Chaparallel

This universe was not made for you.
You are unallocated in list of
Participators and only consume… and we’ve entirely forgotten about you.
You do nothing.
You deserve an even smaller potion of happiness than the
Everything you neglect,
A unit so close to zero, it can only be limited to
The lowest number you can squeeze out of
your tube.

Most of the doors are shut at your approach, and we’re
Glad to see your nose close, but far
From the other side of plexi.

If they destroy you, and when they will –
Nothing will happen; you’ve allowed the science
And majesty of prediction to take the place of
Sweet, unreasoned faith.

Die, fruitless laborer. Crumble into your dry skin and
Rot.
Snap your femur with the flat plate of head-bone
Before you go,
And limp… limp into the dark underworld you hardly deserve,
But where else can they put you?

This grudge of time is ratio only
As I want some other time to be
Present and the little minutes of ‘happier,’ or just
“not right now,” filtering through my
Spindley little fingers, just as if to say ‘they’re mine.’

Gradient from wall to vision, cannot shorten,
Replay or lengthen. The sum component of existing,
Is that we must exist at all, and if
Not existing we
accomplished nothing since
The fall.

The daily, steamed appraisal waiting for
Porcelain and promise –
That I can show the plum-drum ritual of how
I think we all think of ourselves, and our lives
So well described on forearms and
Four legs.

I’d like to be remembered, at all times –
And is that selfish?
I want my eyes and cheeks longed after,
Put left-side along the brain where the gray flesh can
Exponentially warm it’s overlapping, flapping…
Flittering recollections of how I think I
Remember you.

But we don’t talk long enough to furnace
These thoughts, or have them
At all – but instead – and this is where my bruised skull
Has versed, traversed and gone reverse –
What we do instead: is nothing.

I only thought it grew inside me
and I struggle
understanding
that when I go to pull it out,
the throat-made object taking
out from world to word and fowl
digression… makes us say the same thing twice,
every day we stand in front of our teeth,
and behind our apprehensions:

“It’s much safer,” I produced, highly and
repeated, “to not do anything at all.
I don’t like my feet and steps they take,
Don’t like my words… the sounds they make -
the day, the Dawn,
the swirl and proud lung
carrier from a sloth of what we see.”

It’s on the lonely step outside,
that I am truly called for nothing -
and this is when the beast should find me
crawling,
gnawing, crazed for mirth.

make a new shell -
larger -
and made of bone,
where the one before
was an empty can;

more resiliant,
you’ll find -
with more abundance to
discovery, brand
and recreated out of the
same stuff
to make
new stuff.

– Post From My iPhone

I believe that I have little choice about my life, and that it will inevitably ensue in the only direction I believe it can. I don’t believe I make any conscience decisions about being myself, but that it just sort of happens. I wake up in the same bed every morning, and very little changes. I am very afraid of myself, and don’t touch many of my belongings. A cup with a lingering line of milk will sit for several years, and the rats have chewed through my clothes that fell off their hangers and were never put back. I want to get high – not from any addiction – but I can’t stand the emptiness lingering between each thought. I stop typing, and look at what I’ve written; I can hardly believe these are my thoughts.

But of course they are. No one in the world would claim them, and that is why I believe I will live no other life than one whom is composed and controlled by such troubling contemplations. The physical world is a strange environment, and one I have difficulty processing. My vision and sense of smell are quite intact and functioning among par, but I cannot help but feel evaded from the actuality of what is in front of me. I am so caught up in getting caught up, that no thought truly can be credited against another.

This demon of mine is to discredit myself at all costs. If I can explain exactly why I cannot accomplish one thing, than I simply won’t have to do it. No one administers me, and I allow no one to administer me as well. I am a thinly boy, unkept and disillusioned by the mess he leaves at every station. I need to be put to sleep, or poisoned. I endorse all attempts to inflict pain on my body, for what is the use of my body but to be reminded it is here to accomplish no good or selfless act? There can be no greater waste of resource than any subject of matter wasted on me. Please, send the hounds.

Put a hair above the lip and
Walk on into parking lots -
Garages where our steel is stored – and
Take me apart,
Knowing my elements like
Cool sensations of refuge and
Excuse.

The traffic made the 8 dashed
Lanes impervious to the
Flood of force,
Unleashed and unrelenting
Sun to blame,
And all the billion
Infentesimal
Made us do nothing
Behind the wheel.

– Post From My iPhone

You have all the sense and
Matter-making sound of
Lip progressed decision talking…
I’m so much better on concrete
With the orange lamp light o’er head,
And the bic in tiny fingers
To draw throughout my forearm palette;
And just in case I change my mind,
I can lie and be deceitful, using
The same street for the same dry, deedless
Sacrament we made.

The old man with his old dog, in the
Center of the street offered
Wine erotically,
as the thing he does – and does to us –
In his quiet and quietly.

“No thank you,” and the bic and tiny fingers
Sketch roots among the surfaced veins, and
I recall a fast blood paced-beat
Resulting from the pen.

I didn’t fall in love that night – among the Spanish
Streets near by -
the shapeless vapor ‘tween
our space, removed,
and towards
the sky.
The hallways from the
houses there,
breathed with candle-light
While we both
made the name Maria something
whorish, and
self-hollowed.

– Post From My iPhone

I was in the middle of pronouncing
Myself, and
Shaking every tree-trunk thigh
For focus and for pair of eyes.
On all conditions of the clock,
I have the sweating
Pulse of know -
and to know -
Here at my stadium
and stage.

– Post From My iPhone

What I need, I can’t even find
Or make with
What i got – but from what
I do daily, they’ll let me walk
Around and buy shit
That puts it to rests,
Wakes, restores, demands
And retrieves.

Install to me the functions
I’m without – and
pitch and trough,
from squirrel to sloth,
I keep my blood excusing
Itself towards
Some new-slower-faster
Melodia.

– Post From My iPhone

Desiring to pledge this time
Towards my ultimate sum -
and at my end,
when looking back is
Savoured in one exhale
of rusty vapour …
I want at least, the senseless
to be, each, a necessary step
between -
and not… not
how I am and have been: as
the dropped-jaw,
consume-agent
of sin.

– Post From My iPhone

Galaxy of idealistic
Proportions, and
Bound to refuge any
Day I want,
As if wanting was all the
Warrent needed
To consume all and be
Retarded.

– Post From My iPhone

The generational dissmisal
Of human
Creative authenticity.

– Post From My iPhone

I was seven when the tribulation ended. The Messiah, at age 836, died of heart palpatations in his Temple in Moscow. All that came heard in shuffled whispers first in hallways, or in the public bathrooms. The adults and sensors used there words sparingly, like infrequent, thin little birds darting between angled ear clams. Few of us seemed to care, and reluctantly passed on information to the uninformed with a breathy dillusion of skeptiism and boredum. Were the masses really finished? A week later and the Sensors had an explonation, after a thorough examination.

– Post From My iPhone