I’m trying to break the entire English language apart so the edges of the letters stop cutting me. scars make horny, and blood, dances faster than thousand dollar wedding rings under a full circled moon shining for howling wolves! they are alone, vacant matching fingers chained by greed, and these wolves…like so many of us…are screaming at night, never touching the love we call/beg for.

the half smoke cigarette flares up like it just took a breathe of its own her arm hooks way to far trombone hoping to hit that high note her smokes make her lungs bloody, so the —

the weapons of letter within language begs for the moment it can fly off love letters and be stapled to the eyes who every. single. person. because each. and. every. person is troubled with sleepless nights, quiet dinner conversations, drowned out excuses, long lost comments you wish you would’ve said, and silenced

my teachers kept me after class for what I thought were advanced study lessons for the gifted, but gazed into me and saw only broken bits of a child who hadn’t noticed the inadequate recognition of mouth motions birthed by odd symbols scattered across lined papers. language is guarded by the military we know to be letters, so much of what we experience is intangible.

–after the rise and fall of suns and moons he stood tall, impregnated by visceral paintings, doused in colors that smear empty skies, disgusting moments, fleeting smiles, blind dream premonitions, forgotten ambitions, helpless creatures, damaged bedrooms, inappropriate secrets, birthed in few symbol

there is a huge difference between being happy, and having moments of happiness. writers know neither, every letter carved to a throne it can hold (I’m hoping every letter carved to a throne holding it is the same Sox’s as my footprint) is my footprint kissing foreign pathways reminding the illiterate heart, I’m moving in a direction that isn’t where I just came from. with enough passion every scattered letters, holding hands, kissing in elegance, waiting to be read by hollow(bitter, sugar coated) minds with just enough space for magic to swim it’s way towards surface and bright lights.

writing is the art of connection, stationed, filled, geared up for fucking war (across the battle fields of miscommunication) in a worldwide “problem” suffering with the illiterate entities that distance us further than planetary alignments even as our meet and lips touch.

fingers unfortunately don’t too much for an illiterate slave, my lips harbor more danger than shotguns lucky enough to taste flesh, (—if I could do with) I would’ve long deserted the intention to slaughter fatalist shoguns

I’m old enough now to stand on two feet blanketed in the heavy armor of understanding, fingers ready to dance alongside stars that show face, lips that are trained to remain neutral as the cage locking them now stays open as a sign of opportunity, life after death exists, it’s a beautiful place, and found in every book. made through the slaughter of a tree, a world exist, more inviting than the current one, among the fields of imagination…but I’m small, sitting alone on the other side of the fence while flowers bloom in front of me aginnobodies
their faces convulse and oscillator through all emotions I’ve yet to know in my adolescents, I’m hungry for cinematic like moments humbly offering me a feast of imagination but my mind keeps making a wrong every sentence it drives down, I’m lost, the magic doesn’t happen the same way it does for everyone else, and I wonder if my brain broke or if god gave me eyes bought at some hole-in-the-wall thrift because molding me to the burden of homosexuality, I’m a for letters name but each time I try to put the pieces together I (but the letters neve cime off// line up the way a straight man only can like my step dad wants me to be. never become a straight man like the characters in books, who are worded across so evenly.. (was an inside joke.) I see sentences, long and punctured with holes and odd finger strokes that remind me of how my mom would smoke cigarettes sitting next to me when I was young enough to still take advantage of (children’s book, the kind with images bigger than the fonts. if I can just books laced with pictures. I see words and get lost in fragments of questionable daydreams, words everywhere chase me down like maybe I do happen to know whole stole the cookie from the cookie jar/gingerbread, I study (topped off, buzzed, and ready to drive full throttle through the clouded valley that hails down improper grammer and pathetic word placement, and colorless expressions, the way word until my lungs are bloody and each night spent cornered with a book two grades under my required reading level starts collects tears, they dance on top the words they splash into, the gateway welcomes me, (but my garden planted with seeds that grow large is left dry and malnourished) magic itself reaches for me
as bindings bleed open

