this brand of evil can't be taught

 you have to be raised by my mother"

stolen from itstacotuesday-bitch at reddit

but paraphrased, lightly changed like

stars through a gravity lens.

it's twelve pm on a holiday

the beach is blinding white 

match head sand but under the umbrella

by the water

it's cool enough. slight breeze coming

off the waves which lull like mowers 

on a field of hay. salt mingles with low tide

tastes like fish and suntan oil

of course there's people this isn't

the beaches of englewood or even ft de soto

no place to smoke in peace. cancel culture all around.

gulls and toddlers are high notes against 

background mood synth 

a horsehead nebula aria into 

all this empty space 

held in the pit of my stomach.

cuz i can't go i'm' writing this

from all the other times someone 

was with me there and i can't handle

the crowds now or the important, impotent

demands of living. i think i'm depressed

because i feel i'm in a prison i haven't made yet

every chance i've had to walk away, i don't.

and when i finally do it's always too late.

every fucking time. a suicide of personality

is every bit a death as physcically.

i killed the poet because

well, why, jack? the pointlessness of the writing?

the way it didn't seem to help my everyday waking 

body roll thru this same panopticon ? 

why jesus why does everything have to be sacrifice?

trying to be a little selfsih here. a little help here.

a little moira rose. 

probably sommething to do with not smoking

in the house, though i still smoke in the bathroom

because otherwise i don't feel like i can shit

and it's profanely amusing that for writing

the process is similar. that's why that one open

mic host called my writing mental masturbation

and i'm sure you'd agree. but this isn't meant for you

it's meant for me. if you don't like it why open my 

bathroom door?  i don't go to open mics much

anymore. because that host told the truth for me

which otherwise was hidden from myself.

they didn't love the words, it was my voice

my body and my hair. always perfectly

unintended. innocently i could read anything

first time through with conviction

as if twere mine. a talent unused because

i wanted to read my pomes. splayed

unshaven, but shapely

modulated choreography of sound.

at least that's what i thought.

now i see others dancing that way

and it makes me cringe in retrospect

yet 

isn't that what poets have always done?

and singers who loose their voice

were do we go?

i think this one

needs to hit the water

fiddle leaf fig

 fiddle dee dee 

dying in the pot behind

roots too big

oh my gawd

my editor wants me to stop

but i'm not into that crop

of corn loosely served

cut off like a verb 

intending to mark down these points with a word agggg

stop

*

cigarette butts in an orange radioactive ash tray

pile up like an interstate smog fueled crash

orderly chaos in a confined 

this fucking crow

craws one note per second

calling to nothing asserting its being

and that my friends is what writing

feels like at this point in the game.

# something

everything you do annoys me

whining about entering a contract

with no preparation like god's gonna hand

you inspiration and energy whilst you 

have an earthly obligation you took upon 

yourself prior to this whole endeavor

and that was to raise your daughter's son.

a policy i voted against and since

we are but two it has become stalemate

with me leaving responsibility up to you.

so you gotta let something go. i hope it's her.

but don't whine to me when the realization creeps in

about what you're doing and how it's a sin

fullll amount of persperation on you now.

perspication as well hope it don't give yyou hell

and you can see what i mean about the crow call  now

i'm sorry i have to mention it and break the spell.

^^

there is no down caret

implying that we only go one way

in this 4d matrix. can't rewind 

what was the name of that song, jimmy?

part of the justin years  

  a memory bubble popped

innto water droplets 

gobbled by gravity.

that's what me and alan is always looking for

a way to be in the pastt, present and now all at once.

living it. fleshtime. 

the impossibility of holding alll of that

 in this tiny vessel

in this single channell lens. 

this keyboard has its quirks, which i will not erase.

reminders of its actions live on in the text

ringing into your now.

*

the way music makes all of thiss no mistake.

if i wanted to find a song i could not remember lyrics to

or melody of  only the truth and the emotions it evoke

how do i go about that? i depend on a search engine

since i can no longer harvest my own mind.

all i could remember was tracks, so  i put train together

and tried that. nope. tried other combos could not remember

any of the lyrics at all that's how complete the memory

wipe is. except for

 the feeling and female singer

finally stumbled across it by searching 

specifically female singer top songs of 200x

and do you know what? i can't link it.

i tried but it's too complicated for me to care anymore,

i thought they were gonna make it easier.. one button.

the artist is anna Nalick 

breathe(2 am)

cuz you can't jump the track

we're like cars on a cable

and life's like an hourglass

glued to the table

no one can find the rewind button girl

so cradle your head in your hands.

****

gotta trim the cat

fold towels

mow the yard

it's a holiday weekend i got

an exttra day i don't even  know

what to do with . all to myself.

family working or other wise engaged.

i was thinking of clear cold water

but there's no company to travel 

but the beach is only 30 minutes.

i'll go after the sun goes down some

it's brutal on the skin,mine looks like

the fiddle sized leaves of the tree after

i'd left it in the florida sun, no shade no mercy

  for 3 days.  now it will want to reach 

to the sky but its root bound. needs a transplant

but there's no place for it. keep its feet bound

on the sunporch, carefully covered from 

direct contact.

i cried when i found it, from relief

it was not forever lost to me.

music is our emotional dimension.

i don't really trust someone who doesn't love 

some kind of music. 

even only one song.

reservoir flux

 ice is the largest vessel for water. if 

staying put is desired. flux at the edges

but the center holds until entropy melts it too.

outside the lightning strikes nearby

finally feels like hurriccan season been 

too quiet this year. 

like drowning. water silence after

the dam breaks,then moves down

stream. pasts floating by, quietly

bubbling. deer antlers tangled in a tree

the side of a house pierced by a boat

with no one in it. upside down volkswagen

slowly finding the bottom. rushing water silence

where birds are quiet as machine. titanic on the ocean

floor. you get it yet?

long past the dying plankton long past

shark attack long past blue whales belly up

in the middle of the pacific. how it happened 

so quickly we never saw it coming till we 

were swimming in the leftovers

drowning in our useless tears.