One day we all wake to find
fish bowl rocks
in our right front pocket
and movie ticket stub from the local morgue kept safe there in the other.

“and when you stop to read…you have to leave a rock…”

Convincing living human beings that you yourself
are convinced of living human beings…

are you no longer the propmaster cleaning up fake blood between shots
coming home feeling dirty from a long night of nearly being yourself

singing ” 6million ways to die, choose one.”

are you not now
the type of hardly there people
who’s hands never fail them.
not even in dreams…

or do your arms just jut from the wide side of an interior wall,
your classic colored in heart pulled pounding
in those –o’ so seprable palms
on the sleep reverse solve of a frozen lake’s living pit.

all there where you are, sun starved and american
holding your breath against a still fleshed chest full of “should bees”

You see…
however so slightly permanent
these have been things sung that will never be songs…

never more wet concrete for song street…
this is not more wet concrete for sold song street…

not nice warm concrete for beneath lord songs cold feet…

not poor song meat…

not song not more raw wheat…

for a most phobophobic yourself
ever spitting bit nail and re-recordable grief



“two white horses in a line”
carry me to my burial ground

some need diamonds
some need talk and fireworks
some need cars
some need __________...
some need shattered glass lining their cloths.
all I need is…

“have you ever heard a cauphin sound”
hit with ground or…
happen upon an end
in your neck of the everything…

still the morning hour holds gold in its mouth.
you can feel it stinging down
the hollowed arrows of your arm…

glad dogs of the grave,
sat soft on the hard lip of your bed.

some may say this might be your last farewll ride



note: The all puppet of physics at my service…
I would literally have to soak my mouth piece in the chest of boiling water
For 2 to 3 minutes and bite down with all my might for it to simply still remember
One vague version of my teeth


“6000000 ways to die choose one”

this is a solar thang
like 2% hope on ice
with your molitov self
on all the tangible gone of away air mattress.

Hope, no throat,
drained of all its butterscotch.

cool arm siphoned of it’s red trickle,
through a keyhole.
fragile in the suck of every day
toward the sun,
“keep sticking the fuck up”,
hung on the metal between two passing checks…
beside a low fire
of the worst-case scenarios…
staring at the stalk of a dead plant deaf…
singing “material girl” siniging “fame”
singing “a hard days night”
singing “6000000 ways to die choose 1…

by bill, by car, by arm, by cum, by gun, by mic,
by friend, by egg, by bill, by song, by dog,
by art, by book, by hype, by death,
by lung, by wing, by hope, by dream, by why?, by band….


So dive and lumen
never seen before…
To pray my days and blue your eyes…
I run to wipe the blue away.
I don’t want to see you techni-nothing-colored…
Take my eyes and make me blind,
colored days not in you.
Not in lumen faces
That are few in all the…

I don’t want to see you techni-nothing-colored

I and #8217 am running away
I know…
And it does….

Unsleeping, keep on running
and please hold the line…
Numb, knives, and all.
exposed ribs is intimate,
You say it hurts,
I know.
And it does….

I suppose, when you wake up
And the dream you goes dodo…
You will find, in your front pocket
One of those stubby golf pencils…

Convincing living,
That you, yourfself is convinced of living…
Till your kidneys can’t clean the convinced
out of your true blue blood stream.

And are you not now, professionally hoodwinked.
An easy street penis throbbing down breezy streets.
In a b-line like, easy like, bees like, brokedown icecream truck’s leaks…

You see,
However so slightly permanent,
these have been things sung…
That will never be songs.

Oh I suppose
Not swansongmeat
Nor bit nails spit
with strips of skin
from chicken’s lips…
not wet concrete
or stolen sleep,
when the water is sheets
and bleeding sheep.
Hung horrible hymns
to a durable beat
and re-recordable grief…