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I’m tired of this shit.

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sissy feeds birds the dark bread of napoleon’s horse
and whispers to the lame-legged pigeon
still hopping his way around john f kennedy.

she unzips bags to find chocolates grinning under icelandic pseudonyms,
all smashed and leaking rum and marzipan. she reaches around them
and fetches more thin tin packages of buttered bread.

she tosses the slow-baked crusts and slides
the butter back onto the crumpled foil, whose folds
and shapes still snicker at the thought of still sculptures.

whether pumpernickel or schwarzbrot, she eats it anyway
and shares the bird feed with a welcoming neighbor,
a toddler still giggling his way through life.

she crumbles the crumbs and arranges them just as parades
of albino ants might lie on a bed of blue forest grass,
she watches as her friendly goliath hobbles and eats his ants.

the flight attendant humors this distraction,
sharing carrot cake with the nervous bird,
whose lame leg magnetically recognizes his gifts.

she watched his brothers circle around
and she shooed them away, picking her favorite
and giving the standby buffet-crashers their own nasty names.

the time changed and suitcases rolled away
while a lame pigeon hobbled from goodbyes to his home
tucked deep in the maze of jfk.

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calligraphic images, sketches of those stab wounds
that iphones recognize as faces, whatever their anguish may be.
pippy pops and chicago lyrics of home, wall sketches
and homey messages in black ink remind me to be me.

my finger traces the curves of skeletal figures
struggling in dantean rings. touch the pen’s
printed lines on printer paper and wonder
what the code was.
in depression — or rather,
a hyper-awareness of what saddens me —
i crafted my own alphabet and signed sheets in another language,
in symbology known only by me.

see what i see, i’d say
and read what i want you to read, what i want you to see
but never really see, see?

the routes i scrawled and
messages i wrote will never be seen.
those notes of old, those messages untold
like carnivorous wolves biting my heels;
rats boring holes in my abdomen at a hint of heat;
deafness when i’d expect laughter trickling through me.

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grocery stores and jungle aisles,
the mix and match of colored spectrum species,
the grains and oceanic meats, simmered and spectral in glossy view.

the ghosts of shipments
and forgotten souls of accomplished orders
found some exhibition of remembrance
while we watched them, the objects,
slide past us as we sauntered on.

whipped topping and powdered sugar along her lip
as we sauntered on,
the urge to drink and smoke
as we sauntered on,
and my cheap ass looking for a garbage can.

would it be okey-dokey
to buy the fruit of cacti
and simmer in the rear
seats while rolling back?

well, yes, we ditched baker’s prices
and clandestinely tasted jelly beans,
so why let this toddler-legality trump
having fun and doing what we want?

a world market and a new setting,
a place to go when needed.
cyclic patterns of supply and demand
like laughter between cards of a drinking game,
like couch reprisals against necks
that bent and rose up while caressed,
the morning pain and soreness
as she slept on peacefully.

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There are people you’d do anything for.

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"Don’t waste time blocking blows that won’t exist. Only defend yourself when it’s needed, if you are attentive you will be able to react in time to the real blows — the real ones that will weaken you. React when you actually see the fist and not only when you anticipate it. If you defend yourself at every anticipation you will only receive more blows while your opponent hits you again and again, while your arms cover your head. But also note that I’m not only talking about boxing or fist fights or what have you, understand that not all people out there are out to get you. Don’t protect yourself from blows that you’re imagining or anticipating, some people aren’t trying to hit you.”

Honestly, one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever had. There are very few people in this world that have as much of an influence on me as M.

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It’s that feeling where your heart is constantly in arrhythmia; the pain associated with waking up and walking around, the stress that accompanies every thought.

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red skin but blinding white when prodded;
facial blush masked, all ease during audit.
citizenship rages bucking kids off donkeys,
these humanoid decades speak of death
and following laws and flags as symbols.

a symbolic lot, like stars in a field of blue
or like bravery sewn into stripes.
there’s bravery in arms
striped like military shoulders.

hello and we love each other!

or so they all say in vomit,
the drive to relief by wallowing
in youth ministry. small reckonings
with each passing bus
(wheezing along
departure, sifting
through crowds.)

away from bus stop but in a car,
the nausea masked but prodded
now,
incognito hiccups
in parking lots and spitting blood
as toy helicopters circle overhead.
grass blades in asphalt:
mermaid green hairs
wound round like cochlea.

the grass vibrates with the rotors’ whirring,
the birds’ feathers send fibers flurrying
and birdsong melts into chaos. driver
hurling and resting against the seat,
elbow into horn
to startle the helicopter
and its angry mob of birds.

so many senses when all you can have is taste,
the acidity of wine becoming vinegar with time.
like good stuff aged and browned and eaten,
think of Roman wines unearthed and sipped.

there’s still prodding in scripture
and still more prodding to accept.
but maybe Y is left to accept X,
as X hasn’t accepted scripture yet.

