The Sun Burns Insane And The Planets Follow Accordingly

i’m an

empty reptile

inside a candy

wrapper.

 

do you want something from me?

 

writing

is life

at its finest—

 

does it feel good?

does it feel bad?

 

it’s a movement

of the clouds,

a type of

hunger

giving back

what’s already

gone.

 

you know

how we chase

without capture.

 

here it is,

another pencil

tracing

an echo.

King Nothing

rain

comes down

outside and

i thought i would

write a novel

tonight

or at least a

sentence.

but these damn

poems:

things i could

throw like paint

at a wall.

they’re all

lovely distractions

amidst the distance

of the dream

as my ass

simply sits

in a chair

unknowing.

Simplicity

life is like throwing

a rock

into a pond

 

it runs an arch

giving a brief

reflection

and then it’s

ripples

having made

whatever size

splash

 

it’s not about purpose

it’s not about direction

it’s not about reason

 

if you wonder why

be tossed out like that?

 

it means you missed

the music

The Daily

the crunch

weighs in on you,

tries to

flatten you out

 

but the spectacle

can’t understand

that something

as simple

as taking a piss

or walking

across the room

is a victory

 

that life

is its own

and belongs

to nobody

 

a shape

that is shapeless

and not to be

contained

 

yet there’s

all this talking,

all this

naming

 

so, we just

zip up

put on our shoes

and pretend

to mean something

Blood Rush

the head spins

with a hippy speedball

keeping a rhythm

around an echo

as the snake

grips a tree-branch

 

i’m either

a coward

for the sun

or victorious

in solitude

as the summer

fan blows

 

waiting

for a coin to land

in some determination

 

waiting

as it all

spins

up there

 

Gutrot

the rotting

decay

of my growth

 

another page

done in

 

another line

put down

 

like an unwanted

guest

who’s finally gone,

it comes out good

because it went in

so bad.

 

the stomach

goes both ways

and

not all of me

is worth

digesting—

 

sometimes

things

come up.

Daydreamless

sitting here,

quiet,

as the windows

glorify the sky–

 

it appears

the day

is open to visitors

 

meanwhile,

i’m dressed

in solitude

sweating an imagination

of 26 letters

and hands that pass

for a mouth.

this tongue

licks

an empty plate.

 

 

Sometimes Always

this waking up

having never

gone to sleep

state of forgotten–

 

sometimes

it’s sad

the way

we dream.

 

the way

we postpone,

the way

we act as if

life were only

in the next room.

 

we are

imitable as loss

discarded like an empty shoe

removable as a t-shirt

 

life being

its own consumer

 

this waking up

having never

gone to sleep

mystery to itself–

 

miracles

aren’t always

happy

 

misery

isn’t always

ugly

 

the old man

has his cane

and laughter

takes

many forms.

 

 

 

Might Maybe

the simple act

of sitting here

entertaining possibility

and the absurdity

of eyes

ears

throats-

 

everybody

taken in

and out

like the tide

 

lonely dogs

scratching

at doors

 

traffic

dying off

in the night

and

lost people

finding

each other

under

the same dim light

 

this spiral

turns

to lose

itself

 

only a fool

would try

to name it.