sometime after I dropped them off skydishes told my pocket vibration was considerable
my children left at some private school
my thigh turning colors in my mind
voices on a similiar or other line told me
my chest was bleeding now or eventually
tempted me to fall off, pull over after a red
drive forever
incredibly overwhelmed at the notion of ending or ends
trends in today's nuclear family climate showing
the opposite of positive outcomes
curveballs thrown by liberal pacifists frustrating
strangling
leaving little to no doubt we'd all miss
we'd all mess
leave little and forget the rest
dressed down
inside out
around temples built for halfwits
there really is little left now
you pay your debts to yourself
your dreams have you between a lock and a tight space and
the last time you wake up there's still no key underneath your pillow

though

the first time you go to sleep you won't remember much
the first time you fall asleep and come back with an idea
well, now you know, it's safe to say
nostalgia or hope or poloroids
you'll carry those heavily
roll over in bed
choose a memory to take with you
keeper for the sun's time

and just maybe

very noble
being part of something the point of which you can not fathom
nor bother to try to understand your motivation
in exchange for instant gratification
and the illusion of a righteous purpose

sometime within there scattershot time holders remind me
private school ends eventually
shortly before three
which leaves me late and makes plenty waiting unexplained
unexplained waiting

there are probably still a few good reasons nobody knows me
my trees are misshapen
and when I lie down I start to grow
from the very, very bottom

From the very, very bottom.

if I knew which dreams caused this
or could rectify them from below
I would dig deeper than you could follow

and somewhere within there you'd plug your ears
from the dark
and the worms
squirming beside your temples
pushing along your spine
quietly counting the seconds
silently finding the time

Pile of Rocks

Perpetually almost-too-late
You realize
It must be my time to die
Or be reborn a colorful sign

My boyhood father
Naked in the 1960s
All poetry, no noise, no headaches

The yellows of memory, see,
Are easily sold:

PAST "No present! No future! Bare and Free!"

Squeezed into a thing
Yesterday's songbirds
Life support and
Murdering memory

inside the moon there are four people
three of them remember you
one of them is your daughter
before she was your runner
underneath her restless weight
you find your mistakes
somewhere within there, you remember you love her

your god's eyes are in her mouth
as the snow falls behind you
one of them presses pavement
another is caught in the stars

the one who couldn't care less mostly always bugged you
his arm was your water
your sink, his fodder
underneath his restless weight
you'd find his mistakes

in so much as everything is only ever a collection of other things

but now you are sort of clear headed
messy head
does that surprise you?
where Are you headed?

the attic is far too stuck for this mess
as if our house would stop shaking in any cases.
can you already tell this is what a door sounds like?
would you still wake a sleeping child to give them medication?

the most important way you can make someone feel is: