as yet untitled

Great strokes of laughter echo and bend.
the head will look at dollars and see bodies.
the head looks at itself and sees no dollars,
and it knows that dollars aren’t it at all.

nothing is worth itself, itself worth nothing.
these heads have seen themselves cut up and used up and scattered in the grass.
they’ve seen themselves grow back tangled and new,
they’ve seen nothing and they’ve seen that.
They know what comes and what will pass.

the broken people in my head have shattered beauty. That
which they starve for doesn’t even know itself. To them,
the beautiful are all born with ease and grace and nothing.
they look at beauty nothing and make of it love. Their ideas
of the tragic broken beautiful are nothing, empty thought.
and light silhouettes beauty against the trees,
and beauty falls down graceless,
its head on the floor.
everything dim and it lays there
all the more beautiful.

but the people in my head recognize non of this.
they implode at suggestions of greatness. Every time
they watch themselves grow back from nothing,
every new self they witness, every birth,
only convinces them further of death.
at every birth
they loose more of themself.

terrified of stable images they recognize nothing,
in awe of horrific love they fail even to cry.
silhouetted against eternal potential and possibility,
the glorified children in my head falter instead,
and walk themselves awake into another end.
they denounce every moment of every past life.

terrified of wasted time, they decide instead to deny all
motion and to sleep inside themselves.
and in the finite escape, the false escape that belongs to no one,
the sleeping waking medication escape, the children in my
head sit down contentedly and speak to themselves.
they whisper, “I am back on the bottom again,
I am back to nothing. I have unbloomed, I have made of myself
the ground and the floor.
I no longer have mercy for beauty,
I am pacified.
I have returned to nowhere. I sit now on falsities,
I feel now a false veneer. Nothing is abrasive.”

and afterwards they fall far down and come to their minds again.
when they drop hard they don’t even know what the real image of anything is,
they look back upon their lives confused.
every single past moment is fractured into states of mind and levels of clarity.
in the past they will find nothing and throw it all against a wall.

to them the only self anymore is the body
and the long-seeming general sense of a person.
a person of which they know little, know nothing.

a great horizon of blending mixed half-remembrances at their back,
faces and partial memories, a childhood that
plays itself out without color.
and in this series of broken mirrors,
I ask myself,

which one is me?
I read from my sense of myself,
and fail to see how
I can point to a thing and believe.
I recognize not the
words and gestures
that are said to be mine.

looking at love I realize I am looking at the sun,
I look at my hands and try to smile and try to weep,
and then I remember slowly in shades of black
that I am not allowed to look at the sun.
that I will go blind.

in my dreams, I sit in rooms
and tell myself to remember my dreams.
I don’t know what the real image of anything is.
I let myself rise again to the bottom of my mind,
I lay down amongst the children in my head,
and I unbloom. I am pacified and motionless.
nothing is abrasive while the children, the children
cover me and assure me that I am in my mind.
the children assure me that all the images are real.
and as the children return me to the untrue I feel myself heavy,
I feel surrounded by air and by a false veneer.
I feel myself sink to heaven, and disassociated I
see mirrors everywhere. Everything projected is fast,
everything projected is weak. The children convince me that I do
not know my face, they make of my hands frail nothing.
they push my head into the air.
and they tell me how to listen to nothing and make of it sound,
they make of my mind and unfixed thing. They shake the windowpanes,
and I seem frail as they twitch.
so, feeling honest and incoherent, I sleep.

I awake and don’t know the real image of anything.
and then, in great strokes of laughter, I see myself.
I see beauty and it makes of itself pieces.
when I see love it is silhouetted against the sun.

and imagining themselves whole, the people in my head
deny great possibility.
the broken pieces in my head have no idea of themselves,
they look at beauty and see it cracked.

when I open my eyes I make of myself nothing.
so I close them and try to make of myself something,
but all I feel are angular hollow peaks and ridges. I feel cavernous immensities.
I feel resonating waves, I feel noise, I feel an overbearing uncertainty.

and when I hold my breath to make of myself something, I falter,
I feel that there is no time, I feel small and unable to stand. And I see what I have always
known, they when I lay my head on the ground and feel nothing under me,I resist myself,
and I stand on myself.

but with blended mixed remembrances, faces and great strokes
of bent words and confused desire.
out without color and our from this series,
the half mind will watch.
itself is me-I read myself and fail to see.
their heads won’t even look at my hands, gestures.
looking at my head it looks at itself and sees
no dollars, and the darkness I’m not
intended to see.

darkness shattered broken pieced to death.
nothing has worth, I sit in rooms and
tell myself to remember.
cut up and used up and spread into skin
and I don’t know a real sun.
the images cut with lines, tangled
and new.

and half of me is all for their grand claims of love.
but they find none of their ideas in my head,
They stop and look with my eyes and try to recognize
a person
but they see many,
they see more than numbers,
here, they see that they are a part,
a momentary part,
so I show them.

here, here are all the less loved, here are the finite.
a greatness all undone, the fault of none.
what are these half memories,
what is a childhood filled with bodies.
I recognize or see that today tells me to point
at a thing and believe.
and, in love, I know I am looking at the sun.
and in the sun I see all of us to come.

