Turmoil Go Ahead
This isn’t the first time
I open up the drawer
and an octagonal passage
too small to descend
falls like a paradise
balsawood
flowerladder
onto a cobalt-blue floor.
Mystery fumes from the opening.
I hear pleasing sounds.
Laughter and distant celebration.
Strong perfume. Garlic onions and deep chocolate.
↑ Is that what I think it is?
You may be enlightened or poisoned.
Who can say what waits beyond the roses?
Is it Cleopatra’s asp?
The bird who fell from her nest?
A troll who insults and violates you?
A spirit watching from a distant tree
laughing five ways-wrong-you-stumble?
One foot follows another. Maybe
that should end with us.
On a scarecrow, ravens laugh.
Nothing scary anymore
and the dense corn keeps me living.
My questions are answered by a soft body
with coffee first morning.
Time slowed to punish me.
Is that the music of Rameau?
Am I a part of Masterpiece Theater
or the fight for my own life
and how it should go?
The forehead of the fantasy, in which his childhood is argued as ok because he lived It and thinks of your family though kitsch Is a sign of fascism
My directors have mandated this
surely knowing they are pushing too far X
when someone else is asking Y.
But what can I do?
Jealousy and boredom.
Oxygen and hydrogen.
Rain clouds are not the only omen.
Soon you’ll be shouting
Ok, I get it
waiting for the angel sun to rise
but all there is
is more rain.
More crows landing.
Maybe a woodpecker now.
(I don't know much about my own opinions.)
The countryside becomes a maze of thorns
a necropolis I walk with frozen yogurt
waking up to say no time has passed.
But years into your green curves
the autumn full of dewdazzled webs
and winter glare stripping hillside snow
the grossness of spring as Scott Walker sang
the explosions of last summer
I realize the quickness of life
outlasts all its other qualities
sometimes so quickly I believe
a rainbow is illusion
the gold and the sea do not mix
and the lizard appraising the sunset
dehydrating in the vortex between the color and the indigo
is invisible as shadow
or the humpback whale
or you.
Lost my train
free in a sense which
whether repeated or not
speaks a language
we are relieved to outgasp
by the time of the Nightly Murders.
←he lives in the condition of others he once whatever criticized
This labyrinth eventually you find
has no end. The outside is inside.
The inside is outside.
Time is :01 but I know you meant well.
Time is :01 but we can break that down well.
Tomorrow is always part of the test
and tomorrow is a million days away.
Therefore, if you are not in it--
I mean you can’t
not be in it.
And the harder you deny
the harder it hurts
and the patterns find no end
and you say This at least was my choice--
to fail on my own with great drama
and not some doctor you are offering
I shouldn't have to pay for. But I can’t.
So these are my terms. And this is my house.
And all I have left is this gun
and a Super Mario
who drives just like I do.
And all ya can do is pray.
It has patterns but no end
(this is contended)
and some walls made of mist
and some walls graffitied in blood
and some walls endlessly long
take a bend
and some halls with a fallen man
scorpion attached to his breast
sucking out the meaning
and all manner of marrow
worth as much as you invest
in the feel of meaningful moonlight.
Or the tragedy you currently experience.
Or the trail you leave, forever long
which once was the best way we had found
to keep ourselves from ending
exactly like this.
Random symbol string
A trapdoor opens. Foam emerges.
In a chess match with Sobek-Ra
or a breathy phone booth
interlude-by-fishing-pier
unsuspecting as a fly
drawn in by the swamp's great aroma
perhaps the garden closes leaves
triggered like a school of impulse
by the craving for nitrogen
or the gentle trending
toward an epicurean coma.
Four entrances for every room of the dream
and a tedium so extreme
it would be called inhumane
if inhumane were not code for subhuman
and if truth could present itself
in a brand new way
that does not kill us
or we were not as impassive
at the whole view without barbecue.
Type2→azeros. That ship has long since sailed.
Good luck
or a piece of dilapidated pizza
and a can of Pepsi Zero.
Don’t mind the kinky twists.
Many options are less sanguine.
In one antechamber of nightshade
there's a safe place to sleep
with gumbo and lamb loin
and lobsters at Christmas.
Big-honking-mansion-thing.
The best cookware.
Three convection ovens. I don't really like to cook.
A finished basement and a cocktail of remedies
delivered by the finest pharmacists
to make it all ok.
Wine, finance, despair-- fatty age and ailments
to keep in tune
with the time of the world.
Soma. Soma. Soma.
Why shouldn't I walk through and smile?
How deeply do I need to feel the suffering?
Go. Bac
Are you one of the millions of Americans who experience bloating?
Sleep. Alarm. Obstacle. Forward. Setback.
You change yer mind so much, yer like a damn woman!
My mind stirs like a troubled sea.
New hellos clear space
for old fellows
and the night it keeps on thinking
how my friend is at the hospital
asking for admittance
because he's cracked, lost it
and just wants relief.
Elsewhere, someone close to me
asks why I think of the grave so often. Am I ok?
And I see her life in disarray
and I'm like, I'm fucking great. How are you?
And she gets all pissed off
and I'm like what's wrong with you.
And I remember not everyone
dwells on Nietzsche's question.
My mind is therefore a shuffle deck.
My mind is a memory bank. My mind is electric.
My mind is a carbon emission.
My mind considers
no longer being able to function.
My mind is in love.
My mind has led me to think
it is thinking too much
of how badly it does not want to end.
And how strong I must be
to alter mortality.
My mind is imagining
things that never happened.
It illuminates my limits
as it punishes me with judgment
and reminders I need self-compassion.
I ended up in a parking lot near my house
in a ditch that was now a mound of sand
full of skulls and spiders.
It was a strange night at the palace--
I entered through the millipede storage area
into a golden library silence
and hanging from the ceiling
an octagonal balsawood flowerladder
was leading upward like a periscope
into a scalloped room of existence
a scalloped room of existence
scalloped room of existence
room of existence
of existence
existence.
I could see an eye clearly tearing.
I saw its man look at me and said
Man, have I got questions for you.
↔Subhighway
In this way
(and a psychic ceiling
manifest in a lack of survival skills)
I griefed out
ultimately accepting
I could not secede to Nunavut
so cut the snarky tweets about the failing country.
For me the roses look pretty at twilight.
Memories seem endless as the walls
the walls that turn
and wind within the colosseum
the stomach of time
the time that feeds us
into the continuum.
Consider this the ultimatum:
let go
or go mad
in its duodenum.
-------------------------------------------
A nymph I love
cries into the pool
like a model in a fetish magazine.
Her eyes once asked me fancy questions.
Now I miss her like an evil fool.
She was right to leave
because no one free
will choose to be otherwise.
Otherwise, the wind would calm
and everyone would be
happy already!
The raven laughs at me. Where
does his tree really grow?
Can he see where I am
from there?
Because it seems I'm going nowhere
and all I have is disorienting music
and an obnoxious crew.
→Anticlimactic Kombucha
You may be knifed in a parking lot
outside a Wendy’s.
You may be quietly given polonium.
You may just not know what the hell is going
on and doin great, whatever man.
My stock is doin great.
Who knows.
Who knows?
Who knows what lies beyond the roses?
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