Trainrack

Please sign in and stain today with that gaze, you know the one? The day has poured us a fresh glass of injuries and I, for one, am grateful. Pick one for your very own: dress it up, take it home, and cuddle with it; let it mingle with your identity. Trot back to town with your new found feign, and show off the trips of your transgressions. Soap would be proud of us I'm sure. It'd slap its suds on our back and say to us: "son, that's initially what I thought too, when I first found the crashing".

inter

cheap 'why's chafe our Lord knows where we'll put the remnants. Pace back and fro to fix the flutter (the chirping, the mixing of ringing with wrong-doing...). Stop occurs, truncated. Sound flounders. "Pray our eyes out"edness. Tome and time again. Trace the cracks on the chapped lips newly smiling, peer into them. Trueth spelled funny. Knock. Falls through faces, we lay ours out, open in the street hoping someone will gaze lovingly upon them, maybe take them home and hang them out too, why?

face at last

The difference between prose and poetry is the difference between an apple and anaphylaxis. For instance, when you read a piece of prose, you bite into once-living flesh; you chew, crunch and work the flavor into your body. It is sweet. It is sour. It nourishes. The core is thrown to the ground, the remaining flesh decays, and the seeds grow new life.

Poetry begins similarly, however, shortly after swallowing, immunoglobins begin their work, communicating with your mast cells, telling them to protect you . Your pharynx begins to swell; edema begins to seep through membranes and fill your pulmonic tissues. Inspiration ceases and you fall to the ground.

Anyway... your death-fist-flesh encloses the flesh of the apple still. As both decay, the sun bakes your body and the seed sprouts, sucking up the apple's and your body's now mingling nutrients.

A tree grows up lifting your body to the sky.

One day a child will climb the tree; her limbs communicate and speak with the limbs of the tree as it leads her to a place where a face can be seen poking out. The tree's skin has given your skull a new face. The child will smile and run her fingers over your eyes, nose, and cheeks, and then she will kiss your new lips and the poem will begin.

loud knows we can't be eggs over that easy

Baby Pissboy Blue took a rocket-ship into who-says-so. Suddenly, the manager runs out shouting in a thick horse-accent: "You soccerstreet some-agains have a gain to be sure of it, and don't you mean 'engulfed by the... or maybe just quietly lapped, or even just tickled by the mere murmers of the suggestion.'?"

Cold as hands shaking hands with cold plans, Baby Pissboy Blue shouted right back in visual force, wall-eyed man, shaking eyes with air: "we've erred in the past good Swear, but this town hasn't the rind for the twixt of us, and I've sucked the mint of your moaning song-enough".

Not sterile, but medically clean stares hung in bags under the Manager's eyes. The clock ticks the clock sticks the clock ticks the clock ticks, errr... hangs there hot, but BPB knows just when to woo and sudden-twirl-kicks the "mere suggestion" back to the general direction of the sky. And that's where it sticks to this stay holding hands with the Main Plot with Baby Pissboy Blue and the Manager still "in the thick of it".

