A delicate sound that knocks against the windowsill.
Such a strong snowflake that might make all the difference
or something that melts against the pane.
It is a touch of beauty.
Such synergy is lost in the many twists of the tale.
The sound knocks and slides softly to the side the interference enough to matter.

She texts me,
yeah, awesome!
Totally,
you know,
against the canvas of time.
Like
the words
LIKE, really?!?
like, REALLY???
OK...
WHERE ARE THEY?

No, like really,
This is not as if I dont' realize
What is is beauty...
like such beauty
you know
not skin deep
not that much beauty,
a pale faced sculpture,
you know... like,
that visage
like Venus
You know, like, genius.
You know, not skin deep
and shit...
just Beautiful
Thus the text,
Beautifal falshing messages;
Semi-calculated results of the million computations
How's that gonna feel?
How'm I gonna feel!!!
Feeling's so overwhleming, usually;
The thoughts scream at attention, for attention.

Beautiful, just that one feeling?
You Know? ...?

Right? an answer?
A tactful refrain,
a light refrain
of a million possibilities,
you know?
a million places we have already been.

So scary, you know?
An epic fear: the loving starcrossed gemini,
That the poets have understood this (that
There is a joke at all).

Frustration sings!
NO ONE listens!
TO ME !
No one sounds the alarm. there is cause for warning int he preiodic messages of discontent that bring forth hte eveing.

IN a period where children wre precious and thoughts were sacred. the inappropriate frustatrersation with that anger are not for us to judge

She texted me and I told her that I could love her.
I texted back and she told me that love was not what I could
and lonely we crept
beauty and genius tormented by the mistakes of millenia

but she texted me and i texted back
I love to love her
I loved her
I loved
so much
of her
she
that and I misunderstood the missing words almost immediately.

So rarely will she dance.
Still she screams that she dances
...over...
and over again
...she screams
she yelps at the injustice,
she hollers at the in humaity


so often does she explain that which I don't know.
so often she illumintates the obvious
and the light shining from behind her
only illumintaes my misundeteratdingng

so ironic, that she so often misunderstands
what, she is want to know
what, so lucky am I to know
which is not my job


that she misundertands at all is the child
in the bough
in the break
in the beauty of beauty

that prefection is comprehends is imprefections
that the words are so forced fromt he book s that explain truth
and still
even my majesti c lady cannot interpret truth from untruth

that imprefection comprises her at all
that she knows
in the beckoning evening
and the discomfort of uncertainty
she stands for herself

as she stands for me, and for us all.
that the perfections presumed to the everyman are the fallacies of beauty
the fallacies of heaven
the mistakes of people

she breathes softly in the morning
and her breast heaves beneath the weight of pressure
my hand touches her cheek
my sould reaches for her spirit
still it disipates in the fog of evening
disappearing into a mist of perfection in the midst of imperfection
my miracle that still she rested next to me
in the heaving mistakes of the midnight slumber
such dreams of my mine lost in the dreams
that she dreams
that I might witness perfections of imperfection.

So Often I don't Pay Attention to Even the Most Obvious Things

are we holding each other
yet?
this overwhelming overt tenderness;
an awkwardness
an awkward -
of strange hitherfrom... hitherto?
the words they make so little sense
but I have said that before.
so, what makes sense?

stay here please
you always make enough sense
in those readings,
in those meanings.
even in your absence
love makes no sense;
the strange composites
equalling more than
the sum of the parts.
the everythings of touch,
the caress
the love...

such entangled intangibles
the couches
the glances
the sexy dresses
the everything...

of everything
i want the everything
such that was wanted;
in the middle
the beauty of our own love.
and still that means nothing.

for example:
that sweet woman.
the sweet sensation.
the debates I engage in;
the loves that I horde.
the sensational.
the her;
a skinny, leggy beast.
(lovely loveable beast):
"The Sprawled Out Exhaustion of Ecstasy"

the words of the monster
that the beast beached
upon the shore is all
the beast wanted
that you stand
all before me
like the cars passing
in the night
intermittently the drunken fast food
memories of Heinrich Heine's Allee.
kann ich gut mahcen?

remember all that mattered
(mattered so little except to you
all that felt)...
felt so much to everyone.
the conundrums of the everyman

there is no argument
she was so beautiful
as she dances into and out
of the night dreams -
she was undeniably there;
her undeniability
i am still exhausted as such
is her fortune
is her richness.

the lavish tarnishing;
a life framed perfect;
she dances,
dancing so far away
that this matters;
that it matters not.
that it matters.

remembering to hold her
in the morning,
where I hold her
as if she was everything in the world.

