The Theme is Hats
Dead Girl? Doohickey Gamer? Docile Gandalf? Digging Graves? Dormant Geyser? Daffy Goose? Diligent Gynecologist? Diving Gas? Demented Gambler? Dueling Gourd? Doorway Gnome? Doing Games? Dolphin Girdle?how is it that we have created time?
blue ones white ones
daily ones
madness crawls away
no more
can’t think but helping the process there is too many globules taking up my sight
those friends locked away, though helped:
queasy falls my nightly
blue ones white ones
Once daily I saw them,
no more, busy and uncaring, lashes break and fall,
wishfully listless and billowing she walks to the mailbox
blue ones white ones orange daily
tubes fill the thermosphere, pocket my eyes to see a new founding father, joe early thanks the boys at home for the support during incidents racketeered from beneath the noses of
sign in sheets and
comfortably waiting rooms
ask the nurse’s station
wagons roll bounce along cracked concrete grass grows beneath my feet
and through the small spaces between my toes green pours over my calloused
unpedicured skin, white with
envy
stepping further I am entangled/
tugged at by various forces
“buy snickers and cheese it’s (all
part of the planning process(ed meats)) and potato chips”
seeing myself naked sends shivers up my sweat stained thighs, ashamed of such
nonsensical organs I shy away from the image, awkward and in(complete)
denial of what appears in the third fourth fifth and seventh eyes
iquid flesh wanders the veil and I cannot discern the deep significantly changed formula from its original outline, chalked in with new figures, it feels the same yet so
incredibly unknown and delta times Y equals
X?
am I the real equation? Is there a third dimension?
has Z been ignored by the loud and greasy, bare and breezy
I am without axis
unkempt water stains upon the roof, brittle
sandy
every morning I clean the gutters, even without rain
being, of course, godly catharsis
poetry does not live here anymore
it’s okay because no one reads this site, but seeing as I have writer’s block, or writer’s apathy, nothing doing, maybe soon however
many picture soaked foil
many picture soaked foil
waits for the taped outer ring
with a penis-sealed ballet shine made possible
by tan handles on yellow grandparent embrace
until you lobotomize the
notice and move crudely through flowering mischief and mounting suspicion
uncertainty made my wandering days into a medieval style couture
with violets and
leaves floating their way to the low existence
momentarily, but in the end
with want and consideration for the many self multiplying integers making
my life a living medical drama
pink running discourage the bubbling name from
crude minotaurs mixed with the ever sinking feeling that
you and your dog too but
not with my shoes you won’t
yet, cement ago in the three years I’ve mattered,
which in reality is not all that real
children slumber all the glasses until the
roman shape foams varying sparkles
with incorrectly dreaming fits of smoking
number twelves seated atop cathedrals made entirely of language and
cognates of sorts which she had never seen before
though nomenclature will mystery your sous-chef surroundings
we will not drink from the proportions wondering slightly
if we had gone with casting elevators in southern Persia, would
anything change for the better
The Dream
It had started as a dream. Johmbab had been having strange dreams lately. He would write them down, but he could tell no one. If anyone knew that Visionary Johmbab was having trouble sleeping, it could be over. It was difficult enough keeping the spirits of his parishioners up. The last twenty years had not been the best on his people, morale was dwindling ever since they had lost any contact with the other villages in the area. The last traveller that had visited Markni had been fifteen years ago, and he said that many of the settlements nearby were desolate and abandoned. Johmbab was certain that the end would soon come to his people, but the maiden kept Markni strong. It was with her power that they would survive the imminent storm.
The maiden was encased in ice, although many things were in that area. The only things that were warm in Markni were the hot springs which the town was built around and the fires in the people’s homes. Though Johmbab wondered how long they could keep the fires going. The forest had certainly been overused due to their inability to trade with the outside world, whatever was left of it. The shrine of the maiden was near the massive cliffs that overlooked the frozen sea, and all day monks were present to pray over her for the support of the town. Since she was found by the townsfolk, not a hair had grown from her bald head, and not a wrinkle had come upon her flawless face. She was the spirit of the ice, and Johmbab had faith that she could bring life back to the world.
It was around five o’clock in the morning when Johmbab noticed that several monks had not returned from the night vigil at the shrine. He sent two acolytes to the shrine and when they did not return he became deeply concerned. Perhaps a pack of predators had stumbled upon the shrine and were desecrating the maiden and killing his monks. Johmbab called his cardinals together, and gathered a group of hunters as a defense if his fears were true.
When they reached the location of the shrine, they were horrified. The ground had swallowed up the shrine, and now the ice maiden was floating in the air above the pit where the shrine once stood. The bodies of the two acolytes that Johmbab had sent that morning were writhing on the snow, headless and gruesome. It was then that the sun assumed its highest position in the sky; the sun began to fluctuate in vibrant colors. The hunters began to scream, they dropped their weapons and ran home to be with their families, for this truly must be the end. Johmbab wished he could weep, but instead he called his cardinals to him, and they began to chant, praying to the gods of old. Johmbab could no longer hold it in. He began wail at the vibrant sun, and the tears froze to his face. He felt the end was near. His dreams had not been a symptom of the world, but a warning of its end.
