you are a clumsy viking with your tongue. he is a swordsman. you crack. he etches. i die fast and am buried with his. you leave your wounded as vague as wounded.

The tool hid, slapped lid to lid and was gone. I forgot the 2-d bullets with the slurp of the rattle, being sucked. Forgot they were asleep, in the spiral layedered domes, the frozen ten dispensers. The drops he dripped didn't stick, they rolled over the lines and off the page for me to save.
we were on a train with no windows. wooden pillars and no walls on the way to the falls. giberish or the print of an image? the rearing of the nose from the chamber. the limb i forgot and forget and forget to remember. the slithery tool.

Pending

Message Pending
Hanging, Choking
I’m eyeing the trunked flail
Do you see the dotted line
I make with mine
From you
To the elephant
Crackling, muted brass
Do you hear it
The screeching of train wheels
From a gray skinned tunnel
I sent him to you
He had something to say
Dodging eyes hung the messenger
He still sways between us
I’ve not got the energy to cut him down
Cut what down?

You don’t even exist
You’re an iron fist
Swinging aimless in my head
So why do they echo, the things you never said
Those movements up my hall
You say step, I say crawl
Maybe I’m mistakin’
It was my creation that had me shakin’
Maybe those drops of sweat did fall
And your heart beats after all
But the You I thought danced behind those eyes
Still lies
A figment in mind
One tangible I’m not to find

watch your mouth

Drag that heavy word like it's in a language neither of us speak, though you know it screeches across the board. The whole damn board . Will you chase the bouncing echo into traffic?
Certain parole leak and tattoo hot earth in your tongue's trail
Is it the word or the earth that erodes with it's use?
Yes, the most timeless powerful specie-less ones you can try to dilute with misuse, but some are not for you to passively excuse as name revolution. You can't revolt against it's meaning when the function doesn't follow the form. You can't redefine if its citizens and history are bearing it on their own path and pace. A halfhearted tongue can't move words they can hardly roll.

fire not ration

We split ourselves and the good ones mean what they say, to each. Love is fire not ration. Spread the torch but don't burn your own word where a forest should bide.

the fog is droopin thick at yesterday's bow. a rudely barged cloud that protects and buries a sprint of beauty. it died young and screeched at the silhouette of destination, shadow chalked decay. a short-breathed old soul, wrapped in infant skin that wouldn't stretch past spring. it wanted to die wise and quick like the bolt that hit us both. the heart erection didn't last to erosion, the tower tilted, held it's breath and dove. the coastal brace of a remaining swell cradles sleep while I can't find you in time's line.

ella me escribia con frequencia, jovencita, ella conocia la vida como amigo de cien anos y sabia que ellos demostrarían que estaba equivocada ella . Entonces ella escribía, con y sin pensamiento, las pilares de desnudez abajo. trató empujarlo al aire y captuarla y no llorar al viento. el flujo de las cartas atascó como arteria de la quien todavia no ha reflejado en su hora tarde. el puento y el punto se murieron
regressing to adulthood, unlearning what's sure on arrival, tan facil como dijeron. I see it like I saw on the swing, what the wet rope knots weren't saying explicitly but whose sqeaks fostered the dangling locks jungle. stuff and shove and don't yet drag the match to what hasn't kissed the back of sockets- that swallow and glare and flood at the ageless pre-mourning. how many avenues you can see accross, the stone sharpened machete cuts more that the bullshit it's dicing through and the fraulein brush just pulls at the truth. tell her they can't all be saved, tell her. tell the wet red face that stamps and screams at "wise" domes to burn them, to dig and gather, to cut the time crossed lovers. and if she does come down from the the tree there's nothing to throw her across, no slab, no knee. she'll break her own face and come back when it calls. she'll swing and huff in the dark and the offshoot of her flail will drip and the ground will warm and loosen, and the failed arrow of an arm will slide deep and she'll grasp, stare and sleep.

You’re face was red and you looked at your hands, when you spoke, and then at me to asses your impact. But it wasn’t a bomb you let go, it hasn’t hit. The possibility you were presenting was instead branching paths, I'd not seen coming. It seemed only fair to you for my face not to show that it was a tender change, the paved, cobbled and dirt sprouted like barkless canines through gum.  So I just looked at it sitting suspended between us, a decision yet to fall. Looked through them at you and stored the implications to consider later when the light and your eyes wouldn’t try to crack into mine. That iris dance that circles the subject they are focused on.  Indefinite, no boom on the jungle ground, just tall creaks.

You may choose to stay and build on shared growing timber or to shimmy one that promises a different type of stability. I am tapping my toe on the saplings your confusion bore. Let me straddle and sleep on the new limb where I'll have a space carved of your curve. And if you don’t join me in the next step, the branch then, in  reverse break, will bend and evict me in charlie-horse spasm from lack of weight on a branch meant to house two. I can’t force you to climb to the tree house adventures I see, if what you see is a plank. But I can wait for your weight to hold it down with me or let gravity tell me otherwise.

