where?

the world

's on a glassy,

soft (blink)

thing, or rather

in (blink) it.

rain falls under

thing-shaped clouds

makes some of those

dry squares (blink)

green, or greener:

that's what you see.

(blink)

if you get close enough,

you can feel it

or eat it

[some people get

mad that they can't

drink the whole sea

even if they wanted to]

but the (blink) world's

always inside, more

or less [repeat 600

million times]

wait, why'd

you ask where?

(blink)

yes, they orbit with

a gravity of sorts

and water the crops.

they're (blink) real.

but they blind you.

(blink)

not in rooms, and from the earth

here.

the secret under my

button-up shirt,

nothing above, only

below (buried dark

in the dirt (shredded

papermarkedoutblack)

) prayer to hasten

worm's transfiguring

a flying man caught

their mind to

buildsteelandshootstraight

keepthelawandbebrave

clark kent caught the

hearts in the convinc

ing way he button

ed his grey shirt

archetypal guilt

turns a man to

G-D (maybe),

(freud would say).

elijah was caught up

in glory per se, but

other hearts were

convinced of the in

effectiveness of

those worms to make

us flying men.

lash not light,

no; unloads weight

of weights

(beauty)

onto (fragil

ity), piling

earth atop glass

seeds, potency of

love or

whatever;

nor slender hand

weak, that catches

eye and pens

itself in mind,

thin lips

steep themselves

(unknowingly)

too-hot-rose-hip-tea

don't ask me

how to tread

seas boiling with

the heat from

coils (a figure or

a voice or

her hands

or love or

what

ever).

just want ground's

smile, greet me

in spring with

whispered promise,

summer, simple

poetry (sprouts,

petals, or whatever,

respectively.)

be mine,

ethylene will take

us there, my dear

(it's nothing new)

to want to speed

things to

grocery-store

sweetened

produce, so succulent

and removed.

thirst

y

but a

quick dip

into pool

's mirage

after all

i

am

i love the where

in your hair, the

ballad of your

barefoot transverse

showing score

of space and mountains

house and road alike

in intimacy as if

at a single point; it

makes distance

seem inverse;

you are everyone

you are

ocean,

to dip a foot in

makes no less

vast, but all more

close.

cold coffee

slow november bugs-walking

sulk of heavy fog

melancholy

hades-shadowland

early morning broken glass

where in two dimensions

is without an and

end of sun-time

crunch-leaves tickle

whisper livings out of

darkness, low down

so there i'm

on a mall walk those

cheap mall shops hawked

the thought of silver

not its substance,

also plastic pearls.

strolling under an

imitation clerestory

i saw many glimmer

ing happy-wrists &

laughing-necks strut

Macy's truths

"what will you" (buy)

to mean "love" he asked,

but i didn't know

real pearls from

candy-spheres. then

the moon stared down

east-west streets,

pocked mark face

"i pull tides out

of sand beds to life,

living oceans i

invented on the

beaches and deep

down." which is

why i threw my

money on the ground

to stare instead of

buy

last night's forgot

to capitalize, (or

put on shirts) got

service though,

didn't wear badges,

reap or sow

but were

hunter/gatherer

gothicly defied

gravity in unthought

cathedrals of sky

beautiful feet forgot

ten and found

in scribing the ground.

conscious now,

fast food/fresh plucked,

a thought place

bo for reality

or the other

way around,

either way. are

'nt what we

are/think/do

logos.

wary to betroth

words, those apparati

crystalizing beauty but

clumsily attached

to self. rooms are

'nt arms, though: we

go to live in houses,

maybe move in

3 years. delayed,

to soften sharp feet

, by choice

of shoes + blouses.

i have sense

(vector) no

form. i will

wake up to

morrow changed

as the day

ceases at ev

ery footstep

and born again

are we. i am

not the same

roses bought, plastic

boxes, clear, stacked

in grocery-store fashion-

could crush them

in my hand-

fragile and

malleable (modern).

the petals adorned

thebed.

could have been

for anyone, now.

love is served

in single pieces

scattered from a

hand, not thorn

bushes, drawing blood,

old as a

stonewall.

to

under

whelm me,

will do.

