i want

not the world,
but its grace.

ababcdcdefefgg

sonnet homework for class.
used some lines from previous works.
headache from all the patent editing.
i need to stop seeing words for the next 12 hours. images please.


i want to sleep with you in a place
where our atoms can collide
with a furious crash and an
unraveling of lace passing over your eyes
and painted soles of our souls to
see which way we moved next
where shadows sewn by loom
would set flame to bones beneath my breast
to crave you the way a mortal thirst sits
and your mouth is mine
as is the electric gravity which graces our lips
within most unnoticed corners of space and time

in a place where fingers sign an infinite womb
where sky is mine and she is moon

let me

let my fingers tangle
drawing circles in your hair
and ill be with you
alwaysletmyfingerstangle
drawingcirclesinyourhair
andillbewithyou
always

thoughts inside the boston airport

we got 7 inches yesterday
dust
one-hour intentions
and stacks of people praying
to god
maybe.
left-handed gestures
25 cents lost
pouting lips spit ice back into its cup.
lesbians
an old man an his apple
grease stains seeping through
fingers
now stomach
i think its going to happen
promise a call-back
mile-high expectations
and a humming growl to put me to sleep
(hopefully)

one-syllable pops
of whats going on
1892?
put in a dollar
and laugh like a xylophone
xy.lo.phone.
straight back
like a flame
watch
breaking bags
swallowing hisses
and spurts
eat now
eat now
so i can get rid of it
see you on the other side.

to the almost-famous

you’ll lie down into the dark
for the last time
with your crooked spine
turn over what went wrong,
relive alcoholic dreams
your overly-poetic fuckings
and not-abusive-enough parents

you’ll tell yourself
this world doesn’t like art
doesn’t like ugly people making money
doesn’t recognize honest talent
this world breeds contempt

and you’ll writhe in disgust and spit on
first-grade dreams
choke on unwarranted sex and your
cubicle on the third floor
that kept food in your mouth

or

maybe you just
(really)
weren’t that talented
after all.



its alright --
in the end we all end up the same,
anyway.

discussing chomsky and media filtering

I’m watching you suck on your cigarette while you overturn your alcoholic dreams and overly-poetic fuckings -- famous people don’t get famous because they’re perfect, you know. And I’ll keep watching as the smoke rises out of your mouth like vomit leaving your body the wrong way out. I guess we could light a match together and get a rise out of inhaling it's livid sulfur and laugh about how bad our eyes burn. You look like a ghost to me now.

i need to...

respond to the light

fall into love with my (self)
once again.