Making Sense

That sound, it drips so slowly down my chin.
The notes of crisp refreshment fall off
The flesh like juice from the very same fruit.
Such pristeen freshness... and it dangles,
It holds,
Steady over the skin
Upon the fat, above the flesh and outside the circulation;
Falling, as it should, to the ground.

Drip,
Drip,
Drip
Like that venom within the snake's bite;
In the digestive saliva of the fly;
The agonizing paralysis of the spider bite.
Those sounds empty to the ground.

As it rings inside the vision
The spiraling sensation of the nature
Trees standing shadow
Attending a brilliant quickening
The sunshine pouring
Into the veins of plants and animals
Alike they share the share the power;
Sharing the sound

And the fury,
The angry side of man,
Attacking the vessels of his own livlihood;
The bark spread across baren land,
The upset view of a vista felled
A man's own ideal deserted in his own blow -
The ax leveling the playing field,
An ironic vision against the tolling bell of time.

What is that fine scent
That delectible flavor flowing from tongue and nostril -
Sensational little orifices exulting in powerful symbols,
The ringing percussion of a parade gone mad,
Roses and fresh popcorn,
Bubblegum and queens,
Marshalls and hot dogs,
Success and victory.

Or defeat...is that the ashen muck
Festering in the depths of the olifactory,
Where the angry stench of God's combustion burns
The cells to their malignant conclusion,
Where that sad state of death is
The embers smoldering to char,
Where the carbon is so useless
That the organism loses any value?

Of course, to inhale the scene is to taste,
To quench the thirst of the most fruity inkling -
The luscious peach surrounding the pit -
The protein inside the cherry;
A reason
To nurture and to love, to hold, to care,
To raise in the image,
To a life, to lead, to love.

Still, the feeling is so fleeting so often.
It tastes like the bitter pill
From the daily morning regiment,
The people's own lubricant and the earth's own oils -
Potions from the back of the cart.
In the laudanums of such sensual release;
Tasting a falsehood that is so sallow,
An emptiness; venturing into the taste of nothingness.

So I feel: what questions can we ask in the absence of sense?
That potential energy is reduced to kinetic exhaustion -
The ironic impulse of all energy.
What we tactually grasp is the inevitability of irony?
In the regression of infinite math equations;
At the end of a zillionth calculation
That pie might reach infinity...
That is something I can feel?... Thinking I can touch uncertainty

When I grasp for a lack of understanding
I understand what you feel... what I feel -
Generically the same feeling - that we build to an end to build again.
Where everything at rest is at the precipiece of motion;
This continues forever?
Who understands that feeling!?!
That we do not understand our feelings,
Maybe that is what I feel.

Saturday Night Flick

Those moments on your couch can be so awkward.
Just so damn awkward.
Where the words get confused and the silence is strange.
Where I know you, or I don't,
Where the hands flutter and flash
Like butterflies before a storm
Caresses that change
The hands that play
The cards that change the hands

So elegantly you lay
So quietly you play
With my delicate tenderness
My softliness
That touchliness
The quivering beats of a steady heart;
A healthy heart
Beating to
This rhythmically choreographed dance of uncertainty

I do not mind
That there is a lack definition
I do not hurt
Being passive
To the fleeting pleasantry;
The ambiguity of such holiness

And yet, when I reach to touch,
When I brush upon the subject
Like a nervous hand to canvas
or the petting of unkempt hair
or the reconciling of our night's cocktail
or the brushing of lips to your others
or

Just a holding hand
Resting so silently on your chest
The quiet pulmonary poetry of our deafness
Where there should be nothing to understand...
That a moment is implicitly unique...
That this moment
Like the others
Is the only moment i truly existed
In your world.
The moment is always
The only time.

Our world so brief
Like that time on your couch
Where the words meant nothing
You still there, meant everything
Like all these moments.

Stethoscope

What am I gonna do?
How is this gonna work?
I have twisted the cement blocks inside my head until they shrivel
like chicken wire against the electrical fence gauntlet that I throw myself against daily.
Such Promethian heroism put against the zeitgeist
Or have I an even more pretentious and Dimmsdaleian approach?
Says said maybe such bunch baby red?...
Letters that I use to color the make up of my existence?...
The twisted crimson waves of that pulse upon the wakening lucidity only obfuscate the problems of my silly, simple ebb and flow; archaic mess in the muddy tide pools of the very simple on-goings of my heretofore, here to from, here to hence and so forth...

