity that's how much you mean to me and i know it sounds cliche but i don't care,

you are my muse, my music, my soundtrack for life,

you blow my mind in ways i can't begin to understand, you

overwhelm my body, you beat the snare drum that's my heart

you are the very blood of my veins and yeah i know you think it's strange when i say these things but you like it

and i can't help but try to relate to you how you make me feel inside when you're inside of me,

even though i know that words are futile

i try and i try and i try to the point of crying,

and as i try to dry my tears with the sleeve of my shirt

i realize that my eyes are meant to be crying,

crying tears of ecstasy at the understanding of the true nature of our soul relation

as an amalgamation,

a completion, or a peaking of two into one single organism,

borne of phantasmagoric orgasm--

Intimations on Mortality

Mammal hide drums tied taut with human jerky--

like how i am a cyborg when i use a car as an extension of my body--

Walk around a circular room enough, and you'll find the corners--

People are always telling me to stay grounded in the physical but the literal can't always relate the metaphysical--it's beyond words, so here i am, a poet, an artist of words so to speak, coming to the realization that words are superfluous, unnecessary even--i have thoughts cranking, flowing, juicing through my head that cannot be conceptualized, cannot be degradized into words, it's almost like how the Arabic language has words with no direct translation to English, no concept of the western notion of borders--

a species, as an entity akin to nature--

An oily colt is only but spolotched out in an early spring snow, when the ground is still clinging to winter's chill, still frozen six inches under, but the surface is warm enough to melt the snow.

A Collection of Animals

I’ve felt worse

but I feel the curse of knowing what I shouldn’t be.

I’m like this and You’re like this-

we’ll all feel, all together.

Yes, this mess is mine.

I take my time, You take your time.

Just take Your time.

& if you need

the bees, the bees, the bees,

there will be time to just cry.

& the words they sting like a stump of old wasps,

when You are home You can do as you please.

I like your looks when you get mean

I don’t mean to seem like I care about material things,

My knees were just trying to reach You.

believe in ghosts & set them free,

And I have a question:

are You also frightened?

good silence means we’re home.

And I have a question:

am I really all the things that are outside of Me?

this rhythm that’s up in my head

this rhythm it needs to get right out of my clothes and get into my bedroom-

all this movement has just proved your kisses are too fine

You & Me & Me & You

I don’t mean to seem like I care about material things,

sometimes I don’t know where that crush high goes.

And I have a question:

would You like to see Me often?

I want to walk around with You.

come walk around with Me.

When you look at me with Your brown eyes

if I think too fast, take what's in my head when there’s no one watching.

From one moment to a next

I was dreaming of just you-

You are visiting beds, You are visiting mine.

now I think it's all right; We're together.

if I could just leave my body for the night

then we could be dancing;

no more missing You while I’m gone.

This one's for Reverend Green.

untitled in black and gold

Monkey

dazed and confused as a baboon too soon let loose

from the zoo impending doom foreboding werewolf

moon and screechings in the night like untuned

moth's wings juicy glory of moth puree still

untasted yet untempted and undated

in time underrated masculinity belated

awareness of his darkness and simply belied at the

thought of admitting he relies on the zoo trying

to force a howl of despair but what's left of the

blue on his big baboon ass gets the best of him and

he ends up crying into a tree opining and opened

to the world and his sundry knuckles among

matted sticky fur like flesh--his tongue is dry--

and the frogs sung throughout the night like jaded dragonflies

silhouetted pirouetting black against the russet sunset

one being with insect regality and one man undone

undoing his circulatory system and letting his brain

matter unravel out and mingle with the blood

and synapses exploding like fireworks shows closer in focus

under a microscope and then marbled-warbled-kaleidoscoped

under the stethoscope and consciousness coming

to a full lotus

I AM GOD

[untitled]

He wears nostalgia like cologne,
And I do not fear his embrace.
Resisting my urges of discontent
I hold on for dear sanity.

Life is before me,
But not an enlightened one.
I know Mara is unconquerable.
  His 3 daughters harass me.
I can't shake the feeling
That serenity has deserted me.

