The loop, the trap

I believe in the loop, the trap
of molten doors into the un-present.
I believe in the atrocities
of myself and the species;
unceasing rivers flow into me.
I believe in bursting, curling
problems that press me sweetly,
not seeking solutions in astral cities.
I believe only in the imperfect hurt
of bondings botched in the heat-
no quotation can corner it,
no script can cure it.

I sense the golden spreading
of time's tiles that pave sunsets
and all life and all time all together.
I am a killer, like father,
like sister, coldly making mince
out of patient minutes.

Dear Diary,

painlove peacelove eatlove washlove showerscrub facepeace movepain washpeace eatlove sitdream peacelove painlove movepeace painsleep eatpeace washlove dreampeace sitscrub painlove lovepain sleepdream.

Faced the dread too soon this morning, now it's all this.  The signals are all crossed, bickering beak finches fill the yawning cracks in my siding.  Good lord may I come again out of hiding.  Greenblue grass good day pretty.

I must have done something wrong or the bad thing would not be hanging around me.  I must not be seeing myself clearly.  Explanatory efforts kill the dreamy thing slowly.  Life leaks a bit at these unseen seams.  Dear me.  I accept this pasta in the name of whatever is holy me.

Our little stomachs burn for something expecting but gone missing.  Where did I leave me?  How can it be?  Have I spilled scribbling the illegible notary?  Full of dribbling vinegar again sadly scheming of nothing.  Last I looked, I was full to brim of perfect being… now nothing but a mist and a stinging, a longing for something gone missing.

sometimes i stumble upon these

legs long for learning

eye and eye in the skypewriter

basically remixing our better wares

it's transhuman erotic flagellation

substantiation vis a vis nec-romance

subscribe to my line of thought

I will now direct the mind's traffic

towards goals untended by cast nets

It's only me
I dream these things
cast nets into nothing
only I know what I mean
I die hungry for something.

A merry sight, we
two ravens akimbo
doing the limbo
straight out adjacent schemes
a long line locked and travelling
oh spinning light eyelessly
Behold us!
No, it's only me.

Easter Poem

Did you see, my son?
Holy unflowing enfolded earth,
her billion blossoms brazenly bursting
to cast wanton loveliness all over
our crooked, unhaunted graveyard gardens.

Spring is the sore spot in the cycle-
the old frozen must be unfolded
and thrown into her tremulous pheonix fire.
Her rose-peach glow goes through us
We die back, sinking and slithering down
to the sour stink of our tomb / womb
where we slowly gather the green again.

But don't worry, and be ready,
for the red queen comes again
and again she bestows the resuscitation,
gathering our glad ashes up and up
back into her godblessed gentle branches.

Didn't you see her, my son?
She peeping through white winters,
her leering over beautiful bare shoulders
while you averted your eyes, as did I,
lest we little boys be cut down to size.

But! so far as her April wet sundries aspire,
go and stand in her sovereign eyeline,
beholding the bloomed moon blindingly
reflected through all of your hurt-heart places.

Oh great joy!  Greatest pain!
We extend tender shoots toward the rain
as life begins to turn her germinate gears again.

let me grind my gear here for a moment.  someday someday I keep hammering on the surface trying to become but some what?  i don't know what is good of bad for me, i am not anything you know really.  Just again an indian summer for life, samurai sycophant lisping out half-answers.  begging bowl champion, me.  Just a starving madness would get me no further than dreaming, nor the stability and paralysis of headless satiety.  if i can hold the bliss there, what does any of it matter?  not one jot do I.  jungle drums, glitchy baptisms, neon nothings, stalwart somethings, all over this tired filmed orb in its restless is-ness forever.  not tired or wired.  just this thing.  like a something something.