flow taste and flow

This is the net gain of hamster hands, and in the end, let darkness roll, let darkness roll, over the backs of your fingers, which spindle and thread throughout the city of knowns. Forced perspective forced perspective run to run to run. We blow smoke signals and call our ancestors and explain why we were so late in the first place. Race to religion, flicks out. flicks in. We coast like that, we s'posed to hold hands: nodding. Plod we three to cordless telephones, sidle up behind them and change their minds with works. And beds and ankles: we trip through the sea of everyone's waving to me. Sound we our bells of sound, we are bells, we sing, we sing to the evening, but the daybreak is caught in our throats and even if we could cough sputter cough it up the moment is ruined the moment is pruned. Sorry about that mr. mischief and if sound ever happens again, you'll be the first to know, first to no, first to know. sit up straight and smile up fake and straighten up before the decision is made for you. Townhouses townhouses fit, fit, which way do they fit, We'd wonder, hammered on life. Ash fits cold shade in set face, save tags bid sick noose undulate, posse cold posse fluster cut sick up injury to house save and bed nod in town bosses. Weed be done and we'd be gone cake bold and slack stinted fat slank in poignant chase. Face the face the faucet and hold your breath tight, wrung like sponge cake and sung like the gates of smell. Put it down, put it down, lock Ajazz out kicking wet with wetness. we'd be done with the folds, no bring the outhouse to life with us and fill the bold to town we ask we our beds 'til ask we our best 'til ask we out beds 'til it off strip it won thread that image through the need her now, flow taste and flow. down stream we ask down stream we ask to hill top run and fake our lives fake them and Oh we go to Oh we go to Oh we go. Chill to the phone stuck to the take her down, I can't get the rhythm, take the rhythm out, divorce it from me, never need to see it again. Till you go we can't have peace can't stop wanting this to go on, only we did and still don't really understand the point of waving in this manner, don't read, don't read the words, just understand them. Flow out to flow, and fill out to fill and over flow after with minds like picnics to attend to. Caught in the act, we thought this'd never end, but here we have a fresh example of murder, we never knew what it was. the sound, the mean, the implications of answer us, I can't wrap, can't warp, can't get around the sound of it. Flat tax and glitter scheisse floundering tackle box doom bend to ent spend and cower and cower and cower and cower for the rooms gone we shot it to death but you wouldn't know about that would you, sitting there just sit there waiting to die but flight never takes place because nothing ever seems to happen that doesn't seem to happen. It wears out that way because sight arises inside you and cold cocks the waitress to the ground, sponge in hand, soaking up the energy of the moment. We'd say goodbye but goodbye never works quite the way we intend it to, and shade is best anyhow. Block out the sun, not blocked out by hiding from it, it tastes best when evaded, how'd you guess. Space to space fill'd with shutters, filled with soot. Kind man, and kind man, and kind man to take the trash out to take. We'll be in, we'll be in, take out the feel, take out the feel and what do you have in your hand, it's a bag of feed. Feed the machine, feed it well, and when it grows up big and strong and strong and big we can all figure out ways to destroy it. Float float shoot shamble. Wail out the stares to stars to post it on, I'd sound the alarm, sound the alarm but I've only ever been filled with what I've only ever been filled by. Close your hand around me and explore with me this galaxy of closenesses, faked to the core. Suture businesses to "busy"nesses. Cancel my subscription too. Nothing comes and nothing sums and nothing comes of this. This battering out of letters, not even words. Change comes but always from behind, and sits.

"Shake us peer!", Iain's on it.

She like 'em earthy to a some: her stay.
Sour moral of Lee-Ann, mortem parrot.
Ralph Wins! "touché" g'thud Arleen Budds. Huff'em eh?
Ann's Hummer Sleeze. Athal Tew's horded hate.

Some dime 2". Hot thigh off, hey "Vinn 'shh' Ines".
An Doff tennis is goal'd Comp. electioned hemmed.
Ann/Dave reverve ROM fearsome tie 'em deek lines.
"Bye, shh", ant's surnames chain jink-horse hunt-rimmed.

Butt-Thigh! He turn awesomer, shell knot feigned.
Gnarl whose Pose session huffeth at fareth O-host.
Norse Halled "eth bragth" who wants Her Stinnish-ade.
When in heat: earn Al-lines, toot!, Eye'm, th' ogre owest.

solo 'n' gas 'em 'n' Camry "Thor, I scan sea!
Soul ogle Ives th' hiss hand th' hiss-gagh! vessle I've toothy.

only the poem is over

He was the poster-boy of pamphlet-men. These are the stareplanes of existence. Bifurcating beams of light punctured through a waterwhite sky. These are the shared pains of persistence, the growing pains of the enlisted. We are the underhousemen. He stared halfhandsomely out into an unsettled sea. A mile or so away yet another sigh between yet two more tired lips. The fairlanes of the assisted, the tearing pains of the arm-twisted. No horizon on the horizon. Skysea. Could stand on my head and never know the difference. Stareplanes. No, the inner ear could tell. The darestains of the unafflicted, the hair-manes of the gutter-lifted. The layers laid or the sand sifted. I think we've tried hard enough for now. This is the seer's grave. That was the blue. That was the black. This is the gray.

