No Association

There are few instances in a day when one can convey.

This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.

And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,

of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.

Despite of all the talk about changing the self,

the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.

The monotonous repetition and contradiction,

desiring cold while hot and vice versa.

Left and right thighs twitch back and forth

while the grass around shivers and sways.

Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass

and so she had the power to take her own life.

Call it having short sight.


When Years Ago Become Now

calm sprouting breeze

benevolent winds

breeze but struggle because

a visible person

another form

a connection, a power attained

through the intangible untangle

the roots.


Accomplish clarity.

To continue and then struggle.

Repetition, (or the new).

And contradiction, (or the new truth).

Bleeding out because

there’s not much time.


sap drips

drip drop down

trunk droop


seep in soil.



Swinging limbs swaying limbs

seeing when trees are alien(s).

Swinging and swaying-

you are old, tree.


Abstract becomes concrete (wood) remorse degrades

(decay) the human-

Current shut off.

False Prophet

False Prophet, Chapters 5 and 6: When We End/In Silence I Will Speak

How the waves crash in variables that nearly no one hears.

How the absence of light might seem like blackness.

How distraught the choice between pity and piety makes me.

How the earth slips between fingers no matter how tightly grasped.

How the only one who knows the future does not exist.

How deception is the most common form of perception.

How endless nights relapse.

How complacency is satisfying in that it lets you enjoy decay.

How a chisel marks the bones of the slowest animal.

How ears torn off may be sewn back on in passing.

How the claws of a sloth may scratch the bark forever until the sap sinks into a pool of lust for finishing eternity.

How the white is dying.

How the centrifuge is leaking acrid waste.

Smoke rings sliding from a serpent’s lips. Waiting to say another unloaded lie. What is the point, if it is all fake? Is it a game we play? Who among you is not fooled by wisdom? Appease us please. Sustain a welfare state. Watch the semen trickle down Ronald Reagan’s wrinkled chin. Pump more juices into senility. Masturbate in the oval office. Remove the soft, expensive suit and run your fingers along the bumpy, frail spine that has glued together this confused nation.

Lick behind his ears. Taste the veins popping out, revealing the money beneath the skin. The sickish green linen overcomes his body. He becomes those symbols. He tricks masses into idolatry. He has changed from human into a symbol of silently devolving sludge. Is it right to kill him? Is it right to do anything? This is not about right it’s about wrong. If he can self-justify his indirect slaughter of countless innocents, there is no question, then, whether he should be made nonexistent.

This death is freedom. Although taking his life does not change order. It strengthens the minority in power who implement the actual mainstream. If you can be proactive and accomplish this feat, then do it, but do not become a martyr for anything. He will only twist your words. Hundreds of years will pass before justice can run its course, perhaps, yet immediate liberation is desirable, and we are not a species capable of quenching wants. Outlive the diseased and escape this planet. There are other beings more cautious than you or I. Wait for them. You will be indulged.

However, the choice may rise up in you.