the land plunders the sky.

i destroyed the land officially, and
outer space is not the same.

i am the metal of declaration, of
modification and color.
i am the alchemy teacher of spiritual states,
the conductor and transformer of magics.

you saw under the hat of the conjurer,
of the blind person dependent upon
the mechanisms of life.

plural miracles are detailed and
you hide as a fowl.

it is not possible, the possibility of magics.

you inquire about the news,
close to standing in traffic with a sign board.

self-immolation prints on both sides of the paper.
--

so world worthy,
the instant is tasted,
that time of life and death.

this body is not you or your life.

it is possible to form
the meaning of sorrow,
a strange understanding of
outer space and this
humanity spectacle.

the magic of endorphins,
of remembering, of kissing
eagerly, is forgotten.

today there is a nerve of insanity in me,
a warped guide to the world;
the small amount which leaves is a truth.

i am crossing the town of rain,
in an ill-humored youth,
an unlucky stage of moping.

but you feel the rain on my surfaces.
an improvement from miserable numbness.

you are moved by me,
by my small eccentric life;
you think of scars.

you are a kind of music that makes words.
--

the snow falls
like incomprehensible creation.
it is attached as the air to my
suit of trembling.

i laugh, facing a certain dying.
i would like to walk in permanent snow.
i am still at the part where falling is best,
the part that possesses sleep
in the time of rest.

she died this past summer; she nearly died. awakened by imaginary portrait preciocity, like something forming the heart, like a necklace of insights; it makes her feel as if she were in a straitjacket.

she pulls away from the hoi polloi of doomed, dreamlike strangeness like an echo. a sound cuts a complex swath through the world, a kind of fissure or rupture, artfully decrepit, cluttered, so close to the surface.

from the work to the life she emerges, imaginary. the phrase seems odd, active only in the discrepancy, in the register of the hyperreal.

she is too busy juggling lives and is discomfited; this is a gap that observes and records. a secret about a secret, issued from a past life; she seeks to make visible the relief she expresses. it should be dancing.

chaos has been stealthily creeping up.
a hundred year flood, a hundred year drought,
a calamitous dust storm. she won’t go
anywhere but worse.

skies blacken and scud over,
collapsing exactly like rebuilt
menaced cities.

commie reds, nazi browns, hippie greens
turning chanel bottles into molotov cocktails,
women drawing lines up the backs of their legs
so as to mimic nylons, dressing for the fight
because they have to.

nobody dares to try to hide from
a ruined sky inside a building
while it’s collapsing. they want to survive
the betrayal in the low-lying southern marshes,
slogging in the swamp.

empty solutions and body counts, peculiar urgencies; these people are going down the drain. bodiless bodies that helped (or didn’t help), references to ruins and misguided discoveries.

a gnarled tree, now hung with a reed of light slivering between drapes. an emphasis on the surfaces, the negative space that erupts; a kind of wily perversion between means and meaning, between something and nothing. a bit like a head, a bit more like a sort of generic waiting room.

we live in a moment, in the generous silence that a mouth or a scrawled word completes. this desolate landscape is naked and shivering, the people huddled in hushed tones.

i begin to see images, faces as irreducible mystery images, an abstractionist’s trifecta. a man carrying another man, drawing and redrawing a nightmare of catastrophic colorless hues of memory. at once winsome and brutal, a recast version of an unrealized, old, already dusty something.

the nobodies have perceived summary, elegiac reckonings, tied together reaches of empty space. the mirror, the rhyme of every moment made up of the sum of solitudes. decisions are made intuitively. decisions are keyed to unspoken feelings. we must learn to live with low-density hope.

one telling moment that reads like a diary entry, like a neon relief: the silence before uncertainty.

every woman will be walking double steps, ambiguities whose imaginary trust one girl remembers. in order to be visible she sees, she awakes in pessimism and despair, each one insufficient to keep her at a certain remove from the ultimately arbitrary symbols who scavenge every last scrap. something of hands and knees, her utter incapacity to imagine. the desperate hand and the insufficient body.

she sees uncertainties, moving one step toward making the word a picture and the picture a word. material witnesses invite her to some hope, some desire. she can hardly move.

