le sacre


gym boat slipping under
your bed shirt
running over
a magnet
wake me.

sky ship floating up to mars,
we pause and laugh at
and his candy ganymede.
we’re reality,
never stole,
never lie, always gravity, grey


gray seal,
reminding we’re
only dogs who swim and die.

black pillow
over my breath…
will i see you? when
he carries me
to that fifth  sun?


i guess, about me


i guess, about me,
it’s, i’ve got one phase
and that’s remote-viewing
on your screen,
like, how you tell
what made you,
and what it takes to
tell me.

i float over cassipilo,
streaking naked
on crusty rocks.
and, i learn what
hurts or loved,
like i learned
to read.

read you? i mean
be, your motion,
under the whisper,
surging crush
of hush-now
of bitter blossoms
stinging up into the stratosphere…
like forgotten star dots,
like egos in winter.

recycled universe



i was at the doctor
4 my asthma
and im staring down
at this rubber mat…
rubber mat, what do u say?
“i am a mat of recycled rubber,
i get mixed,
things cling,
i have rings of circles of
yellow spots, what had been;
i’m part of the plan,
i look good.”

the universe is the,
another prior cluster of, a leftover of, is
without structure: forms structured
now trying to get back
to the original
cathedral picture, before it was ignited,
before it went ‘bang’. when,
really, it too existed as a melody component:

atom opening, draining down
what i want to say now. motion is the shape
of time. the imperfection
of is obvious: cosmos of a broken god.

we can’t go back.



vanity sofa

shiver time is never fun,
you feel the world inside you spun.
there, terror is the oligarch of one;
lost, alone, is not so fun.

sweating time’s the crime beyond;
the stink of hell, the smell of vice.
abuser users are not nice;
sweating fear is never nice.

longing over what has never been,
i must be longing for a melody —
since, dumb reality rejects dumb dreams —
and, brahms is total cake and cream.
but, thinking of him, wondering… suicidal mysteries,
the things in mind, mind’s manic seed —
a paper box of fantasy of want and need:
romantic longing just ain’t what it seems.

i want


th (2)


i want
to write like a spiral
down to the pee hole
of DNA, where no one
will look for me.

a memory,
flapping its destiny.

you want
to talk in handshakes,
volleykock whispers…
be your cockatoo,
be my mister.

i’m the oxygen
turns into dancing,
my feet in my ears,
the kind
of queer you only think,



hip days



in the sixties
i just saw art directors
make it look

on television. an idea
of weird
lines and grooviness.

if it looked
like that way
it looks on acid
it won’t get into
the box.

so, now in 2018
people and trucks
are psychedelic
like black and
shows how
to listen
to the beetles



live hack

it’s how i never grew,
it’s not why i never grew up,
it’s where i never grew up,
or is it when i never.

words, i mean too much
ask for my attention. i’ll
go to coney island
become chronic history,

rock’n runt
crossed the track,
jack-back on her pillow.

runt down
to hipster
town. keep
that frown,
he wants to buy you.

at the ballroom,
clowning for the voyeurs…

by the SWJ —
you ga-ga ga-ga gay,
or just a lawyerrr…?