The Way You Taste

Radio lines hum hum hum in the rain the way we slide into black sea crests, AM frequency 3AM frequency hums in the cones centrifuge like God's last ugly firestorm, firestorm hits the sea and it's oily Hell lighting up the curves in your cheeks is that a smile? i like it when you smile do you like it when i smile or does it remind you too much of the hanging in the street the way fireworks lit up that woman's last look at the neighbor's dog what a fucking awful thing to see before you die even if it was a good dog, he always was a good dog, we understood each other that way and that's what i like about you listening to Dylan and trying to forget the death under the skin but it isn't working so we'll just hold each other now and listen to the hum hum hum of radio lines that draw us together in chorus.

Our Architecture

Panorama wide open horizon of burning skin pink and brown and swaying this way forever against the shore. Silhouette black as dogs of the thin bone of a steel forearm rusted up high against wisps of twilit days past, and I wonder. I wonder how easy that bone breaks, wonder how many stories it builds concrete rib cage where you look some day from the window. But the color is behind you now, you look east now, and you can't go back there because nobody looks at paintings anymore and someone told you that one day and you wanted to shove your knuckles through every canvas just to stand back and take the hole with you. Wherever you go, wherever you end up, wherever we set down our architecture. That's where the touch is reaching and what's really beautiful is the way the sun never sets against your pupils like that's where it used to be. That's where the touch is reaching and that's where the dirt roads all lead every dirt road if you follow long enough, wherever you go, wherever you end up, wherever we set down.

All

He calls poetry an object. He calls her an object. Mary Anderson Franklin doesn't love Johnny Pinkerton because objects do not love like the way the sun only hits the water, the rusty boat beds, some ways some times and Johnny Pinkerton isn't his fuckin name anyway so fuck her anyway, 'cause Mary ain't her fuckin name anyway so who the hell were either of them to love or read poetry. Just two kids without names just two kids without nothin' but poetry they didn't deserve and not deserving it made them better just a minute or two even if it wasn't theirs and it wasn't their names it was saying and even if it said, who the fuck are you anyway, nobody, that's who. It was all about that sun, somewhere under the boat bed, somewhere stretched underneath. It had to do with the birds up there under the rusty bow smile cut the way their mouths couldn't turn, kissing the way they couldn't, slumber, dreaming, and that was all there was. That's why. Because, Wouldn't it be nice and soft if that's all there was.

Ballad of Marty McFly

Sits in my gut this way, that way.
Ours.
Ridin flames lining the asphalt like mike fox nick cage the loneliest spectacles
Sad, if you ask them you won't
Ask them.
Rides my gut like hummin
Our AMFM wave
Chewin on cumulonimbus cotton
Fed a wisp to the doggie
Fed a wisp to your mother
Hopin prayin
Though it holds no sway
With Her but maybe with she
I still hold
Tight fisted
Tight as a fist
Bitter on tongue tip
Bitter in the eye pink
Darling, you dance in my Gut
This way, that
May I
Join

The Stomach

This wails in my ears We will fucking die no other words come no other words can describe the cold crawl under a layer of skin not even these and not even these can give the silhouette a name not even these i am afraid of this wailing This wailing does not cease This wailing is thickened by blackness You baby you are all that glows it's silly to say this but we are silly together and no one can be heard over the wail and what lies between the Syncopation of b-b-breath l-l-laugh l-l-love don't c-c-care at all and all I don't hear and all we hear now is the sound of our own dying like the feel of warm air exhaled across your stomach and it does not end

This is a Father's Day Story

1980 is the year, when he says it I imagine it clearly, a room of men in deep-lensed glasses with wily curls of hair, with stubble, one man in a lab coat with a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk in his hand, standing at the head of the long conference table. They have never seen this before. The man with the disk smiles and with a fling of his wrist the hard-plastic square is airborne. It impacts the table quickly and bounces once, twice, three times before sliding to a rest near the other men. They ogle around it / THE CONSEQUENCES OF JUMPING FROM THIS BRIDGE ARE FATAL AND TRAGIC.

The disk is undamaged.

C:\> a:
A:\> cd the fucking future is before you and you will die please insert floppy disk into drive a, the floppy disk must protect the delicate pathways, dir

one time three brothers inserted the floppy disk much to his delight one time the youngest brother lied he told the two older brothers that the hare (hero) beat the tortoise (villain) and the secret level was three-dimensional this was unheard of so all of it was taken for a lie but part of it was true (everything is three-dimensional) and childhood lessons were learned
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the image is loading

he paints an image: one day, the image will load "like writing history with lightning." His only regret is "that it is all so terribly true."

Given what you know about this time period, why do you think we can never go back to this place?

The Only Thing

Seven minutes until 9 p.m. This is the only thing in life that I am sure of.