{poignant was the pigeon who pointed me home}

deeper darker receding farther than the larger lager larder left for devils sent installments rented halls but never called in favors from the passing past while leaders sent their letters last and interrupting peters fast was sinful to the wrongfull basket hidden casket written jasmine singed by fire and cooled by drastic measures taken borrowed tactics bent and kneeled on the rats land took at once the older tasks hand returned now the broken jazz band master mastered my mistakes and redistributes faltered cakes and bakes and bakes and bakes and bakes but never takes no never takes just sits and bakes and waits and waits but no one ever picks up his phone its all alone on hook of foam and seas will dry you to the bone and toss you froth you justice knows no bounds of bundles books and blunders crooks and nannys soot filled rudder couldnt plan it newer pans he went to the market and couldnt tan it so he ran it all the way home and while he ran he squealed like a swine until his feet crushed wine and denied his eyes the pleasure of crying and tying together like bows of an archer the mowed sudden lawn chair which folded and bronzed hair and knowingly brought there an internal call where the search light was on but was pointed at downstairs and town there was brown bears who embarked on sound fairs and candied their frowns to the end of the mouse hairs reeled in riches but redeemed their vouchers seemingly south there was no more without and with hints of the linen that still was left out he started to pout and reach out and reach out and out and out and out and out without a doubt he reached out and denied of the spout when his grasp firmly planted the screen was rancid and the screams were dancing with cream of cancer feeling answers all the dancers laced their faces and soon were planted picking powder off their tranced lips sipping cider and carving crayon bits wax coat land was selling tar pits wriggling worth from retread rebid enter the entrance and ender of end this the sacreder words still ringing on his lips tingling and singing as breath made them exit and bury and carry the weight of the lost kiss and wait while he bought it and take what youve got kid its just fate if youve got it and if you still had it its lost to the otters who fought for their father and enter the daughter who didnt belong there and radiant plotter was rented for rotten rebarb redeserted retarded the growth and the far hits were worth what we bought it and return now to our kids who still wish for wishes....

TWENTY-NINE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{WHYTHEFUCKAMISTILLAWAKE}

i wonder where i wander when i open up my eyes

id rather hide away from light and let my spirit fly

and in that instant i instantly saw that the pencil of my mind hard started to carve and got stuck in a groove and what was it doing? i dont write poems i write words that are moving around words that are proving that words that were using are just worth what were fusing and inducing when we inflict them on each other and in their vicinity they become aware of the space that surrounds them and the words that they stand on and hold up and the ones that close in from all sides and every single word was placed into the block after being chopped from the mind and alligned on a pixel fixed with by a sick soul driven by his only drive to be moving and moving and moving and intertwined in the twine that keeps his head around his mind we look and we find that the hair that grew there was just vine kept for barely the sake of bearing the weight of the words he couldnt carry and he dropped them behind him as he ventured into the woods but who ate them and now couldnt return and he never remembered what he dropped and thats all the words that hes got he just stirs them around in a pot and reuses them a whole hell of a lot a hole in hell was the lot that the coal sells for the plot to take over the road out of nod and we are defiling the crimes by assuming the rhyme and line after line after brother shaking line is the only achievement that was ever designed and the self was fulfilled but the price was a dime and we should have just left it on the street in the first place.

SIX NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{fragmentsofboysthatreallymeannothingtonobodyatallnonotevenme}

i followed in your footsteps

the ones left in the sand

and left behind my own prints

in the places you did stand

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

creeper creeper pumpkin eater took its heart and baked the seeds for long enough to make them crunchy slightly salty slightly pinker throw them at me little horn bees stinging singing while their thorns bleed freeing me from all my organs eating all the pumpkin chortlings

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

the exroom left the exboy in the exworld on his own and etch-a-sketched a neckless freckle trying to make its way home. but wrote it down in lavish poem and scripted screens to film the void

####################

blah blah blah blah

im young

and i have mars

take me take me take me take me

stealing from the candy jars!!!

listen at the doorway listen! hear them hearing us hear them!

tweedle deedle sell the riddle! feedle us a candy thumb!!