Skyline

upon a day, in Everytimeland, there was and was and was a meaning and voice whose lips and sighs evade the stars as time conveys the years. And on this silver day, there was a man who continues to believe that if any line is continued on to its furthest point it will and does connect with itself again (and again). "There are no lines", the man would say, "only sections of circles". This man's belief continues (and continues) to this silver day to have no bearing on anything that anyone thinks or does, and if it did: it wouldn't matter. Once...

As blue as it is forgotten

This is a poem in which I, the poet, happy as I am, will demonstrate an amazing ability to underjudge you, the reader, oh humblest of creatures, and your ability to grasp, handle, and hold some of life's greater treasures. You will continue to be wondersmitten as I dip, dodge, and duck around what you once thought of as your language, but is now clearly my own. I will bend the world around you, and force it to dance unthinkable dances. I will casually pick my teeth with sweet silvery images and cast them aside as pitiable objects to the shadowy floor. I will swiftly climb through thick... wait. Stop.

The rest should be spoken in hushed wispy tones. Whisper to the page, oh reader, whisper now. And if someone should happen to enter the room, just continue whispering, leaning ever closer to the page as if in a trance. Then, when the poem is complete, turn you attention to the person, gaze at their true self through the windows of their eyes, and say: "the poem is over, and all that is left are words on a page". Then you must leave, knowingly, never to return.

lunacy in their hennessy

and that silver liquor pours from the moon through panes of my somethingorother (maybe mind... or room, never been outside of either), some call it (rhymes-with-spite), I call it drunk with envy, but only he knows for sure and sometimes, when it doesn't stop slipping through doors of (how-do-you-do) I call it mine, I have bottles-or-pockets full of the stuff, and when he (no one) isn't ever looking I slip it in their drinks and abscond into the cloak of the night (pulling it tight around me), and then when no one (he always) sees me I admit it was nothing (they couldn't handle) so they put cold glass to their lips and tip twilight into their gullets, all the while I'm laughing up a storm off the coast of Tripoli (all the way from here), but they'll never see me while I'm wearing the smiling night around my shoulders, it always puts them in such a mood (you know?), they drank most of it, but most of it is also worn on their faces, and mostly dripping from off their skin too, all of it, though, is still with me, in my bottles-or-pockets-or-maybe-even-mind, and only that which is in their eyes is left by morning.

dreamblood

I don't know. I thought it was through the silk darkness that I saw your dreams. They were mine once too you know, sailing through shadows, and floating through the effortless alone. Not once, but twice... or was it forever that I held them bleeding in my arms, their gaping wounds sobbing emptiness into my lap. Nothing mattered then, only whispers like tearing: warm sticky flesh from smooth white bone gleaming. I can tell you what you do. You do what I did too. You squeeze only tighter, oozing thick black nothing onto your floor. Whisper. Blood. Whisper. Emptiness. Whisper. Alone. This is always and only where your dreams will take you.

smooth(gray)plains

There is a feeling that I call a memory that when I once pondered with pen and page (oh so long ago), I found myself places, in worlds deep and loud, and all too easily did I relate these experiences. They were worlds I could taste. I grabbed handfuls and armfuls of sweet scenery and pungent smells, tangible textures and bright melodies, and threw them upon a page in a desparate frenzy. For a while I found I was in a place of neither cold steel walls, nor warm green hills, but only smooth gray plains that dissolve into a frictionless sky (and silence). The words were merely words (heavy). However, now a smile glides across my face. Silence is broken. My eyes close. I can hear a deep rumbling of heavy waters. The words are becoming lighter. I will soon be swept off once again to Whocareswhere. The words are becoming worlds.

(however) You+Me=We still can't do it without Him

All I know is: whenever I walked into that room, the hiphophurrah turned me in/and upsidedownandout. It was a musical frenzy which bounced skitterskatteringly inside your sconce (which is no kind of flattened candlestick, but only your skull). It zipped and zathered (which is only a word as much as alone) down your six lane (un)conciousness, which doubled as mine, but only for one musical moment that lasted as long as Today. It moves you through sweet versions of effortless reality, down whipping winding lanes of don't you forget it. I think someone wants to see to it that the intersecting lines of yours and mine don't form too many truthful beauties, as they so often do. And that's what this is, isn't it? The result of 6,000 years of eternity, echoing the sweet sweet same old same old sounds that only sound new because we hadn't yet heard them Today. Hallelujah.

