I emptied out my valves again.

The daily sludge has closed the factory,

But I got most of everything out and

Into the fresh air.

Oh what a greasy ocean of despair!

But a man in front of a rickshaw once told me

That backs are made for more than their weight.

They are meant to break,

But he hasn’t found his limit yet.

I’ve found it so many times,

I had to redraw the line.

Plum colored roar,

And I swore I could see,

The tangerines of your cheeks in cardboard,

And your teeth like tambourines shaking and chafing against your tongue.

A whole room of beds,

But I’ve had enough sleep for a lifetime like mine.

My temples are stone smooth from pillow-wear,

A cracked once-holy church of wear and tear.

Is it nighttime yet?

Who’s to say I’m not already dead?

Flowers, candles, thick carpet — you’ve mourned me already,

But blooming weeds will wilt and bleed.

Could we agree to stop, together, already?

I suppose I could,

Take the ellipses, put on a cleaner shirt.

If you want me, buy me in paperback.

Drip coffee along my pages and take notes in my margins.

Carry me in back pockets and purses,

On train rides and long drives.

Rip out a page to give to a friend.

Maybe I’ll be helpful then.

Underline my best parts,

Glaze over the bad,

And do me the favor of ignoring my mistakes.

I’ve heard that I’m made of a few.

Keep in mind that I’m fragile in binding.

My leaves might fall out,

But there’s comforting beauty in that,

And fragility can breed love, or so I’ve read.

Thumb me through on sunny afternoons and rainy mornings,

With a smile up to your cheeks,

And reread me later to see if the ending has changed.

Visceral and vasceral and the not-seen-things

Spell out my nonsense story.

With words like chelin and ultranguishing,

I don’t often nail down the rightest word,

Or the yesser phrase,

But I try my best.

An animal ferocity embraced my imagination as it passed my midnight window.

The serial laughter and morose clapping of hands intrigued my

Moments

Before the flapping gates of dreams closed for the night.

It struck me odd to hear, to be witness to the joyous sound

So obviously troubled by some darkness.

It carried doubt and dreams with no intent of accomplishment

And settled with a sense of acceptance.

I drifted off to those thoughts.

They pierced my sleeping cinema and draped across the plot therein,

And pushed my adventures into the realm of anxious waiting.

It seems I waited all night for the voice to come again,

And I awoke to a monstrous grin.

I spent the day in an empty house.

The bricks whispered,

And I listened with intent.

I saw a person, just one.

He told me of the outside world

And what I had missed.

I found myself in books and stories

Of other men.

The kind that talk wisdom.

I focused on the way I waited

For something to happen,

For those walls to open up.

I’m taking time to look inside your everything.

And to peel apart those empty things.

Cause empty pages speak the words

You forget to write down.

Those dulling swords

Thrown in oceans

Of whispering waters and

teal-tinged father-thoughts.

What a bastard.

That mankind that takes and teaches

Nothing worth learning.

You collaged your emotions

Into eggshell notions.

Easily broken and fragile-to-hold.

To take hold.

Just don’t ignore them

Forever.

Beasts all over the shop.

——————————

Filling the gaps and eating the slop.

——————————-

They fill their cups and empty me out.

—————————-

I’m the beast in your shop.

—————————

I’ll never be a human and stop

———-

Being an animal.

–

–

–

Still I think of that Dying Day.

When summer fell, and began to fade.

It felt like I had tore my heart on every

Black tree fist.

As I walked through that forest of time,

I passed through villages, nameless and old.

They wrote detailed books of my story in that cold

Place.

Those empty huts were filled with those

Maniacs that I left behind me on the road.

They crawl on hands and knees just to be beside me,

Just to remind me.

With sneering smiles and breath made vile

From those things I’d rather forget.

Still they slide past those rotten stumps

And try to jump

Back into my mind.

I don’t want those stranger ghosts anymore.

She was a dream inside my dream.

She walked along those membrane connections

And wrote down the pathways in her little book.

She mapped my psyche

And called me crazy,

But she never wanted to leave.