Your Third Day Home

you stand just naked as an insect or

a worm on wet and broken pavement, early

in spring and feeling rain as metallic

or stoned mist from monuments all lit

up gold and silver slivers rushing on,

stampeding over: horses, men on their

backs all come falling, flailing and just splash

away in waves that plume like smoke leaked out

between your words—all nonsense now, and drip—

no—soaking tones of wonderment at some

thing simple like the Washington monument

as just a phallic symbol or how planes

look like they’re cars, so i tell you that they

have made an invisible sky-way so that

the Congress members don’t have to get caught

in traffic like the rest of us and you

laugh and look at me to say that you

get it and that you love me, you just laugh

and ask if I feel moths, you, me, a week,

a time, a place, not solid, but still—

Colors

our reflection in the rain

stained window pane was in

the hazy space between

pale and translucent.

our reflection was bulbed and warbled

and then refracted in the fractals

of our collective sweat, cradled

in the nape of your neck

and the flatlands between my breasts--

our beaded chests beating

with the sweet bitterness

of burnt sugar:

blackened

but fading

to a mellow heroin yellow

a simmering addiction--we're afflicted

but we've been uplifted to another level

of experimental soul relation--

it's an elation, or a peaking

of two into one

and fanning out in waves of sand and patterned static

it's automatic and forever

as a single spectre

in simultaneous throes

and toes go numb, unstrung and, shudder--

[untitled]

They're all doing their thing

Found only in the depths

Of the immortal Blue.

The impenetrable

      The epic of the epoch

Find it, and jam

Find it, and flow

We found it.

      Lofty. Lazy. Luminescent.

In what could only be

      The days of the Lovely Dog.

The Not Knowing

standing in the shower

bent over and looking at my feet

as i have never noticed them before

stubbier sturdier

and toenails scratching the tub floor

while I heave in and out

in and out in and out just breathe

he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay

and my mind starts to wander

to places darker than the spaces

between my toes in my shadow

and I picture Scott telling me—

no stop it stop it stop it

I stare at my feet again seeing them

As i imagine you must see them

Tiny and strong and i know you

Can hear me when i whisper out loud

I love you I love you I love you

And I try to put a leash on my thoughts

And I picture you in flashes

Yelling

A sand colored helmet

Sand stirring

Yelling

Incoherent

And I put a leash on my thoughts

And I picture you in flashes

Hazy around the edges a vignette

And I imagine how it will feel to just

Be able to reach out and touch you

Your skin your blonde stubble

Your solid shape

he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay

and if I just keep writing and spilling

all of this out then my head might stop

wincing and my lungs might stop

wheezing and the red flowers you

gave me are dead and crispy but

they are still in the red vase

sitting on my desk next to

my bed even though they drop

little black bits all over last

month’s homework I didn’t do

I can’t bring myself to stuff

Them into a plastic bag and throw

Them out and I’m glad

That I was able to tell you that

You inspire me

Because the last time we talked

You said

i hope i’ll be back tomorrow

and then told me that you love me

twice

Film over the eyes

A sparkling demise

It drifts and struts

With the like of us.

Possibly,

A further existence away

Falling prey

To that which encompasses us.

Now I know what it means.

The Peering Soul

A Memory (I think)

the light edged through cracks in your blinds

as headlights turned, pulsing from

the parking lot below your room

your dual colored eyes, one brown, one green

glared soft with ambient light

in the last blinks before sleep

New Age

We have explored this world out

to its ends and to different ends:

the only place left to go is IN

into collective consciousness

collective creativeness, creating awareness

of the WHOLE, the universal mind--

UNBIND your senses from your

physicality and start to sense

reality as a commonality

of our in-betweens--people!

this is not metaphysics,

NO NEED to be academic

to get it, this is just the basic

stuff of life; understand

your own relation to the universe

as simultaneous uniqueness

and sameness, with no

circumference no distance it is

more real than any real

that we have ever known

collaboration of souls

is a fermentation, a distillation

of thoughts and feelings

into radical EXPRESSION--

that's participation--

FILL UP our cup

open the skull of your soul

and pour, pour, pour it out

as wine of the mind,

not meant to intoxicate

but to illuminate the deep

dark of the cerebellum--

THIS is our antebellum period

the moments before the flash

the quiet before we attack

and hack away at the old

and the antiquated for

this has been anticipated

for eons and ages:

it's the age of aquarius

aqueous solutions: blue

placid and fluid motions

and open oceans full of life

on a microcosmic level

refracted as a fractal

of the macrocosmic atom;

jolted by the synapse--fire

fire, fired OFF!

off into the nothing the black

faster than the snapping of

the old world cracking

off into the winds, bursting

OUT our brains, blowing

flowing, falling down the current

the now, our ever moving movement

THIS is our movement toward enjamb-

ment to the next plane of thought

thinking, feeling not in words

recognizing signs: this is the time

to align our minds to bring peace

of the Mind and the universe

can't you see? it's all a universal

movement of thoughts for

immortality--WE ALL create

our new reality...

