unedited vroom — woke from a dream and slammed the keys

squash soup wearing cowboy hat small as a pickle only to be big as a house, sweet twinkie — how does a hat go big, small, swell like that? is it his beard? my breathing is scattered, deep, short, bellicose breath. i cannot talk another syllable more from here to then.

i need a fortune cookie from the skittle bird to pop frankincense for mary who is no longer a virgin but still a virgin in the untouchable crosshair axis of axes where it counts.

what is decipherable to whom?

her finger touches my finger. two tips. she scurries under the stairs. grabs at feet. seduces the forest, electric. i come back to her. a white plastic ring of eternity is what i can leave but not what i can offer. pluck a star, put it in his bellybutton for safe keeping. a mouthful of eternity.

feeling this much, running this far outside the gamut, comes from price and cost that forms in nausea. breathe. always breathe. it’s the one thing. the ocean’s wave. where particle meets wave. where nothing becomes something.

i can tow the line between the curve and line. eternity in a kale chip. the southeast corner. don’t eat my crisp, but eat it. i need to walk eternity. no rush, ginger.(ly).

i am an astronaut. i am in space. i am orbit. orbit me. me orbit. you.

i want to eat my dreams. i want to stuff my face with nonsense that rings true. hark le. an exploding imploding reloading heart breast freckle.

missy’s grass shack. so many club sandwiches. everyone wants a club. in them. on them.

my tree man, ant man, yes we can man — play with me in the eternal forrest of gretel’s hans. man. chase ants the size of pizzas and beetles as big as cans of coke without cancer. grow imaginary wheat with me. flicker. the relativity of it. perceive with me. let’s stop time, renegotiate how we tally mark our time. spent. sun breaks her way. 40-foot fractal elephants. lady frogs on stilts hula hooping to pringle flow of purple rain for a prince can only mustn’t but will bring us to worship under thunder skies and ghee-tars made of ivory in golden milks and abdominal flanks strong and tight as a blade of thistle mark. the tax man can’t come for us here. voter laws do not apply. war budget is connect-the-porcupickle fickle fawna in the land of plenty good.

flow finds itself. it is a crunch of a number. flitter that. swallow this. always a chance for unnecessary rebirth. a second doesn’t go without skin shed.

pain is an ice cream choice. flavors aren’t predicated. ever tasted salted flow? rock yourself, rock me. sway with it. with me. trees muscle. firm and tone. wind as nature’s dumbbell. threaten the roots. what sticks is eternal. what falls lasts a little more. evermore. nothingmore. edgar was a poe. is. ever shall be. does a raven quote itself? willy boy, the spot won’t come out. nevermind, lady plato as pluto as mimicry winds tortured as a chime game. release into me.

this isn’t a matter of parliamentary tomato soup. there are no lords or commons here. only pink pantie pulldown and biocentrism of consciousness and life. out beyond physics and presidents and speed limits and centrifugal gravity of reindeer antlers or soda pop bubble smack stoker tax flier miles. fill me up, glinda. it’s time to try defy-ing gravity.

thomas paine are you safe in my kneecap? shall we swap turns? i’ve rid the ghost. illusory congress. blips. i’m tortured by his gripped reality. letting go is a lifelong pursuit.

vanished mud. a return through the port-o-potty. clean but for forty-two thousand pieces of it. poop floats in lotus. suddenly i’m hankering for fallen leaves with crunch. disintegration underfoot. a contorted mouth. nothing can be an adjective. gaits won’t fit into strange. labels can’t. only eyeballs. only the witness.

watercolor jazz, improvised love into bottles of bubbly, holding hearts, vibrated desires of the hearty band of seers — a world willing, a world giving. . . occupying the space beyond words.

write me a thousand telegrams of a soul’s eternal sunshine but it never rains for those twenty-four hours straight.

a trading post deep in the woods manned by Her. forever stuck in 1926. born in 1900, they invite me to celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday with whiskey shots and hard slaps to the back.

the flaming bus with the breasted women taking me to safety.

ethan and a man at the corner

the red voicemail gak-covered from the gutter with the $1 local carwash to rinse clean.

him outside the hospital. so broken. so free. 7 feet diameter. legs wrapped in foil. one smile.

why did i wait to visit?

why am i so afraid of him? one little forehead tin kiss.

fifty feet.

peaches.