a transparent system of children

Surrounded by light and trampled here under
the children in my head
feel like champions of all gods.
screaming with ease and careless abandon as they conclude.
they know not how to admit the façade baseness
of the thoughts in their minds.
and with their fear of things they can predict a time
of slow death nothing, of slow dead paralysis.

small space confused and surrounded. Surrounded by
likewise thoughts, by statements, proclamations of self.
what they have they will never hear of through the screams of their bodies,
their confused and padded heads.

and those childhood strikes and blows made against the self,
by the end they won’t even know their fathers and mothers or their failures.
keeping corpses around as a reminder of the day,
the day which I cannot stand.

smoke drips out the mouths of the dead
while their parents scream.

they say they have kissed their smoked filled mouths, the taste of yellow dreams,
and all the twisted fingers.
they saw hands growing up towards yellow desires, towards
the faded promises of youth.
they saw children left alone to linger.
children left on the floor, left serious.
and parents have seen the lines, the ground that spreads.
the children, the drugs, the ground.
let them give you their dollars while they kill young heads.
parents are free with no mind
they’re free with all the minds on record.
and they say we must break repeatedly, desperate for sickness.
they say they are here, but they are free and worn thin.

disassociating with arms and legs and hands
now it is closing in.

and the splinters,
what can be embraced of pieces.
a splinter has no body and no place.
and she likes all this, this of a thousand pieces.
it’s a sick as who knows.

and he who makes himself unmb to the complacency that creeps
up the body, he feels like nothing.
he has no body has no place, here he is.
here they are.

by angles their feet grown down into the earth.
they remember what they do own,
what they saw on television.
they carry around their own selves.

and the smoke makes lines in their heads,
thin yellow lines.
and these broken lines, these lines drawn between children,
between the dead, these lines grow to nothing.

and our father will make solid the ground,
as they recite they create.

they say, move the culture against the children, against our terrible pride.
against that childhood state on the verge of god.
provide every youth with footing,
give them years in a field to make in them a thirst for parents.

fathers predict all crowded and pooled and wise,
they foresee a great transparent system of children.
children on the floor, cut up line by line.

they foresee minds that will destroy themselves in
fits of repetition and fits of sickness.
children writing on the floor,
full of their father’s potential and excess.

that from which the children come makes in them a void.

but the children are all swimming in too small space.
I see hands and teeth, ease and careless abandon.
the children all sing,
“to medicate everything, I’m beginning to throw myself
onto walls. The takers gain nothing in the end when we
reach our climax. Our cyclical climax. Relations now
angular and rooted, floating in me. Floating to that from
which I have come. I feel like I am the loss. That which
I remember, I own. This opposition of conflict leaves
me in a state tired & disoriented, with a walking
sleeping stuck on nothing-stuck on the ground sort of
mind. The ground is burning. My childhood is burning.
I feel great proclamations of worth all swept into nothing.

from my own mind, my childhood is burning away.”

I foresee a great transparent system of children
that will make of itself progress.
that will one day see itself
in all its transparency.

they will see, though dimly, their machinations.

they will watch their hands as they tear apart
what they see in themselves, what is seen.

they will run and grasp at their great transparent system.
I foresee a great unraveling, I foresee exposed walls,
I foresee no children.

A childhood burning, all descending into a sudden
screaming and daunting conclusion,
all of use to come with our numbness
surrounded by process.
so we walk pulling behind our past moments.

and the children say, they believe,

“I will grab and kill my own
corpse, and hers and theirs.

and we,
we begin to see-”

elegy

I will melt on the people, the people people all the people
with holy dripping stillness that slides right
side up

I will melt on the sort that go and see,
I will melt on the wall paper people,
definitions stuffed down throats into hearts

I will live in the folds of horizons, and all things non-
withstanding I shall find ways to move and spill
and form the people

their who’s who formations,
the long dead order

the broken canvas people the dead window people the
news people the no more people

constantly becoming becoming into dust

I will melt on the no more people under suns that grow and
spread

and what are hands up against them,
the sun people, the sun.

sun children watching themselves in shadows on the shore
at dusk

the sun children will melt on me

the sun children will melt on me at dusk beaches of their
own choosing

dusk runs into sand into water into me.
the sun is up.

Maddening kinds of women now,
foreign and decimated, closed-nothing.
and what of me do they allow?

with our medication, nature begins to undo sunlight.
with our medication we can still get paid.
of course my currency isn’t the modern self.
the modern psyche-made.
and what of me is but a building?

original and nothing to sing,
maddening kinds of people now.
nothing to mind or disavow,
“blame,blame, we won’t create again,” the people lean.
liberated with lost minds composed of things to kill,
and what of me do they allow?
daunting even still.

but the whole will remain as structures.
broken to do, to say, to cling.
shook and pushed by the society.
with our medications, the society.
people are structures, the society.
medicated structures.
today will be fine, but how?

maddening kinds of constructions now.
the finality of the unfinished.
bulletholes are really just
and thing in the mind. A thing.

maddening men who sit or stand tall avow,
the structures are nothing, an early spring.
and today is another, but how?
the sunlight assumptions, the society.
the way they say, the society.

