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