a work in progress

What can I see with my dying eyes?

As words and numbers sink into textures and shadows

have I seen too far into the all of being

expanding my vision, blurring my resolution so that I might fit it all in?

As the details hide behind

my inability to focus

squinting to read road signs and facial expressions

gasping through semi-closed eyes for the knowledge of vision

as they wilt

as the colours around me

blend into bleeding patterns of

undisclosed

details

de-tailed quetzalcoatl

soaring god of the crowded city

casting glaring branches of light across the sky

destroying my eyes

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As have expanding as my squinting

grapsing as as blended disclosure

details de-tailed soaring casting destroying

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As grasping details

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less and less every day

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less than before

less than before

poetry cafe number 1

He, in wired coat of flax and followed slant

breathing deep the argonaughts breath of deep

seeing eyes of the eternal nonsense

opened to the callous float of blown up ideals

of anarchy

and anarchism

undulating thugs fleeing through flowing streets

spraying dissent across meaningless concrete

soul-less hyphenation and baseless promises of safety

left to harmonize with the hopeless day

sighing that infinite breath of contention into the hearts of

the young

the youngism

the schism between squalid brown glaciers of upturned mud

glowing with the post-coital bliss of anti-capitalism

each of us carry with us the spark this same spark of idiocy

clamouring for the correct way to express our dread

will I kill today?

Oh father molog

will I kill today?

Oh mother azathoth

goddess of non-gendered destruction

touch us through our shaken shoulders, through the wired coats and the grey hoodies

through the streets of contention

through the houses of dictators

through the mud and the dirt

and the love and the hurt

through the rhyme and the sky

through the questions and unacceptable answers

through the green and black crossed youth of futures hope

through the yellow and black of baseless copulation

through the rape of our families

through the gauntlet of doubt

through the wormhole of Lycanthropy

through the glory of repitition

will I kill today?

Oh brother steadman

steady oh shading the harsh perfect light

shaded by incandescence and signified verbal halitosis

allowing our creativity to bleed through our gums

allowing the scurvy sickness of realities harsh caverns

lighting our way through validity and context

will I die today?

Oh sister moon

and will you cry when I stop thinking your name?

Will we ever sit again, and will I spell your three letter name with hope, or regret, or kindness,

or nothing

Will I die today

oh fleeting collective

of crass and bloodied faces

facets of bloodied facts

sanguine money pushers of normality and appeasement

of leaves and of awakening

of meaning and meaninglessness

of esses and nesses and lochs and

quays

of myth and of fucking

Will I die today?

Oh feeling of doubt

I cannot deny you

I refuse to die without you

Will I die today?

Oh guru nothing

OHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

an old poem, written on a receipt

If I was a crow

and was a bird and

had wings

and could do certain

things in the sky

with those

wings

I might fly to you

and peck on your

window

and if I was that

bird with wings

would you think

I was a blackbird?

and would I remind

you of a favorite song?

and would you

sing it to me?

and would I be able

to hear it through

your window, with

my tiny bird ears?

I don't know

it's just a thought

these are answers

are they questions
have I done it
wrong?

is it a question
have I done it
wrong?

am I casting
cellophane
anchors?

do I know the
clear, crumpled
answers?

have I discarded the
slight itching
reminder of
why the
why of
which answers can
fly across
barriers of
ignorance
trying to
try too
hard to
three
for everything
I
see

am I asking questions?
are they questions?
is it a question?

or have I seen the horizons edge
and glinting jewel of
the pinwheels edge
and

are these questions?
have I done it
wrong?

about being silent.

Switched lights target low flight

scattering feathers of

constant re-hashed time flow

the weaving thoughts of

pre-poetics clamor for

the front lobe pole position

on page and drawn reality

these spirits of miss-formed

P's and E's

grumbling sigils of

peace and ease

easily piecing together the

frozen leopard

from cross-state

we can walk on it

and ignor the cracking doom

of ruined sweaters and

substandard living

gasping for an overhang that

can keep us out of the cold

it brings you to me,

shivering with the

spirit of lowell and

san fransisco, chicago, and

cardiff

I walk through a miasma

of reconsideration to find it,

breathing underground

with the heaving chests

of social alcaholism

I twist my body and mind around

it's pointed pen, vessel for

spirits of lowell, san fransisco,

chicago, and home

I write you down so that

you can be small on the page,

and so

so

so big when I breathe you

out

out

out onto the new

freed from my mind but

contained in images of

the silent, wanting to

be silent

the silence

silence

being silent isn't knowing how to make no sounds, it's knowing what sounds you can make and still not be heard.

be silent.

snow day

it's not the snow

coming down in a steady winter coat

a rested hand upon the head of

our slush filled shoes

unreal to us until it

sticks

at our slush fearing feet

the anticipation of what

comes after the fall

my unrested mind trying

to imagine a world with

calm, rested presence of

earthly context

this universal feeling we get from this

worldly phenomenon

this crystallized realization of

the worth of our roofs, jackets,

and communal warmth

it swirls around lightposts

illuminated and uniformly

lit

the golden halo now grey and

bright

so bright and grey

so bright and grey

sinking through the souls of our feet

the souls of our walking and wishing

forward feet

framed by tree and lamp and this thought and

it's not

the snow

it's how the world might look after

how the spaces will be filled

and the burners in our

hearts will be stoked with

anticipation

it's not

the snow

it's how I imagine you might look with flakes in your hair

and how you might squint so you can see

it's not

the snow

it's

the things that might come after

and how they'll all

look

about fixed form and the lounge

the sound amplified by the

sound of my dying frequent friends

sequentially dying friends of

subsequent things that end in

super-ceded thought of dreams

snake skinned tambourines

dictionary poets with eyes the size of wings

could concieve the fashion

but terrified of things

that sleep away the rainy days

and bring us to our knees

what are these things these stupid things

that take away our dreams

these jabberwocky, made up monsters

face eternal screams

these fixtures in the walls of carvings

made of brick and sex and starving

fueled with liquor, soda, frosting

caked with sweetness, sad, and roasting

kicking it with teachers, teaching

breathing

breathing

breathing

breathing

fade away you tired things

you ghosts of what that could have been

you mock me with your cheerfull grin

you take me through the phases

I try to pass but stop some how

my mind is teatherd to the crowd

and murmmurs with this silent. loud.

and cracks with stifled laughter

the room the room the sacred room

protected by 3 gold dubloons

could open up the sun and moon

and steady nihilistic crazes

face yourselves and prey good health

on those who share this wordy wealth

and thank you, for you share yourself

and that's what we're all after

thinking

thinking

thinking

thinking

the barriers of minds are breaking

talking, speaking, cracking, quaking

falling into sleepers wakened

and by 7:30 these seats are taken

we angels covered in the dirt of the world

breathing underground and sing

through wood and ground and jazz and stairs

our pen and paper bring

from passing through it seems

I saw between these things

we are steel, we are flynt

god given and sent

believed the walls for their scent

but we never relent

smaerd fo thguoht dedec-repus

ni dne taht sgniht tneuqesbus

fo sdneirf gniyd yllaitneuqes

sdneirf tneuqerf gniyd ym fo dnuos

nht yb deifilpma dnuos eht