so these sunlit finalities,
these sunlit finalities are just
constructions.

and our sunlight medications are just
constructions.

mediocrity now,
and what of me do I allow?

to be drowsily like a father

the base lethargy, reinforced
paternal drowsiness caused by ancestral intoxication, drowsy.
one of the three debts-to stagger like a drunk a man
the other two being-to behave like an opiate or a person
from which, with a pin, he is freed when he begets a son
to be drowsily like a father
owing to intoxication
a father figure,respected, revered,
to lament irritatedly
the world of fathers and of the deceased, presses crushes and kills for consent

the rights are performed flaccidly on the fifteenth day
of the dark soft fortnight
of the month of over ripe soft
which marks farewell to the son
formed for the gratification of the father
patriarchs rendered flaccid soft
patricide enough to make a boy drink,
or to administer bilious threats-
evil spirited sons who speak ill
cliched slanderers
to be ground
to be powdered
to be pressed.

the mountains artificial

our indifferences that slip up under the titans of our imagined like streets are
the mountains artificial-they just crawl back odd and lacking method,sick,
or flaunt bomb superstitions,
they speak in depraved tones of their own selves from their seats
but nothing is heard over the wail of want and repeat

who can see the skin of nations running down into water
it pays it paid it is paid in the end over the fight of arms and leg's land
tripping falling looking up from the leaves
who knew who knew that the lips were covered in tress and

the mountains artificial, the tensions of every their own-minds all impressions
a dead head end up red and black and all the colors of the sun

we pass or jump or make a line
and you looked good to yourself-everything you said,with all your encompassing,
all the world was lovely,fine,
and another childhood as such,
glass in tall ghosts and effort dead in the streets, you don't speak,
laying there starting up at not much,
dreamt far spreading cracks and attainable peaks

there

there, you pointed & said,
"illumintated rooftops, & machinery mouths with syntax teeth,
& the sickened deathmasks of opened minds in reverie-
brains cold and gray reaching for the brim of their skulls,
and the drop."

there on the platform and alight we dance
into your bodily manifestation of skinless fingers peeling back through time
& you become the cries of your skin
& you skin is over my eyes

on the train i sat and watched radio signals
and radioactivity drip back through time
you watched the train backs of heads
as they stumbled to the forefront, before themselves,
as they fall back to the telephone, back to themself

them dead and, leave you cannot leave,
they've got nothing but time to
wait for unchanging edges

they left you an indefinite and hindering simmer
as they walk back with everything

you are, out of spite, stagnant, and
through thick windows
above the rain and above
you will melt on the people
the people people all the people

and the dying-
the train people
backs of heads exploding
seats almost torn apart-

and then crash and death and the smell
the twist and stillness
the stutter of arms and of faces
the whole movement cut and over
feet drag off and we are left
them gone and done, you, large eyed and inside
i am here but

but dictations are good and loose and long
and we have eyes to exploit
and under night, at dying altars
at quiet long burnings
we get lost on skin and streetsigns
and eyes,
lost without names, lost
on trees that are parallel and sit
you lose your regard for hands and feet and mind
and become a sculpture, dripping old until
like statues the bodies stand and walk and have conversations

conversations burning apart train cars
but you watched them in your thoughts,
in your head
avoid any baby arm cradled dead,

there's still no direction to their eyes
they say they don't know what they want from books
they know that you saw them get up dead
but the boys in my head fight and fuck on highways anyway

and they're telling me what they want
and that i can't understand what they say-
chewed out of their mouths and spit on pavement
they've realized that they have time and they know already,
they've told me that they know, that they know the only thing people really know anymore

and in my head they looked up at the sky and said,
"we will melt on the people, the concrete people. people people all the people."
and ran off into their own sons

so i ran and it felt fast to me
and i turned and told them,
"the slow and the old are waiting for you, knowing what you wanted-
i knew in my head what my mind threw aside,
but there will be others to tear apart wallpaper and make
the noise and feel the shake and the greatness of it,

and run, run."

ovens

monday’s killer’s mumbled mouth said,
“the shirtsleeves of folly are long and unstable
like airplane discussions-
interjecting bombs dropped out of my skull-
fear ruined my visions in tears, and all 10,000
shot into nothing by words too tethered to our bombs,
let me help you crumble down & old.”
10,000 dead tapes say.
officials quoted,
“DEVASTATION, TELEVISION CHOICES-
the doors to which the criminal retreated
led up government chimneys…”
most journalists ran after, saying,
“-will proceed-said they would
open lines along closed, and other,
parts of nations.
tens of thousands of gun children have
been sucked into expectations. They stumble
inward valued in paper and business suit drugs.
the hidden book burning minds, they are the television.”
in small windowless towns
street clash words spread quickly to
the surrounding walls and countryside. military leader quoted
“no aheads with this con, many areas ended, useless
completely, cemented refugees grip-scavenging-”
in those neighborhoods
the roof death tolls become coherent. in
the dusk above, the sky speaks of guilt
and smokestack holiness. the president said,
“failed measures. let me be young
because I will skin alive
gray beard god.
cut my eyes out of this no place.”