captivation

If a man were unsure of his insides
how could he truly just drift away?
"Just grab something?"
The wild stain of the spinning wheel
again and again, it's all what we want-
(or something) miles of the intimate illusions
of eternity, perplexities, cubicles, cuticles...

I appreciate your ambition, but is
any conversation quite that improvable?

Captivation's charming convulsions:
("I'm sorry, but I seem not to care.")
no native love of fire
no cynical salted sunlight
shy sunbasked chameleons perspiring enchantingly
high-spirited winged artichokes
have seemingly cracked the code of time
and have - in all good consciousness -
become a salty happy hour appetizer

all rationality aside, would you rather just not meet?
all those boys want to do is twirl your hair,
I assure you; you simply do not want to end up
in love with vacancy, certainly not pregnant with vacancy

Nothing, compared to the gaps
between the fingers of your outstretched hand,
silhouetting the sky, the sun, the moon,
the chandelier
those clouds are metaphorical, sugar

In darkness, death - with only raw almonds and jazz -
created time, and time - with nothing but darkness
and muffled jazz - created life (possibly out of frustration),
to muffle the muffled jazz, and salt the entirety of perception.

remembrances: girls night

      dearest friend:
ah life...you know?
it's just like one of those good sneezes!
      you know?
I mean, draw the curtains
let the brassy velvet curtains brush your face
the anxious sunshine creates a captain
      of your slipping shadow
that caramel breeze breezes your scarf
breathe...look at me, you're starved
      absolutely
phew. well this has been a mediocre turnout
with that orange camel-like odor
odd. see you next week
      john

geological seasons

over here

after the beginning of feeling

like when I think of you "hey!"

dead memories stay dead blooming

heaven is no longer hunting reason

nix the tidy teleological prism not musing

demons in the back of the freezer dreaming

unexpected season of blinging bells binging

well, I was just thinking that it's nice

poplar

how nice! the handsome devil chirps
(looking for a way out, I wonder)
little fallow fellow, following the window
do you need an extension?
we all have our deadlines
hollow business, harmonious death
tucked under a pillow, hidden alone

enough, enough
actually, enough

how are you, my nostalgic heather breeze
ripened equation, enthusiastic as a hiccup
or snow, just being snow

you peeled the rind for me
kindly, kindly, off the brie
oh! that's plastic. erase that
how tedious of thee!
erase that.
blueberries too!                 absolutely
I'm positively the opposite of snoring
poplar, if I were a tree                truly

Honeypocket

Is it wild, honeypocket?
It's something, it's been supposed
Look at the dandelion:
there is so much preparation
involved
The instant gratification
of the bluestone sky
prims the petals
and pleats the parts
alike, of the cuteboys
and the deadgirls alike

The reflection of the common contemporary accretion
is acrimonious at best, complete canorous bedizenment
The veins are all too tendrilled and unilingual

In all likelihood, the caffeine-crash is going
to knock me right out. Just say "Cimarron!"
with some zest

I'm in the corner-
Oh heavens-
We're matching.

sifting the sun into the future, perfuming the suitor, looming the future

it might be over soon
notice/cherish - the broken constellation
you've walked in my dreams
now what?

"red lips"
hrm.
slender embrace
merrily, away

sunup!
I watched her, while drinking tea
riding her bicycle into the sea
it made me sad, and want a pretzel

I threw a stone into her window
but it was my window
and it was actually just a pebble anyway

what's it like, to be someone else?
"it's like drinking whiskey,
when you were expecting tea."
I see.
how do you know?
"have you never done acid?"
I have't, no,

lipstick, today?
smiles
I can make whatever promises
becomes diaphanous

nice is innumerable
kind is green, bright but not too bright
smears are just smears,
smudges and smears

is there beauty in brokenness
or just beauty, and brokenness
here, let me stop the rain for you
I'll see you tomorrow