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Very much in the mood of writing about where I’m off to, but my travels haven’t started. Let’s go somewhere please.

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asapscience:

"Culture"-ally stimulating art. Even mold can be beautiful… 
by microbiologist Antoine Bridier-Nahmias
via Magical Contamination 
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black monstrosities swallowing tubes
of chicken sandwich stocked stooges,
we groan and mumble with late fees
and sarcastically thank the sleet
like static in blinking strobes.
we watch the lightning
burst our bubbles,
we pop our ears.

aloft, alight and off.
i’m homeward bound, all,
and my driver’s a girl i miss.

thank the pilots,
their little snickers when suggesting drag
and ailerons mixing gas pressures to create clouds.
they like flying fast,
i do too.

we’re awake,
wafting the caffeine before our faces.
we waltz our way into aisles and take our seats.
maidy with the chardonnay, the crew’s new kid a giddy fool.
take me from this place, fly me home with this tool.

headache,
the dehydration of waiting,
and thirst for rain outside the windows.
fifteen minutes and i’m home.

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your sclera, your borders for recognition
like plastic dishes flecked with strawberry.
picture frames for apertures: we’re too old
for staying home all night, we’re too old
not to beat the red-eye for welcomes,
we’re too old to forgo eye contact.

plane tickets buy hallway hugs.
say hello and hold tight,
like spaniels tilting
heads. we’ll be
alright, ok.

still breathing and lucky,
holding the pillar upright.
this affection an outright
exile of the distance we
conquered, that enemy
we thrashed with roots
shot down to aquifers.

foolish, fragile airways,
the landing patterns
memorized and
her radio alive.
we agreed to meet,
i’ve followed her home.

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I’m really excited to see my girlfriend again, I’m so incredibly happy to have this artsy, gorgeous, sunflower-lovin’ girl in my life. There are days when we struggle with the distance, but I’ve never been more excited to come home. Only five more days! I love you Ahvi!

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excited
say, ‘well, you need to quiet down
and then there’ll be affection.’

ecstatic
say, ‘there’s distance needed before
i can recollect and improve.’

endeared
say, ‘time and interest another day,
the light will shine again.’

quiet on the set, the ants lighting
cigarettes as their soap opera falls
apart again. overpowering feeling
here, the rouge like sand dunes
in a heavy rain, say ‘deluge’.
it’s all for excitement,
for sofa tears and
believing in sappy tragedies where emotionless
sirens sing birdsong, the ‘fuckin’ high-strung canaries.’

we’re all birds, jaybirds, blue passerines
pecking at their plumage, looking pretty.
we’re here all year, pushing eggs around
and dancing when we’ve found something.

the sing-song days of spring:
they come every year. just on contact, in
telephone preludes to summer, ‘spring’
like ‘in Just—’ still snooping around
and waiting for telephone games
like we always played as kids.

these kiddos, ..Großmutter sagte..
diese Kinder, ..grandmother said..
'surely you're a fine substitute,
and don’t you worry when
things go wrong, they
will in time. you’ll
survive times.
(stay alive)’

criteria listed online,
you rise above, leave silent
let live and wait. people eat oysters
‘cuz we like the aphrodisiac’
but they’ll forget patience
and forget rewards.

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car alarms, walkabout downtown and parks
pouring concrete where the people will walk.
clanking. confident kids in fist fights while we
walk on, walking around the stream’s calming
trickles in halfwit slopping steps, on wet grass.
the convos, the chorus burning self-help books
for recommending the waiting [the wait, the time]
spent waiting even longer like it hasn’t happened.
civic engagement, helping hands of internet blurbs,
vomiting up in all-knowing wiseass mannerisms,
blinking with contempt, washing advice with
wine pulled from somewhere where his
cigarettes were also stashed. tempt
the weak and hungry, the patient,
the lover of conversation, a
painful representation of
hoping and waiting
and wishing but
knowing this
shouldn’t
happen
now.

THEME