There Is Someone Else In Here.

I turn a corner in the maze
and there you are.

I whisper,

I've been in here 29 years. 

When I look up I see 

all these stars eaten up by light.
When I look down I see 

all this dirt turned out by the worm.
She puts her finger to my lips -

sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh

them trees just beyond the walls
swaying in the wind 

oh you can hear them 

same as me

sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh

oh there there 

we're here but for being here.

There where those trees near,

fourteen esses, thirteen h's;

we just count down

while courting messes

and skirting itches.

Self Consumption.

 

I try to walk diagonally
and hope for sciatica leave.
Get me up and out of here
stop eating this circular tear.
The step echoes wrong.
This world sung as requiem.
There was a shooting
in an online article.
There was a shooting
star hung from a sickle.
I attempt to be constructive
with my agency gone in a fifth.
Solipsism the everlasting prison.
Internal Sim City such elastic fun. 
Thinking:
How to apply the unthought...
as much gone awry as held taut...
So I figure no more oh wells
it fills a bottomless well as far as I can tell.

Such a Good, Cloudy Day.

As the sides tangle with one other
my eye twitches with the other one;
such a surprise,
they convulse together.
The followers don't always make up the cult.
The cell may oppose the body.
The opposite is true of course:
The lifer screaming to be free of a locked room.
Always the same dilemma,
you get better at the expanse
between your head and your feet
while your current optimism
of the current within
positively drives you to discomfort.
Continuing a compulsion
in order to discontinue progress
towards all those intrusions swarming
around your heart like bees.
Cheers.
Good thoughts are scarce.
They bear through with honey,
they carelessly dispel with sting.
All them fuckers that fight
with one another within your chest.
Oh well,
we are a billion different cells.
We are more space than matter.
Each room inside us
contains a singularity.
Yet the reverb from yelling
escapes to join the multitude of vibrations
to coalesce into something undivided.
In harmony, some days,
in others, dissonant.
It is nice to know it can be sunny
despite the joy of being overcast.

Le Crackman Originale.

Remember when you surprised yourself,
within the dawn of adulthood,
while the minutes barreled into decades.
You sat before the bloom of neon cigarettes
held within a faux gold kitsch from a previous era:
a pen to untie a knot of lines,
a crumpled piece of paper relaxing into a creature.
Drugs were floating around
and you wore sunglasses at night.
The barrel of the pen loaded with ink.
The white of the paper a blindfold.
Pulling the trigger, lines splashed out
and the blood organized itself.
It was a wonderful thing.
An awkward and extravagant gentleman
with obvious tension.
His bald beauty.
His odd lashes.
His temperamental gesture.
His creaturely vanity.
His reaching around your waist.
You were enamored, amazed,
taken by surprise.
He told you that your teeth wouldn't be ground down.
He told you that your eyes wouldn't be painted over.
Any number of things:
they were nice departures.
You followed him around for a decade.
An ink blot keeping that tint rosy.

Snake Skin Shed.

Fear of death passing forth gives passing forth death of fear.
Walking to work with the dry space creeping in,
looking sideways with worry of strangers noticing
that my intentions are blurry
only because I hope they are good.
Two weeks ago I thought,
ninety one years old,
and not counting.
But of course we all keep track
of how many years the dead would have had.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.

Slow death just brings just death slow.
I write when I am desperate,
when body and mind are separate.
I am self involved to the point
where I'm flexing limbs without joints.
Bones cracking, the nerve.
Pain migration.
No way to know where the unease is coming from.
I am the snake skin shed with the tears drawn yet unable to evaporate.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.

Look Down, Look Drawn, Look Drowned.

What a cop out to make an apology for your creativity.
End up a dropout mistaking mythology for activity.
You look down.
You look drawn.
Thin and tapered, you compromise,
just watch that water rise.
There, the grainy video on CNN of the bridge buckling
under the demand of a flood, just what luck brings.

Should you decide to continue deceiving yourself.
Should you ask of a residue conceiving a shelf
on which to place who you are.
So far you've sparred with nothing insofar as Mylar.
A thin transparent sheet of separation.
A fin on the horizon of the ocean.
Notice of vague danger,
silt moving pages, divine arranger. 
A shark's tooth as a souvenir for your love
hanging from leather thread strung above
a dog stuck and laid low by malnutrition.
Every cognition keeping it chained with a shun.
This sand moves slowly holding lengths taut.
The waters move fast eroding fenced plot.
The development does not matter, being man made.
It will all fall under persistent moisture, slow fade.
Though water may be strong,
just change your bearing headlong.
Raise your head just as the water drowns you.
Whatever was said, it matters less than the sounds do.

Sense Memory #1.

Please remember when you die to just drop it.
These slender senses do vie to trust no pocket.
Dad is gone and I look at his photograph,
had a long glance and took apart his laugh.
He finally found his glasses
and we just keep laughing.
He fought those final matches
and we must keep laughing.
Common place grief runs in to face relief.
Obsessed with death I caress this fret.

Put your hands up.  They are tied up in a knot. 
Eyes behind the arms know memory cannot rot.