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

FIVE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{like most of my thoughts incomplete....}

PART I???

i set adrift a little ship

i sailed it cross the sea

into the waves my oars i dipped

i floated out to sea

and when i was surrounded by

a feeling wet and blue

i leapt right off my ship from high

and dropped into the blue

as i went down the surface rose

so high above my head

but deeper still my body dove

the light was just ahead

and when i grabbed a hold that light

the world below i saw

was filled with stars and their starlight

the world below i saw

i looked back up and there above

was nothing there to see

so i went down much farther down

to see what i could see

the earth came up it met my feet

the rocks below were cold

the destination not concieved

by the waters deep cold

a field sprung up before my eyes

a sun bloomed in a hurry

the warmth caressed my face and i

thought best to leave to hurry

into the shade i leapt i dashed

a grove it grew for me

protected from the rays i crashed

the leaves they fought for me

TWO NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{twofer dofer whatyer usedter flater stiller sinker chose sir}

tricycle tricycle three circles three sickles three heads of three wheats three barleys three meats three plates for three dinners three lights for one dimmer one cow for six teats and one cone for one treat one street for two feet a hundred battles all defeats one victory ahead in time one desert sands with lines fifteen lines one word one message one hand one fish one plan reddish left tan

remember

observe

return

control

reburn

rehold

rehab

we sold

refab

ricate

describe

relate

too late

soon fate will take its cake that it wont bake and it wont save but it will savor our fading failure and repossess festering funnels of

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Break

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

in thought

in time

but unpublished still

around around the wheel

and grinded finer still

the train jumped the track thinking it could fly but only its smokestacks could ever kiss the sky...

ONE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{for want of a title the plot was lost}

and into the black stained canvas we proceed for the second time only to have the sheets ripped by the jagged emotions that come from the motions that we wind the key so that we can complete and into the pitfall we rise above ourselves and look down on the places where we have come from and we always return to the places that pain us the most and from our holy mountaintop we drop like birds who have no longer given themselves the desire to flap their wings so we fall and sing as we whistle towards the abyss that our drifting has caused us and be we covered in glitter or gold littered with mud and left in the cold when the pride leaves the lion the lion still sighs and the cat burglars conspire into the deepest of their desires and steal from themselves the only things that they have left and regift it and deepen the pit in which the reaper sits and gleefully gets his musical fits from pulling on the heart strings and blowing through the pipes that were pure until the fires came from within and melted them in to a purely abstract lump of glass that still glistens in its beauty but can no longer function as it was intended and instead it went in to the cold room and condensated tears all over its form for it cuold no longer form the spaces where its eyes had been and that is when the fall began in colors of gold and brown of red and yellow and we all watched as the green died and the trees cried rainbows before they died before they could be reborn once the winter was gone, the winter that had not dawned and the printer of frozen calm would doze the cove into its arms and tinker till it opened small enough to let in light and call out to the ones who stood in stalls behind the doors that banks install and never let out just kept it all in and wanting for skin upon skin wrapped up in or atop of silk or cotton would leave but a trim of the fabric left enough to show you shame as you try to hide behind it and defend your findings before returning to sizing up the world around you while the world inflated its ego behind you and birthed billions of souls who never would find you or touch you or scuff you with coal charred by sinus and still it could blind us with the myriad of triumphs continually denied us and inserted right by us in bodies that would try us and lies that would like us as instead of the egg only shells would crack righteously still so invitingly calmly and brightened me staunchly and so white they seemed like the one prize that we still could not grow to reach and thus i inherited all of the omelets cheese broken and tastes like grease and lays out and still i preach to ears that could never see and yet they still try to read words i could never speak so pouring it out seemed better than spilling these thoughts onto your syringe plunging into decent reaping the coldest winds blowing it back again closing our eyes again rolling on backs again feeling the black come in opening fast to it painting it black again all for the sake of a shake caused by not a wind we see it is just another stained black canvas...

ONE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE