lines in the sidewalk give the blind
direct through their shoes providing
bumps which lead forward to more
bumps giving a rhythm to the voices
in my head

remind me of better times
where words were my best expression
before i found you

i warn you thus
never pursue the One i found unless you’re willing to (forever forsake) your muse
for once found
your joy will take your sorrowful words away

into the ether your pen writes
happy line after happy line
and the only thing you’ve left to lament
is the loss of your lamentation

because if you wake me just one more time
to rub your legs to keep you from whining

know that you should not tell me what to do
or i’ll do it

and as my thumb grips your ankle and
my fingers your calf
though i’m seething inside
you’ll finally be quiet
and i’ll get that sleep we once knew
before you me knew me and i knew you

(and children were the natural awkward
physiological scientific result of
said knowing)

yea like back then

i’d fry the french for real
if it meant i could squeeze
them between my teeth milking
every last second before their
last taste of oxygen and their slow
steep in my pools of acid

my condition shows itself not
lest the axis of the earth should be
slightly altered to the left

for then the

moon might shine through these
trees at night and illuminate
my once pale thoughts

squeezing behind a wheel for the first
time in about a year
i held the grip and shifted gears
awkward with the ease of an automatic

backing out more quickly than i anticipated
and looking to my right (not the left)
i ran plastic into plastic
(cars dont use metal so much anymore)
and paint into paint
a two second
minor scratch

worth 1300 beans to some crapface at a dealership

questions
raise things
other than answers

and answering
with more questions
is

rude(ruder)uder-ude

whatever they say

i could prose your love but
sexier i would find it shoulds’t it be versed
instead

cant do what you cant do unless
you’re powered by something bigger
than a claimed 9.5 hour battery life
which keeps going and going and going
until 9.51 hours at which point you will
die perfectly without lasting even a second
longer than you’re measured to do that’s what
you’re like when you try to do what you cant
do

stick to what you’re good at

the way my lips touch the ground on return home
should feel better than this but carpet
blocks the soil from beneath me and i
lack the wherewithal to again bend to my
knees and kiss the dirt beneath my feet
when i finally reach the red soil of my motherland

here the wind blows harder
than you might remember
though you’ve probably never come

and here the people are meaner
than you might expect from such
kind faces

and so i’m tempted to bend my knees
and press again my lips to the ground
and screw the dirt that grits between my teeth

given the recent turn for the better
in the lottery
i’ll try my hand at death soon