Last night, I took off Emily Dickinson's clothes.

I think I did it.

I think I mixed the chemicals correctly.

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A man, which is to say a human, which is to say a discrepancy.

Often finds himself alone, monstrously, expandingly, albatrossly alone with thin yellow strands of sick and sticking fibers wrapped ten twelve twenty-two sick layers thick across whatever rubber and plastic it is that he has massed up in thick grey callouses around the base of what used to be a brain stem, callouses building on themselves in the style of the callous, wider and softer on bottom, harder and smaller, bullets on top. Building outwards into the rest of the person, the rest of the inconsistent panel, vapor-rolling out like yellow-grey fog into the far corners of the rest of the person, fingers toes eye jelly genitals tendons Achilles tendons bones until ending at the logical end and exploding out beneath like a bottle rocket to circle back around and be breathed in through and for the logical skull, pivoting on a wad of gum and duct tape. Back and forth for an adherent fulcrum dripped from an unclean faucet penicillin faucet handle over the water we drink to stay strong stay pink bright and healthy for whatever is coming at us, bullets, lonely beings, to pierce and penetrate underneath so many calloused layers of rotting skin, to the profound rot bellow, roiling in an organic darkness.

This is you, floating in the gelatin, gelatin/arsenic that fills the basin that supports you in the longer nights of your consciousness, that broken faucet, that filthy broken faucet, that black water from a deeper well beneath feet made of paper torn paper.

This is you, sinking into bitter air call it smoke that at once lifted you higher in a beseeching current of motion up higher higher still higher into the heavens of a callous kinda smokestack sorta god who plays dice with your stems your rose stems your brain stems and smokes your arsenic and laughs that roiling god-laugh across the fine enough plains and pastures of your green mind. That blue-green azure sorta plant-stem place that grew out of control for two lives too long and here it is the stuff of legends a forest to roll on to a horizon to roll on to a peach tree to drop stonefruits filled with well what else but blood of course.

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(Source: lou1122, via mattlikesdonuts)

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Aren’t you glad it turned out this way?

Doesn’t it fill you with joy to think

this is how your jigsaw fell

and not only did it involve you being alive

but with two eyes and no tails and all the time in the world

to sit

and stare 

and think?

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you say you said you’re stunned,
overwhelmed yeah? is a good word
just the right thing to say when if why
some things rush back to you,
black & blue piece by piece things
to whitenoise the Listener, really give
hell to the listener

instead of what we used to do,
neon paint stuck to timberlines
on grim peaks of responsibility
to a God owed a listening word,
great mouthed sound

to grind, and singe, and roast and chew
spit out in offering, already eaten,

words to live by
a citation rarely seen.

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The Rare-Earth Hypothesis

Who are you to say

that it’s not too cold outside

to go to the store for milk

and a finer-grain flour

with no jacket, no scarf,

not even a woolen cap

for your rotational head?

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The Discovery of Intelligent Life in the Universe

the skull’s bleach white
left arsenic dust
in an ampitheatre setting
as amoebas left trails
on the stage’s thin silt, filled

in the tracks with watercolors
and it was so fucking surreal


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No hay mal que por bien no venga.


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Lo mejor.


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He puts his feet up
on the wide mahogany desk
in front of him, leaning back
into a plush leather chair so as
to stare idly/hungrily out of
the wide soldered window
of a room locked with a combination,
high-up and windy, lofted
over some bizarre location
that has no choice but to operate
in a fundamental state of anarchy.


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we just came in from the cold and

we just came in from the cold and
who knows if this actually happened
or not or if it’s just something I (eye)

invented an untruth from a
cold-shiver brain, caught blue &

white under harsher cumulus beams

,that widespread broadcast of
heat-lack and panic that set our
skulls to broil and kerosene flames
wove green and gold potentialities around
the offset crowns of our round little heads,
sketch them in series:
the mountain range

winding into vanishing points,
rivers’ cold veins
tracing unthinkable shapes


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four too many.

a movement,

between a tree
and an
reading a story
about 5 different goblins:
greasier, greasiest,
toothy and

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I see the sweep
of your hands, 2,
3 times in the tight arc
you hold close
to the firm curves
of your body,
a motion
quite obviously
for granted
by the old blue towels,
folded neatly
as they are,
folded and hung
on the thin silver rack
that hangs opposite
your mirror,

that shimmering pond
that vertical
silver still-life
where you sometimes imagined
what your blood would look like
on the outside.

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