Moses Supposes

Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but
Moses supposes erroneously.
Moses he knowses his toeses aren't roses as
Moses supposes his toeses to be,
but what Moses doesn't knows is,
is that while some people love roses, and
some people love the smell of french toast sizzling
on a hot stove in the morning, and
some people love the red-orange-pink glow
of the sun as it dips below the horizen,
other people, like the man waiting behind the corner
loved the startled shrieks of the innocent
as they screamed "why me"
under a brisk november sky.

sweet,warm night

Light waves of smoke lapped up against the walls, dripping their heady flavor into the room. Wisps swirled and eddied around your head as you moved through the aroma-drenched air. Warm liquid hugged your bare feet and soothed them.

"Have a seat" the old man said, as the warm firelight licked the ceiling a sweet dancing orange. He sat there, clothed in the thick smell of autumn. Smoke poured from his lips and long pipe, floating through his thick beard. His eyes were deep, black as the warm night, ablaze with stars. His voice shook the room with a cleansing warmth.

"I suppose you know why you're here", he said.
"I'm afraid I don't sir", you answer. It seemed as though fear could not exist within those walls, and you allowed the thick air to wrap you in comfort. "In fact sir, I don't even know who you are".

Warm laughter danced carefree in the night of his eyes.

"I am Death", he said, and wrapped his gentle hand around your heart and (with a warm slashing sound) ripped it from your chest. Your eyes saw no more in that room of blood, fire, and ash.

HereisThis-> <-HereisThat

Pushing, trudging, through thick stillness of page, moving nothingness aside and replacing it with pure determination; charging blindly forward into emptiness, leaving behind only This and only That. The sweetness of a page that drips (with pure Idea), saturated with haha-loneliness. It can't be stopped (yeah right), you know, once it's started. It's like a snowball, tumbling through the white snow. Words roll across the page gathering mass as they run. The mind creates the hills, the turns, smearing thick Vision across the inside of your eyes and mine. In the end, though, it's always the same: An abrupt end: sweet empty (

A sentence in which...

The sound of bluebright hope s(wee)ngs through the neverpresent "when" and flightfully fits it's essence (the whole and nothing but) into the slot between Hail and Hate and in a roundabout hi-de-ho altogether pleasantly shattering sort of way, glorifies the great Alrighty (yes yes), whose Love and Upstanding, Downstanding, Allstanding, Instanding, Outstanding, Overstanding, Through-and-Understanding concurred all with the great Yes of Life.

warm sloshing ideas

you'd think (with some sort of sputtering giggle) that if you were an underwater sea-slug of some kind of another, that maybe that grotesque hand of yet-dazzling fury (O, that bright hand, grandchild of seething form) wouldn't be able to smother all your dreams as they persperate in shiny multicolored droplets from your slick slimy membrane. Well, what do you think of it, as far as reinvention goes that is? Do you feel, in the warm dark squishiness of your body, a palpatating rhythm writhing forth most likely to be interpreted as hideous laughter or kind yet firm words of criticism. No, it couldn't be that sloshing about within you. Or could it, a wink washes over your body. No, that settles it, (you dive back in to your warm pools of thought) The Megaomnitroid is an accurate, yet altogether uninviting new name for God.

the mile-blue ponder

What is it, All-Blue-and-Smiles? I've certainly never heard of such a smuttering happy-how-thing? Doesn't it see you: down the now, into the you, up the ever, but always through on the other side, howling moonhate on the slip-and-slide sky. chip by chip, and side by side it clamps the under-up omniwho all across slip-up-sunday (which never cries and cries). No, never. Thick blue lips dancing across the bloody horizen chlomping and splurping salivamen who dance and dance and dance to the here-and-now-universetune.

drip. drop. glides crystal sorrow from hopeful eyes and once again it's sit-up-friday. Cry cry for the whole capful of them, the thick sunslosh few of them, unmeaning anything in their wonderworldeyes. The updrops fall to the blue from whence they never came. Can't you, won't you tip droplets of fire through the lionglass, pickpocketing he who sleeps and sleeps and never lives but always dies. It doesn't stop here you know. The whiping winding hip-hollering road unwilds itself at the unshine palace, never tipping, always wooing the on-and-on sky.