Can't Sleep for Dreaming

I know that to start being materially successful, I need to stop hating North America and buy into these worldly specifics.

But can I sleep at night living The Dream?

Passage

That thing that'll make you stop believing in God
is too much Catholic school.

Because We've Lived Before

My withered wife my gnarl root hands
dance partner lover and fucker time
companion who's seen my
skin paper and thin and break apart and become
smaller pieces of paper that get buffeted into
uncomplicated vortices of breath memory
our child daughter before
her legs broke open and she became a distorted mirror
wife mother weeping womb you are a food
for us a pear or a pomegranate seed and
always milk and meat and the
horse that brought it through the
January snow by the banks of
some dream creek in a book in bed in
one of my many past lives.

Tachycardia

How to do my prayers and in my eyes
closed
do some sort of sex to Him and
in perfect elocution deliver my sorry's while
looking the Golden Boy some
model of chastity of
church whites of un-
impeachable character and
fondling myself and
sweating heavily about it and
thrice crossing constantly like it's my
fucking job to be safe while she
sucks me and my
constant
persecution mania and
these heavy brow strangers all
leering christ like thick shadows sea-
liner-size or bigger, and I
loosen my collar, have to,
my hands puff, she's bobbing
like some rapist piston and I
swallow one two and pass out

Drown A Dog

Sleep queen, queen of soil you are
more beautiful than I, I
fold my hands in silent shout in
nowhere protestation in
doubt in deed in between
orgasms of self I put out
a cloud of prayers hoping
two or three will be answered, and
that one of them is murder is
nothing to concern anyone.

On Trying

If I'm bad, at least I'm honestly bad. So yeah, I can sleep at night.

Sick sick sick.

Rich kids, white kids, 
rich white kids
pow pow pow.

Outside a circle

What will outlive me, everything, God made it that way, everything,
his story and your children and the brick and steel of our
collective chugging dream forward into

What will outlive me everything I ache now outlive me everything my
life's work is a

What will outlive you father, what will, there are a number of white seagulls
dead in your cellar and they will outlive you what

What will outlive me

Communication

Just because you can, doesn't mean you can.

Ellen

Sometimes I feel like the Ellen Degeneres show is just a shell game, or a sugary liquid medium by which we are fed some sort of sedative which allows the North American monster to slip into our homes and our wallets and our stomachs and our gas tanks while we are slowly absorbed into our carnivorous couches, fading, fading into virtual existence, spiritless, fat, oh Christ so fat on the decadent nutritional emptiness of Western secularism. 

Ellen you heartwarmth monger, you seller of ignorant bliss, you feelgood pimp, I salute you and your cunning machinations, or perhaps simply your brokerage of this Great American Decay.

Horse Farm

If horses run fast, why does glue run slow?

"Hey David,"

"She's so sexy but I bet she's a bitch or a black hole
or worse, some no sex before marriage Catholic."

Broken Rituals

When sex is the process of
climbing up the mountain and
falling off the other side.

Daughter Prayer

I am a daughter and a diamond and an angel of infinity and a
fawn often but equally often a hunter and a wolf in that order because
the computer is everywhere now so don't entertain a foolish nostalgia or
any dumb romance don't
lie lie lie
unless you intend to sleep

Crush

Kiss your mother with that bird around your neck you
son of God who is a thunder cloud a
clap of earth static a humongous stone
head who spits guns and guns who is an open
mouth who is the man hating goat man who is
a long coat dog pissing into itself pissing all
over itself who is wide eyed always to
great self consciousness even in a
dream who drinks furiously and becomes
furious who took a baseball bat for a
son and a peach pit for a daughter in
holy excellence and in ghost presence
took take three silent moments to
remember that
I am everything

Be Present

We loved big birth too much for
Christmas day sad telephone calls I
don't lose my composure often I
say my prayers I
gift my children through
these thirty years I
am a sober patriarch I
in this end lose to
this
cancer I
curse the healthy
young backs who are strong
backs for
trains and unfitted link back
directives but not directions which
are like dreams but not dream real not
dream real not
anything like the

I

I am a dog's uncontrollable hunger,
A drooling mouth, giant
fucking teeth.

