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This should go elsewhere (later)

Until you find yourself on a rocker
guarding dribblings from the rats
and shotgun guarding the estate
Long decayed to passersby.

C Worker's Complaint (redo)

I will post this again
And there will be lines
going all the way down the page.

Separating the Image

Fine images
of a lover and children
and seedy yellow harvests,
would accompany me day-to-day
for withdrawals at the bank
or in lines at the heart transplant center,
until I realized, no,
waiting in lines
and for death
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

Purple fields and skies
would sit beside me in logic class,
listen to grandma's pilled-out
manic episodes,
and mark dying deadlines
on the calendar,
until I realized, no,
commitments like these
to class and family
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

The great indoors!
All of the day-to-day go-getting
replaced with purple fields and skies.--
--Horror horns may vomit
failures to appear in court,
but so what?--I have fields
to seal my lids upon,
and escape hardened life
in constructed skies.

How my throat tightened
when this creation darkened
and purples went light brown
and took away tweeting sounds,
and the lover became reserved
and then snuck out the door,
and children turned to dirt.

My gasping head of tears
screamed at the forever listening listener:
what world is this that I cannot make my own!
what world is this that demands,
“Do something, now! You’re in it!

You ran from the world
of cars, of lines , of scars,
and went into your head
of fields, of loves,
yet how the head is mirrored
and has not it’s own light,
apart from the turning ongoing world,
that blends all visions for your choosing.
How loutish your escape,
as if the moon were fleeing the sun
and screaming at its loss of light,

you’ll take it all back, or have nothing,
take birthing pangs of dull tasks again and again
with dying bodies and clamoring voices
and everything besides!”

5000 Vapours

When someone impresses me
it's shouldn't be so final.

The tower drops down
and its mangled steel
contraption
juts out rusted
from a cracked stone foundation
where I lay my head down
and close my eyes
from the decaying corpses
around and sing myself to sleep:

I love you, stones that failed,
I love you, building of air
and 5000 smoldering vapours.

Upper Sensations

A white back
--The one companion image
dinned and crossed
conversations
up to the shiny aristocratic,
undemocratic,
wandering astonishments
laced in unagreed upon
conditions
so that we'd
just go and see what happened,
we'd stretch out
and forget about death.

Now,
time for another, I'm terrible
at first impressions,
I give too much jazz arrayments
and accept the slimest potential
of our time and place
as possessing unprocessed explosions
of fortified expressions.
Just le mot juste (only the right ones)
and nothing besides.

But every sour tongue is part of the experience,
I'll learn, I'll learn . . .
yet in cocophany of brittle sounds
and bitter plates did I forget
that hunger and thirst had ever existed.

Rationa(i)l (The sucking up of wonder by too much reflection)

Before sunning palms
sits the sunning palms,
sunning in the sun
for the purposes of
being in the light.