the diaristic nerve will not be able to continue. the ghost of this impossibility confines her inside the word, frozen in such bizarre postures, collapsing where life in the real world is an earlier manifestation of doubt. movements of the human body remind her of a mere machine, an identity that is not discrete, no different from the lowly mannequin.

a dead body who from a distance is clumsy will rake up the mummified elite with a pair of black wings, with dynamic bundles of urban detritus now utterly devoid of significance. nebulousness and becoming, the disjointed flowability of the inky eye, the desperate hand of popularity. automatic gestures of remaking machines. she draws herself as half demented, a masked gunman. the body appears in words, endlessly vacillating; a peachy pale palette, a grey-tinged nightmare, a symphonic poem.

a schoolgirl’s crush on utopia, world-weariness and fashionable despair. ghostly grisaille, the skein of impossibilities that confine her. the air of incomprehension becoming a disjointed approximation, transience like an open wound.

schoolchildren have constructed
a sort of ruin, the desire to
preserve life unchanged;
forever forgotten by impressions
that refuse to be dislodged.

a new story, the corpse of
a collapse; it is not touched,
becoming disjointed,
dependent upon unexpected
tenderness.

the head is destruction of the
blankest kind, the blankest and
emptiest part-time sort of demolition.
---



an alert, profiled face stares
out of a porthole; red-rimmed
eyes difficult to give my heart to.

the half-lunatic looks at purpose and
opens his rictal grimace, gaudy
repetition assembled from
the mismatch of various moments.

a lost genius, a nihilist with
an unconscious voice,
unreconstructedly heroic,
untouched and unmoved.

his mathematical objects,
rows of vitrined objects,
reflect and break.

the glance oscillates to
the flat gray field of the sea,
forgotten movement turned into
grudging conversation.
---



to climb, to put my head
into the elements, to bang out
tuneless rhythm, i made
a loose fist with my right hand.

the repeat was repeated,
constructed from the discords of
light made manifold.

frozen momentariness and
punctual oddity are
not reproductions of things
but an empty variation,
doubly embalmed.

i will seek obedience, i will seek
a cavelike space at the hands of
irony, entropy,
in a war no one else understands.
having weathered the many little deaths,
i am a foot soldier in the army of
righteousness.

the rough landscapes of desire
are depictions of silent waiting,
rejecting today for a past of pastiche,
unconsciously designing machines that
disguise the instinct for death.

the particularity of touch a luminous
and mysterious grid;
this controlled effusiveness persistent,
courting strange adjacencies
with determined solemnity.

abstraction is constructed as a fabric,
as the texture of asphalt underfoot.

a collapsing self shifts,
eras overlap, time
rendered palpable,
shearing apart at its center;
lacerations and clots like
a meditation on men.

stories wrap themselves like masks around dense coagulations of red; apparitions with bloodlike stains against a cloudy grayish yellow sky. through the silver sprawl of sublimated malevolence, a wolf eats alone in a shrinking city. this long-term calamity is their phantom limb.

a subtle coating of rust hangs on bird cages with little bird skeletons; a figure orbited by circles scatters apart; labyrinthine tanglings like bare twigs grow out of streets emptied of people.

she resurrects him as a seer as she takes off her clothes.

the ghosts of these forlorn streets are not narrative images; they look like the stars. bizarre oneiric creatures in the world, as water in water, describing parts of an ellipse: straight lines and gentle curves.

so there are other things.

unrelated things,
and perhaps all other refuges.
rules and euthanized people,
the basis of love.

i am economized, i am the refuge
of the refugee, of time, family,
a vulgar existence;
i am an abnormality which
rubs together.

my false hearing
as poor as my sacrifice.

i am new; i become fatigued,
walking boldly with my
original intentions.
i meet monsters,
a fear of endings,
of systems and boxes of
specifications.
--

i hide from my stupidity.
it is clearly audible, but never good.
a simple avalanche, a simple someone;
someone i think i want.

he possesses a coercion problem.
it is a scurvy, a fat quality.
he is a victim of self-protection
like the edge of the world,
coloring words which always
describe a state like a human murder.

my hang-ups rise, rejoicing.
--


pestilence,
the surfaces of victims
poured my blood into the plague.