Starched Collar Shirts

Is anyone else sick with this institution?
I mean, the institution,
I'm talking about "the man"
I'm talking about Washington
about politicians about lies and more lies
about racism
about sexism
homophobia classism ageism and all other isms
and modes of discrimination
because it all still
exists
here in this nation
and in every nation we the united states of america are not
alone in our egocentrism
it is here it's across the pond its all over
we all find something to say to claim that we
are better than our neighbors but
how can anyone
be so god damned convinced of their own superiority?
it's really just a conspiracy of inferiority complexes
set to vex us put a hex on our minds and keep
them bound and closed but
if we could all just STAND UP and
shout in one world voice--
ENOUGH
enough with the bullshit politics don't think for a second you represent me, sir,
you don't know me nor will you ever how can you be
a sixty year old wasp and tell a young woman that she must keep that fetus
from a father who walked out? how can you tell
two men in love that they can't marry?
didn't we already deem that "separate but equal" is inherently UN-equal?
FUCK YOU and your starched white collar--
take your constitution and your social institutions and your lack
of contribution to the public good and SHOVE IT
all up your asses! let the people be
free here there and everywhere abroad stop
RAPING our planet of its natural resources and telling us that it's for our own good
how can you blow billions of dollars on oil
while we can't afford to feed our children? how can you
send a man to an unjust war for shady reasons and deny him the right to drink a fucking beer?
how can you call me your constituent when you
were just the lesser
of two evils? how the FUCK can you sleep at night!? do you really think
what you do is right? you talk talk talk and flap
your fat gums dripping with pork fat but I have yet to see
you fools accomplish a damn thing
to make life on this planet more sustainable are you even capable
of rational thought at this point? or is the tie around your neck
cutting off the oxygen flow to your brain--if you have one, that is--I have an idea:
dissolve your government dissolve and deconstruct the institutions deconstruct any pre-
conceived notions and just let it be let
the people free
their minds and realize
we have complete control over ourselves we
are not responsible to some outdated form of cattle herding and we
will NOT go quietly to the chopping block any longer!
with each word I shout the movement becomes stronger
and stronger--your days are numbered, mr. politician! FUCK THE CORPORATE WORLD!

Week in Pictures: Kosovo Albanian Boy

You could have been my son, dear boy
in another life,
staring through the window frame,
your face as pale as night.

You could have bless'd my womb, dear boy
and drank my milk in dawn,
hours after being born of me,
around my tit, your mouth is warm.

You could have been my son, dear boy--
your nameless face and eyes
staring through the camera lens,
reflecting cloudy skies.

You were born in Kosovo,
a thousand miles away;
yet, my heart is tied to yours--
I felt you die among the fray.

Aqueous Solution

the guy just turned into buckets of water--

his solid shape evaporated in space and

time and

he splashed into a metal pail where his shoes

just stood.

i stared into the bucket, calling to him

through reflections of flying animals

below.

i touched my fingertip to the water as

a dogwood peal and it rippled into

waves, splashing

over the edges and then

collapsing back in on himself,

slowly coming to a stillness to reflect

the flying animals as traces,

residual images in opposite colors:

orange to blue and red to green.

i plunged my hand as a child

chubby, pink and ruddy, dirt under my nails,

down

to the bottom of the inside of his

pail and felt the cool metal

against the raised grooves of my fingertips--

the water stayed still around my forearm,

pale white as half-and-half,

surrounded in his blue...

Evolution

We are

children of the Earth

rolling in dirt of the Earth

as we dance on the Earth

to dried mammal hide drums.

The hide drums beat with us,

ancient roots grow from us,

fucking, you and I become us

to sunburnt Earth drum songs.

We are

children of the moon

eating flowers of the moon

as we dance on the moon

to silver moon dust tunes.

The moon dust clings to us,

metallic talcum on us,

shimmering, you and I become us,

to silver moon dust tunes.

We are

children of the sun

drinking the echoes of the sun

as we dance on the sun

to golden sun flare songs.

The sun flares shoot from us,

plasmic heat exudes from us,

melding, you and I become us,

to golden sun flare songs.

We are

children of the Universe

swimming in clouds of the Universe

as we dance on the Universe

to implosions of novas.

The novas hologram us,

atoms splitting of us,

fusing, you and I become us,

to pulsing nova songs.

We are

children of the Mind,

expanding in the Mind,

as we ramble in the Mind,

to red blood heart beat beats.

Our heartbeat pounds in us,

vibrant branches grow from us,

silent, you and I become us,

to synapse firing songs.

Flurries in Program

When the electric spins out of control

Vibration breath windows

glistened in fractals

Our eyes twist into endless oblivion

sleuthed over endless dactile confusion

To make you see it's all working

inside you.

