what i would need help with

nice seeing you all last night

my worry is that I have yet to find a clear and "legit" title to tie my silence with my critical thesis. As far as the creative part until recently i was planning on using a collection of my poems but I have doubts now. I typed EVERYTHING i wrote down on my notepads the past month and it makes this surreal story! I want to do something with it. It seems crazy but I like it. I read it high, i read it sober and I like it both ways. Maybe i find it good because while I read it, I remember exactly the setting and the people and it plays like a movie in my head....so i guess i would appreciate your honest and objective opinion. It is  too big to post in one piece.

bear with me

kisses and awkward hugs

silent bob kerry's wife milf crash

lucky 13

Here's a mix of newer & older. Read at your leisure and write any comments below each. It'll be a minute before I post anything new.

Next: So outlines are in the works for all of us?
Jared, can you post what you read last night?
Stav?

O grapher, Selen

You continue to phase us with your ways
So dark and milk combined
Making trips grafting rays of marigold cycles white, chopping high celestial tree
You charter graphs in oblong routes amend a chart and slice a pie

You charter paths for catch phrases like, “Peace on Moon” preparing a place for us to rest
La luna mi amor, your predictive matters of unpredictable mass shift weight less
Objects like marbles protected moving motionless projected to the naked eye.

Your methods of mapping surpass the meddling of earthlings
We are mere cartographers with no field book of you
Your moments of flags and art of trash void in your crater

You are the greater heaven ripped magnetic tides binding
Our bodies to your waistband while showers shoot eyes out like meteor’d sockets

Assassinate the Subject

I dialed the author of The Autobiography.
He answered,
“To interpret a dream is to assassinate the subject.
His receiver picked up the acoustics of his locale
“You’re in a room with large windows and loads of sunlight, yeah?” I commented.

With oceans of silence between us, I malformed a paperclip
and began chewing some black licorice—

He broke, “Do you know the various uses of resin?”
I told him that rubber boots are quite suitable
for traversing hectares of lawn after a storm
or harvesting rice.

Apparently, not listening, he stated,
“Slavery without submission seems an oxymoron, no?”

I attempted to readjust the focus.
“How are streets named?”
“First,” he replied,
“you must have a decent appetite,
then you must choose a plantation, and finally,
exorcise any aloha spirits.”

“In my opinion, sir, I believe liquor and pineapple to be indispensable to our economy.”

“The problem is,” he said,
“not enough people have explored chewing tobacco or cotton balls.
It’s a waste of earth if you ask me—may as well murder a nun.”

“Indeed, spirits are necessary.”
In the mirror my lips were mummy black
and smelled of star anise.

Assuming a generic voice I said,
“We’re sorry, your call has been disconnected.”

I smeared gum Arabic over the mouthpiece
pasted strips of pages from the autobiography
sealing each pinhole.

Optic Chiasm In Order

What is my diagnosis
From seed—a bundle of nerve
I’m on a quest to find it
Our lizard self steeps
If ever anyone finds a need to critic
At the root of the brain
They will unfind anything to say
Our serpent spine
To need to quest for meaning
Sits hot & dry
My diagnosis
Slipping off skin
The critic needs to know
Silent coil at sunrise
That meditative technique to see
A rod of sulphur
What is inside of me—anyone
It circulates smooth around
If ever I find anyone
Evolving for extremity
It is me
Enrolling in ecliptic eternity
The critic
Scales height & pallor
My diagnosis
A cold wet moon falling into mercury
It melts to minus color

Because of Words

Without poets to connect
The consideration of the mind
With the backbones of the dead
We should be two earths
Rather than the sun and its reflection.
The dirt.

The dead are one earth
And the mind is another—
The same, but somewhat intemperate
And more muddled and premature
The separation lessened
At birth.

There’s a spark of the Devil
On the paper below the pen
No moral is intended. Even prone
To dispossess, the language of larks
Into lit protest, and the words
Are broke.

The costume of a corpse buttoned
By the burial in a figure of speech
Destroys not our work
Nor muffles the bell of thought
But the moment of final exhalation to its mute hour
Is rotten.

Flesh is the soul of sound
And breath is the evaporation of indifference
But writing words like facetious and abstemious
Decorates the atmosphere of every vowel
We turn the phrases
And tread.

Wherefore by the bright face
Of each key and point we drain
Our thoughts together with per mutations
In a spectral shower
We rest between expense and expanse
And live.

