badbrain

we're having a conversation in the middle of the foothills, right now
you know that, right? we did
we fucked them all
bye bye out of mouth and I
make underbreathed promises to self about
  who is I really?
what kindof a name is Ammon
it has many favorites
I'm a collector of letters, by the way
God is a collector of prepuces, by the way

I'm sorry
  again
I'm waiting for someone to come to my house
on the porch
on the battleswing.

teen stuff

I just burned your name.

I watched the deathgray spread, smoking out

the fire on your letters

tried to scald your promise.

I have said goodbye so many many times

& keep finding little reminders, or they find me, or they already know me, or I them

I can see them behind my closed eyelids

little burns on my eyeballs always.

but I burned your name

& I couldn't ever say your good name. let's someone else say it for you

because I'm a giveme, we know

and you've ataken

which makes it all a part of it all.

scrapes, now, ashes

those letters

just stuff

on the wind

forever, dead like forever.

period

period

period

sexy

guessing what comes out? melancholy & sanguine.
sometimes sacred. mercurial baby
  bet on that rocket
  rock me asleep, stone me
    to death. print me with letters
      talk me out of it, talk me into it
close me up
  close up beside me
     close into me
      close, into me
maybe it's the weather
maybe I make the worst weather
  tengo mal tiempo
I wish I had allof the world's balloons to ride
  back to last August or July or someplace
    to some preplace
      when I was just a kid in the sun
         with a different kind of weather
I'm sorry I've been a wrath
  I hope I am honest
  I hope I am a trustful
bc I can sleep through the nights, now
  I do things before bed
  I draw those flowers
  I let Kafka in my ears
& my melancholy blood
  it is a pretty lot still, me
    I mean, I could be a graduate with this mind of mine
  I could muster the strength of many men up in here
  I could rally
    my virility
       I could smoothe her hair
          caress her down
  make less lonely how-it-is
I wonder if I'll get fired for taking all of these breaks
  but I'm trying to get true broke, see
    bc I've heard that sometimes you need to break it
  to snap back into place
       

on this day

In the wintertime, everything you know which lives is dead, and if not dead, asleep in a powerful example. I was making love to my dictionary yesterday; it is a dictionary used to belong to Mrs. I.W. Stoddard, also known as Aunt Mae (I wear, usually, her golden ring embossed with our shared initials on my wedding-finger), and she wrote this name in its front cover in March 1940, so this I know as I see it writ right there. The book is rubber banded as pages of it do fall out in haste. Well anyway, I discovered a good many words and somethings about myself, as well: for instance, I am quite ashamed to have written down so many words beginning with specific letters to form a sort of acrostic telling the story in a short graphic novel I've written. There are a few such runon sentences typical, and also the gratuitous use of large words I can't define. (I must get ahold in me a cold cup of beer.) Also typical. But I wonder? Could I get ahold of a rather large and impressive dictionary with whom to make love? I hope it. Listen... I have some big ideas. This is too personal for the intranet to bear.

there to wrinkle around his eyes

prettylittle, 71 to 75

There to die thinking fast I’ll be, with you always. Fast I’ll be with you always. And just cold enough to live for looks. In letters, to live. To trek a journey I am. With talking and feeling I have been here four nights. The origin he is. The universe. But I feel of some figs I should figure.

More obvious a walk, I should only.

The egg out then, the solar system a cheese of some kind. A favor and we’ll be turmeric coterie. What do you see?

Waiting on our way away, and red with such potential future. Wishing badly on the bedsheets. Interests & tastes, on this island last. Burn sage familiar in my ears, especially obvious. Smoke talking terms, thinking exclusive of others. Tell me what you’re seeing.

And listen like we could, undulating on the crepuscular little wrinkles around his eyes.

bequieteth

be not afraid of feeling good,
be not afraid of getting told,
be not afraid of tiring old
be not afraid of trying alone

Mine own hairs stand on end, my own endless days lengthen. My letters excess them selves and superlative the ends of wordss, I am lying, just a body with only life at the wrists and on. So the fingers, bare hands. Fingernails doing the efforts for the restof me.

such the joys from out of its

Isn't until I've thought of it, thought it through, but how strange to have all the trees be pink! I'm liking the views of seeming fronds, seemingly leafed in pink as if not by fluffs. My fingers can barely contain the letters about it.

who did she do she

I'm night and day; I think in sounds and sniffs of the serenest cedar, of sweetgrass curls fondling the upsidedown memory breeze. This is morning afternoon now, like night awhile back and me, we just needed to unwind. Unwind around each other then, in the afterwork of uncertain surprise... suspicious sure pies.

I have the legs of a maple-sugared mile, I have the smile of a dove gone black in a newmoon fly-away. But that doesn't stop me from sitting all still all smothered to relax here and just feel like, coat or no coat, the change-purse accounting, my finders dried a counting. I want to court you, but will you let me softly rub you down?

I like this tune, it sings some back room memory like from the wood word of remembers. i like this beer, it tastes expensive. i like this, all of these letters, and I like it specially your recalling the rivers and the decades gone away, like I'm never a part of. Never apart from. and how many?

Slender is the night; stands sideways, blows away. I can see right through it. The music trusts me enough to let me injest it, breathe it. The smells of all the cedars sweetgrasses & sages I crave, and do have! captured in my won rural city! my own rural metropolis. The irony I call like buying the perfect scent. can you believe I fall for it

which is why I can suggest my own paying out of pocket, and pocket-less, it's relating. All the nights and days.

the little windows, little tables

The little blowing horn. I answered the phone and there was a voice I missed, I wrote down in letters some type and a word traveled over. Always travel led wrong. Always a misspelling, but misgivings. And the counting down gets drastic when shoveling.

A solemn horn blown, like a canada goose flown. An upwash, a downwash, a flight formed. A skein, a hair catching wind. To pretend you know so much is all tempts, the quick showers of delight flash over like a cloud gone by the sun.