Linguistics

Chalk marks pock the side of the wooden cupboard with one wishful streak between the specks of white and the gray morning wind wipes away the imperfections with a bite that brings warm things closer together. Fogged windshield hides a crack under its skin, from a highway rock some time past. But the engine tinkers and cools from a state of perpetual heat, oh let's throw that rock into the water at the docks as the gray morning wind wipes away the imperfections and then lets go sit by the cupboard and have breakfast.

Ode to Sea Cow Copulate

I am a little tired of this. A little tired that's all, the apple a little yellow and a little hard to bite into leaning in a gusting cold river wind against a tree we've climbed many years ago. The arms sway easily, easy as we slip past the rocks and out where the manatees are screwing as if wanting so desperately to know one another the way they have known spinning blades upon their backs. That's a metaphor, you know the words. Intimacy is pain. Everyone. But do they know they're fat, do they know they're fat as shit and are they embarrassed to be fat and screwing in brackish water, just screwing for hours, are they tired. I am a little tired of this, that's all.

A Matter of Conversation

Hey there missus can you tell me is that rain bursting down, I think that rain is bursting down. Hey mister is that wind in our hair or do thoughts elude us when we fall. Hey mother, when I suffer I'm more like you than ever. When I cause suffering I am attempting to escape you Father but with the understanding that I am certain to fail. This failure comforts me a blanket of soggy newspapers as the rain is bursting down. And hey there baby, do you know what it is to suffer for someone and can you teach me, you can teach me by lying there asleep beside me. Hey there baby I want to wake you but am unable my hands are clasped in prayer my feet bound and oh honey I want to wake you for my very own pleasure but am less selfish than I'd hoped. Oh doggie steamy puddles in summer streets mat your fur and can we compare the weight we carry after a storm when the rain lifts up again. Hey there doggie can I take you home with me, so I may at least stand taller than you who are burdened. Qué está passando a mi pisadas they are inaudible. Maybe I am not moving but it is only the sensation of drifting that grabs. Hey God, could I bother you to steady me. Could I bother you to spare some time for me to suffer, to feel the rain bursting down, it is a matter of conversation and questions for which we pretend to have no answers.

Literary

Fuck literature and the writers of literature and those who read literature fuck the elevation of language fuck the elevation of authors who employ the elevation of language misinformed bookworms and MFAs rhetoric PhDs and Ginsbergs and the snapping admirers and the college liberals fuck a typewriter a plot a seminar fuck writers unions dreams of publication worming you fucking worm for the publisher's word of approval failure a badge of individuality in the face of the system fuck individuality that is not individuality that is only the word individuality comedy tragedy Aristotle social retardation fuck the undergraduate retards whose mental development is nervously monitored fuck a cycle of reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants teaching Hills like White Elephants reading Hills like White Elephants pyramid schemes of academia archaeologists stealing meaning from sarcophagi wearing the wraps of embalming fuck tombs and tomes and bibles fuck prophetic text fuck those who died before their time fuck the shitty poems and stories they never had the chance to write so that their best works were forgotten and so that they died nameless and meaningless fizzling out in darkness not in celebrity fuck dying fuck fucking to escape dying fuck base language and lack of punctuation lack of ingenuity frustration at being meaningless the way you say a word over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until people are skimming for meaning fuck people who skim repetition fuck repetition fuck repetition when coupled with predictable phrasing and fuck words that are used to create predictable phrasing fuck creation fuck God pre-rest and for that matter fuck God post-rest too fuck the one-eyed smile on my hand the difficulty of smiling quite so wide fuck endings happy sad witty intellectual read aloud in smokey rooms with clapping hands standing boys and girls with glass stemware eating olives eating out of the mouths of introverted fuckers behind typewriters and online blogs and poems and stories about fucking over and over and over and over and over and over and over and fuck an idea that begins with nothing and fuck nothing

Family Composite

Went home. Oh we went home in the dark, a quiet ride through a little bit of stardust. Just like we always planned. Went home with a wedding picture in my pocket wondering if you'll ever take a picture again. Wondering what kept me talking in such a quiet after such a winter. Covered in white and roof collapsing in. Wondering how we crawled out wondering how we found a gasp of burning breath steaming nebulously from us into the night. Did you oh did you lose the film under the mean old snow storm. I wonder if winter ends, because no one has ever known. Perhaps it does not and our rings will never fit our fingers again. Maybe the picture in my pocket is a story and we aught to tell it when we get home, like a secret. Maybe then it won't matter if winter ends or if everything collapses. Maybe if everyone is quiet and someone tells it. Is it something like praying? Or is it broken, a small laugh when you've counted the moments left and there is nothing to do. When we fall grasping each other with fists red and bleeding, brothers. Is it broken just like we used to pray? Left home, oh I left home this week, quiet with aches and pains and wondering if you'll ever take a picture again.

Will you let me die in step

Take the wind away from me take the cold away from me, I don't deserve the chill of your breath when you say those things. The signal between is rushed and maybe lines are down with living wires to destroy us. I can explode if you want me all over you, if it is the quickest way to travel one hundred miles in sunless morning quiets. What good are words in a good quiet. If God dont shut the hell up for once, if a Voice aught to be mute a while, let it inside, just let it in, a pause. A rest. Much needed, I know. I know you need it. Please let me take it from you, take the cold wind, you don't deserve those things I say. And if I miss you we can't be to blame now can we. Who the hell built all those roads anyway. And how can we close the gap, God, how can we close the gap. That space between where no one is being a clever atheist. And when we are each a leg and a lung count to three and we both step across the end and exhale together.

finalmente

Finally I'm gone. The waiting is everything. The waiting, think it out. One thought in front of the first. We were supposed to be friends. Supposing drives disappointment and if that's a quid abstract if that isn't enough because it never can be enough. Picture the edge of tallest building and stand there and look up I am rising. Sun tears you up where did I go oh where am I this time, where am I. Blindness especially in children is difficult and now you know a difficult fact about life so you can survive it. Fuck it as copulators say. Throw it away. Take what makes it great and burn intensely for one moment. Then finally you are gone. Oh they will cry for you, the crying they have held secret in your presence all this time. So much time. Don't blame them laugh simply. They have lack of words and they know at last like waterfalls entering gaping mouths and swelling throats there is nothing of value to be said when, finally, we are gone.