current context of my being

I am but currently defined
by an eclectic bagel, banana
peel, three binders,
and the solemn imposition
of time
so solitarily confined

They are not,
three generations
joined manifestly
by the arches
of their
throws
the young soul
running blithely
in his tiny
cap, tiny
red shirt
matching his dad's

Allein ist gut
aber zusammen
besser ist.


(written in the last day gone by)

architecture of the plot

She says,

so it be to quite useful

as always parallels of these.

And so it was–

the familiar and the safe–

warm, soupy, languid stretch'd

the bulbous orbed lanterns

stringing magic in the waning

summer

light–

and so it was, at 4 years

those spots of lumination

pitched into black

and I, out of breath, out of sorts

am terror

hung out on the empty line

fronting ravaged skies–

as I watch, with tears in

my eyes,

the turbulence settles,

mid grainy charcoal,

through most begrimed

lens of mine,

a single red lantern

luck fleeting

severed from its ties

a lonely, lonely sight

Where did our summers go?–

and I fall into my mind

I remember a time

on a bridge

in firecracked night

cider-scribed water bottle–

and I glimpsed, far,

far away,

a red lantern

but then

I broke

as into

infinitely happy.

Then it was a token

that thing I keep

calling

Magic–

You never expect

what's beneath

your sanctuary,

or question on what

loopholes

it presides.

This is how the plot unfolds–

though of absolute abhor

principles of this kind–

as it unfolds, what

is its design–

and that is why I threw

it back to you–

you, who know

who you are,–

You left first, and

I watched

it fall away–

Jetzt

I will not again

sacrifice myself

to the

architecture

While you study the foundation,

I take to the sky.

all I have to say

I thought the wanting came in waves...but then it just fucking stopped.

"new post"

It could be about anything
once the button's hit
he was driving, my
seventh grade math teacher
and let it fly out the window
my Chapter 7 Test
pre-composed
undisposed

It's not about him or that,
it's about this feeling of
grappling with the moment.

You have to be willing to improvise.

To give it up to whatever the universe yields in turn-
and good,
bad,
let someone else be the ogling judge.

walking home

it's not a denial

or a denseness

to which place

in mind

is place of real

I walk

and it is not

some godlike

sense of security

for I'm aware

of should'st be a shiver

where there is none–

I know but to know

is not to be–

it is not the lit

buildings, guardians

of nigh,

or the eyes of the streetlamps,

witness to

all wayward

journeys–

or the light in the window,

a curious

will o' the wisp?...

No.–

It is the moon

illumination awash

laked shores

the compass'd sky–

the Moon,

she lights everything up

like day.

Re: bad days

You're quite funny–
you think you know bad?
Try being sick, or crazy, or mad.

Look at you,
you know nothing of this.
You needlessly yearn but have nothing to miss.

You're inventing problems
your strawberries froze!??
I've never eaten one of those.

bad days

My strawberries froze
my friends are upset
the walls know
the coroner I met

Hibernation is over
the blue bells run dead
the battering red rover
has left us in shreds

The landscape drips oil
our ever blunder
o'er wasteland we toil
and defeated, fall asunder

I must bring myself to say
Sometimes I fear these are very bad days.