Black and White Spots
real dirty-eye floaters
vacant pity
shimmering languid
vamped
bust the length of shadows,
which tells me there is no god,
I elevate myself to battle
the porcupine gores
just drain my prickling swamps
so I swallow grips
producing endorphins
like a regular one,
one that reels spiritually
from fighting
trapped inside of my stomach,
collapsing tremor,
edging blasts,
attacks,
expulsion;
the works
arm through like shoveling,
release the pinched arches
just balling tears
somewhat armature
the ufer grounding
doesn’t exist
inside my mind
inside my body;
and I almost lose
the dizzy, yet, aware
of dramatic and joyous
pantomimes
ambiguously given off
like signals,
readily visible in the light
outside
instill the assumptions
give off the real weird looks
to my starlet stares
about mentioning,
empowers the rumbling voice;
flying back to eardrums
snags, sponging dreaminess
of certain intertwining
elevations by shoulders
uneasy minimal persuasions
condense chills;
menial confused single raised
things
got quite distracted;
besides sick
sore
muscles of stomach
attempt speaking
strung out pains
stretched, vague, distant,
looms induced provoking
perplexed minds,
the strange gaze
and lost realm overcame;
mind’s so excited,
visceral fear, so much
in gibberish
that knows things,
but blabs mindless
chatter smothering
unbelievable inexperience
lumps the language
into mumbles
to the encounters
with magnificence
but I think these things
are real
this grimy side of urban
untamed despair,
cherishes history and knowledge,
though, among the rest,
grew thus far
sensing young new breeds
aspire generations
even greater
in ends layered further;
waiting for the real changes
in the night
to unveil a million scurrilous sorrows
cried for in all the leftovers
amounting to a world
seriously filtered
in our brains,
stretched in an instant
classical channeling for closer
and more eager expectations
of presence on single earth;
children,
they have spoiled expectations,
dwelled stereo
long-distance commiserations,
unrestricted thrashing
produce the only lyric
I could make out
striving loose uncovered litter
shingle granules,
the television,
and movie screens
realms squeezed by
preen ringing
hung draped tilts
in atmosphere clutched atop
jive tunnel-ways
in mini cacophony
straight ignorant
breaking off the confiding
purpose and persuasion
of temperament
into soundtrack
little crests of personal stories
inside out,
as if someone’s watching
frail shapes carried away by
some dramatics
pleading
below,
“it’s too late for me!
it’s too late for me!”
American kids,
like rough strained souls
scratched into live microphones
in the summer capacity
of just anything they aspire,
rubble in the hole
around the new foundation
crouches of crossovers
the peak
straddled episode
sways in scrawny snippets,
visuals like lose place
of this searing systemic way
that ultimately I’m supposed to
control myself
from falling out
like a poet who feels the world
has read all his pieces
and thrown them away
to phantoms, spirits
similarly stood up too fast
and throbbing heart
sides
up the neck
outskirts, blur spots of black and white
sparkle phases
all unpuzzling the aches
of society
grimaced with war
as the only cure
for this boredom
the “rockstars”
prolong in balmy growth
below tense
to expel
so I drop the scramble
hold the pinched guts;
intrude, mmy easing
slowing
my walking
to keep from fainting
into the black separation
and blanking bleak bleeped out bitter
end of this;
or maybe
in here,
I’m not sure.
Oh crazy oh.
but the tingles rose,
precipitated bags of goosebumps
swam up in the breathless slopes
dropping across the tree-topped gables
eyes finding longer limitless
moment
and turn over adrenaline
fires of great American determination
pushing in and of myself,
“it’s time to get going”—
minor jubilated tack
pressed to rubber crumbles
among my heart and lucky surges
sprung up
rickety,
half-bent
drip
edge
in every feint blanking
swirl back drops
of spilling;
so I try to hurry
through this
and keep ahead
of the fine fine steep climb
the boneless aching
accomplishing the day’s worth
supercilious to everything,
always on the heels
of fantastic solar inspiration
that winces naked
unto the muffled
blown acoustical delight
of the bathroom
misty thrashes
wait no more Elliot Lyngreen.
You are here.
You are here in the bellows
vehemently electric;
faded now, and
try to awake into
and keep it up.
