saturdays

are for wrting, sm okin a li'l bit
then coffee. not for driving four hundred
miles to go a party you don't really
want to go and see the family
that accepts you tho judgingly
but the latters what i'm goin to do.
it might be fun. plus i'll get
to see starz. if there's no
cloud cover. stars. i hope
the milky way still exists.


i think it's good that i have
no body to cling to. i'm breaking
away from judgement. the feel
of your ass. the look in your lips
the taste of your eye.

i need to clean the car. just because.
the ants crawl over the sugar spots
into the sushi trash, motey and squirmy.
frenetic. they dono't bite but they
are buggy. hiveish. collectivesque.

i daydream them blackening me
and shorting out nerves. brush them
away with god's callous hand.


even the most cynical heeds her neighbor's footsteps.
i think i've never met someone for whom
the collective opinion carried no weight.
no matter their actions or their proclamations,
even their internal ones. i mean, hitler
eventually killed himself, ne? and supuku
is time honoured. we always care
about what history will think.
luckily it's a man made construct.
so far our only way to some scant mortality
which in the finity of infinity
is a blip. i mean, i dn't really know
velocoraptor vellum's poetry. even
the scraps that managed to survived mass
extinction and millenial burial are unrecognisable
as such to me. we all call it different now.
but that she lived, breathes, cut down
prey with a god's conscious
is as certain to me as my own existence. i know
that i have taken many forms from which i keep fighting
to escape.

infinity and finality are the same thing
mutually arisen. therefor why question it?
this is his philosophy. i cannot take such
sanguine position. my cheeks flush
when i reach the edge of the cliff
and look into the canyon water carved.
i know i'm wearing nylon wings but the could
always fold, tremble, break from a hawks
halluninatory hunger. i jump into a undraft
signalled by little scilia on the edge of my head.
is it up or downish? am i me or clownish?

he tries to explain it surface terms. where
we stand is how we view it. but tis turtles
and backs of my head to me. i keep turning
and it's never there. my son says to me you can't
have a back without a front. and so on.
i didn't know that till i was forty. so don't tell
me there's no such thing as metaconscious evolution
built on the last turtle's back and expanding
ever up and down sideways you know
just gellin. like crystal dmt.


oh, i love the wacky weed. it always grabs
infinity and runs with it. otherwise
it's frying another hush puppy and cutting
more potatoes for fries. swallow swallow
lap it up it runs deep.



the red hot chili pepper's got a song or two i like
and for years i've thought this chorus line
universally speaking
was actually
universe, a lispy king
gonna write a pome titled that sumday.