day 10

A gently tilted day is not much to awake for,
for if pushed to the side,
none would like to half-ass a triumph.

No knees would like, in a particular sense, to
bounce about and walk as if mimicking a pinball;
falling, pushed from bumper
bunker to bunker with flashing
neon scorecards and chiming audiotags-
points for concrete bounding-
points for breaking urban bondage
in terms of city blocks with freezertinged
homeless haired vagrants screaming,
admittedly, they are past due, but only
half late and are, as it turns to be,
three terrible mistakes down the road from relative success


An alarm, half ignored and fully basic,
sounds for hours, scribbling in appropriately low tech
notebooks that would gladly scribe humanities'
cruel secrets in the margins and log, in
perfection, the way in which
several sleeping students should awake,
like a long walk home from some metaphysical afterparty
in the dark to arrive at a flicked light,
eventually falling asleep to the humming mechanics of
the wistful thoughts that pertain to freezing to death.

Red eyes, half black, drawn tight and forced,
sunshine stains the shades in an attempt to
hide the daytime from nasty nighttime sins
while all young buck against the flow to
perpetrate errs. Articulating an ignored passion inbetween
stories of vicious
individuals
vicariously living through empty
cyber skeletons, I
attempt to carve some simple life into
these half awake forever bones-
for even some self destruction may suite me,
jumpstart waking up. In sleep I walk the dead halls
where religion becomes folklore, where these days become
history, where vacuums steal virtue and significance from
those who passed mildly into some fair unbecoming:

For every tilted day will cease to be.
Every artificial moment will die,
and transform, rebirth to clouds of
alien skies and organic manipulations in some dimension-

For every pinball game played
mayn’t be won, but in terms
of bondage, when the game ends
the chains break-
when the basics implode, explode, magnify,
and loop around to pat God’s back,
perhaps our specks would be to small
to be recognized by the impending nothingness.
Perhaps we’ll hide in some cosmic corner to disappear like
crumbs in the darkness.

And no joker, big, small, or beheaded shall
play me the fool,
unless every gently tilted day
lies, speaking in generic hostility.
Urge the several
hallucinations out of hiding and coax them
to become tangible, No
playing.
Nothing studied or calculated-
everything Alien and beautiful,
no stars, no moon,
all perception.

Day 9

Do not forsake wind,
or snow that crests the ground-
for in empty beauty
this life is realized and found.

Several hours later,
bibles clutched to chest,
we sing of rocks and seasides
we sing of the life kept
neatly in our heads.

Day 8

Why not slap some DNA into her and make her more organic?
Because, you know, each and every one of us
could be dinosaurs someday, colossal, empty bones underneath
layers of soil,
landscapes in some alien world carved
entirely separate.

So why not have some fun while it lasts?
Because the ends of things
bring alien worlds to a tangible paradox,
because
unknown colours shed
some fingers to this perceptive universe.

And humanity, no river sweeps over the same dam twice when it all goes
to hell and
breaks,
and no prescribed or doctored
mannerism could prepare you
for that moment
when your face twitches at the
thought of becoming sour,

tweaks at the
mere thought of becoming worn bones
or silvered and rectified in some corporeal attachment.

Day 7

and in the smallest mornings,
with red tips streaked across a loved sky
i dream of you in the wide strokes
measured by a colored intelligence,
while He, the same,
paints the future dot to dot, and universe to universe, with
thin black lines connecting souls to bodies,
shells to await displaced substance,
while thick spirits transcendental of smaller thoughts
touch corporeal beings and lul them to a fine-tuned slumber.

I dream of you because you are gentle,
and fragile
and lovely.

I could cup you in my palm
and protect
painted bones,
project these skinny hands
from ever faulting-
but,
I could dream a million dreams, and miss you no less.
I could see your eyes a thousand times
through photographs and
portraits

you could be a sun to me, and warm my bones,
but then I could not look in your eyes.
Still, I would. I’d gladly go blind
for you,
and crushed powder refined to sprinkle over iced wounds
and open the stems of closed hearts,
heat the chill of forgotten want-
gladly, I would go blind.

Day 6

wouldn’t you rather sink sometimes,
darken down deep roads and
gain black tinged dreams with every
pulse of life? To sleep and gradually gain
sight, like colour dripped, filtered, smeared, and feared
trickled down
to sightless creatures,
beautiful, made of shadows
and thirsty for nothing?

Of course bottles emptied would help you
lose,
and of course
downfalls
would be enhanced by
smoked guns and
sandy chambers,
cracked and emptied into
store windows and grey
apartments- Like officers of the law, we sit in silence and
observe
all the candlelit crimes the emptiness perpetrates,
skewed and bearded his smile is a
kaleidoscope built from plastic
paper, constructed in classrooms and brought to life in
tossed slumbers, and the worst thing is he doesn’t exist.
but he figured he wouldn’t like to sink all the time,
but the times he was real he wanted to be
artificial, and whenever
he shot synthetic plastic into his
head he nearly died, crumpled like a standup doll
against pillars-

caught in a flux, drowned and sunk in nothing

day 5

Nobody could have prevented the downfall of the urchin,
the downfall of this slick enterprise;
broken now it hangs half-detached, soon to fall to a shattered reality.
The excuse is
uttered in the low, vibrating notes of the
civil, kind scratch of some slow song
played on looping values
and echoed in dead testaments to broken tablets,
cracked and misused.
A thought is a thought, even if mislead;
and silence is empty spare the knowledge of self-
while we talk, these empty walls decide
that there are worse things we could always
be doing. And better things we
could forget to do.

Day 4

Our hero was tossed in a gutter
with fourty pounds of latex face paint.
When it rained, the paint ran amoung
the water like it was seeping through some
cracks, and carried by force, the two, combined,
moved through the sewers and painted
the underbelly of our cruel city red.

Meanwhile, among garbage bins, a man with an
abstract, almost bending smile
sniffed sawdust from
the cracks in the brick while
a woman with a black umbrella
and ruffled feathers
gawked in disgust
as she pushed her
stroller carriage faster still-

those who do not obey or
understand the vermin