6:45am. water. a patch of sun. one lone boat heading off onto grass lake. a blonde pony tail.

each time i wake, i remember. i am called back. surrender. sleep. sweat. tears. life clicks. dreams click. fall.

paradox folds. both side at once. the living. something else.

math problems. the speed at which one can negotiate numbers. play with them. infinite dances. potential realities conjured by decimal points. this is where choice resides.

words don’t complete the paradox. feeling does. listening. hearing. the vortex has been pitched.

emily. the conjured firefly. a green patch of grass. flitters us to safety. a fire prod. she says i’m

addicted to him. addicted to things. to stories. to themes. to self. to fear. a big aggressive ego that is hungry always.

see-more sandcastle

why am i in my car right now? action, movement without thought. deliberation kills the spark. paradoxical ever-after wants speech. i am in a vortex portal with infinite dances on the line of the paradox. i am permanent drugged and drugging. dreams won’t stop. round and round. silence welcomes noise. inside the mitten my geographical presence appears to be. grasslake feels like it.

i wake from a world of dreams to enter a world of dreams. one where i drive to an old ice cream shop in grass lake for coffee at the orange counter. the lady is breathing and moving. i cannot get my head up straight. breathing into this.

this morning high. on nothing. on dreams. delirium. momentum. circles. feeling. breath.

corbu. that night. those hours. her. the stairs. her finger. watching a single family of martians from first encounter through forever. each moment one more degree of separation.

waves. particles. collision. entanglement. quantums. quarks.

why amy. why samer. why nick.

how to protect this. i am permanently drugged and drugging. on it. of it. because of it. big bang. a hit of hash.

plastic baby dolls with plastic curls in the oversized small faded fleck white barn house window looking down to me, a swan craned and careful in careless elongated leg neck.

i cannot ask questions. i cannot give answers.

there’s no room at the tower that does not suffer from issues of space. tin man sie-more sandcastle lives on a puffer cloud outside of time and electricity bills and straw polls and kindergarten shoe-tying tests. a place where when he poops his ninja turtle undergarments they clean themselves with avocado fluff peppered in coffeemate that isn’t full of plastic and poison well that kills not cuz no one can die. only level this and that. sober pancakes and the mooart deep freeze in a looney fringe sugar packet that doesn’t believe in calories or glass sundae bowls. only a head that can’t sit up on its nibble nobby neck, an ever-tilt — cocked and buoyant.

man — hip ideals blew a gasket somewhere on interstate 6. it’s high-rise and cementenement now. there’s a formula. effective as borax on boxelders. dammit, the females need twelve unnatural hours of sunlight and nothing more. else they turn male ganja and cloning the glue is through. destination nowhere. we already arrived, ya see. pious purposes; pioneers without the native buffalo blood, intonement; tiddled shellac of nature’s immovable will that just needs a couple well-maneuvered slow square roots to settle the tab.

shambala dreamin’ — fraternal flights of dearly chirped n’ chirping ballooned hearts, vibrate your dazzling hue. shh-uhmmm-baahhh-lllaaaa !

nature

two beefy boys shame me at the cosmic gym because they can lift infinite. samer shakes me awake, “ricky, ricky. it’s ok.” apparently i’m breathing heavy. the dream takes me under.

each stop someone dies.

sleep.

tribal father digs hole. drops recently crippled son in to die looking up and out.

“can a living man fall upon a crippled dying man to die also?” one boy asks the father. “yes” he says.

the healthy boy jumps and lands on the crippled boy to die. they are stacked. looking up. a ceremony. ritual. joy. it may take days. weeks. another jumps and lands. the middle healthy boy fist pounds the air in celebration. power in numbers. they are choosing this. one more jumps in. four boys. lying atop each other. the crippled boy on bottom. above the naked earth. settling in for their dirt nap. rigid belief. a knowing. this must come to pass for all.

the buddha cesses suffering.

suicide isn’t a real thing. not like we paint it. it’s not a sin. it’s not anything. it just is. like a potato chip. or ISIS. or grass. or billygoats. or dreams. all is called back. only to return to the paradox of the living.

sleep.

the last stop. the crash. a berg takes the rest.

“is everything $7?” I ask for the last time, holding up a container of greek yogurt.

“no. that’s…” his eyes water, “five… forty….” suddenly i get it. he’s making it up. it doesn’t matter. none of us are leaving this snowy fortress. this is the end.

“maybe i can make it last a week” the guy says.

why did he sell it to him? does he know? does it matter?

intention and perception are all we have.

consciousness and life are all we have.

silver tin man penguin dove pear plunges to unlock the sidewalk… falls (jumps?) to ski the stair rail… “i’m gonna need a medic” he says to incredulousness and laughter. he flies. lands in sitting position, ass-to-rail — 50 feet down.

dreams are beauty.

first-person VR where anything is possible.

express your mess

our aim is to be active, thoughtful participants in our own lives. to carve curated space to explore and to express — a fusion of community and commodity: education, ideas, and art. our nation is in pivot. how we move forward has dramatic implications for our people & our planet

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drag queer painter_poet flappy bird running for president. art. ideas. filosof.e lit'ru.cha. does this bio read as baggage?

express your mess

our aim is to be active, thoughtful participants in our own lives. to carve curated space to explore and to express — a fusion of community and commodity: education, ideas, and art. our nation is in pivot. how we move forward has dramatic implications for our people & our planet

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