some rest

slice me up, bitch,
i'm soy & unaltered.
my tendency is this brain.my body
has less use, i've got a mind to
bring it back. not unstoppable. not
an alternate and not the best.
your message sounds a bribe off,
we have one webcam offering but
no where to put the patch. bequisse.
skype the sky. the sun is assigned
the welcome garden, our
swollen adventure. somebody
stop me. birds are made of worms
i need there to be less cookies around
here to worry about- it's a stash, rip it up
in this place. it has been a realwhile since
i said please. the vibrations were me staying
the sense of our heat hatching
the bug sound. necessitizing, and bones
and bones and bones we are.
nobody really hates enough not
to know these days, nobody's got enough
handcuffs. need to sit down and
do some convincing; salt the film running,
beaming my own reference & write while
i puke it out. on the roof,on the
roof, on the roof, on fire.

magic

back to the magic-
it draws you to a deep risen,
calms you clearer, already
two layers of you attached.
what she does is really magic.
notice

"ping ping ping"
you're all alone for her. in
the garage, watching the scare go out
with the wildhood. pass to
the sweet nurture self.

the water, the blue
heat with the decision coming on.
the grass is no longer counting
chamomile. don't you know?
love is this is something it
really is. i have dozens and dozens
of these though
"ditto"

from start to finish, my massive friends,
in quantities completely unheard of
by the third world and the natural book of history.
including, but not limited to, the diamond
in the smooth magic, the baby
in a pile of cubic zirconia
and the receipt to prove it all. crop
for the coil of the loyal galore. it cries! where
there is life there is habit forming.
maybe the sky used to open up and make
an exchange, nobody can know these things.
we didn't have cameras then.
one collateral left against the damage,
must make use of this collection,
portioned for the clumsy future. where there is
death, there is a recycling bin.
trash bag ready, to move on or at least be faced

our taste

do understandings remain mutual in places of rest
where secrets give way to the moments they blessed?
from root to root, swinging, to monitor growth --
where no one asks questions of unspoken oath.
they plan for inaction, ten feet below earth
where static drowns silence to aid in thought birth.
and there is no sleeping to dream of proportion,
and there is no excess to create distortion.
each breath and each day, each glass of milk spilled --
we see only products these factories build
and seeping from objects, too small for our taste --
exhaust is a memory, time is replaced.