Import

"Have you yet discussed the issue of your obscene vulnerability?"
I was listening, but all I heard was the militant aggression of that dreamy invasive memory.
"There could be a serious underlying issue.
Do you want to lug that into the ground?"
This could cause some serious underlying issues.
It's time to change the subject.
"I don't mean to harp on it.
Do you miss your toyota?"
What?
"How are the kids?"
What?
"The niece and nephews."
Oh. They're fine. It's all fine. I don't miss anything.
I need to remember composure.
The distance between anxiety and comfort isn't always far, but there should always be distance, distance that should be respected and appreciated, but not idolized. I'll spend the night for sleep. I'll spend the night for sleep. I'll spend the night.
"Forget about sleep. You're still young. I may not be some parched individual, I may be some eager cliché, but I can surely see the importance of expanse and margins. Perhaps I'm an import, but I have dust here."
Surely. If I have time.

buds

In the adopted state of repeated
mortal vulnerability,
the dizziness of the nominal emptiness
finds slight bliss in the simple
existence of a question
asked in my hypothetical direction.
"I exist!"
The ease of endlessness
ends with the one-to-two-time
pleasantries as if that is all
we live for-
surrounded by giggling
inhibitions
teetering along with the
teething certainties of something.
"The concept of the muse
of the muse amuses me too."
"Yes, I agree with the lascivious
nature of nature."
"You too, have taken the
guided tour of self-expression?"
"Oh no. It's just a quick spot
to grab lunch on break."
If this effort isn't interest,
what is it? "Decency?"
I think I'll go be alone
for a while, or so.

Content and Disconnect

I

Live Oaks East of the Mississippi

The only difference being the salt jumbled in the divided atmosphere, she told me rather perfunctorily of the formulated life detached. Feeling at all, realizing my work has just been a hobby, plushed through the sympathetic aperture in a streaming search for adjectives, we’ve dredged the bridge to silent curiosities discovering wakefulness amongst other deviant childhood falsities. This town’s discordant philosophies tend to dangle spring through spring like question marks on the run. All it takes is one proper rubber band to make a smile. A rose to the moon absentmindedly lisps: “Later, I’ll be there for you. We’ll preoccupy ourselves with forgetting how to write, staining our chastised bodies with grass and sunlight. You’ll fill my lines with hieroglyphic obscurities and I’ll paint the fleshy fragrance of your chirruping dreams (pink, don’t you think?) until we both run out of pencils or simply evaporate Himalayically. How does that sound?”

The echo reverberates beyond sight.

II

Self Expression of a Dandelion

baby-

why haven’t you forgotten

my fate supposes

pre-supposes

all while dandelion crosses

dandelion.

smelt purloined,

grinningly

came to me,

isomorphic education

included. teaching the

children antitheses

aposiopesis mis-

connected and

opportunity. behind

with feeling and

life and box matches

lit, all wind repented

by dusk today

III

As Thrips

from the tip of the tip

we do not prune

frantic as a fuddled white finch

flapping its quips

boastful as winters pruning sits

taking note of every ripple ripped

The nitwit becomes the cutie and becoming

the cutie never says “What do I say?”

The hooded elders process, differentiating branches brittly

with aspirin, napkins glowing into the night.

Trailing audibly, my breath absorbs every “hey moon.”

Softly hummed bebops cover the soon to be dew

with the energy efficiency of a resonant prude.

The scheduled neighborhood blackout arrived with malice.

“Why do you say things like this?” I don’t know.

“Do you sing?” I don’t. “Do you dance?”

I don’t. “I see. That seems to make sense.”

The tender moon broke apart and fell into the sea,

steadily refracting your memories to me.

CASUAL DATING

We do not prune - we are not natural
Soft as winter pruning - it is or is not notable
If you didn't tell me to speak to you
I would speak to you, though not softly as before.

The nitwit becomes the cutie and becoming
The cutie never says "What do I say?"
Differentiate the branches brittly with aspirin
Their napkins glowing quite brightly at night

Trailing, audibly thanking the server like: "Hey moon..."
Softly humming music now covering the soon to be dew
Their energy efficiency always reminding the prude
And the forgotten scheduled neighborhood blackout was untimely

But reminded me: I've never seen the scarf. I called:
"Hey, cooper-" "Hey! I finished the scarf."
So we sweetly ate the innocent, scheduled sandwiches, casually.