that day we tore our backsides;
clumped dirt on the plywood
smeared footprints
up the increasing sides
of rafters
seamed through
all my coincidences
relaying horrorshow
over exposure,
painting schemes of folks
messing around my back,
cameras in the background
of the atmosphere
clearly in a wilderness
of american youths
maybe too much to handle
in the melting pot’s initial twist,
the span,
flourish,
civilization
the primitive nuclei
here and there
adjusting the operations,
the raw interactions
attempting to commix
and change
us
right there
infracting the planet’s races
amidst the allies and enemies,
humans here have lost touch with
only…yet over time,
recourses the wilderness
into a superabundance
of fear,
shifting eyes at each other;
I’m sure now that anyone
will be killed
should they wink
the wrong way
or joke too much,
with someone
seriously holding a gun;
---there’s so many possibilities
behind the eyes anymore;
stretched too ordinary,
neighborhoods and home
life
via language and music,
broadband fusing
future’s evolution
slips past the crosshairs,
spreads the system
in-throughout civilians’ vision
holding the vague concept
the streets entrust to fighting
not so much for life
as for cloning
that far-gone into imaginations,
myths appear to threaten
instincts have begun
again
time periods,
slow sinking sensations
stemmed from spinal scurries
and fidgety eerie things
telling me I’d better do this
whenever I try to escape,
or leave here all unfinished;
as fearless as
shape-shifting
just as rules change
the way a game is played,
so does my cause
slimy guts captured
subtle influence
the revelation, yet pleading
for marveling
in the soundless
power lines,
misplaced
as crumbs roll off
roofing material into the eaves
sprinkling ticks
headlong in back corners
mess eyelids
reach wipes and starts over again
similar to the way I
stood too fast
with one leg atop the ridge,
bent as the other locked straight
forced to eye the horizon
beam that skips
those phases of pitches
stained clean by roof vents
rusting metal reflected heat
spotted hovering surmise
in the valley,
the curved air pocket
the section bent
towards the zephyrs
it’s the goofy contortions
that develop
a rise in blood pressure,
strains overwhelm
to emerge from the blend
and the factions
absorbed in gnawing resemblance
in hallucinating these multitudes
of defeated nights
next to crooked
black and white spots
epiphanies afore such annihilated
alleviations of stacks of paperback
fuzzy creases,
overloaded by scatters
spilling ratty
unused pool tables,
walless showers
exposed down there;
workbenches cluttered
outdated heavy power tools
garages
half the yard’s
accumulated by automobiles
stripped here and there,
busted trophies with lost engravings,
cracked plastic electronic dartboards
sleek beer label mirrors
bikini breasts
hotrod calendars,
lint covered dryer vents,
children’s mini lockers
tiny kitchen outfits
absent sink knobs
dirt infested lawns,
tankless useless wires
bound by duct tape
around electrical conduits
and floor joist bridgings,
surround sound speakers
or extra phone lines,
romex
slacked plugs with power strips
disaster of algae smeared fish tanks
buckling bubbles
the hard gurgles
miniscule chunks,
shatters gradually over unable to traipse
quite peculiarly as they say
nothing,
any chance for scrambles
around with my jutted
hiding
filthy faced
into a corner
or behind some piece
of torn furniture,
grimacing tender
creeping stench
up between my crouched legs
unable to get a solid footing,
hangs personal
perpetual intervenes
to sway
the head and shoulders,
press tight
instances falling
tumbles carousing
to steal from these people
—time—
in their awful homes,
every unique front door
opened
too slowly to catch me
noticing
and consuming their holistic details;
yet unwilling to write down
their moments
automatically assuming
parallels
with the ever-changing world
discover the renewing
every morning poet
scribbling letters for them
that once use to translate
to the reader
tremendous wisdom
of emotional moving
successively unveiled
in the ultimate releasing
conversion; yet to write,
to create,
to share perhaps,
the glass block basement windows
and thin fresh hostas
the strip between driveways
and existing foundation
where the nails always end up
and this whole conversation
beseeches the one
with his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned,
gray-haired rock hard gut
glistened by sunlight
and beer-rounded
outside the opening,
manages to tag along
softer whispers of sort,
deep amends
that enough hard labor
and this woman’s thighs
over there
sunbathing
will beg for smoothings
of coarse gorilla mits,
nubby fat meathooks
like knuckle fat fingers,
“there is no sacrifice greater
than that boys, huh?”
as if we’d get to ram fingers
in her as soon as we were done,
that bikini a few yards away;
dubiously
dumfounded
the lingering mettle
so much nearer the smell
of the sooty granules
in my arm hairs
like tar filtered in a/c vents
or a heavy locker room
sweat
humidly swims
sprinkling their odor
like pepper onto me
I could only hunch a little anticipation
of the near turning
round gooey fists
upon shit real oozed
goood,
tip-toe shakes
bent completely over
towards the toilet,
lurch the guts
thus disintegrating the last drops
of energy
and hum on
because and moreover,
quickly unraveled
to an untied shoelace;
consider Anthony burgess’ novel,
a clockwork orange,
consider this a foreshadow,
maybe characters shouldn’t
have conclusion,
ultimately only the reader changes,
but we don’t exist without you;
in here, every climax
famously characters remains
of the same forevers
even in changes, reasons
novels are written for only
when you have their changes;
just as so, these impulses
that speak my mind,
expressions,
emotions,
the most important
without hesitation
the vomit
and verbal diarrhea
salivating shakes
suckled to when the lugubrious tremors,
signals pulsating
the collapses to the world
with wounded antennae,
swirls to comprehend
that sound
as well as everything
for the turns
to continue
a delicate balance
as America begins
to look like an old place.