daydreams

recording of a fallen star

ghost of some other’s fortune.

the recording of a fallen star.

captured reflection reflected (neglected) ripple trick till the stomach’s sick. sliding high from the other side a self (not quite the self), lady in red (covered head), clucking from beneath her covering:

don’t go away stranger. stay a little longer, I’ve a daisy, another daisy twisted to crown and twirled tight around and begging beats for five-petal song. what are you doing with all this waiting, this tail-chasing, this mask-making? isn’t there some something-or-other called to uncover (discover), isn’t the sum some something-or-other, and you the only one with any math?

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decompressing (monday)

what crawls from the dregs of Britain’s stereophonic lab (room 39) to nest in my neighbor’s eardrum, banishing humdrum, basket flung, bald and irreplaceable in an instant? color overwhelming, arriving in twisted hues to mixed reviews: scrawled and sprawled, flawed, flavored in the semen of Sunday. no time to carve totems for this something-or-other in

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reporting on the condition of being human (in america) to the home planet: September

while the nail biting meat is sufficiently occupied, those who have electrostimulated their unmentionables will assume the lotus position and levitate for entry. don’t worry: the few witnesses will likely be written off by uncolorfuls as white-light purple-shroud finger-twirl-by-the-temple acid-popping sky-is-falling psychonauts, or rambling hyperactive unmedicated children in need of a time-out and an older, more glasses-wearing therapist. In the morning those uncolorfuls code crazy will simply be gone. Poof.

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Two Crows, 2:36AM (1)

2:36AM Two crows on the fence, waiting. They tell me: Listen. I do. Listen harder. Am I dreaming? No. Perfect. Listen. Fine. Triple-lock the door. I peak through the blinds. Two crows on the fence. Still waiting. Caw. Do humans turn crow as purgatory, trapped observing the living with their kind-of-a-funny-stories and toddlers tied to

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Cut Up September

If there’s one thing Uncle Bill taught us, it’s to never number pages. a shrinking device and a shirt pocket will make me warmer. so many hearts undocumented, unheard by my alien recording devices ever hunting for a human who purrs. . Orange striped cat lying dead in the road, a ring of bowed heads

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love (1)

The house will never be clean unless we can afford a maid service, and we’ll only eat when we both remember to (not often), and we’ll both pull away just when we achieve perfect closeness and you’ll accuse me of getting the wrong cat food on purpose and I’ll say you know that’s a sore

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Insomniacs

Oh lookity look, it’s you, delicious you, all sparkle-eyed smiling and up to no good and you’re wondering about coming in (of course) and sure it’s later than I thought it would be but when some come there’s no thoughts of sleeping (and lately I’m never sleeping) and the interruption of nothing with something is

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Merlin and Nimue

He says: Let me tell you about spending several hundred years drunk on the memory of your body intertwined with mine, drunk on a something that might have never happened – the fable has fooled me before. I’m more than one snake, I’m two, chasing the same tail and never coming close – just choking.

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moon

begging my brain to let you go and latch on to someone or something else, really this is ridiculous, clogging my own drains. Sick sticking memory of you and your old growth smell and your dance around yourself, this memory i color myself with, that i drape all over. in the dirty remains a single

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