how fragile my lungs .

i was caught and i am watched.

i am a hostage in my town.
i must have forgotten
the method of being human.

there will be people, things which are thought.
there is no freedom and i am as a bird.
--

a new small spire, a
supersized world.
a maniac in the eye of
everyone who was seen.
three story insanity,
things without uniformity looking at
those separated troops of victims;
various diversified insanities.

pulled heartlessly,
striking mutually.

lobotomizing a grasp of
the future dystopic people
removed in spite.
a feeling better than
being hurt.
--

it happens like summer:
midnight reaches to the night.

the corners of the sky find
a recognition curve.

crossing the vague world, history:
such a distant past time.
it could awaken us with the telephone,
with a metallic sawing voice.

a great war,
an accidental fall;
it is the sky,
it is a dusting off
of reliance.

sleep, rely on me. around the corner from my kind, walking ten parts of the city after writing. my life and my brain possess the worry where a certain kind of pressure is delayed, my stomach stirring the glances of self-depreciation. i am six years old for the second time. the danger of crying, a prophecy of oneself fullfilling. we die for a while because of that.

it is easy to understand everything, and looking at walking go into the view. in winter everything hibernates, is drunk. an explanation is conceived. we would like to go to outside, under my bed and hiding. a winter party of insanity. i have wanted to touch open spaces. it is beginning: the end, the acceptance which does not shake. fact is divided from opinion; you obtain my opinion more in the color that was bombed in me. it tightens my mouth; strangely, gently, concerning that which you do not understand. it is not able to wait for the cover of burning meat.

i spend the majority of days with scowling work. it is this world-wide now; it will spread out and it will spread out in its surroundings. in order to die at this moment, my heart is racing. it is good and it is bad. we talk to the circumferences. we are wrong; we grow flesh. we will hang three transformations; smoke will be born like silence, a seasonal datum. the world which is ending in me is legitimate and it goes mad. human waste, comfort will be visible in me. a matter of great importance. i write the maximum quantity of days.

inside your face there is a chance which spreads out; it is arranged and a shout is sufficient and defended. the examination which hits against you is immediacy and it is thinking. it stays.

a troublesome army song, a possibility of happening; morning. it throws away people from our lives, like those that take comfort in the cancer of hazards. the person, the now, is lonely; it is throwing away the trash in order to feel. it endures, this dejected problem of myself. a trillion shipping flags. my neurosis in complete change.

the person, with an empty tin-can, communicates well; it is equal and it is worse.eighteen flesh children. the divided going out. a latency ceremony, a biological thing. it is bitter in sweet sound. something goes wrong inside my brain, a small war after a substantial war; undulation, the possibility of connecting.

god has known that nothing from the outside is found; the emptiness of the world, where everything which is heard has come to me. we would like to put in place those which half obstruct eyesight; to do that it is possible to desire. i am my old friend top and bottom, the thing which throws out the people from our lives. verified, weakened so easily by the defect of quality. a sketch for the beginner to pass the time.

it was clear english to you. vicariously you must live, possessing a nest in the sky. concerning latent biology of a certain kind, you talk. perhaps because in all these foolish actions and the punishment of the cat, an answer is incomprehensible. a war between the defective synapses of my brain.

you are raped.
everything is pulverized.
it ends the world.

singing for the child who has known
the flash of the sky, the darkness
that does not hide bombs and
exploding things;
it becomes
the insensible sense.

your atoms continue without you.
there is something always.
--

there is in the wall of desire
the scars of excessively thin paint;
influenza and war and
the war which continues.

all nights are done in love;
perhaps he cheats,
but you do not worry.

it is the mountain which
the many poets walked.

it is a terrible color,
the orange of the horizon;
it starts feeling like
the heat of an oven.

and you know that this is
the edge of the world.
--

he is remainders and scatterings.
like a foolish boy, he possesses
the heart of a child.

the bubble around the brain which stops
people from actualization is
broken permanently, finally.

all this humanity surrounded by
whatever it is possible to express.

an enormous hole,
a decapitated being.
my feelings as lost as all this.

i'm going to start separating the drivel from the poems. maybe the poems are drivel too, but with more line breaks. so there ya go.