Sunday, November 16, 2014


Who would be the one to be the oneself I
cough into a crook and don't spread my
self to others I won't pool out and wet them with
but then I twist into myself and drink or
excavate and purge and bear the weight but they
all suck like breathers greedily breathing
because they were born to believe in their
Jesus and his gifts but I don't want to be a downer
and tell them their moms and dads were filling them
with horse shit

His Name

his holy ghost his hand and most of most his
toddle boyface poem laughter tearplay and my
trying to understand the life outside of me while trying to
make context from the life that traps me inside snakes and
coil discomfort penduluming into sleeping or
A lot of thoughts just dead-end
I don't know.
Project your vacuum of feel

That is the great telling of you


Projects his vacuum of feel



I'm Tired

While the great unknowing barrelled on I
tensed and coiled with all of my being to
either die or begin knowing more
I struggled with what is the point I
deeply and profoundly wanted to just
I'm tired of war