barbed

barbs dig into my leg

they make a funny sound when i walk,      no,

an interesting sound

                                  enough so that i won't

remove them   

                      enough so that they'll slowly pierce

deeper into the skin

                                 buried there & 

                                                      enough so that

when i recall their presence

i'll allow them to feed on my flesh

consuming my life     leaving my memory

for dead.

dues

We talked for many years. I moved from a room into a room that became another room. The last room. I was until then not accompanied by many voices. Now I was alone. The bodies were still there. They were still aging but they made no sound. I tried to groan. The empty space around me filled with furniture and mirrors. The room adjacent had opened. From it came the light. I entered backward into my former self. I had many more years to go. I smiled like i was the same. I pulled down the windowless shades. I laughed at the smooth beige walls. We talked again for many years. We buried the house without touching ourselves. We had never reached the point.

Maggot; or one coat of paint

They tell me

Paint these walls white
when I'm done

But
when I do I see maggots

writhing in rough spaces

When you wipe your finger over them
leaving trails of caulk and smooth

You smother me in their bodies
I watch them replace my teeth

Biting into the walls
despite of myself

I plant them deep

Inherently

This is the womb
     an imploding star
pulling within my essence
     gripping my cock

I am all but memory
     walking in the rain
the sound of subway tracks
     moaning hum
tick of old fashioned clocks
     grandfathers
hands

should I lay my body
     there on the kitchen floor
cold metallic grates
     mortuary song lists
where I gave birth
     to nothing

rip the baby out
     I ripped the baby out
placing roughly
     on the hard thick
wooden table

around the limp body
     a circle of six chairs
six bodies six mouths
     waiting patiently to feed
to devour the brain

Darling darling darling; an expose written about and by the universe

walk along the codex
rolodex

there is no movement
that is not singular

that is not me

the universe unto itself
is one flat landmass
without a rough edge

when i die it will be no more

i will make it so

when i live it will blossom

life will be found in all its non-corners

there will be no end
to life

the trees that grow out the skin
are all one tree living apart from
human time they are gestating
not yet to be born this earth is
too young and only the amoeba
swim on it

when i die i will cast you off

witness that true language is a virus

that thoughts outside your own have
ever slowly crept inside your head

nothing moves without my eyes to see

why have i created all these sad things?

this is not my fault

the rivers are spontaneous memory
do they begin or terminate at the source
without one there is not other imagine
how the mountain and the rain become
the shore and the ocean how land becomes
water and land again

i have ignored all these things

they arose sprouting from my mind as fungus

as vestigial reveries of other worlds

i am pulling the wheel

one day i will walk upon it

next in front

in the end it will crush me

packing me deep in warm soil

i will bask in the womb of entropy

i will have done many great and terrible things

least of which is this.

Routine

telephone is no more
     hangs from its own neck in the hall
phone is an upset child
     clinging to your thigh
     breathing hot air in fitful gasps & blows
     into your hairy sack
     your cancerous bowels
headphones muffle incoming radial frequencies
     kirby krackle waves
     disseminate realities
     pay the bills on time
     in credit
watch is ingested
     is alive
     counting each step into the future
     pushing on & on
     forcing the tick & tock passing of time
clock is digitized
     is a river rising
     is rising but stationary but widening
     but drying out but remaining forever
body is a casket
     made of water & dirt

life of vols.

uneven, yellow gut, bound scuffed leather skin,
stretched to weaken, stuck with ancient glue,
chipped, dry, chipping;

                                      facing up to white tile
heaven, several infernal layers high;

                                                           beat to shit
by clumsy groping fingers, oil years, oil, years
oil, grease, ignored;

                                 edges fold, looking back,
locked in place, time, stance, break, spinal
snap, rest on floor, under shoes, weathered away,
running from, removed, broken home;

                                                               only the word
holds meaning, printer pressed, scanned and saved,
backed up, addressed, renamed, right on digital screen
tossed spent to metal cans, endless shape, or leaning
lost totems on dusty shelf.

Make-Up

My teeth clenched and          shuddering
will
       break the      world.

Listen I have done all this     in my own words

on my dry     skin
is written not a single word

only faded scars
I had hoped would never          fade.

Having only memory

even that          imagined

I am left to invent greater, even more terrible, lies.

          a multitude & many

all of this being one
where I bite down
and the rain answers

oh

drowning this attempt at resuscitation

soak & prune thy skin

and replace

I am unworthy of truth

there are none
there is none
there is no
there are no
no
no
no no no
no

look into these scars for they will soon be gone
and no one
                  will remember them
                                                    always
                                   anyway
                                        after all
                                                         ever after.