forsakingly tasked to consistently regress/oppress the beast these ruined lips masturbate, wounding a militia of unarmed ears and now tainted hearts. the damage planted to the garden of “innocent” hearts blossoms fly traps with tongues like or own and the voice I gave it will forever be toned to the body it guards. the voices inside our heads building our walls thick enough to muzzle out hope for a new day with a little more sun than the day before (itt

smash together whatever place your trying to take me, burn it over the spoon, leak drop on the hustled/nasty/yyyy beast spreading it’s skin for taste of paradise that only sentences can paint, trade me eyes, a shirt, pants, and please just one shoe so that I run wild/naturally as god aciddently made me, help me smell the environment you construct, help me hear the breathe of characters trapped in every page that turns with my fingers, help me feel the endeavor a character happily repeats so each time I read of them they become human, help me see…help me see the idea simplifying itself to a feeling only hearts know each moment my eyes swing between beautiful quotes and two week long stories. to be a writer, is to journey through chaos, naked, blood drunk, immediately willingly to separate the voice that makes this real to never speak again…to smile even though it looks a little broken, with hands glued together catering seeds of color shaking in the knees from the back pack stuffed/smashed/brimmed with tools to break down sick habits that don’t serve me anymore, andbulgoofferedmed and bulgeoning from the one single hope that words who choose to risk (crashing through my glass case security device may one day meet the incomplete sentence laughing half finished for the kiss shared at the final mountain top blessed with a tiny black dot, that angelically unites us together! (period of a phrase that makes a book the bunjee jump into a place they aren’t prepared to travel, hold still modeled as a king, patiently waiting for the letters that will make this book complete. o make the world outside of letters, sentences, definitions and punctuations, (a place worth beginning, ending, wondering, and stretching open farther than gods smile ushering new definitions our minds may struggle to compete with, our lips shutter boiled to anticipation spending time in) (willing to unwrap the voice box with the sword training beneath)—(where time and space make jokes for teasing our egos, in locations where fragile hands waltz over bad habits and learn how to reach out embedded with so much love the second it grabs hold the waves of verbage

ink sharing the heart beat of passion creates the footprint hitting the air spaces our eyes adjust to and feet aren’t trained to. –with ten filthy fingers destruction meets forgiveness–(it does so in the church of lined paper), the palms constructs the ballroom intimacy has been waiting for, hands held together by love suffer aimlessly through addiction of always being separated, just like the words I wasn’t able to piece together fast enough for my tongue to “replicate, repeat, transfix” dismantle any reason my broken mind.

I found the divorce papers at an age I wasn’t supposed to have memories at, the explanations swerved together the way they would fight after bottles I didn’t know how to count paid for a single nights stay, but the letters hit my ears with a voice that screams similar to the one unheard (by the sun slowly making it’s way down the body of virgin earth burning and knowing only aggresstop withten bubble blown up and sretched father than (the clouds of smoke (spitting across the clean air —- overjoyed with opening eyes now freed from my fathers lungs,) (for every “I love you” comes an activity he hopes will entertain me for moments long enough that leave the glass pipe looking more clean than it did when I found it left on the counter top—
emotions become recognizable in forms of stampedes, illiteracy tramples my essence, I can only associate specific sensations with the variety of colors a rainbow hangs the minute it dominates the border less sky, only emotions that don’t make me feel happy are familiar, smiling faces are everywhere I am to explore so assume any one person lives life aching inside like the beat of all our hearts is a c9 squad unit relentlessly tackling the bars I can see underneath my skin when I stand naked positioned paralleled to the bathroom mirror looking back in time through tunnels in the future that are small where my tears swim out it needs by lips that cursed him with appetite more disgusting than the tall glass beverages (my mother keeps leaving out for me. it smells strong and taste poisonous, I stare into it wondering how something disgusting and equally Innocent by appearance either puts a smile on her or knife in her hand. I associate language, with explaination, the moths of english burn the moment they get close to me so any time I am taught to learn this forbidden art the techniques run away from me and I assume that expression, is an ability I’ll never become familiar with. I do not speak—theletters of the alphabet sleep beside me, they snore (they are heavy, they have been asleep longer than I’ve been their enemy. with heavy exhales, deep breathes cloud the ideas of visuals awaked by letters holding hands before the tiny dot makes you go to far outside my safe zoned, clouds thickers than exhales that I assume are sighs of reliefs as the white coated ghost “fights” it’s way off my father’s mouth, he uses the word love a lot, but he is very cautious and spends an aweful lot of personal time spinning glass back and forth. I just think it looks neat so watch in secret fascination beside the corners of walls this house has too many of. of the ghost glass he way my father used to when…
(because I haven’t learned how to properly greet another person, I silent submerged in a bashful onslaught leaving me to cower behind my mother’s legs or under bed sheets, with them, so sleepless evenings staring face my mother keeps inviting ovefat away but close enough to violate her genitals and leave her days unfiniahed like every sentence I keep trying to write down. as the masculine sun sinks behind the body of our giving earth goddess