to build

too tall

under

mines

all and

it own

s me.

it's no grave matter that
you write fossil poems
underneath
skin-soft facts and
clothey dross giving way
to their own kinds of
mutability.
i want to read your bones,
to boil you down to
stuff found in books
about the past,
check you out of
shelf-death, hard cover
pressing dirty hands like those before.
i want to know you live
and dig down through your whens
to trace behind skeleton pens,
i want to read your bones.

his eyes caressed

42-pt futura bold

(coldly, of course).

as she slipped by,

he lifted his eyes

to see no straight lines

in her moving body,

then set them back down

on the table,

next to the black-hot cylinder

(he never spilled)

and those grey

19th-century rectangles.

faithful.

if we are not awakened by light,

we are by wilt;

knowing even living things

loose their living to the wind,

feeling cusp of shifting ground,

suddenly the planet tilt.

you were worried by the car,

its noisy power steering

broken and leaking spots

on the ever-curved ground.

i missed fireflies.

the signal flares in the grass

whispered "God is light"

or something else.

did they lie?

where we've been,

we don't need cars, or

halogens, driving to see

hands-in-pockets billboards

offer odd transubstantiation,

new wine cupbearers

lying without consciousness.

awakened leaves tell the truth

when they die to tree

and live to air; we are

obsessed with our own impermanence,

clinging to tense.

fading fake colors

in the suns of our imitations.

you made my heart a homeland

in the days of open skies,

rivers in seas sent you to me

and you made port in my eyes.

colonized ribcage, settled side

filled up with hut and house of

rough-hewn logs, than brick

weighed down on trodden soil

i droughted you out;

sent you back to unkown waters.

your xenophobic mouth tensed

at the sight of odd-shaped sails

i did not know here as i wished to

today; a brick, not a building

or one step towards miles, arbitrary

measures on a sphere (i am.)

life, she is a girl worth chasing

she is not here, but carries herself

with an air of countlessness and

in an art of stealth, walking

besides, soundlessly placing bits

of me for due time;

i will kiss her when i die.

biographic

young, i sat in laps

and held tall hands.

she sung in rooms

next to us, i asked

and didn't understand

but heard the singing

in my ears and my head.

infatuation followed

the blooming of epiphany

where any sight of her

satisfied soulmindheartevery

part of me:

she made enough.

such a pretty face she had

(except in harsher light,

edges of stray shadows

would defile her

complexion in

complexity

in

to

dark)

to betroth, before love

said the ones,

who once were tall.

i loved her so

in the moment

in the sometimes

in the good light.

the night before,

wanted to love her

in the nightlight

which sharply cast

the darkest cuttings

across her face

canceling everything

i knew about her shape.

yesterday, i stood in shoes

hands in pockets.

awoke to her

in the morning mist

my arm, in drift

clasping nothing, and then sheets

(got up in the night,

wandered away)

she was infertile,

at any rate.

my dream in that sleep:

the world was filled with

even light, about the trees

about the yous and i(s)

were drenched in rationale

and bathed the all

and turned me on.

song is naught

but apparitions

complexion for complexity

to make me wish

for silence

or forgetting of

her face.

eight-thousand one-hundred twenty-eight

days to write realities, and sleep

in those given to me.

words are the residue, crumble into

memories behind my head rising

in the morning.

(8128) in a cocoon,

in the meeting room, i could almost

peak out. when voices congruent

give illusions of flight and the

words drip residual off

fabric soft, but stiffening

wet, like the sheets waking up

on kansas august mornings.

over eight-thousand and some-number

thoughts i had today

about the essence of emergence

and what we leave when we've said

everything, and go away,

about the nature of our nature

and the ultimate transience of

eight-thousand, one-hundred twenty eight

days in the thing we've called existence

as a thing whose nature crumbles

every morning when awake.