I cannot afford to waste time and yet it is all I do - It is all I do.

Stop me, stop me oh, oh, oh, stop me. Stop me if you've heard this one before.

Here's what I thought:
Like in the here and now and in the here and how the bitch upstairs will not stop stomping around like her bitch ass is better than the rest of us and me and my fucking belly aches hurt. They fucking sting and then in a drunkenness the lady upstairs pours cocktails into the septic tank and U and I lap them up and still she stinks she thinks the mess of a world where her frustrations are the whiskeys that sting my tongue and spill my soul, they are the motivations that reap the worlds of my attention and the selfish praise that is heaped upon the waking of the populous. It is only wasted breath as is the most usual of wasted brearh and is of wasted breath which is breath. To do right, upon right, doing right of some ordinary script. But still there is the mystici9scm there is the unknown of the wanting to know of something.
How long must this desire persist in the epic reach dare dreams of glory hog forthright fuckyouness of the gods dying and praying of what the needs of hunger are to the point that there is no concept of right.?
How far will mercy?
How far will you take mercy?
Militant questions about dying donkeys in desserts and what did you do to feed the needing monkey of a mule who wanted to know what is what was what i what was to know the was of wasing and being to the point of just an existent to satisfy that was.
And then there are bare the bottle the meanness, the things the would teach me in the needing of the night.
Somehow the sounds of a key board clack and numerical innovations of something that might matter seem like they would feed the need to be needed
...And yet I am the lonely man who cannot stomach the necessary definitionalizing of necessity...
there is only is and the gone of goneness and the problems that scream in between are not my problem,
NOT MY PROBLEM,
NOT MY PROBLEM.
THERE IS ONLY these realizations that peace may be beyond human comprehension - in that frustrated poverty only epitomizes our incomprehension, then love, then no, then sex, then NO, then the child, then the essence of certain beauty and all those images of important longing;
simple thoughts and pathetic regret
the mirrors of those thoughts,
to repeat the same mistake
over... and over again...
that the ship is righted,
to hate and love.

Of course, acknowledging the general mistake of the heart beat.

Water for the wound

Just the quietness, aaaaahhhh.
Just the quietness.
Just the quietedness... the silence, if you will -
please calm the sound and fury, calm the frustration of these moments.

To continually disseminate the negativity; the separation anxiety from the positive, the anger from the angeredness.
What are we trying to accomplish? Where do I find that...
or do they hand me a bone?
or to give me what they want,
give it now and I go home.

Or the silence?
A possibility?... just the rest...
The quietedness?

The frustrated notions of the correctness perplex tonight.
In the finger swallowing of these keys, the sounds resonating from the caverns;
A hollow skull - I fight the truth of pointlessness.
How many times will going to a dry well produce buckets of water?
If I crawled into a well and stayed for days would I lie?
Broken into a million pieces?
Like some jap tossed aside by the Chinese.

Or is there value?
Do I rise beyond station?
Am I the man in the well who has the answer to the darkness?

For the darkness is perplexing
As it has perplexed since time - since memoriam,
Since a matter to matter was mattered over time.;
And when was that that was.

Starving sensations of children broken and illiterate. Where was what mattered. Political slogans of hungry power. Where was what mattered.
Broken chalk lines lost from the forensic blackboards Where was what mattered.

Or an easy explanation of the right and wrong of things.
In the bunkers of loss, in the comforts of defeat; the hidden gem of the women we loved is still the bitter pill,
An agonizing antagonistic veil of a righteousness;
Then in collapse breath death years crashing a hated reality vision.

I will not share, I will not share,
The kindergarten teachers misunderstand me.
Can you be 5 years old and already be complicit to life's complex simplicity?
Really, I asked that?
These fingers leave me to dry and these thoughts leave me to why.
And the hymn is poor.
The questions sincere
The wrath of time compounding problems into a million sadnesses

Yet screaming Cherubs shout from empty bowls ending sheetless beds.
To sleep never a night again is truly terrifying of a terrific reality.
To never sleep again is an abyss of wanting
To never sleep again, or to sleep forever...
To never sleep again
Shooting an Arsenal at these terrible dreams of inequity.

In a rectory salvation.
Or none at all,
The rub comes quick,
The rub is abrasive
That there is a rub
Is the whole fucking point.