This is the time to refuse the leap into

unconsciousness

amble, awake, aware

of the fragile imperfect perfection

in the structure of our atom

We must follow our hearts into

uncertainty

equates

all flurries in program

Suck in the light of all infinite beings

And now I can finally embrace... the fall

-redd willow, Baby Blue, Dexter Stevenson, AGA, Mabel Asp, Kameron Aroom

palindrome

strange specters
aglow with the light once lost
among the unbending reeds
as strong as day
and twice as bright

we find ourselves wandering this
Labyrinth
full of daze
yet fully aware
of our amalgamation

transcendent ivory cogs
fall into ascension
with golden soul embers…

- redd willow, mabel asp, baby blue... (illustration coming sooon!!!)

Do You Realize?

"What large eyes you have"

Conversations Over Distances

Soughing soft as falling fog--white,

we wade through the effervesce of

evening songs: of Mozart's Andante,

helos stirring up sand in droves to

mask your voice with patterned static,

and old ladies' gated gardens woven

with adelvice vines--we are addled.

We wonder: where, or how, is this,

as we wander through the wade pools of our now,

asking ourselves aloud: What of it?

And slowly, we soon realize how places

and times are not important,

and frozen.

[untitled]

Drink down

The grace of God

And allow it to infiltrate all.

Whoah what were you just saying?

Sip it down--to the ground

up--to the crown.

Let it explode, indigo eye'd radiant.

Let it expand you, inside to out, in waves--

in droves.

So that we may touch from miles away.

--R.F. Willow, Baby Blue, Ian Herman, Soohan, Alexa Grey, Dustin

[untitled]

Seven single colored souls,

spectrums singled out through holes,

only found through eyes of gold

value indeterminate neither bought nor sold.

Smiling faces scream in a light,

glowing voices in the night

sighing soft as falling fog whites.

--R.F. Willow, Baby Blue, Ian Herman, Alexa Grey, Soohan, Nala, Dustin

An Apple a Day Keeps the Butcher Away

Live Fast

Is it possible?

for now- maybe

with the help of Jack and Joe

(and as far as you want to go)

But there must be black with the white!

… if you can call it “light”.

The colors haze into brown

tar

teeth

-Or is it individual sight?

Can you float so far up

that you won’t mind when you pop?

Will your spirit continue on?

And only your body drop?

Or… are they one in the same?

Does the quality of life depend on the sacrifice

of  quantity?

And in the end

is the question “to become”

or

“To Be”

E-motion

e-motion

funny

how it doesn’t seem to move us forward

or

at least

not in any direction toward

the place I want to be.

Progressive and productive

A place to be happy

but what is this “happy”?

An emotion, you say?

An attitude; a state of mind- a position to exist in

one day.

-“position”, not “place”

There is no road in this race

There is no time on the clock

There is no measurement of pace.

It’s not the “where”

but the “how”

It’s not the “when”

but the “why”

Sometimes the speed of our stride

Reflects the tears that we cry (resolves the time that we die)

[red willow and baby blue: snow day iii]

rippling heart-waves
fusion fuchsia rings

whimsy bright starshine
on golden strands, unstrung
magnetic color beats,

beats as our heart –

reverberating earth,
shimmers sky
flashing
from the silver
in your eye

gazed gently coy lips –

ripe.


-r.f. willow and baby blue

[untitled]

she turns the hour glass in the doorway

slowly, as a breeze

she knows no time

no time that turns points 'round points,

circling round to find one

one quiet place to stand still

like here.

silent with sympathy

sorry and simple--

arrested in time

as sand come to a rest at a point

suspended

content with the questions threatening the peace

of glass sand

slowly shining

conviction--

I pause, thinking of you, of breezes, and of glass

strewn as scattered consciousness

tiny glass pieces like stars glitter along the edges, life stops

waits for me...

--R.F. Willow, Baby Blue, La Despunta

[red willow and baby blue: snow day 2]

melted perception

ribboned fray

murose as maroon

drowning in essence

of pumpernickel

staring smolering smiles

because we know we are the embers

of existence

antithesis

alive

adored.

-R.F. Willow and Baby Blue

[untitled]

As we ramble through the edges

We go through until we find the corners

They speak subjectively.

They speak with purpose.

They do not speak at all.

Without words we hear

A divine echo.

Baby Blue, Igor Eegs, R.F. Willow, Ann Engle, Dexter Stevenson, Brandy Gideon, ADRIAN

red willow and baby blue: snow day 1

wading through the veins of your effervescence

spun through fingers like weeds

grown in green gardens of God's mist

kissing the tip of my tongue

I close my eyes to better see your underpinnings

pointedly piercing perception

realized, flowering and then pluming

my broad bearded breast

pressed to yours, glistening gold and pulsing

a tiny glistening drip of my eye

falls to grace and esses along your in-between

drowning dreams

in the winding, weaving weeds of our consciousness

I could not be happier.

