Please repeat these phrases.
Hello.
Hello.
Hi.
Hi.
You have beautiful hair.
You have beautiful hair.
Uh, thanks?
Uh, thanks?
I have been to Vietnam.
I have been to Vietnam.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Can I stroke it?
Can I stroke it?
Can I stroke it?
Can I stroke it?
Please repeat these phrases
Hello
Hello
Hi
Hi
You have beautiful hair.
You have beautiful hair.
Uh, thanks?
Uh, thanks?
I have been to Vietnam.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Can I stroke it?
Can I stroke it?
Please repeat these phrases
Hello
Hello
Hi
Hi
He was a man, engulfed by flights of fancy, wrapped in a spectrum of colors and shades, provided for by the world around him and the worlds within him. He did love himself, not an easy feat by any means, familiar with what it did to affect those around him. Glided through, searching and hunting for that rare sense of accomplishment that only comes by a certain confidence, a belief that it could be found. Thrown off center more often than not by his capabilities than his inabilities. His greatest nemesis sprawled out in that comfortable nest.
this flower pales in comparison.
SOMETHING IS MISSING HERE I THINK
You have beautiful hair.
Uh, thanks?
this folded flower,
white,
doubled over, and over.
I have been to Vietnam.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Hello
Hi.
You have beautiful hair.
Uh, thanks?
I have been to Vietnam.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Hi.
Hello.
a repetitive clause that serves not much of a purpose
holds a through line
or guiding light
or something of that nature.
an excessively far reach
far fetches, several attempts in a particular direction
funnelling into a particular point
Hi.
You have beautiful hair.
Uh, thanks?
I have been to Vietnam.
Oh, uhm, I haven’t yet been.
Can I stroke it?
blossoms…
unfurled and opened,
exposing the true nature that the true origin is simply a larger expanse,
a blank sheet in creases.
so start over.
Please repeat these phrases.
(choking on a hard cock)
so start over.
Please repeat these phrases.
sometimes i position myself during sex so that i can see the face that is attached to the body. and that they can see the face attached to the body, so that I don’t feel like an object, as i am prone to do.
sometimes i want to be prone, an object on hands and knees.
sometimes it is easier to take it to grin and bear it.
sometimes i would appreciate it if there was something else on the table.
sometimes, though, that is all you really want.
sometimes all i really want is fried chicken.
sometimes i want the taste of a Twinkie.
sometimes i look over my shoulder just to make sure.
sometimes i rip out the few hairs that surround my asshole, rosebud, whatever, so that it doesn’t appear so… brooding.
this flower pales in comparison
this folded flower,
white,
doubled over and over,
a game of fetch and receive
giving way to a particular amount
attached to nothing more
or simply too much more.
a series of streams splintering out in disparate proportions
(this is a particular stream of thought, a water theme,
rather overplayed)
wading into lakes into rivers into,
channeling into
a stable, staple field
then
flushed out onto the docks, aye
where some thing lies, aye
crouched in wait,
weight like a paper tiger,
under a sun, white underbelly under
tributaries of veins under,
circulating back,
a point of origin, the sun, the heart,
one of many
folded over and over.
Hi
Hi
Hello
where some thing lies, aye
wait,
wait like a paper tiger.
set me on fire and i could burn as bright
attached to nothing more
or simply too much more
he prowled.
a happy kitty,
laid out in a bed of questions
hunting for something contained within these woods, part and parcel, something that he could remove from these woods, a well earned? conquest. run towards the sun towards the run his fingers through its pelt run his mouth through his thoughts to consolidate what he really thought he could say and then stop running.
Hi
Hi.
Can I…
he stopped. looking down, looking within himself, within that head that mind that could not stop running with thoughts, with himself thinking, damn, hey, will you look at that, you there. hi. i think something is missing here. Could you, maybe, just look at me, damn. that hair, i want to run my...through that space between, your legs are sore from running so stop, and spread your lips and your legs are sore from running. this is a comfortable nest. rest. your lips within mine. part them. unwrap them this parcel this gift, this poison, this. i want to run my... through that space between you and i caught within the fine hairs that ran down the back of his neck
and
he stared, reached his arm forward, lips parting,
a happy kitty,
laid out in a bed of questions and
wait for it…wait for it…
sometimes i think, geishahouseboybarefootjoblesscateringsubservientsocialclimbingcuntfaggotbitchasswherethefuckismycockenterthedragonormaybeitistimetogrowapairormaybecomeasyouareorcallitsomethingelseorwhothefuckamitosaymorethanialreadyhaveorhaveievensaidenough?
i know i have said too much sometimes
i think, sometimes, it’s all been heard and done before
i think, sometimes, this is no different.
sometimes times the sum of.
sometimes its nice to hear the same sad song on repeat some times.
