for those that were with me, there, in the field

we vibrate in such ways

and to keep ourselves from shaking out of control, or

losing that way that

we vibrate

we must find others that quiver in the same

sort

of way

and maybe we find someone who is so close to the same

that we carefully contort our frequency to come close to theirs

and they do the same

we place delicate fingers on our dials, tweaking with such

care

that we are alarmed when someone might want to turn them for us

we reject change, unless it is one or two notches away from where we already are

I am 19 to 24 years old, and I shiver without Q's sometimes and

try not to repeat myself

I have spoken to mayan gods from inside a tent, borrowed from Tom, for the purpose of keeping me warm and out of the rain. He gave it to me in good faith and it was almost destroyed by the gibbering wonk.

but I stood my ground, and picked it up with brainwaves that shook the goblin that had plowed through it

the god spoke to me in murmurs.

it said

mumuh muhhuhmmumhuhhh

and I told it, lying, that I understood.

but I could've. (understood)

I could've lept from the top of spinning slides onto carpets of christmas lights, held up by fingers of joy and acceptance

I could've been shot by cannons of infinite death and the humming void and it would've bounced off my crystalline shell and dissipated without harm to others.

I destroyed minds with thoughts of divine perfection

I was buddah

and so were you

and there were geniuses with brains full of undead plants, telling stories full of guitar strings and the remnance of a cosmic infinity band that played brazilian soul and let us know

that we were right where we needed to be

our resonance was perfect, for at least two hours.

and if I close my eyes and warp the past, as I always do, we were perfect from the start

we shook together, on that english field, surrounded by every freak that wanted to keep a secret

and we failed at that

but at least we saw the laterns float away in droves, laden with the wishes of hopeful deviants, unaffected by the hatful glare of doubt, and fear

a week later, I floated off too.

but I carried a lantern with me

happy birthday Joe Stohlman

is it a tick?

or is it a tick?

or am I imagining it's a tick?

I am punctuated with

severe pauses that

force thought of empty thought

and

strangled artistic endeavor

this page, my words are

released into the mind space

in patterns of delightful

frequency

but

at the same time I am ruined

by my own lack of thought

I can't think

there is only a feint buzzing now

drowned out by the incessant ringing of my

ruined ears

I am a scared puff of whirling

dissatisfaction

unwilling to save myself

from being formed into

rings of

unnecessary candor

flailing out my grey fractal thoughts into a pit

which I made for myself

so I can sit, and be

alone

the morning routine

when I w w a a k k e e up

I lie in my bed

and lie

to myself that I don't need to

get up

the warm sheets that I cling to

never judge me for having a bad month

"just stay a while longer"

-they say

just like the body that's never

next

to me

I roll and turn, trying to find the elusive vein of sleep that I lost when I woke, and eventually I give up

I wander around the empty

s p a c e s

in my thought

filling each one with humming nothing

and then I get up

I look over my shoulder at the

chance that someone might see my lonely shame

and draw a cigarette out of my dwindling pack

I stole it from my parents

not the pack, but the indication that might let

me buy one

I move

down

towards

the

back

porch

and open

locks that

keep me in

I think about what I'm doing

and light up among trees and

dirt and leaves and the remains of my feigned apathy

and I think about you

we sat once, outside the dance hall

and the talking heads around us jabbered like a quivering blob

they said hurtful things but

we couldn't be touched

because we thought we had each other

this is usually when I cough,

and choke on your memory

and I couldn't describe it, I just

don't remember the words

but

when I look people in the eye

and they steal my energy

through opened valves of the iris

and black nothing in between

I can see you

maybe

and when I looked in yours

you just gave it back to me

with more than I needed

so I developed a taste for it

and that addiction causes

these horrible withdrawals

that I satiate with more smoke

before I forget

I finished my cigarette

And that

End that

I flicked off

It layed in a pile of dead leaves and dirt and decomposition

That I put there

Over years

And that I couldn’t be bothered to clear

And as it died it hummed and lived on through the wind

Unwilling to give up its last moments

Pulsing with somber orange energy that

Just killed me when I thought of what I’d done

written in a notebook, out of frustration

with what screeching halt

stops breath and doesn't think

things

through

the hyper flavored tongue

as does the ended

wisdom

fluttering over a gas leak

that blends our vision and

speaks to us in tongues

it licks us,

its wounds

with such powerful care

that it might tear us

away from the scars

that we call our home

and if it doesn't make

sense,

or use phrases that we hold

to the light

to reflect

a knowledge

of these

words that

creep down feted alleys

in the wrong part of

our minds

and will only open to us

if we are broken, or torn apart, bleeding and

scared

clamoring for a word

better than GOD

better than INFINITY

and unwilling to admit

that it cannot exist

especially among our

terrified wills

unable to defend ourselves

with any thing but

ignorance and gritted bliss

it is a mirror,

stacked face down

shining through slats

of lacquered cherry

put there, mercifully,

by mom and dad

so forgive me if I get lost and can't return your calls

god has me now, and he

is taking reparations for all

the belief that I have

denied it thus far

I am a lost nothing, being

shoved down a larger, bigger

everything

that is angry with my apathy

and nihilism

I can refuse it

and write, sleep, love, smoke, drink

but it doesn't ever let up

its waves are arms with ten thousand fingers each

its tide is a feeling that sends us down

it is laying on the ground in the rain

cold and grey

flowering through the sustained disbelief of

philosophical misspellings

and under-used silence

it shows through your eyes,

who I write about especially when I am not writing

and it causes me to invoke nothing,

and confusion

more than the everything it is

I'm the quill, undipped

because the answer is so busy looking at my

shiny

new

tip

and you are the page that I'll never write on

because my handwriting needs

so

much

explanation