--R.F. Willow and Baby Blue 2/5/10

(untitled)

she said,

we're dealing with the edge of

consciousness here

so we're talking about temporal distance

distancing yourself from your mind processes

wander aimlessly

through the annals of your

consciousness--

remove your consciousness from your

mind--mold it in your hand

like silly putty or play dough

make it malleable, mold it, shape it--

UN-shape it,

pack it, poke swiss cheese holes

in it--and then try to re-amalgamate

it with your mind--you'll find yourself

feeling strange and rearranged inside,

and outside will seem to you some-

thing new and unfamiliar, some-

thing you've never seen although you've lived

here all this life

rakish

an utterance
Of
my celestial cock
scattered
the shivering sunshine
spilling
between your legs,

a mask
sincerely smiling
slithers a tongue
to your skin,

i will not, but
want so desperately
to love you,

though,
i remain
your revered soldiered
cock

Passing On

As my blood cells leave my heart, they pulse through my arteries, with each beat of my heart. My red blood cells carry oxygen to my outermost limbs; they are red because they are carrying my hemoglobin that is carrying my oxygen. They pulse, turn blue, and they loop back to my heart; they are blue because they still have my hemoglobin but they are depleted of my oxygen. My white blood cells should rush to eat away at bacteria; they are white because they lack hemoglobin and oxygen. My white blood cells aren't for carrying oxygen through my body; they should be there to help heal me.

With each pulse of my blood cells through my body, my heart beats. Beats a red beat, red as my flesh, red as the flesh of an old Oregon grizzly--he's been hiding out for decades since people thought the grizzlies were gone. And his clawed paw swipes in time to the river rushing by, white as god's whispers fallen as frost on morning pine needles. And the frost glistens with each wink of the sun through soughing boughs, pirouetting soft, soft as I wander on the wings of winnowed sun flakes. I dip, I pitch, I twirl. I dip, I pitch, I twirl. I dip, I pitch I twirl to land, glistened, in dry packed dirt.

I reflect, kaleidoscope-like, with each tilt of his head to block the sun, un-block the sun through the clearing in the forest. I glisten up at him and he nods in time to my glistening. He nods, he smiles, he sits down. He nods, he smiles, he begins to play. He starts with a pulse, with a beat--a beat, straight and intricate as my blood cells pulse, pulsing through my body. And my heartbeat beats in time to his pulsing drum, as he turns his neck up, blithely, to January sun. And eyes closed, seeing the point where red, orange, pink converge, he beats the beat of the Earth. And my heartbeat beats in time to the Earth, as I decompose, to become one with this Earth.

Amblings Under White Nights

To slow my pace of walking on,

Is to begin to better know beatings

Of the mind, and how they beat

With beatings of the feet on snow,

Packing as muted pops pressed

Beneath colored Converses, calling

To mind our conversation about

Prayers broadcast from minarets.

Why do I feel the urge to fight

The urge to fall face up into the

Falling snow? If I were a child,

I would not question nor quarrel

With my more queer compulsions;

Instead, I settle for sticking out

My tongue, pierced, to taste metallic

Snowflakes fallen from night skies.

4:45pm, Thursday

Walking where grass used to be,

light

flashing

pale yellow to red

and back again--

warm dark

flashing

to Thoreaubian clarity

on God's frost;

I am winnowed.

(untitled)

rain cracking quickly

on legs

holding every gorgeous glimpse--

maybe i left those inside

his storm.

together when music moments

should save our moon life--

don't want why,

need where, feel there.

laughing was like wine:

languid, smooth;

sleeping--crying first--

only if--

so lie easy tonight,

live next...

Introduction

i transcend

all living

things and all

things are

living I am

part of every

particle

but it is so much

more than everything

bigger wider open,

open the flood

gates on your

consciousness

rushing in us

and rushing out at once

pulsing energies

flashing lights lights

and lines lines

etched and hatched

sine curving

war-bling to roving

esses

and beams they beat

with me

they are

me because they

are of me

and so they are of

everyone, of all--

hark! a reverberation!

of particles through sound--

do you get it yet?

do you get that

we

are all one,

and one,

when you hurt hir

you

hurt yourself:

we were created

to be

imperfect, an imperfect

collection of charged

particles

all bumping off and on

each other

so synapses fire off and on

on our strands of

our in-

betweens

we

are an atom

and so each atom

comprises you and

all, all at once

yet slowly

gradually peaking

with the existence

of consciousness--

...