-lone wolves smothered against sad eyes their 7 members tribe can’t understand softly wanders beaneth full moon cries for the pain of never sharing “touch” for the woman who removes her clothes
these drunk words rummaged together creating bullshit emotions are mating calls for a partner I may never touch
shared struggles conflict me further as each drunk word rummaged together cries through the moon lit sky, dark enough and under the shining goddess (entirely removed of all clothing, naked, just like I wish my words could be, (I -sickeningly daydream of unreal realities– wish my words written came with clothes, I would undress each letter with patience and closeness, in a way that wouldn’t make them feel violated, but admired/comforted even more from the delicate beauty (punches my eyes forcing to swell and see things from the bigger picture) that comes only from a body ((naked, pure, undamaged, ethereal, whole, complete, precious, magical, tremendous in words only hearts know, eager to share hands, heart beats, breathe and travel in each others dreams)) offered, “naked/empty/pure/” (to another, that will confirm the fleeing thought that my body is beautfiful too. p derobed above to prove intimacy is an privilege denied by millions, the honor soon to be crowned above the sentences unwritten cemented into my towers high enough to overlook the landscapes my desires

the first big word I manage to replicate is “mediocre”. with a blue-inked pen pressed against my palm the way my mother grabs her glasses that are never more than half empty –is “mediocre” –I write it out but can’t color the definition inside the lines of what I hope irgenowithstyleng behind my own back. I enjoy the word for its sound, and how I assume its a lifestyle choice and hope I can aspire to be the greatest mediocre kid

the country we press our feet against is finally getting used to bring unheard, but proudly all trees smothered in leaves whistle love songs and history lessons when. the air breathes in patterns, blood stains still carpet the grass from the genocide few moons possibly cab never hide, the sub hits high noon revealing bloods stains that runs in opposite directions like the ends of my mothers lips that don’t know the road to mistakes and the road of bad habit join together, the crossroads end where her dimples stars caked in noticeable makeup too many shades higher than the skin she keeps trying to manufacture causing the bruises limiting how far her smile can chase

new grass plots act as beauty supplies to tuck away blood stains dropped by genocide

lady earth, beaten down to the place where just being a woman isn’t enough to make you feel beautiful, fresh grass formations cake over the blood stains left behind by genocide, deputy sun helps layer away the ugly spots and meets my mother’s lips in the risky crossroads that direction can never keep up with, even if she smiles, it almost mirror the lack of direction her lips were never given causing the top part to run any place the bottom part is trying to dance with, she doesn’t control them so only comments designed to sneak through paranoid ears are unlocked with the key that meets her lips

I want to touch her face but my hands get dirty by the time she tried to smile me away.

the blood stains from genocide punched her in the face, sun bathing
her top lips struggles to stay above water as the bottom helps the ocean of wreckage rise as all tides are forced to do, her smiles are more broken than bottles she breaks, I know I shouldn’t trust the words she spits, so I get kind of happy when slober races back to the home it never wanted to leave, they stack above her chin slipping down to her breast and to remind her that the way she talks. she attacks ears with the gun of Webster dictionaries

(if I could with words what you do with clenched fists –)

a poem ends abruptly but continues to move off the pages from which you read it