thuds

this is the line
next to which we breathe
words detach
are shed of us
we them
falling on this or the other
side of the line
next to which we breathe
some wafting, no
drifting like the roses
shredded in the heavy rain
that passed last night
when the others slept
red like blood but fragrantly
staining the pavers
lining the space
next to which we breathe
and who the hell does that
kind of thing?
others like our severed limbs
or selves
red like the rose petals
painted with the sun or more
like a magic marker and the smell
bleeding onto the slaughter house
floor
where they fall
the cuts to discard, no one wants
making slick their metallic taste
like nails
lining the surfaces
through which we breathe
uncommunicative
without a reason

not, may be

Things you don't know. I don't know. Unless you tell me. Or someone. Like that I am. I am here. You see me. Or someone. That tree in the woods. Clapping. Crap. Room. Was where it was. One of us. One of them. All subject to recalls. Yours. Mine. The cause undetermined. I only see what is shown. The rest unseen. We will pray for rain. If I don't say you can't know. So faith is blind. And justice. Parents. Never to rain again. And what if there were none at all? One species wiped out. Then another. Wasteful. Not necessarily. Only on certain occasions. But even then. How to be if not seen. Heard. Touched. Not that way. I am what you tell me I am. Except you never said. I was not. You never saw. Directed elsewhere. I am what they said. But they never said. I am not not. We are. We are what they did. No one ever saw. Or said. It was nothing new. Lola gave us peanut butter. On spoons. Dancing on the table. Bare footed. Small. For that problem costs three dollars. We got it bad that time. All the time. But that was the only time with spoons of peanut butter dancing on the table. And the last time for Lola. they say they are writers. No one disagrees. No one says any thing ever. Maybe the rest are here but not really. Somewhere else. Like another room. It was windy. That's what he said. Dark in the closet. Without wind. Without air. There was no wind. Can't be. Unless he is trusted. Not lying. Spinning a yarn. None of the above will do. We are all cynics. Still we want to believe. We want to believe. To know. Someone to tell us we are. Not a thief.

word

word like tentacles paralyze small
fish and hope of all ages
maybe though
dead cannot be found
maybe then
dead is safe
at least the time being, at least for now

we headed north up the coast
til there was no more
we always believed there must be a place
some other time, when they like us
they would go to hell

But how would that be different?

There's no gain in wondering why

they were boxed

It was never one of us but
once all of them were phenoms, the good ones
of blond-ed hairs and blu-ed eyes
fat cheeks
endless smiles
lacy ankle socks and mary janes
and then the rest of us, the ones you never saw
or if you did
unremarkable

planned out our lives according to the ones we had
our own childishness hiding the missing -- what of it?
We are a dangerous species
no safe place for our love to flow.
As if.
There was never need of love,
to become embroiled without fear of pain.
Anatomy never a friend, yours or mine.
Neither.

THe telepathy of words, the sounds they make unsopoken
Aware consience brings only conflict
There is no personal philosophy but narcissim
And control.

Everyone had a roommate but us.
To be alone, kept alone, is key.
One alone will never be believed
so much the easier for what it was
Yet we stayed
Were we waiting for them to show us our ends or did we never care?
did we never matter
so much as that?

Even yet.
Not.

naked

They then were in
the days of john birch
the kkk
mandatory sunday mass
pretending
i the disruptor still trying to dream
through to the end.
Whose nightmare it was.

Roaming the world through its sewers
chipping round.
some on, some off.
There's a price to pay.
Always.

Savoring a smooth cool barrel
with all that implies.
Infinite promise.
Freedom.

A fascination all my own.
Not any business of theirs they knew
but looked the other way
refusing our existence by those eyes
averted

There are no more pioneers.
Everyone knows everything yet no one
knows one damn thing worth knowing
Abominations that for nothing else can be
when labels run out
no longer marginalized
instead simply ceased
the being.
It should take another two weeks.

carick

the parasitics within they make us
famous for things they say we should
hide
a realness of one of me that none can see.
I am
we are
invisible to the naked eye

it is not
rebellion certianly not
in this strength only
in isolated instances.

It's just that we
wanted to go the same way

now over and through it is blood, burnt flesh
a dry empty body waits to be
used, reused, discarded, recycled
Laying on, not near, absent use
emptiness reverbates, then shatters

it's literature and drugs
unrecognizable
to all who wonder at the sameness
All of it is
nothing more than this

there is not more than a modicum of challenge
but for the vulgarity of some life some live
it was not a happy time but only the sameness
hiding these violent loathing selves

there is nothing of importance here
or there, only you.
spiritual liberation is not yet
liberation of any sort breeds fear
like the wavering signals coming in over
late-night radio snuck under the pillow of a stick-figure
girl, a caricature is all and so
neither can it be true what she thinks they were
did or she saw felt.
Empty lines never fill in

Nothing is until it is
observed.
They refuse to see what is in front of them.
WHat is behind them.
They refuse to be seen.
Then we are not.

meats

We were never
explicitly
loveable
Synchronicity
we once cried
without knowing
the mind foresees out future
We weep
for the aura of it
we restrain ourselves
Going off
we miscalculated
tongue-tied
babbling
Then we finished
Would apologize
Didn't know what to say
Luminaries legends devils and saints.
It wasn't just a baby's terror.