Your Wallet

Two diseases: old age and conformity. People are Good, but you wouldn't leave your wallet on the ground. 

Black Hole

Lateral slice, deep, splitting fat layers. Intenstines and organs spilling over. Hanging on the floor. Blood. I try to gather my innards in my hands and shovel them back into my body. They overflow my hands quicker than I can catch them.

Then it turns into a black hole. A perfect circle, like an iris. It's darker than night. It's nothing. Its infinite. It's always there. It's hungry. It likes to eat everything: dreams, identity, courage, time, hope, despair, people and love. Anytime I try to fill it, the filament disappears forever. It never comes out. Its eaten everything I've given it. 

I build wooden structures around it. Sucked in. I make steel fortresses. Sucked in. I try a softer approach: warm clothes and blankets. Sucked in. I don't want anything to be near it anymore. I cannot fill it, and it cannot fill itself, but other people can fill it. Will they?

the sweet smell of cow shit

the sweet smell of cow shit. people come from the ground, the hills. i was born here. music is painted on silence. words are painted on emptiness. let consciousness do the writing. keep subtracting. rearrange. let go of plans. replace results with wandering. it'll take you to the Divine Feminine. "there's a lot of stuff that i keep inside that no one will ever know." an invitation. be soft, i will be ready when you are. turn left. ill bite. drive to the dead end sign, turn right. you'll do this again. days growing shorter. eternal reoccurance. you've been here before. willingness to take risk. turn around maybe drown. open like drying laundry blowing on the clothesline. service as the highest organizing principle of relationship. theories of existence that don't help. clean whiteboard. coca-cola breath. drunk with the locusts. a losing ballgame soothes the feels. songs for incels. 

Staying Young

I sat with the lid down on the toilet 
In Baddha Konasana with orange butterflies
Beating their wings as they flew from my sacrum
Their thoraces conducting the orchestra 
The tonic somewhere between 200 and 400 hertz

I looked forward and saw myself backwards
Through the mirror that wasn't there showing
A hypotenuse binding my legs pointing at the sky
Long like man's, long like boy's
And I cried "I don't know who I am"

When I age I grow younger
My crooked intellect accuses me of folly
As if sorrows hath not flown from stars
Can she'st bathe me in her blinking lights?
Today I am so young I must age

Where do you move when what you're moving from is yourself?
Did I trust my spirit to walk down its paths
That it may wander without becoming lost in wandering for the sake of wandering?
Had I done just that: no, that I walked one path until it no longer became a path
That I became sick and old by staying young


Sir Brigglesworth

My hand out the window of the Ford marchine, which to me now seems like a spaceship
The wind is so soft, as if I'm petting Sir Brigglesworth
He who has the coat of a kitten, in this his eigth cycle

I try to hold the smudges of clouds on the first overcast
But I hop from bright red candy apples, girls 
with tans in bathing suits, intoxication, the smell of suntan lotion

I try to hold them all with equanimity
A straight horizontal line
Like the overcast, sun diffusing in all directions