I always write to you with frantic key beats in a hidden window, but today it needs to be a pencil. There is nothing instant about the message I haven’t yet thought, haven’t landed on. As fast as I think, that’s the un-sacred pace.
Mental dental damn for a sexless mind. I give it up, hand out unsolicited, the paint dries and peels before I inch back. It’s not the answer I decide to share, it’s the fall to a light that I can’t seem to keep to myself. Mouth leaves the hand behind, return key cancels out delete. Why can’t my mouth balance words the way it spins a kiss.

the toes conspired, wiggling dirty boys with slingshots trying to reach heaven or head. they stole amo from the hot pavement and sent their biggest missles and pleads. hardly reached the knees.
the neck bent at dry swallow to mourn the distant traveler casualties. hips in treaty held creaky breath as foreign bandits climbed to the ribs, scaling to avoid the angry time signature thump of the king.
crusade for chemical justice. where in magnificent bag of bones to break free. how to landscape the soul under the rule of anatomy. how to catch or stitch the shadow of the battle.

Beggar

You wouldn't let me buy you a slice. Hunger, your intro thesis turned to "a buck" when I mentioned pizza. I was in a hurry but I stopped and listened hard to a well crafted pitch and then I started walking when I got the gist, I signaled and said "come with me, its just a block down."
"what?"
"pizza"
and at that you turned your back and you fled. As you crossed the street I said "wait, please. please wait" and after pleading and promising glory in cheese you sped across and I found my mouth saying so loud "You're lying!" into a crowd, and I turned on my heel and went 1/2 block home. The thought of my family, the depth of addiction rose and I turned around and I ran. I looked for you. I looked for your earmufffs until I chased a pair down to the subway but at the paid turnstile I saw it wasn't you.
I'dve given you a dollar for the truth, to spend as you pleased. Fuck the buck, I wish I'dve given you another minute.

Laughter's the lightning bugs at dusk when the pavement is still hot to the soles. Pen is the jar, repetition the net.  We keep the winged corpses under the mason lid. We know they will awake in the summer.

a pun that dropped from my tongue before my teeth could catch and throw it to the articulator, is lost, forever most likely. the fear- that clever doesn't live on, that it rusts with each forgotten pundit phrase or that the ditch will cause more verbal cargo to fall and trail down an untraceable road until it's contagious fog. but they can't hold that power and pull, they have to be left behind. there is more where that came from. faith. there is more.

Bodega, Whore

In the safety of plain daylight, any decent warm body in the walking city-sea and endless grid of open stores, is easy to pass. Just a face, just another bodega. At night when the lights in most stores are out, the clerks and the good boys and girls have locked up, but the bodega lights are shining bright, standing legs apart with merchandise displayed on the street. They are the ones winking on the corner to make you crave what is not at home in your bed or fridge.

Bodegas hide fixes you didn't know you wanted until you spot the slit in the awning skirt, a culinary red light district. The selection process is thorough and difficult or immediate and desperate. Either way, once you're in, you're in. Money in the pocket and credit on the card is irrelevant to the watering mouth. Why Bodega, why do you whistle to my late night weakness and lead me by the mouth to the overpriced one night stand?

fire beneath these trees won't reach the canopy

not of leaves or lace

because here, we know the art of containment best

what brought us to be crowded by trunks with outstretched bidding branches we can't reach

'stead of empty faces in fingers but not heart's scope

Puerta Swings on its Wester Bar Hinge

strangers stay strangers when you don't look them in the eye

mine've been wandering not to or from any single pair

not scanning, not scheming

mine provide no spotlight, squint to catch the soul

eyes close for comfort when my sides split as I consider the stories of the stranger exchange

can't hold back with this broken filter

puerta swings on its western bar hinge

they come for a drink or a bite of your outlook

some won't swallow, another swigs from the tap

they bring raw and marinated words

I appreciate the trade and the unaimed feet under the saloon door

Voice prematurely aged, doesn't know how to rest. As unfitting-ly elder as it sits in my throat, it has not sung. It would love to steer it's words to flight, but has no singer's right, would live to belt out and lasso air to curve the waves in sound but to dry diction is bound.

If this fancy instrument did live latent in diaphragm, how long before it would tire of repetition on demand when the recorded version isn't sufficient for the venerator's plea. Siren, your set is never over.

the stock of your opinion is plummeting, the fall is profound.
Puzzled why my knee scrapes at your fall, but how should be taken aback when I am not a first time investor?

no se

There is no room for dismay when I bought-in knowing the graph

spikes

dives

a roller coaster in comparison to the rest

one day's course reads like an EKG

your word is bankruptcy but you won't claim

gotta reach my broker, tell him to sell before the flatline