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

heavyheavyheavyheavyheavyheavy

i

the tongue, like a spark

sets fire to feet, fire to hands

fire in wireless grass.

night, walking down the

campus old (or new?)

is the grass i glanced at

different than last fall's?

or the same, because of roots

i am from colorado springs, colorado

meaning color red, the dirt that

is.

still, the night named grass

and the moving morning did too.

at least the concrete is the same,

or seems. [ a layer was washed off

in the last storm ]

limestone is the old, weighs

the buildings down to place,

to the tannish dirt, that

is,

and was;

a sooty film paints itself

on the porous face

of each stone, and all together;

makes an imprint cloud.

walking, the burden of

reality rests on the perceiver,

like on the grass, dew.

i am not the same,

[ beads of sweat on my face

like rain, were in an instant ]

but my name is

and was.

brightness, said iconoclasts

(laptop dreams drowned in sun)

rectangles pregnant with

a thing that lasts.

semaphores, in the grass

name them as you will

signal flares, later on

a thing to grasp.

egocentric hands and lips

favored brands of transcendence,

thirst for water scarce as

the thing, a mist.

people with abstracted eyes

ears of ears that don't let sound

could never dream to get

the thing, a kiss.

i.

i am an easter moth,

waiting for the eastern sun

to pull my wings, unfurling,

out of sleepy liquid-tides

(on the cusp of waking)

'til sun-dried, for going up

soft thoughts, folded oddly

misty morning,

forming to become movement,

on the cusp of going up.

ii.

frail teams: waking, working

give heed to the sun's way

after falling, somnias

(last heavy instinct

kept from the herd)

in-betweens thought of-

we have a fractured vanity

at the crack of dawn

as true as skin, clear as glass

when we wake as human.

i am in rooms, or not

are what words amount

to, define and deline

inbox and outside.

modern mice revise

the city/country debate,

but rants against suburbia

betray the meandering

words that are as futile

as those cubic realities

they call homes or not,

lots and brain cells

filled with bits, bits of

colors, smells, sleep/awake

with addresses on the fronts.

whether or not you turn the

light on, and remember

makes them realer than

words that are as futile

as potpourri in screaming nostrils,

reminding me, i am in rooms

or not.

sequins on steel frames

light up, not negate the night:

sky with make-up on.

lovesick reader reads

into however he pleases

unadorned words of

love songs too simple,

for simple lovers.

like empty stomachs

wrought laden carts,

the adage warns us.

song of solomon

and transhumanism,

bought like a salve -

no- a placebo thought,

to drink up thinkings

in measuring cups,

unlike lovers, simply

they are unread, but

who did awaken

new meanings from

too simple words, but they.

stainless in deft hand

awakens thirst, softly skin

yields. fingertips drink.

sought is found

is what i thought

the time i braved the cold and

wind in the morning when

the dead trees were my only

company. body shook, struggling

to secrete bravery and

adrenaline resulted, i shook.

slight vibrato in my words,

do you.. do you want to?

met with your tentative

brevity. if every day i

thought of you (since then)

would it quicken your yes

or draw your mouth to a no?

i'd never tell you that, but my

trembling soul hasn't stopped

shaking, the vibrations of a

tuning fork or guitar string

purely struck. sought is found

and words are stuck where

they landed, notes sustained

where they were plucked.

beauty in intricacy is over

rated when you want one

simple thing, could you

concede? there's death in

silence. sought is unfound

and unkind to me, the

string once plucked

does not resound or

ornately garnish the beginning

movement of a song,

but gradients of fading

paint the walls of wordlessness

: is what i thought

undone?

trying living rhetoric

is short of marrow

and the heart,

the shoes without

the will to walk

the seed without

the dream of stalk

sharper corners

milled about

in dreams and abstracts

proofs of breath

puncture lungs

before they think

of speaking death,

reckless as a cataphract

under reason's banner

cavalier to kill a

flower

i

the hint

inherit in your voice

(although we speak

as silent ones)

allows the sight

of fear to sur

face, pressure

cracks form on

the tongue,

try to show

no weakness

says your inner

voice to you,

i saw it in

proverbial eyes

alas,

i heard it too.

ii

love songs

grow like weeds

are plucked like flowers

with no toils,

to give to hers

(a gift ignoring

the cubic virtue

of houses next to

which they grew)

love songs wilt

next to deeds,

the weight

which crushes soil.

iii.

guilty is

the landscape painter

the guitar-strummer

the missile silo

guilty as

guilty as me.