Just then his face contorted into a manic smile. His eyes were filled with ecstatic horror. The cardinals began to back away from him as he fell to the ground and began seizing. Vomit burst from his mouth and he began to laugh, but this had gone unnoticed by his cardinals. They left their poor visionary writhing on the ground and began to walk toward the pit. The icy block that had encased the maiden began to melt around her and the sun turned into a black hole in the sky.
The cardinals stood in awe of this. She now stood, absolutely beautiful, atop an orb of churning water that had once been the ice that encased her. A deep sound emanated from the maiden and it echoes all around the stunned cardinals. Yohmbab had gotten to his feet and ran to the precipice of the pit and began to curse the maiden. He was lifted from his feet into the air and began convulsing once again. A deep calm laugh came from his mouth, but the cardinals did not recognize it as his own. The laugh continued even after the remains of their visionary had splattered all over the cardinals.
Cracks began to wind across the snow covered ground and a dark light poured from beneath them. The blackness of the sun began to spread across the sky, and the cardinals were also lifted into the air. The maiden opened her eyes as the blackness spread from the sky into the earth and soon all was nothing. And then it was the beginning.
The maiden began to dance about on the orb of dark water, and the orb expanded into infinity. The dance continued as massive burning lights of varying color and size ascended into the blackness above the maiden. The lights continued to ascend until they were mere pinpricks in the blackness. From the distance men, women, and beasts joined the maiden who now sat breathless above the waters. They all began to talk amongst themselves. “The dream is over,” one of them said, “now the real work begins.” The speaker flashed at a smile and then led the gods into the distance.
dogs barking instead
dogs barking instead
tooth decay and morbidly obese drivel foams from the shoes of
other men, who walk in a yellow
stone quarry where many a spaceship has
crash landed but luckily the hero
always seems to survive
and move to a francophone country
in the pendulum
always wondering who watches out
for the invading forces that siege our minds with barrages of uncertainty and cowardice
as paranoia sits by the side of the road
knowing, sadly
that no one will offer him a ride
morbidly obese chickens
morbidly obese chickens
peck at the growing monstrosity that
looms in the thread-like sunset
casting wavy shadows on our
pince-nez glasses that were a gift from
our grandparent of some gender, though
of which one it does not matter
to the bubbling masses
that irritate our pubic cube
of proportions unidentified by
mysterious cups of ramen next to hot black
tea that is too strong on my
weak yet smoothly lead tongue
that shines greenly in the
hall of my old
high school
and with great fortitude raises hell when
all things in
my name
are
known as grass
I want to write
I want to write about yellow people in Michigan
but little no good comes of
mean men atop the houses made of stone
for too long we have known
but I’ll never need the nine lives that have been allotted to me
chop through it all, do not become lost in the
wave pool and the many buoyant rings
my first name a notice spelled incorrectly
taped to the elevator door, half ripped with a penis crudely drawn in the center
far too much thought goes into the dog food
but the abuse is too much to handle for the trees on the path
but over that picture this field grows
fog envelops the flowering teachers and they notice nothing
momentarily all will be clear
but the loudness will never subside in the eyes of the trolls made of tough blue flesh
and the low net carrier has been baked again so that
this page can be put up in a rainy city
soaked with ink running into the cracks of the old sidewalk
beneath converse sneakers and ballet flats
while the tin foil covered cement sparkles and shimmers me to another area in the world
where winged women of fancy notice no smoke in the forests of old
hermetically sealed off from the real existence
do not question dreaming practices
do not question dreaming practices
they have been set in stone since
whenever ago
during the time of twenty thousand billion
monsters of varying size shape and
genus
fat men wearing beanies will try to discourage
your slumber but
do not fear the monsters with the enormous blue fruits
spork your way to the surface of the mind
realize the potential of
jacob’s ladder in the cliché
laboratory set-up of your own miserable
black and white life
watch for the grey, wait for it
embrace the benevolence of the ambiguous
become one with a world of no binaries
wraith bitterly happy
wraith bitterly happy
wandering through the trees
finding a spot on the ground on which
he consumes a sandwich
peanut butter and jam
wraith bitterly happy
sees the big city and floats down
busy streets looking for a
fright
wraith bitterly happy
dead in the doorway
this beautiful worry
this beautiful worry
decides the fate of my own
empty vase sitting beside unused coupons
nothing follows through
minty freshening white supremism
as the dust accumulates on the shores of ancient
lost lands of fortune and adventure
dichotomy reigns supreme
but the grey of the world shall soon
descend and all will be
okay
heated except by place
heated except by place
wondering through the empty dining halls of
victorian schools
long abandoned for phoenix
and the comfortable blue and white glow of
liquid crystals
sitting and comfortably heated
except by place
winter nights keep tearing
winter nights keep tearing
into other seasons
winding around the year in a week
but it stays windy all year round
after all
look at my feet
do your part
do your part
call revolution gently
run the ice maker until the end
interrogate mushrooms in the cites
make love to teacups
practice daily
