yep

when juliet stabs

her tender, white belly

loses her breath

and hot cranberry jelly

it's the snuffing

of ash

in a puddle of

dew -

not the gush

of a vein

or hollywood

spew

the magic in death,

is knowing the story,

though the end can be grim,

the scenario gory

blah, blah, blah

I like shakespeare.

angk-shuz

You better stay away

you got me angk-shuz

knuckles like battleships

at the ends of my armadas

firing squad fingus

blazin badabadabada!

laying you flat like

newsprint for tilapia

leave you out for days,

you both smell like shit

I smell you from here

"REALLY DOWN TO EARTH"

game, you know I know your game.

game.

'I like you, too! But yeah, gotta go, don't follow!"

shit's like high school locker room dramatics,

but your life is fluid, tugs from all directions.

gotta jet, gotta meet, gotta eat my collection

dainty daisies ripe, ripe, so you pluck,

'cept the swift lily white of my good luck

PLEASE don't think this is about you.

that would make me so HAPPY punk.

SMILES with less teeth look unimpressive.

Like an GLEEFUL apology from a drunk.

shut up.

Honestly

It's not about your eyes.

It's not about your beauty. Your kiss. Your anything beyond your heart. I know those parts very well. They are the book that I have read alone, to study it deep. Deep like low notes. To study it within the slow tones. The rumbling dischordancers of a slow techno. You are too alike to my kind of safety keeping. To hold them at a certain wonderful, terrible distance. Far enough for whispers to fall silent. Whispers of illumination. Whispers of lovelihood. Close enough for kisses to fly clear across my cross-eyes forehead and touch down like a moon lander out of focus. Who is this? Who are this? How lucky and wrong am I?

BUT BELIEVE ME! I understand. My heart is one of those tinier ships, with the captain at roost with a lazy ankle guiding the tiller with one hand holding a book of verse and a hand on my thin-as-shit neck hoping that one of the pages makes the pulse quicken and causes me to move. make we want. makes he stand and run. and not be done. to shade the sun from everyone. My heart, too, moves like dust on fancy shoes. Riding the invisible tide of secrets to hide.

And obviously, that's not a happy place to be. No. But it is A place to be, and I will never complain from a lack of location. Because being in pursuit of a larger love is always considered "A" place to be.

So sink your teeth into my DANGEROUS inequality. I am largely unwritten. Largely unbitten. Still eyeing the yarn, like a ferocious knitting club. caste. Still eyeing the yarn, still imagining the slightly larger than life perspective of things.

Keeping me softly.

So that's what I have for now.

polyanna

sprinting the stairs of a rustic ruin-

quick around the crumbling stones-

ankles burning with the magnitude-

ascending on and streaming cheeks-

hands solid, I grip an agéd flagpole-

bearing words to beckon you back-

it is a simple phrase that all know-

alike to seeds, simple words grow-

I scream with delight to reach top-

my eyes scanning the horizon scar-

each breath tears for how you are-

distance breaks, builds, then dies-

but reconnects your shimmer eyes-

it's sticks, swift, like windy spears-

deep into my hidden, melting guts-

holding my arms back like cassius-

betraying my hunger for your yes-

I wave the flag to the sun and sky-

to warn the wind of my raging cry-

Tremble, clouds, I'd call you down-

the moment I saw you hiding her-

Nature crimes in the azure climbs-

whisking winks and simpler time-

I stamp and shout against my kind-

the ones that go, the ones outside-

banner raised against the sounds-

of a barefoot heel against ground-

I call again, my voice shreds calm-

my thunder, still, is a cannon song.

clamor dancer

for the love of god,

let's take this mountain.

let's take a breath and release a fire blazing cloud of whispers.

whispers of our future.

immediate. killing the past.

the world to be will fear our dreams.

like a lamb, fearing a wolf, or a lynx, or a goat with knivessss

we are creatures. animals. herds. we survive like animals.

we die like computers. we die like pictures.

we die like the swarthy fats legs of deadly promises.

FOR ONCE LET'S LIVE LIKE CLAMOR DANCERS!

let's rip off these powdered wigs

let's teach ourselves a new cave to paint.

LISTEN TO ME! I'M A CREATURE, I PROMISE YOU I WILL BITE!!!

we all will bite once we see how sweet the fruit shall be.

SHALL

WILL

we all will bite once we see how sweet the fruit shall be.

for the love of god,

let's take this mountain.

let's take a breath and release a fire blazing cloud of ancestry.

you and I. let's breed.

our thoughts combine and seed.

Our thoughts combine and proceed.

thought mothers.

thought fathers.

there's no stopping them.

rabbits.

kudzu.

the uneducated third world.

or is it DISD...

who knows?

BUT OUR THOUGHTS! IF THEY GREW LIKE THESE!!

but be careful. someone will strike you down. soon. for your radical freedom.

the american revolution will not be televised. or on facebook. or on tumblr. or tweeted between bullet rounds whizz past your liberated ears. the revolution will happen in your homes. community centers. churches. temples. mosques. afterschool programs. the revolution will occur in the resurfacing desire for a wholeness. a unity. people will discover their loneliness. and their loveliness. people will realize their need for you. your need for them. this is all just hypothetical, but when the dusty wigs are gone and we peer past the product to the oily roots of our human heads, we will see the skin that hides the skull that hides the brain that stores the love of our lost, broken hearts. Please meet me on the mountain. please don't kill yourself for your childhood.

"Forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past" - Buddy Wakefield.

FOR ONCE LET'S LIVE LIKE CLAMOR DANCERS!

let's rip off these powdered wigs

let's teach ourselves to dance is to breath.

spin in a circle and get high on your gravity.

whoa stomach!

instant transmission
to be sent out immediately.

I have a journey to take.

I will be there for a while.

hopefully, I will make it through.

that is all.

sick

i've been ruined.

from too much reading.

from too much reflecting.

refracting.

reacting.

Process-based art work is a cunning adversary.

It will haunt your quiet - make you unquiet.

It will stunt your peace - make you violent.

I could have had different aspirations. People do that - have different aspirations than I.

And I get it. I own that. I am sick.

I have a disorder. A wrong order. My brain and soul are mal-organized. I have failed to see the picture that someone built the world with.

I see a completely different one. I keep reading about it in the dreams of others. Olders. Over-therers. Over-sharers. It's-not-fairers. I'm-not-scareders. Be-prepareders. I read about the world that we both live in. They arrived much before I did, but probably around the same season of their life. It's the struggle to discover which parts of my dreams are actually my dreams now, and what I can change about all of our dreams gone-by. Its a struggle to match my shopping list with anything I can possibly find around. I'd like to become the hometown hero for planet earth. Hike to the top of the great human mountain and proclaim to the wooded avoidance of gasping space: "I figured out why everyone is afraid of you! I know now why you leave everyone out of your plans! I've come to make it right!" And after that, the stars and planets would tiptoe cautiously in curious circles around a game of pick up sticks between the universe and I.

My neck hurts.