hoard

joy be gained from the starvation
of modern living
scattered between and throughout the strewn
newspaper clippings and random specific things
that make it up and tear it down;
it's the specter of endless, cyclical self-ingestion
regurgitation
behind fat walls and easy discourse,
simple decorative patterns and
harmless fucking questions

soul be sown from the sympathy
of objects,
furniture, things
stationary and obsolete, a scattered glass,
unjingled keys,
felt separately yet sharply missed in
sequence

"pornography resembles
the end of the world"
the thickly woven dreams we shudder and clutch
between whispering white sheets
echo howls of shrieking lust


when smoke seeps out
from under my eyes
i chew the baby gray burn and blow it
out of my nostrils
it curls around the foggy glow from
telescreens and lambent op-eds
radio talk takes in its stride,
weaving swaths of wasted wheat in their wake
but damn that pursuit for truth and justice
rages on like a thirsty dog on a summer day

serenity

serenity is a blanket born from obscurity whisked in the early morning hours
and tempered in the song of the strongest arms swingin' in the wind, whistling
with every stroke that comes down on the bleary-eyed afternoon air,
breathing itself in and going down to meet the dandelions,
sifting in and out of consciousness, furious eyes alive with solemn requests and
suggestions but silent for all of their composure under blazes raging through
a breezeblown valley's golden limbs and lines, a wheat field basking in the soggy
disposition of the sky crescendos a building shriek across the bouncing hill
while dying grass uproots and traces godly loops in the aether's still

complex

inside the world an owl's eyes dart back and down the
midnight lane,
shadows stretch behind the moonshone walls
and cling to the palm of a sweaty man's hand
as he rubs himself raw in a dimly lit corner wearing
his sister's bra and whistling distant hymns that
rhyme within him;
abstract introspection:
an ear to the ground, stuffed with cotton,
it playfully hovers around his
ripped lips
only
wishes itself never spoken

depression has its hold on me;
a miserable grasp, wild and fulfilling,
shaking with anger despite itself,
tonguing the remains of my
ghostly flesh,
as the world watches something else.

poem

to capture the sensation of a stone in time
wafting without realization, unconscious yet conscious of it,
adrift in change without fear,
yet lost, excited,
confused,
ordinary and helpless, but despite that undying belief,
desperately believing that not a word of it true,
that within the exceptionally ordinary there exists
something like a universe, or something of it,
all of us creating it, contributing to one another,
and yet angry for semantics, definition in discourse,
anchors, anchors, anchors intertwining unraveling and exploding out like
smudgy little steel balls on a cheap newton's cradle:
an arduous endeavor, and yet effortless,
full of self-doubt and self-loathing,
cathartic and fulfilling, daunting, ultimately empty, signifying nothing.

forget another

don't worry about those abstractions you wrap your mind around;
you've had your whole life to look back on the
dirt pounded between candy-shell cobblestones
and words sounded out that seemed familiar except
somehow different-
and i'm tired of reminding you that
it might not perhaps be as simple as
you think it is- in fact, it might be even simpler,
and such a complex person with such a head mixed in with the
last-minute misgivings and missed whispers
in crowded airport terminals
would probably miss that if it weren't for
things like the leaves of the trees (they're so green)
and the sun's glimmer on a beetle's back.