numbers tell a story of lifeless nights alone cold and dark cooped up/unsatisfied general disinterest can you hear me speaking quietly through the shadows of the never-ending lighten the mood and he jokingly suggests his plotted murder with bullets through the heads of the thieves sitting in their car stealing his money and doing his drugs

retell retail

tall tale tellers bankers and brokers stockholders collectors money makers and fakers actors and realtors come one come all to the bandaged bondage of creation to release the input source the output reckon with the fallen faded failed fathers of a tattered contusion

recognized watchers from high towers of thought and manuscripts never written leaving the leaf clean slated as a blank stare from a beautiful woman of deep thought knowing the emptiness of her looks and realizing the complexity of the words written afterwards

"Is This Thing On, Still?"

Now that I think of it, I have felt these things, heard the same pitch shifted voices of my own in my head telling me of the regret and falseness of everything that I know of myself, or so I thought. Still, the newness frustrates, exhilarates, and fulfills. Satisfaction in the previous, regret in the never world of all I’ve seen, dead skin microscopes reveal there’s been more than one to cross the dusty boundaries covered by the addition and subtraction, consistent and an otherworldly mathematician I have become. The oldness I feel, nothing similar to age, rather the contrary it seems. And come to think of it, all of the photographs of my year are left undeveloped. 

Primrose Cilia

Nongarrulously received under white and rounds
Message under the paralyzed, choked at the womb
This here, built cornea, glazed by black
Slung throat choked beneath the mirror
A debt unpaid that never went found
Here lies the four
Several costs and newly single brown eyed orphan
Scraping against dead skin
A railroad to the sea
Lift up your skin
Lift up your eyes
Scattered around limbless fetal nesting
Reign me down, loud as quicksand
My fingernails have burst out of my skin
Contact, let his buried mistakes known
My sores build as I lay to rest on this abandoned bed sheet
Separate our realities from fiction
I ask the snakes to hiss so I can sleep tonight.

"My lies are an abandoned mansion with so many rides."
Possess the pigeon and abort the diamonds
Flesh to flesh
What is that that carries me away?
Metal stabbing the vein
Punctured flesh released the thirsty blood
Sleepless nights ruffle the first born winds
Movement recalled from the infant brain
The purpose of life yanks at my hairs
Clenching to the bone
Thirst these dry lungs
Like the desert storm hitting me

Blindfolded but the ears sense a new tall tale
Ramming broken blisters
A reteething prospect
Bones suck in silence
This repetition rains saliva
Heavy on the heart
Heavy on the eyes
Heavy on the eyelids of the creator
Life support for the dead
Limbless surgeons pick out a smoldered answer
Hung and over blasting
Dress this bullet through my eyes
I've never seen the sun
Wearing a dress
And mother's late for dinner again.

self portrait: July 2011

compare the simple

Overhead, the jets rumble the same roar as my father's truck's engine,
Same note, same volume, a nostalgic sound to my ears until I finally
Realize the reality of the situation, the roar, much stronger, in fact, is not
The engine of the man who bore me, but of a machine unfamiliar
To my driveway.

Some day, some place it will occur, perhaps it already has,
To a kid (or young man, I do not want to demean myself or my age)
Just as it did to me, that his father's jet's engine has sounded and finally
He has come home in an Armani suit far too expensive for my father
At this stage in his life.