for pretending

no time is

'nt fixed, when a note

a word is

a weapon with

the potent

cy to kill

guilty as the

all.

stop

apologizing.

i killed you with

my words

then formaldehyde

was poured

on the trees

over where

we used to sit

in your car.

every time you

see those leaves

they freeze in your

un

wavering

remembrance

of the death

you suffered there.

then i painted

over film

the scenes that

i remembered,

romanticized

everything. damned

am i for lying.

my finger twitched

towards destruction

of worlds

as i became death

myself, then.

guilty is

guilty as i,

don't apologize

don't you (umbrella!)

simplify a storm(s)

[television specks

of fluorescence;

northwest! sputters out

five o'clock]

as if a name

could smooth, smooth

puffies and corners

into a pill

to take, to take you

into knowing

the fact (the fact!

as if all of

raindropssssss

showers

bursts/swells

anddrinkings

the tinklings

on roofs

CRACKS and

and clappings

rumbles, the drums

of pressureful booms

wafts of fore

during and after

dirt clods lept

in the air, all

were under your

the same) a roof

to keep you dry

from it (all)

or you'll

insult the sky;

so did i

(thirst)

the desire to return

is not foreign

to one who has

never been,

for one who tastes

but doesn't swallow

for one who sees

but doesn't enter

that to be grasped

is inhabited and consumed

by thought

by imaginations

the desire to return

is not back, ahead

the substance

is no foreign land.

to wish a season

to be "here"

(the vanity of

unanswered prayer)

to will a way

where will will go

that eats the fruit

that didn't sow

to conquer clocks,

stones, and orbits

that sit in

unanswered silence

infinitive echoes

the places that did not know

and where will will not go

to die alive

and live for death

breath in, too

and exhale breath

that will become

everywhere

and will is where

to go.

530 N 14th

has a sweet smell

(they say that sense

has the strongest

of memories)

this might be why

flowers are

such poetic

devices, and

although they are

the inverse of,

abundantly,

earth also grows

antitheses.

you can only

smell beginning

and end, which is

why you always

forget them.

in the air, hung

a speck of dust

swirls,

as i

'

m at the mercy

of a breath,

alive

while a slice

of light

projects my body.

so much yet,

all of it

in front,

the grass panned out

and the trees spread wide,

the hilled plains wait

to be betrothed

with the gem of

a tin-clad barn.

(some would wish

winter away)

then stills and stalls

nurture their kind,

all of it

speaks in growth

to us-

the field to till

then wheat to reap

seed to plant

speaks of birth.

there's a girl with a skirt

down at Aimee's

puffy tartan

blue and green

frames her beauty,

it's enough that

she works and

talks and smiles.

i relented

thanking her

on the way out,

it's better that way,

maybe.

there's a garden

between 10th and 11th,

lays with closed eyes

bathing in sun

between brick shoulders

wrought-iron rods

hold her safe

like a hand cups

a butterfly.

i've had no excuse

to slip behind

the fence and

sit in the green,

yet.

then there's night-

when boxes of

golden luminosity

grace the street,

flush with cold

dark stone and brick,

the wares inside

are weary

nonetheless.

i stopped wishing

i could have all,

or read every book

about three months ago,

but glass hinders

presence or response

anyway.

is silence

destructive art?

if you scrape

words off signs

sticking, black

triangles to fingers

if you cut

deep into earth

piles next to

your mines

and death is

no cure for life

but draws its lines

kansas, she is pure

blushes green

when the sun kisses

her cheek

and her shoulders

bare, and sky

so close, sans seams

yawning sun, later on

washes through the trees

and the scent of dusk

rinses off the yellows,

are now blues

nights, blacks, stars

tingling points of light

(turn off the tv colors)

before the sleep

carpet is the start,

basic, room is a yes,

when you walk in ,

you ask

and sitting now , listen

to guitars, breathing, voices,

condense into little clouds

then sounds rain down

you drink of the beauty,

of the beauty of the voices

of the passion in the strumming

of reverberations

dampening the carpet,

you want to lay down in the water

you want to stand in every corner

carpet becomes end,

and when will end when

eternalness of yes sings to

you, ask

flyers flutter, cling and clothe

something silent, wall is/was

fertile, seeing will of cull

and all over words, minds rove

(not to reference cliche)

but apiculture-like movement

rustling bits of hung-up paper

to reproduce an apt display

(all is futile, swallowing

dust and bitter fruits of flyers

"before the harvest comes about

we must become us"- singing)

hope someone to book my soul

photocopy it, in odd

flourescent orange tinge

to staple to the silent wall

before the harvest comes,

so to become us all.