Hi
Hello
I want to be inside you.
sometimes sometimes is more often than not.
I haven’t yet been.
It depends on many things, it depends on how you look at it. the time the place. there were these moments between moments, mundane moments, speaking to someone about the virtues of chocolate milk or Twinkies or the Thundercats and fighting over who gets to play which superhero. so many to choose from.
what variety, what powers, what sex.
what costumes and colors. always a clear divide between good and bad, drawn not in the sand of a playground but with a thick indelible marker. irrefutable truths?
so roles are parceled out to each wanting wanted party, playing the part that you were originally intended to play. its just a game: an african goddess, a cat with claws, a creature that disappears in a cloud of smoke…
and there this guy: he’s 10,000 feet tall, leader of the pack, a colossus of steel and shine. In this band of heroes and villains in a headlock, caught in the eternal dispute of winners and losers, he straddles this divide, regardless of good or of bad. And you look at him from below, the top of his head in the clouds. the sun casting gold through gold locks.
A gold rush. You swarm at him like an ant to molten candy, crushed underfoot as he turns away.
and as said before, its just a game.
Unmasked, on your way home, legs sore from running, you forge ahead with parted lips parted from one explosive onomatopoeia after the other, flickering under your breath: pow, schnikt, boom, blam, bampf, kablooey. like fireworks, they cascade down into a small pool below. And you stop. you caught yourself dead in your tracks. You’ve been spotted.
So you try to blend in: You smile at yourself, the same way his reached faint freckles. You raise your brow, the same way his carved a deep crevasse, arching up and above a deep blue. You tilt your neck, the same way his gave way to light curls unfurling, tumbling down into the collar of a dusty tshirt. You open your eyes wide, the same way his expanded in manic fervor when slaughtering an enemy, one foot on his prey.
And while you are caught under his colossal image, you say: I look just like you.
I want to be inside you.
Your head is up in the clouds and he is still 10,000 feet away.
SECTION I NOW CALL: RAMPANT ASSHOLE
you spend your time in a middle ground, not particularly great at anything, not a great son, not a great brother, not a great swimmer, athlete, activist, not a great friend, not a great fighter, not always a great listener, not a great american, not a great maker, not a great dancer, not a great body, not a great white shark, not so great to yourself. but decent. a decent person. a decent human being
and you think this is the way it should be, where things are comfortable, where things go unseen, where the grey area feels expansive like a wool blanket and wraps you up and shrouds you from being more than.
(opera build up)
this is you wondering if you are living life, if you are, like every other decent and indecent human being, straddling this carnival funhouse gameshow rollercoaster called life and taking it for a ride. but you aren’t so great at heights and plunging into the depths are a bit too much for that not so great constitution. so you let it ride you. and you let it ride you cause sometimes it feels so good and sometimes it feels numb and sometimes it feels like a sunburn cause it rides you so hard that it feels like blisters bursting. and you feel this relief, with each papapapa, a haze of what just happened. and it collapses on you wheezing and gasping for air.
oh, so that’s what it feels like to be on top.
and in that high-pitched silence between caught breaths, you feel fucking great.
COMPOSED SILENCE
Echo, in some fateful moment, became that figure who lacked a voice, who stood within the shade of the surrounding woods, buried within the woods, stripped of any substantive way of
hey, listen,
watching from afar, the slumped figures that came to pass, those that make loud proclamations and
echo echo echo gripped those trees gripped those branches and trees, gripped those words and gripped that chance to make herself heard. Destined to repeat things already heard. One of a herd. Doomed to repeat things already heard.
But,
we forget the power, of statements starkly claimed, of truths that surge and pour. That some words are worth repeating,
stripped of chatter, they necessitate repeating, lest we forget that power,
and that power of repeating.
Left unheard, they drift into depths of pools and ponds, absorbed by oceans, crystallized in salt, folded back into a never ending cycle of evaporation, up to the clouds and back again and again to the source, these seas we see but cannot hear.
There are those words that still travel far as long as we hear.