Peel

wrapped in rorange mesh
this guy and his whole bag of oranges
granulated to their green sick skin
hard translucent pith

both shoved between thin cellulose walls

one sold for 4.99
the other
for
much less

I wonder what the situation is with this car with the lights on

chew down on sugar cube nights,
rotting teeth stench and fun-dip air vents,

who pulled up those blinds cockeyed
with the lights on now our whole life displayed?

nobody walks by here anyway, 'least of all
when it's streetlamp dark and the sidewalks cool,

walk. On tuesday night out come the trash cans,
pulled by cursing mouths and slick hands,

wet with micro-bacterial slime. And what, man!
How? that's the sound of tin plastic concrete

scratching on your mind. what of the recycle bin?
That shit just goes out beer bottles and pickle jars

clean. Our accumulated wealth and tummy tuck glut.
I wonder what the situation is with this car with the lights on

down the block? Not sure I've seen that shadow before
god knows if the asshole even lives around here.

Keep an eye on the blank drivers seat,
our windows no longer lock up tight,

you can see the voyuer case the joint, with 100 drawn
shift perfect eyes. Our privacy is obsolete.

'Oh, room rent, what crimes are commited in thy name!'

lock the door behind you
    ignore the keyhole eyes burnt in each

passing flat
remember the cold water dripping out

    faucet into sink
you'll use it to scrub later

bathe clean of the stink
     down the stairs each step louder

closer to ground floor
chipped paint kicked aside frame

     swinging aluminum sunrise puffs of breathe
chilly air grates and reaches into pockets

     up to you to hide the greasy bills
keep you head down hat rim down and arms

ready your weak knees only carry so
far
   
     how long you been staring out
and bus passes jack and gone

good riddance without
     breakfast moves the day faster along

no windows no kid light the bulb
     you can see

     street lamps make orange light
for you to walk home by these hours paid

slide in while those eyes again are
     set to tabled scorn drooling

quick with key and turn of empty knob
latch the door behind you

turn out your pockets
    count the dead men in your hand

one two three four five six seven
     eight

drawing that thin blue line

drawing that thin blue line
crushing the plastic of the world out my window
flattened under the tires of the multitude
going for that reddened spire invisible ghoulish thing
across abstracted fields of invisible untouchable fields
of wheat and flax and prunes and strawberry jam
over the latest idea in type
in permanently inky darkness
stars glint like life
the babe's crying eye
heaven inside it
drawing that thin blue line
driving it in mechanical stone monolith bliss
grabbing at that setting sun
pulling it up from the ground

Bathroom breaks take historical precedence

black and white heads
bent over manuscript page,
a turning dial, where?

out there,
the color of the world is blue,

between my windowsill
and me is stitched harmony,
the faraway,

what's a contrail to entrails
of the twisting city mind?

it is ever expanding
eating green yellow brown
chewing west soft solid hard
spewing gray smoke char,

black and white hands
planting dead tree effigies,
locked in potted soil, how?

in there,
the scent of the world is artificial,

within my body
is swilled chemicals and abstraction,
a holocaust,

What's another sip to numb lips
a bottle cap blocking the digestive tract?

it is ever replaceable
branding new copyrights
into rotting fleshlights
spewing irradiated sperm,

black and white feet
step on yellowed edges,
bent to the last eye, when?

from there,
the last of us wait for the signal flare,

from my eyes
the distilled images of  television fantasies,
a swarm,

what's next on the schedule
the next lifetime to be archived and marked for erasure?
once something is destroyed
it can be understood
once something is dead
there is nothing left
we can learn from it.

if this is light, let it bleed through

fissures on his hand
     cracks in reality
if this is light
     let it bleed through
he lets it mean something
     but maybe it's nothing
there's always that
     she tells him
there's doubt that I'm here
     even here
he's maybe space
     empty in a parallel world
even that could be
     even then I am nothing
he says
     always like that
uncertain
     never comfort him
she thinks
     in this world I am space
there I am
     fading away
neither here nor there
     remember the first thought
run from pain and death
     in these other worlds
who are you?
    I am me he says
I am you she says
    I me she repeats
I am you he says
    the future is unclear
universe clairvoyant
     timeline is buried
in the milky way
     palm of the galaxy
life line is strong
     but the meaning fades
like the cracks on her hand
     like a fissure in reality

There will always be maps

there will always be maps
     to mark our dead trails
to devise new bold lines at large
     to exist in abstract vision
to make real when followed afar

the time between motion
     is opaque, malleable
floats like absinthe cloudy orb
     fog-like in my sight
promises are all from memory
     until they've been proven false

