to loos if you loos a friend to me so many things to tell you, so make yourself part of love, lies, and lullabies death is still death shal on the internet. wait,wait,wait,where are you just to clear my mind i felt a feeling deep inside my soul to breathe through now i'm left here looking for something to grasp on to when i'm down i can do is sit by myself, alone in my mind. i sit to watch the falling leaves, the song my little flower, it wilted right away, so i just being dumb. i will never know when you're lost turn where should i write? a girl to say to make fun of you thoughts of pain and exhaust, the result of death you can fall from heaven above, and from this storm shall come no dove. -the Aggregate Kid (remix)

Miss Spelling Bee

folded into the frills of magnolia, crimson, in a paper fold,
unnoticed under secret mirrors, unfurled in a slow hurry,
the blank script reads itself upside-down...

if only for a moment, while dancing,
a stretch of the earth would reach the crease of the letters,
shaping the familiar periphery of the core,
forming words to be heard but not spoken,
abbreviated centuries of whispers...
and for a moment, after a folded skirt is hung,
muted nightingales perch in reverse on the bar,
pouting in unison as if they were wordlessly translating cryptic messages into verse, evaporating riddles of the summit...

you shall be the queen of that moment, unfolded in a slow hurry,
and it will understand you fully, at once and for all time.

series of revisions on rivalries

the light - years,
unsewn,
seams
frayed as wide
as a brand new canvas hell bent on staying blank..



have you ever photographed the moon through a mirror?


a warped sun,
unsung
in a phone call to dispatch,
poor reception ruining
the patience in a deluge of slang..



then the heating of a day measured in miles.
then the filling of a cup with burns.
the crack in the mirror is raw meat struggling to cook.


you have a prism for shedding your light?
a vessel to cross a river run dry?



folding each side
in towards the center,
it is too late.
a field of weeds is blocking the sun
and you mistake two blurry moons
for dandelions.
celluloid erases a purposeful darkness
to pretend that distance does not exist..

spent so much time haggling,
spilt so much mint milk;
the carnations all sold for 99 cents,
our new church will never get built.
damn.
and no fancy preacher pants for the celebratory dance
and no celebratory dance.
god, how not to mope on?
god?

but you’re a minnow nympho
in a tangled melodrome
i can’t sleep in tallow
and i can’t weep for you
if a spell is nursing you
and your money thing tingles
then there are batteries
and gag parties
i know you’re written
in matrices of runes
but i’m no aspiring cryptophile
you have a nervous purr
for every gift of self
and you’ll loan it
beyond forward to behind

close read of a copy, modeled on carbon
manually written blisters
copies of wounds
a hundred prisoners
in the fissure
in the temporary war on despair
hand out free copies of copies
common war grounds
playgrounds representing habits
to quote a jinx out loud
cokes multiply chubby waxers
who take offensive line
disturbed by nomadic ebb
kooky kind of costume
designed to multiply
quoting objects as playthings, as wind
one million declines
temporarily a granted wish
a cookie
each nut is a dead plant
the ollie of a delinquent
mastered by grade school helmets
the oil scrapes override
tuned engines to live wires
arts and crafts making passes
instruction chalk
chipped crown, blunt cold jaw
ready to whittle
temporarily a promise given
in the fissure
an earthen coin of destiny
feverish eternity
maple coffee
it’s american redeemed
floaters float on
disassembling the stars
in the dark middle of night
torrential hierarchy
copied from the brain of the dirt
copies of sentinel ellipses
open to suggestion
the drama musks chaos of light
the hose ditto until whatever
and dirt transforms itself