Digestive

Who would not divine the 666 sonnets or
trace back to Eden to a fleshy coil and
spill their spit upon soil for
good luck and faith and trust or
obedience.

Who was a dog almost always, a
human with a rumbling stomach with
hands and
I suppose some mechanical mouth in there
just for the details.

1:47

Suicide and a lifetime of idle are
the same thing.
There is no difference.
If you are only existing to exist,
stop.

Civilization

There is no "this is how it works," and anyone who tells you so is trying to sell you something.
Don't trust them - they are a snake or a religious man or both.

Kill us Now

When Hollywood makes things just to make things...

Prayer

Whose coal eyes unto thee
make three covenants of
chastity and faith and hungry
trust who must take milk or
be a homeless wreck, a
stray dog a lamb before
wolves whose mind has
gone gone gone gone whose
eyes have clouded whose
dry finger bones are a
crumbling city block a
book of lives a
book of lives whose
old shoes speak whose
cat one two three
is and is and is a
noble guardian sort of whose
crucifix is a crooked woman who
never learned to tie their laces who
hid from books who
never learned to plead his
cases who
took
who
took unto himself too much, whose
pork belly had a mouth North
America wound like an infected
dog's eye, put it out
put it out

Darkness

What to say or
who to love or why I
trust the
god above he fed me
corn mash chunks of
fat he
hid his son inside
my hat he
boiled his entire
brood
and called them fragile sinners
food he cared for
broken winged birds he
cut his heart up into
thirds he
took he takes all his
supply he
cannot will not never
die he
in his holy vision god
is god of god of god of
god he
owns my flesh my
bitter steel he feeds me
crust and crumb and
heel he feels he feels
he

feels

like everything that's
earthly real he
spins me for days in my
bed like seasickness is
itself my head he is
stomach he is
great he
eats what I leave
on my plate he
is my father he
is
this universe he
is this
masculine fuck he
ruins woman somehow
keeping her under
under table and
sucking sucking his
emptiness and keeping
his hunger under
the table where
his evil sleeps under
the table where
the dogs fight for bones under
the table where some infant
is a boy god in training smashing
playtoys like soldiers in
hate sickness and
what thing is this what
table have we set what
meal must we eat or have
we been served what
year is this what
orbit am I in what
gravity that
gravity is this love of
christ god what plane even
is this then that I
feel everything every
thing

2066

Visions through veil of unearth, a moon sail fall I
stood tiny tall through visions of the iron cross I
kill a daisy or a dandelion with every thrust and
every sad song I
gained her trust I
gained her trust I

am going to hell.

Black tea nightbeams and unseamed dresses I
unlearned a lesson in faith or forgiveness or I
in brooding indulgence took too much I
took too deep I kept I
keep too much of her I

am going to hell.

Mother what love was that? I
cried out every night to empty room I
pissed my tomb sheets for rescuing hands but
found only darkness kissing.

I was in hell then.

To walk with three black swans and
childsoldiers holy, broken eyes then,
thousands,
to fulfil a destiny of meaninglessness, infinite
depravity,
cruel arbitrary,
to pray for a saviour,
Jesus gunslinger steelfist knight I

dream about hell.

 When will I die?

But Not For Long

Before the yeast rises run, before the least of my
sizes runs a hole through with the sun,
before the halo in my gun plows holes in
my chest, before my best love rest another
above and inside a rabbit face breast.