There will always be maps
     to divide one thing or another
to draw a trap for the mind
     to paint in one color what is many
to place in hand what is unattainable

the time between motion
     is like death, immutable
follows like black dog, nips at heel
     with diamond claws and prophetic whim
phantom-like in my peripheral
     until the door left open creaks at last  

there will always be maps
     to designate and mark the dead
to bury and harvest the living
     to draw lines on aged bodies
to sever the connective tissue of reality

the time between motion
     is fluid, indiscernible
from heat-death entropy
     rose-like its scent lingers
as bodies baking in the sun
     until even scent and taste halt

there will always be maps
     to draw footprints to our attention
to make what is and what is to come
     to carve a deep path and lay tracks
to determine what the future holds

the time between motion
     is something new, frightening
something that must be solved
     with numbers and quantities
each step is one foot than the other
     solved for variable X or Y
there can be no uncertainty, coincidence

there will always be maps
     to guide the living
to draw out the boxes of the dead
     to place us on the unerring path
to prove there is no other way

Geschlossen

He's getting older
worried more about shit
shape, consistency, regularity
when was the last time
he went?

he thinks about shit more
than most things now,
besides cancer and how
many years he's got left,
and this person he knew
died at 40 young.

she asks him what he
wants out of life,
but sometimes it feels shallow,
like it's multiple choice,
with no option
for all of the above.
he's thinking about shit
tho while she talks,
and his bloated stomach
wondering if he ate too little,
or if he ate the wrong things,
or maybe it was too much,
he thinks of fiber
and caffeine.

often he considers stepping
off the tracks, wandering away,
swerving his car into a barricade,
but is that even possible,
can it be done? or is he just eyes
and mind watching his body
move and work and follow lines?

it's so tiring getting up,
sitting, laying back down,
if he closes his eyes
another day has gone.

he is sure he'll shit tomorrow,
at the very least, the day after that,
just relax, don't stress out,
a coffee will fix it, some cold
water right after you wake,
maybe sprinkled with
lemon juice, lime juice,
from a home remedy
he read online.

every tomorrow
there's the same dress shirts
hanging side by side,
sometimes they're thrown over a chair
sleeves still rolled up to elbows;
through the window cuts the
morning workaday sun.
how often does it do that?
how many years have slipped away?

grandfathers and beers

count the dead soldiers
lined up in a row
emptied out

how many did you kill?

how many bodies left to be tapped
how many are still fit for service

will they get us where we're going or fail?

count count the dead soldiers
packed in factories
states away

how many do you really need?

how many glisten in the sun
how many end up in the ground

will they last forever or perhaps degrade?

count the dead soldiers
left waiting until morning
silently stale

how many more tomorrow?

how much longer should we wait
how many more to come off the line

will they pour their souls out on cold streets?

count the dead dead soldiers
six in each platoon
none unique

how many did you knowingly kill?

how many until the world spins out of control
how many before there's no turning back

will they march with us, or upon our graves?

Nothing Ages

From many sides and pieces
we move like refracted light
in transparent spaces between
now and future past perfect tense

an arrangement of letter
into word obituary likeness

now, then! only this remains,

something that was said, immortalized,
can be forgotten,

this is easy and often happens,

there is no other way
we must force tho we rage
we must access the tumble
and smoothing aspects of time
accept loss, accept being lost

in one hundred years
there will be no memory
of us having walked the
earth, there will be no flowers
to mourn,

there will be nothing to hold on to.

Put in the Oven

Are we baking under
florescent lights?
     wasted
          wasted away
to day-glo skeleton
     colorized bones
          sell me out
wake the dead police
     they zombies
          not for brains
               for order
     for order & honor & duty
I am hand shackled
     to dying trees nobody sees
                          nobody care
those concrete monoliths now
     steel framed
          invincibly framed
stare down on high
     from techno-heaven throne
where data goes
     down
               collected
               know all
redact edit binge
the modem-brain-CPU
Casting long fiber-optic shadows
     over ruined cities
     over ruined heads
removed/euphoric
entitled
     to grow under
     artificial suns--

Candy Store

my teeth are
falling apart

pockets and holes
nooks and crannies
smell of black oil mucus
dipped and sparkling
candy shell
high fructose corn syrup
ladled into open wounds
ghastly surfaces
hidden beneath reddened
gums

there's decay slipping
into my thoughts
an aching head
strange dreams on
white powdered
medication
pills dissolving
in candied mush

my sense of self
is being remade.