Unexpected Birthmarks

Pigeons peck at chicken scraps
& no barks respond as sirens pass

Nature now dry trees & replication
& dead birds keep flattening
on paintings—

Mistranslation is missing
the brushstrokes

One visible fingernail like a nevus in a pine tar sky
& a finger sweep in the public frosting

Venus roller skates while steering the stroller
& the dog walker limps & has twenty-four legs

Awkward pedestrians overlook
our mannered postures regard a solar eclipse
before a gazing apparatus

& continue these steps despite exploded heavens
anatomies of rats in the street—morsels & a mouse remain—
light particles

Perhaps for orphaned armoires & what they could contain
& ex-library memoirs expunged from the system

Nervous gleaners take a sleepwalk
around midnight & take a gander at the air

I diagram the firmament & note twelve elephants
steadying the atmosphere

~~~

The nocturnes. The sacral superimposed on the sermon. The nocturnes
the ornament and the hearse and the ornamental near the heart dangled.
The sacral. The temperate humor traipsing along the fulcrum.
The nocturne. The nascent sunshine eastern present ascent.
The sacral. The fulcrums. A temperate hour traipses along them.
The nocturne. The haste. The sunshine nascent nearest ascent.
The spore. The haste. Sacral superimposition on a sermon. Porous.
A temperate humor shifts inside it. The haste. The spore. The ascent.
The melancholic. The fulcrum. The haste. The spore. The temperate
heart traipses among them.

On a Whale

Sand is felt on tin as nails or fists on doors
Tore down a war to stand with you man
And I stare at flesh and gore
Now hell and he send horses and messengers
Downwind signing against the gale
I feel slow and shallow as dew grows
New on a tan I felt
Grind the sand into the shore and fish will follow

O
Not

A

Wing
Has half
A
Life
Enough to feel a fellow minnow’s fin

Money is a kind of poetry. Wallace Stevens

A kind of currency. Lingua franca. Electric voltage to jumpstart a body or fry it to a crisp. Everything is bark. Words. Mots. Palabras. Pesetas. Copper. Argent. What a verbal illustration—a tip dessin vert—a mint species. Green olive and foliage. It will buy you a lover. Keep you in debt. Make you use bills for scratch. Jot your bliss. Spend it. It is vibrational. Tonal. Clinking in your pocket. You’ve got some. Everyone hears it. Wants it. “Just keys,” you say. Honestly. We’re bound by an imaginary trust to compensate for a world we can't afford. A cent is more magnificent in power than in form. The opposite is true sometimes too. Shells. Buttons. It attempts to replace all things it cannot be. Tender to feed children, who will always hunger. We want it we want it until our change is perceptual. We see trees different. We learn the value of patching a deflated tube inside a tire on the shoulder of an empty highway. No promises but to leave a memory imprinted on grooves and creases of our palms and fingers. We exchange notes on a history of dead men and wonder is it a means or an end to suffer? I drop heaviest coins into the mouth of a washing machine to shake the debris from the skins that protect me. Spin. Slide on a magnetic strip of data. Plastic. Rarely seen or held. Easily drained.

Reader Takes All

I roll Dekalb. I
watch color walls. I
illegal scrawl. I
feel
Fall. I
keel haul to
port of call. I

kill oak gall. Jackal
dolls bawl in
mess hall.
Ah !
ritual alcohol
non-habitual. I
waterfall

default to
thrall crawl

no wherewithal. I
drawl to
downfall. I
anchor

ancestral temple I
follow falsetto to
steeple to
people to
purple pall. Je
suis pas mal. I

Overhaul big
basalt ball
bearing to
Nepal. I
maul dhal
enthralled
by witwall craw
FAUGH!
I
am
salt
to
this
call.

Description of a schoolboy

You were born on an autumn day—
that held both crisp and soggy things
maple leaves among mushroom rings
apple butter ripe bright decay

hot cereal gone cold and starched
shirts the crunch of sloppy kisses
under awning reminisce this
your lips were cracked sucked and parched

ergo, you know several things
about orange and assonance
ships, harbor, sea and ambience
about mulch and daylight savings

when you first smelled the East River
you released your cogent control
to transmigration of the soul
you believe relive deliver

you see a child yourself you posit
or as a female passing on
away across the street at dawn
you pull receipt from your pocket

to postulate her fears scribbling
plans to find a Brooklyn rooftop
where you pop open your laptop
to settle for the evening

to roll a cone of tobacco
to tuck behind the cigarette-
holder growing out of your head,
denim jacket stained with stucco

rummage through its pockets and find
hardened tissues from wash and dry,
an old matchbook from your last high
and a receipt with some late-night

