drawing faces

if there’s one thing i can expect from drawing faces over and over and over. from left to right. on top. over. screaching. scratching. skulls becoming moles. ears as noses. hair morphing into chins.

we are willing to put a face on anything.

remotely ugly lovely.

like a baby hovering in the new world surprised, screaming and willing to put a face on any collection of dots remotely like the infinite unity stretching out from our before and our after.

our world is broken and yes, it’s us that are apart.

it’s a good thing too because some of us are pretty terrible realists. we can use all the help you can give us.

thank you optical nerve.
m.

see: http://happymoths.tumblr.com

can the rane

can the rane
i speel from the
lust maning
drave bout
the windermill
of this ron
quixbloatey
foghat
orangepit
dirigibloke?

i am the wither
and you are the flocks.

skipper hit.

woks.

trip.

and now that i’m landing on something
nonsense might be all i trade in.

six wishes
ive mights
our raves
tree sleeves
wo built
on stately satisfaction of counting for something.

mount up the seas and billow
forth! for we!
for wheeze!

can the rane, applesobbler fubbalo hiff contain?

ever to answer,
ray away the blame.

is the clear answer that perhaps in plain english
we’re nothing but the same? and the silence
i blindly time is just odd and difficult and loud
while yours is just undone.

oh to be useful.
oh to make a difference.

benched prophets scuttle to the rocks.

if only we knew that there is no bench but
our brow
and
our neck.

history’s greatest oppressor is the
pocket holding back a hand
and the tooth biting a lip.
m.

it’s hard

it’s hard
because
it’s easy

are our r argh minds
are feeble
distracted
late
and stupid.
self-serving
and sassy.
catchy
vapid
lack
curved
and hot
hot
hot.

where is an echo
when you don’t need
it but right where

a mess soils underfoot
and
art is
crushed under that same foot

and even games are hard
and darn arguments crash
every moment’s party
with tired facts
unfun west
un fu.

we just want to flow

and instead a rage builds
from all the dams stopping
our gestalt from suffrage
and ratchets dither into
the massive.

missing.

mar mar march mar.

two of your best everything’s
will be ruined at your feet
by your hand and screaming
in vain, in vein, in vane,
invention skips to nowhere
and in the impotent licks
we’ll cry for there is absolutely
nothing we can do but
absolutely everything
is there to remove us
from the edge.

we put it there.
we dug it out.
we danced around it.
we made it important.
we lifted it from out of
the ground of our unlevel
self-importance and
challenged the heap
for seventeen king
of the mountain drive
supernaut, illionoiseless
screaming demons
numbering
sixty thousand
six hundred
and one.

you.

scooting on your
askertisk rising
i might double-nickled
on your torrential
rib
created from the
skip
and dusting
the terminittes
from the belt
of golden eggs circling
one hundred pestering
fighting
gathered waistlines.

off this maniacal cliff
of manmade burden we
ship our carcasses one
atom at a time into the
heap at golgotha
like a cannon autofocus
foxy to hades
gnashing in
the sass.

brittle and stupid.

and we just wanted a hug.

seventy times seven two
arms two fish that fed the
five thousand are reaching
out to you right now.

and that beat goes on
and on
and on
and on
right past the break
of the omega-scratching
dawn.
m.

where is tomorrow at

where is tomorrow at
we don’t know

and so we scream
and we fight
and we steal
and we demand
and we derail
and we despise
and we lie to ourselves

we carve a fearsome
monster from the remains
of our burnt flesh.
our home.
our air choking.
and in the shadows
the wall grows our
psychosis beyond the edge
and we mount
the effigy
and burn ourselves
to the ground
as martyrs
as examples
as evidence.

and yet all we had to do
was go to bed.
dream a little.
live in yesterday’s tomorrow.

give of yourself
throw yourself into
that landscape
and welcome your
neighbor to dance
to eat
to laugh
to work

a better world is possible,
it’s already there.
m.

do you want firefox to remember this password?

do you want firefox to remember this password?

never for this site but
nearly 400 spam comments
wind beneath the
words pressing
down in time
to my
writ
and
hmm
always ack
that the words
the sentences
the tick
spitting
feeds into
eraseably
marked nonsense
is scribbly heads
into body tags
striking
scripted
hits
to
visits
i cannot describe.

the internet is better with the wooly turned out
the grubby jungle leopards
scaring the molten hips
from distro to hippo
via daemon upon
conservative doing
and
liberal acceptance,

that is
one hundred
twenty eight
open arms
sourcing the bazaar
into a cathedral’s
lapster tabletop
scribble coptic
veneration
of
light.

games aren’t fun if they’re not hard.
playgrounds need danger.
not because we want broken legs
but because secrets
don’t often make
sense
and often don’t have to
like poetry
the truth
tee see pea i pee
love
cats
and the ships with which we cut our most endangered white whales upon.
m.

oathallelujah

this oath
loathing
bloating
boating
boting
boring
boing
boing
bong
bon
on
o.

you give
you take
you mutate
you arrange
you flavor
and with a hit
you sign the right
letters at the bottom of the thing.

you can’t guarantee it works
and in many test cases it won’t.

it’s the pile of life
coding your ocd
into one ocelot lane
and they rock.

so stop.

smile.

pop.