gorge yourself on pencil shavings
steal leaves from raked piles and hold them for ransom
jump into your life, do a cannonball
throw feta cheese at businessmen
arrest yourself
I cry before I jump fully
I cry before I jump fully
into kansas grain
above me the dark purple sky filled with an orange haze of light pollution
clogs my throat and in the middle of the field,
breathing stops and
my functions are renderedead
and heavily I float into the new stars that light the way
buzzing
crackling
stars tethered to cement paths
constellation dance
disease ridden ratty hair
greased and black as ceylon
dancing naked under the star glittering sky
many raving woman spring and rotate themselves
around the spring fire
asking me to join their
festival of new life
wooing me and tempting my senses
they tell me to believe
and in the moment I
accept and throw my cloak aside into a bush
of thorns
as pink and green smoke begins to fill my lungs
lifting me to feel the old stories of light in the dark
priest sleeping
priest sleeping still in the
fires
forging himself a new
crucifixion
crustacean nonfiction
scuttling through the burning star-
and-moon print sheets
scientific breakthroughs of international stalemate
in the crucible of science-fiction/
fantasy
man and woman he made them manandwoman
but not me
inthenameofthefatherandofthesonandoftheholyspirit
amen
crossing the road
picking through the ancient
excavation of an
eviction of an apartment
trapped in time, crystallized in the ruins of
a long lost
tea kettle
slowly making its way across the road only to be
flattened by a sports utility vehicle
underutilized and lonely
but the geese pass unharmed
to the lake
we drove from these children
we drove from these children
ourselves
soaked in the pink light of a thousand sunsets
bathing our cardiac muscles in an ancient glow
but all we can hear are the
sirens sounding in a small town near the italian border
as the tan grass flows gently around the bodies
madness escapes me and i run into the majestic clouds
of the Colosseum
faltering, stumbling, plummeting
towards the emptiness that is
coming at me like
a hatchet adorned with tassles and
craft store colored feathers
dust remains
dust remains
clinging to the obsidian feathers of
the hot black
cloud passes overhead
the grain in my hand is oily and course
I scatter it to the wind and I feel
a sharp pain in my chest
blood flows onto the field
somewhere a life
has ended
the sky rumbles
and the black cloud screeches and circles widely in
the air
as it disappears I can hear it echoing
in the distance
I stand alone
the swaying wheat shows me
the way to a new
existence
ravenous beasts fly through the wednesday sky
ravenous beasts fly through the wednesday sky
in a dark hot cloud of
noise and wind
words descend upon greek statues of ancient
philosophers
copied and cast in
white stone
wheels warmed by wool of sheep
long dead
roll silently towards the edge of reality and in a
blink
all is not right
blank pages of
masterpieces fall to my eyes and
through the stares
of those greek philosophers I see
color spilling on the temples of Athena
the oracle speaks to no man or woman
but being neither I
listen with wide
eyes
nostrils
tingling fingertips
my mind opens up
the stone crumbles and
toilets litter the wilderness that has
taken the planet and
civilization is over for all of
today
the storm
I descend and,
being nothing, I am
enveloped by it
embrace until I
know myself from the
and
bonds that kept me a part of
without mercy
falling into
drink from the
darkness and I
break free into this world only to be
ignored, invisible wrapped in
a cloak of a thousand tears
a monster that no one
will want
and I run through the crowds frantic for
someone to recognize me
notice me
see that I am here
and then I see me
but I can’t see me
I won’t even look at me
I want to go back to the
but I move on
I shed my tears and the cloak
shatters on the street as the
skies open up and soaking I run freely amongst the people
and I am seen once again
the hot black cloud bursts into dark shards
one wet down feather touches my nose
its darkness is eternal but comforting
the cloud is gone now
but the storm is nowhere near its
end
no yellow light
no yellow light streaming into the lush darkness
can i see now
only in distant dreams of a doctor’s lounge
sleeping as children
triangular lights dimmed as
mother works away fixing men’s insides
but those days have passed away
with everything else
the yellow light no longer rushes onto the lonely man
walking in the lush darkness
his pain is mine now
and walking alone through the thickly wooded park
where benches have long since eroded and
large plants grow from the cracks in the sidewalk
and i walk as always
the same path i have always walked
alone and in the impressionist style
like the man in the doctors lounge
but no light bursts to meet me
in the middle
the bohemian monstrosity wrecks my nervous system into
a breakdown to fix it
we need many tools that cannot be found in top hats
and the nations fall to the anarchistic leanings of
libertarian douchebags made of string
no one can know why these somethings happen but we can throw
our middlemen out the window so that they can for once be on the end of something
instead of living their lifelessness through the lives of
others
and though i myself can be called a middleman, i prefer the penisless term,
middleperson
whistle like the horses in my dreams
nobody can whistle like the horses can in the bars of cities
striving to be better than themselves and failing short due to
the incessant parties and mixtapes of the lives and lies
of this counter culture that is americas own failing feature
like the fatman sang in the nineties it was all about what was in
and still is that way hooray for smokes and drinks for everyone on me but
please leave me out of this
i have to retain my image as a ridiculous child
almost nothing so
by all means do as you please
but don’t call me when rome falls on your head you hedonistic bastards
