the snot settlements of the past
rearranged and carefully maintained for permanent residence
like a handkerchief planned to forever last

in two iotas
grizzly voters
will strut out of the wilderness
and hope to open up the trash
it’s safe still
everything wants their fill
their confusion shows us how
if we ran out of the woodwork
like brash voters
bears to locked latches
clutching anthems of the past tense
we’d be shot down and awakened
back of our story
and into farther away regions of our minds
so be young
some kind of night
at least in a windowless room so dark
it’s hard to really understand the light switch
we’d just make it one way for sleeping
one way for what must be called day
and call it day, day after day, we’d sleep into day

there’s a world outside
with a sun over head
beyond every congested area
beyond every dark and paved road
right on the borders where it looks like there’s room for no more stuff
there’s a world out there
and it’s not crammed in and rough
it’s social media’s meaning
when you look past how we get down on ourselves
and go out into our feelings
it’s a bird chirp’s construct
after your car alarm is shut up
it’s to hear clear just how those who aren’t here
will wake up to butterflies on their toes
it’s when we’re getting away
from our most easy to find ambitions, the rabid pink slips
and finally grab the pen, tip of our voice, upwardly hoist
because dreams have pictures
and it’s an energy, then a handshake, then a new found purpose rolling forward

i have ears so i can witness the march of gathering slow words
an idea so commonly perceived will one day breathe when we see the hue of colors we could emit into space

two scotch-tape birds sit on a cigarette butt
two reptilians walk past the birds
two windows open and say ‘huzzah’
two clairvoyants will never admit to wanting to die young
two drops of sleep in between my fingers
two days who are also sisters
two people buying pizza and dousing it in ranch
two centipedes too shy to hold hands
two former lovers who got lost on the phone
two atoms who can’t help but always feel nauseous

google voice automatic transcript:

Hey there, this is. My personal. Hmm clean. The reason the black or passport. For bathroom the pictures and they can people in different poses. I guess I can. You know, it’s like, Yeah, the execution and there’s like a bird on you know that some of the house and I ever good Lord God. I don’t know. I sent you a try to talk about it. I’ll start talking about on Mon bridge on the field by calling. I got the book. Along with that person so that I. I know I don’t know. I never heard another suspect my password but I don’t know. I was calling to the art double girl friend on Facebook this bunch people. I’ll talk to him on his downtown nothing to people I love. I can’t really out bye your findings. Just want to talk to him. Holt 413 from awful start another really my 14 and alright, long distance, and I was calling Buckley on the other 2 nights, but my number. I live in my dreams well so well as the moon with regarding moment cable another person stalls the spirit of peace. I have no names. How does it work hours and I love the life the dark eyebrows spread the word stone test accounts knows marks. I’d love to the bedrooms of the older sister. His name is Mark pipe is not not live in this last coming along, no longer IN production of pairs shipper wants you guys an airplane dance with. Vontage’s can’t splattered flag pole through the talk about both diverse. I was talking about testing out a little bit conflict in the absent Tanya lessening Canyon tiny cousin time in front of the matters all blown out of the family. Big Bang. Sounds like some 5th. I would rather go on down and work with the affect of standard he’s been o’clock. Whether border child my toll road room cos I’m easy. Swift from on my sense is no slows black water offering to cover of the tracks country. Simon good real good, but kind of hard on both our down my bro bluesy please. My Live in Death Island of dark wood bound of your ass. Ohh intersects not just black. You know fears. I feel I meant to see if he calls. I’ve been here before some news for you. Okay, I was on the Wagner good member in the past, but I don’t know. I know it’s okay so so much hope. Still so much hope. Garland, so I feel is hope in the world remains, without making their way fork find that mother gonna look in there. I think my find a I don’t know where the alright if you are at noon. To change everything. But on the before he has been. 4. There’s no choice and sono entire universe and saw that Michael and I just I’ve done something there, his, and I got goose bumps and of dollars for a clerking around blatantly no. I got home, part of the movers buckles, good man. It is.

We each have our Fury.
Mine is buried deep inside.
Waiting to explode…
…like a volcano.
Wondering who she’ll burn.

Harnessing my Fury.
But her tremors are coming.
My own Richter scale…
…measures her progress.
Many friendships she’s spurned.

Controlling my Fury.
Despite her annoyances.
Not with medication…
…but with meditation.
Patience is what she’s learned.

At peace with my Fury.
She will not turn to rage.
No earthquakes coming…
…to swallow me whole.
But she always will churn.

What does it mean when a prophet kills himself? Was it something I said, or will do?

I know the future will be a Top Ten List on Buzzfeed, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be #sincere. It will all be familiar, like I found your profile days ago.

I feel both my hands are telephones, I swear I can still hold you. Please hold.

I am concerned about the tenses & conjugation of friendship: friend, friending, friended. To befriend becomes a singular action, hollow like the tips of my fingers – it does not echo in the deep cavern of my cellphone.

The internet is what happens to us when we don’t feel like growing.

The future of typing can be taught by a woman who is missing most of her fingers that she did not lose in shop class because “shop class” is just something from television and television will soon be vintage internet; it is scary that television is more tangible than something.

You will soon need a phone to know who north is. There will be an app for sunlight. There will be an app to make the ceiling of your bedroom look like stars because looking at actual stars makes us feel small & alone.