epiphanies that do not sound
so smart now in your “creative career”
Appear austere with beer not ear,
you laugh stepping down underground

take a train as far as it goes
to watch a woman slip and knit
a story with each hook and stitch
she’s Scandinavian, you pose.

The Village Pet Shop and Charcoal Grill for Banksy

stop the dolphin
on the sidewalk
blue five feet
coin slot saddle
and red fishnet
the leopard lost
his coat tail swinging
red satin lining
five thousand golden buttons
bone not included
the chameleon wears Louis Vuitton
and Krylon splashes
the bonobo clutches
the remote watching
the discovery channel
monkeys procreating
pushing buttons—rewind
fish fillets magnified
in the bowl swimming
in circles
vienna sausages wiggle
and hot dogs snuggle
in the aquarium thirsty
for dripping mustard
the nuggets take a dip
sweet and sour
under supervision
from mother hen
sitting on her scramble.
we step out
seventh ave south
hungry

Fabiola

In the city of Fabiola, the armature alternately dissolves and integrates. Its light evaporates as a rope soaks up kerosene to burn within the lamp's bulbous chimney glass. It brightens with the food of more rope.
The sky is a blueprint that dangles contrails. They seamlessly disintegrate into the solid blue that masks the stars. The funeral pyres remain for mulch. No cars run off the pipeline. Can't you see? Not through the particulate matter, like that which covers the nightness.
In this particular matter, in the township of Fabs, light switches remain a mystery--dissociated from their antiquated uses. Historians and archaeologists sit around the conversation pit; drinking hot clover madhu; playing with "Scrabble" tiles on a "Monopoly" board. None of the original intentions or rules that govern, like that of the light switch, were retained, recorded, or deciphered. The principal spirit or goal, however, has been preserved: to play a game. As long as these professionals have something on the table with which they could occupy their eyes and many dexterous fingers while employing the muscles attached to their fine lips, then they could keep the criticism of outsiders at bay for a time. After all, there are no other inhabitants of Fabiola, who express any expertise on the origins of monopoly, much less the meaning of scrabble letters with numbers on them. Some have a faint notion that they might pertain to something called the "Periodic Table." But periods, whether related to time and punctuation, or elements and chemistry, are generally beyond the concerns of common folk. They would rather enforce their faith that the conversation pit figures are engaged in crafting important plans for Fabiola's future. Perhaps literacy and cultivation practices will be taught or ways to detect mines in the "no-colonization field."
Fabiola is rich. She lacks a lot of the elements typical to a traditional city. Most notably, she lacks teeth. Her inhabitants know neither the meaning of this word, nor the implications it has in alternate dimensions. For the reader, examples might include: rape, diseased blankets, starvation of nutrients, decimation of species, and ego hunger. Due to the absence of teeth, there is also little comprehension of fear. Many outsiders might accuse this township to be of little consequence--accomplishing nothing. On the contrary, they manage to maintain healthy levels of body heat, fat, and water.
They survive on little food and darkness. Their chief nutrients hail from clean air and stillness. They use and revere their legs so highly that artisans sculpted and dedicated public sites to pieces of substantial and muscularly articulated columns of legs. One popular site is located at the center of the town square where the townsfolk surround the celebrated appendages and dance before sunrise every morning. Then they stretch out on the cobblestones to roll around massaging their fleshy and fabulously-used proteins. Shortly after, they soak their feet in a nearby stream and gaze at the continuous morphing of their faces reflected. The deeper they peer, the more rocks appear and the sense of cold and wet passes and charges the electricity of their skins. Thus, forgetting all about their limbs.

Cessation

When in the wind what water sway’d to rise
And children skip’d flat stones along the bank
We steep submerged and laps flip capsize
Our vessel and ripple pools echo sank
We hold our breaths—free-drown a little deeper
Algae suspends like dust around us. Our limbs
Disturb with every thrust: creatures, creepers,
And our thoughts—tokens of our lust and whims
Inept to bottle inspiration
We buoy to the top—surrender to
A dead man’s float and on the shore we shun
All movement. We have worn unto
A restless mind yet one must abide
The lake stops—reveals below and sky