Your fascist love some anti resevoir,
shackle me to your rib cage walls and
flay me with your thrice cursed horse hair
whip, cemetery tattoo shovel cunt criticize me me me me me
dig
dig deep before I sober, before I over
over come some pillow on some bed some
straw that held my head my neck my shoulders and
every dead part under that

That
That which,
dumped a cat corpse before a beehive and
sighing resigned itself to forgiveness and
cigarette smoke and the glory of being
an alive being when there are these not
alive beings and in some concrete
admissions and in worms and in
sheepish dicking and in low low
grass and in drink and in deepthink and in
tearful jerkoff and in shaking hunger and in
spiral bliss and in the most cinematic suffering I
am alive I am
alive
I am
alive

North America America Has Stomach Cancer

Slow decadent suicide is the inevitable end to any life of plenty lived without a deep and conscious connection to the greater forces of existence.

Modern secularism has failed to fill the hole in the human spirit that mass religious belief once did - why has environmentalism and some kind of profound, universal astrophysical science-religion (based in truth not mythology and dogma) not caught on?

Perhaps because "to survive healthily" is no longer the priority - we reached that, it's already achieved, and now "to constantly be stimulating our guts" is the evolved cultural M.O.

So I come back to slow decadent suicide...

The North America America

... and we're all these
sort of
participants in such
beautiful
collective lies
lies
ro-
mantic fables
of

Fuck

I couldn't come if all the whores in
Lebanon wrote all the
things I'm too afraid to say and
their lips were so full and
ready.

Who masturbates twice at
work today, dirty hands that
get handshook after, nine
to five nine to five nine
to five
nine
to five
pussy juices
handshake
nine to five thick
bodily nine
to five her
feminine
her
factory body her
egg plant
body is a
sex plunder begging
for fuck and
fucking fuck and
some anti chastity backhand to
the face in some hot pent up
moment of
His gut fury and her sweat smells and
some shared golden ball that is the
center of the universe between the
legs.

Time Approaches

I will be your modest doll I will
be your false priest I
will be
your
holy ghost I will
be your tender nestling
gloved forgiveness I
will be your New York City I
will be
your
Sally Mann child I
will be a blueberry I
will be a
tourniquet  I
will be every liquor I
will be
cadence I
will be total and
whole I will be
some desert packdog spotted
fuck

I will be everything
I will be
every
thing

Tight Breath

 Deeply, profoundly struck with how incredibly unoriginal 99% of my experiences are. Anecdotally, perhaps not so, but thematically...

This fucking Earth.

Tribes

Warpaint palms downturned to drop ash and
some bloody trickle to the
Earth in some form of a
prayer to
Her to
say a thank-you and a
we'll always love you and then
dance and dance and always the night
dance and
I held an elk bone and it
contained the
sum total of
my people's history in cal-
cium and marrow and
also a wood be-
cause we all have
wooden bones around here and
hush because we wouldn't want
the
wolves to know that or

* * *

Soon after the baby boy was
conceived beside some
ageless river

Soprano

Woman found dead in
elevator, it's a
sad sad sad
Earth to be a bear in some
brawl to be a snail drunk on
some heart or some tune in the
back of His holy throat.
Who drinks His wine and
crosses three facets and who
eats fish on Sunday.
This Earth.
It's a hell of a thing.
My milk is too warm now I
can't take it, can't take a
baby girl in my arms as some
single father, she needed me, I
adopted her in some dream and
named her Francesca for
her dark young shadow who
beautifully left us too soon.
(I wasn't even born yet)

But who the fuck was she even?
One of too many to count. Another
face.
Another pair of lungs, a
heart, a pair of hands, the same,
the same the same as
us.
But different.

No matter how many
cans of beer I open, I
don't like us any more.
But there's always
more letters
to write.

Modern Age

My heart is firewood

Chest Pain

Pitter patter hyperpanic,
the sad Atlantic gushes,
more used Kleenex,
her makeup smears,
I have to get out of there,
she offers grapefruit,
I tell a story,
she begins to cry,
I turn into a cloud of smoke.