Do you think anyone is staring up at this same sky app as us? I don’t know, dear, it’s not done loading.

I see the same patterns
in whatever dumb moon
when we’re lying on
the beach or Machine
Gun Funking in the freak
museum. Will the whole fall be
another mammoth root
canal? I am not ready
for the woods—my heart
is a firefly hastily installed
on whatever was left
of the rest of August. So
I take you to Fulton Street
to bag groceries with Biggie—
everything looks the same
but it isn’t; everything is
underwater. Everything is
alone and all covered in
plankton. I am cleaning
your fishtank, but I am
not a water mammal—
your fish swim in circles
but they don’t remember
me. Your fish put on masks
and forget who I was. Your
fish are all assholes, and I
am an asshole, too,
vacuuming gravel and
filling you up with
the wrong sort of
water. When I am
alone in Brooklyn,
I am thinking of
you being alone
somewhere else,
thinking of clouds
and balloon animals,
thinking of popcorn
and gluten and quinoa
and other unfortunate
dietary restrictions,
but all of that is
just you, really—
you thinking of me and
thinking to yourself
‘how can one
good thing not
be exactly like
everything
ever.’

I am Jack’s raging hard-on.
I am desire for you in the midst of the horror movies
that are our lives.

I am staring down the barrel of a gun
and I am not blinking.
I am not good at staring contests,
I’m just not afraid anymore.

I am going to kiss you now: hold still.

I am never going to regret not kissing you
because I am always going to kiss you.

Close your fucking eyes when I am kissing you.

You are wearing your heart on your sleeve
but mine is tattooed on my chest and I am shirtless:
I win, fucker.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Billy Bob Thornton phase:
I will wear your blood in a vial around my neck
and freak out the entire country. I don’t care.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Brad Pitt phase:
I will mother your children and probably end world hunger
with microeconomics and sheer determination.

I am an open book but the book is a mystery novel.

I am choosing my own ending.
I am continuing to page six hundred and sixty six.
I am worshipping my own satanic adventure.

I am going to kiss you wherever I damn well please
as long as it is okay with you
because consent is sexy, and so is your bod.

I don’t have to take my clothes off to have a good time.
But I am damn well taking off some of yours.

I am the happiest place on earth when we are kissing.
because you want to be inside me more than Disneyworld

Kiss the insides of my legs in the dressing room of an Old Navy.
Fall into my thigh gap.

Hold your tongue against mine after drinking coffee.
Baby, that’s a French press.

I am not afraid of Virginia Woolf or of loving you.
I have a room of my own in which I will fuck you.

And then I am going to kick you out of the room so I can work.
These love poems don’t write themselves, you know.

Dreamt of killing a lover w a shotgun
funny shapes what in the blood.

Big vitriol bloody flecks beholden O sweet
double sun binary system

infinite star splatters away yeah
always wanted a family of my own

like dead grass and siding etc.
Like a foal grazing beyond smudge’d glass doors

in a house in a
forest preserve.

Like a smoky
walk’s endless reverse vacuum of cicadas never shut the fuck up.

Once the heavy hot of
trumpet afternoons.

Now
not.

Dreamt of knocking a lover unconscious
breaking their fingers one by one under the sink shaking

slamming their head again and again w the small wooden door then
washing hands swirling like nature’ll do.

The time. Spirals.
Dreams burn down.

Under the stars drank cleaning fluid.
The milky bath of foam like well enough.

Parallel

baby I’m sorry

universe

?

Lil tear in the space time fabric of doesn’t belong.
Something other than.

This galaxy.
This planet.

Family. Friends.
Brothers. Sisters. Lovers.

Coworkers. Neighbors. The nails. The guts. The garbage. The waters.
Teeth. Wounds. Vortexes. Eyes. Follicles. Flowers. Mouths.

NOW OPEN THEM

Remember that woman
who slit her tongue with
an envelope and her
mouth became home
to spiders?

I slit my tongue with life
experience and lies
nested in my mouth
until they grew out of
me like vines.

They often tangle with
reality and the honest
emotions that make
their way up through
my throat.

Yes, I stopped thinking
about you last Tuesday
at four. Yes, I forgot
what your voice sounds
like in person.

No, I never wrote about
the way your skin dances
with life. No, I have never
thought about loving you.
No, I never wanted you.

I lie. It sounds like music to
my ears until you ask me
to say how I feel about you
and I can’t find the right
rhythm.

Stay got tangled up in
asking you to go, got
caught up in telling you
no. Yes. No. Maybe.
Please. Stay.

i have every intention of fucking you
he said to me,
before i even knew his name
a pragmatic romantic at heart.
he bought me a drink
something top shelf in a glass with ice
lit my cigarette for me,
making sure to take his time
and have his hands brush up against mine
as i protected the tip from the weather.
“you know I’m not gay, right?”
“does it matter, only for a night?”
his simple theory clashed against his self-assured demeanor
my naiveté gave way to his lips,
reason was overcome with his aggression
i loved every minute of it,
in the dirty stall of the bar bathroom,
letting him worship me while i dominated.
he loved every minute of it,
the sloppiness, the fumbling around,
the hand to hand combat, the fight for supremacy.
it was all a game to me
but i still wanted to win.