and give thanks that
your creator dropped
your matter process
into this particular
point so that you can
dance paint write the
sign of 100 functional
for loops for video
equations in haiku
by the light of
your hand
made
lamp
shade.

fill their plate
prune the tree
teach the pitch
scratch the arch
and slip a
disc.

grant back what you have been granted.

we all have a chance to stand at the
lip of the grand canyon and know
that maybe ours won’t be as sublime,
but as God has shared,
so must we.

the truth beckons us reflect it into
the length of a belly and
all the babies giggle
in triumphant
quantum
motion
eyes high
hoo after
ray
into
hallelujah.
m.

reaching

it’s easy to reach a point
where you can
no longer
focus
and.

it’s just waves of
carelessness
as you are
caught
within
the path
of that moving thing
shallows actor
i fit withing.

scattered sat
with at to aperature
a picture tick
training into
race bait hi
i do not know.

there is nothing but sounds
standing next to eachother.

chunking makes them work
like legs to a body dancing
in nonsense to
a time
un
ex
pi
re
d.

somewhere out there is an
arm i long to touch simply
to give me a base. a socket
for these fingers.

an electricity to excite.

but for now i drift out
across the shifting
simple
and
reaching.

a

a
used to live with b.
not just c but d
a
nd the rest out to z.

c
a
ves and c
a
mpfires.
tents and hillsides.
vill
a
ges.

different n
a
mes
different pictures
but the letters used to
go with
a
nd sometimes b
thinks it’s the right
thing to do.

m
a
n loves to build
th
a
t tower the
a
ncients built over
a
nd over.

it might be nice to s
a
y we w
a
nt to re
a
ch God bec
a
use we w
a
nt to be with him
but like every good kid, we w
a
nt to be t
a
ller th
a
n the next kid.

a
nother ex
a
mple: the fruit of the tree of knowledge.

i w
a
nt to be my own s
a
lv
a
tion, don’t you?

total freedom. no bound
a
ries.

but where did the words go?
where’s the community?
the love.

so
a
lone as we continue to lose everyone we’ve ever loved.

a
s kids we’re surrounded by the
a
lph
a
betly unit.

we’ve gone so individu
a
l to m
a
ximize our ch
a
nce to win th
a
t we’ve lost the re
a
l re
a
son to win: e
a
chother.

we moved to the suburbs.
we bought
a
utomobiles.
we
a
b
a
ndoned our churches
a
nd our God.
we
le
a
ve our f
a
milies f
a
r behind.

“get yourself
a
g
a
ng”, vonnegutt s
a
id
a
nd it’s no surprise.

every bit of open sp
a
ce is owned, we’re
a
ll tresp
a
ssing. we’ve m
a
de no pl
a
ce to st
a
nd.

virtu
a
l is gre
a
t but not the full cup.

we build fences
a
round n
a
ture. we build fences
a
round
a
rt and knowledge.
we st
a
y inside.
we don’t know our neighbors.
we don’t let the kids le
a
ve the y
a
rd. we te
a
ch them to h
a
te the different
a
nd to close their minds.
we turn our bodies into m
a
chines
a
nd objects to
a
cquire.
we tell ourselves lies
a
bout e
a
chother to
a
void getting hurt to
a
void getting to love to
a
void losing th
a
t which we h
a
ve so little repl
a
cement for:
a
ctu
a
l round fleshly yes.
we cut us off from ourselves.

we do.
a
n
d
b
a
n
d
c
a
n
d
d
a
n
d
e
a
n
d
a
r
e
a
ll
following suit.
it’s h
a
r
d
a
n
d
h
a
r
d
e
r to im
a
gin
e
a
c
oh
e
r
e
nt story
a
nymor
e.

it’s
c
e
rt
a
inly not mu
c
h for po
e
try.

c
oul
d w
e
st
a
rt with
c
off
e
e?
m.

these are piled up for the shredder

the world sends us really
important secret and
sensitive things that
leave us hanging out
for all the us stealers
and we pile them
up on a little black
machine that
takes our
secret
insi
des
and
gr
i
nd
s
th
em
up.

some dreams
on wishes
by stories
in song
while beliefs
prepositions
health
love
God

these are piled up for the shredder.

there is not a lot of love poetry in stress

there is not a lot of love poetry in stress
not unless we’re tearing our clothes off

and even that is likely
to end badly as barely
nothing is friendly and
we’re scrappers wrapping
asterisks inside the
weather to betsy
thunder together.

it’s often hard to linger as
we dodge bullets and
miss the signs of peace
erring on the side of
helmets instead
of wind in our hair.

we’re haunted.

damaged.

my hand reaches out to yours
and crumbles over the grass.
small crabs pick up my remains
and cart them into the sea
and through the murk
some part of my eyes can see
a pair of fish are telling
each other jokes.

i can tell.

she’s laughing at what he says.

no woman ever gave a man a more wonderful gift.

it’s a funny thing to be a pile of stones
as there’s not much to worry about and
as yr insides grow with the seed of kelp
and start to sprout upward toward the
sun a few small merbabies will climb and
ride yr stalks higher and higher and
when they stick their heads out of the
water, the song they sing sounds
like the laughter of those fish.

from earth to water
there wasn’t always
poetry but
there was
always love
transforming
moments to
moments,

this living breathing lifelong revolution
covers whole earths of God’s tremendous bounty.

that’s us. that’s you. laughing at me.
m.