Anna

Princess with a face like a lion backlit banjo
holding everyone in the dark in
some held breath an-
ticipation and I
clutch the
program and I go back
six years to the few nights I
snuck into your crawlspace in
that barnstructure in
the
driveway and you gave me
Suzanne for the first time and I
was fucking
newborn
in those hour long seconds and
finally innocent to something for
once

Guilt Stomach

I am a dark fuck, I
awoke in a bed, noir
sharp light through blade
slits on the bed room and
I woke next to a form of
lies and tanglement of ma-
nipulations of her
trust of
her
fragile nature, like a delicate or
brittle twig near dead and dry
branch,
no olive leaf, no
happy ending for her
or me or
me

Needing To Die, So Bad

I found you passed out
in a pile of dry roasted mixed nuts
and I was embarrassed for you because
you were not yet awake enough to be
embarrassed appropriately and when you
finally had some sort of
dry, rocky sort of vomiting and you
could contemplate the gravity of your
foolishness and you felt really,
truly
pathetic is
when I pulled a handgun from my
pants and
shot you
in the face

You ended then and the story didn't really
change much.

Exhale Exhale Politic I'm Trying To Get It?

White noise, a crisp air, a sodden face and
many faces more rigid,
pervert glasses,
contemporary unease, some wringing of
fingers,
politic tender neck
sleeze detector,
argon prostitute lecture rhetoric,
dick dick underwire liberation diseases of
angry fist angry mouth angry stomach angry
pelican so
many balled up socks so many locks on
sensibility

Man Gun

Romanticize some sort of
Man Gun holy union whose
intercourse
ends in the
ejaculation of
bullets and thus
death and
what do we really
have or learn but
that Men
Love
their fucking
handguns
too much and
nothing
else.

It's some poem that
doesn't mean
anything.

Universe, God

The sexuality to which we are born, arbitrarily chained.

Turtle

Who will wait a
cloud aggregated a limited
inflate a bower a fate a vining skinny
ceremony words of breast targeted poems of
words of words of words of droning masturbate

Corrupt a childing swingset mate a drinking
hollow safe sound bottle top of some world some
peak some risk of some tattoo some
dream

Some superficial tattoo,
some waffle,
some claxon sound some temporary teenage
barfing some pint of passing love some
desire to choke a self

done, bye bye

Play

Pose opposable throws total unknowable bros whose
foes are flows of hydro potable prose

Ten toes ten centric third eye crows whose
Knows are greater than the square of no's
whose fingers close upon the hose of hoes whose
blows bestow atomic O's

Objective

The devil's advocate still
laughs at appearances
sometimes

To An Anonymous Friend

Thanks Jack, it's been a while...

Leslie

Some graveyard full of life and
some kiss full of so many nothings,
clasping irons, clasping laws baby
caught in my will to
hold a giant landscape and
a language of life and
experience,
bring me to life,
to something other than alcohol,
gasp gasp gasp gasp gasp longing sighing
lover baby exhalation air
there's a blue moon over this letter,
love me still,
love a fruit tree that was planted we took we
take we carved our names in every inch and
for the sake of
Him.

But for the overwhelm of living.

072912 2:09am

Don't be picky,
let things happen,
you'll come in your pants when you
see that girl with the
eyeliner
smeared all over her and
you'll breathe a different kind of
air for the first time in a year or three years and
some page will be turned.

A Prayer Before Sleep

I must remember that I am an instrument of art -
art is not an instrument of vanity.

Erection

The American Dream. Is a big. Fucking. Dream.

R. Cairns Female Every Maybe

Excellent silk, page turner breast skin
let me in to sheets of everything
You cling to my ribs like a
honey bee sings my sizes be-
cause he knows me he
knows every
everything

And I love you, through
all this hateful intimacy,
my blind hunger and your
rampant mistrust of
every
thing every
thing

Church Curses

Like I'm some queer with
my breadbasket arms open legs
spread bleeding from a gash I
dreamed in derealized
minutes
how many minutes
I dreamed myself a
man not a man
I was a woman
tearing at herself, trying
to amputate the eucharist
she was force fed as a
boy
Pubic hair
bread
wine
feathers
a tail fallen off
some ewer that lusts after
full milky tits in violent
jealousy loathing its self
safe boring existence as
a vessel for dumb tropes

What congregation is this