sleep soft, tonight

we shared a storm-cloud

and nothing more

than loudness, both ours

and dousing sounds

same wet rains,

thunder, the lightning

and damp remains

in the morning,

soft light.

the stuff

no, the response

we call it 'matter'

you

(getoutyourelectronmicroscope)

need a preposition

to see it

= dialogues

and a question

i have is

who do i matter

to?

as i listen-

love&weather

here.

walked on the side

and carried the

other ams,

underneath my arm

stuffed into

a plastic bag

the fabric wet,

manifested ands

of collected "whos" or

the thought of me, the weight

that being, fills my hands

and pulling, sways my gait

but barefoot,

walking back

with unburdened pace

(the lightened clothes, or)

ams or ands

mattered less than

the who of place.

i stand above

in the dark and

see lit-up vowels

on a once-quiet plain

like whispers to no-one

that i hear them

a concession

to a secret love

to talk to patterns

with my wonder

and my withouts

how could i?

or could i lie

face-up on roads and

fill my eyes

with filaments of

love, the other weather

where the blankets cover

beds of the raining lands

over heads

wisps of winds

and the when of currents

vexes droughted grounds,

with brings hope

seasons change with,

condensing into we,

where the gables channel

like the folded hands

at the altar-

then warm is love and

bright are days

when the other weather

becomes a sun in springtime lands

together smiles at eachother.

dust collects inside a house

as snow upon the mountaintops

dust to dust, ash to ash

death to life, spring

is lovely to the senses

pleases with its warmth

and scents, colors bright

the sunlight as it waxes, but

movement is illusory,

for it betrays the moment:

juxtaposed against the sky

the ground is pregnant, and

potent are the petals

tucked behind the bud

and pressed into darkness

words between the pages

(after the duomo in siena)

in your house, o God,

polished stones cry out

(did they suffer

as the saints and martyrs

brought up from the ground

and glorified?)

i can hear them

through the candle's whisper

(in your house, o God);

do the upright ones

strain against the weight

of stories up above

the saints and martyrs

brought up from the earth

and glorified?

the windows speak

a word, and it was

(as if from your Mouth)

in your house, o God.

when i enter, do you Go,

or does the wind of your spirit

sweep across the floor

while the incense of each whisper

is Inhaled by heaven's lungs

of those who warm its breath,

in your house, o God

how bright do electric lights

shine upon your Face,

transfiguring, as it were,

imago dei,

or as you were

brought up from the ground

and Glorified.

we try to gaze upon it

(in the midst of the stories)

but we shine as though

a flicker

in the incense of your house

and now we still see

dimly

in your house, o God.

don't undarken

desire:

in essence

it's breve.

and in ten minutes

it's getting to me

floppy red draped from her hips

(her sister Rosa looked down

on her, behind a veil,

her face so white)

and the words come out in drips

when in the morning, waking

to a breath

under a mutter

lips grasp for another

and pointed towards the ceiling

trips out of bed, (reverse of

last night. beneath

a tattered curtain)

decorates eyes for

a wedding, they're so in love

like charcoal sticks, my words are frail

and break against the paper

they fail to sketch your perfect face

or moments in your presence-

instead, my weightless beating chest

surrenders to white blankets,

sighs of silence from my mouth

in place of lofty verses-

oh! such vain imaginations

steal draped feelings into flight,

tempting them to try transcribing

dreams into subsistence.

still, i'd rather sing of naught,

seal description in my head

lest i try rewriting lines

already perfected.

old semantics on the lawn,

these architectons stacked upon

eachother atop soggy grass

fall under the weight of

themselves.

(ancient bricks on newborn mud)