hands inherit the memory, large, now, awake to the serial stream. fuck your opinions, small, take more pictures of yourself and share them among the lonely chorus of all these descendants of equal nothing, all of us here expecting something more, all smiling the same frozen horror, forever prepositions, poetry lost in criticism, tomorrow maybe,…

juggle these thin differences up and down and back and forth like, low batteries, low fuel gauges, low balances, empty glasses, pockets, wake up slow fears crawl through dirty thoughts, personal fences erected each morning to be contested. earbuds conceal differences as we stumble past ourselves, one another in the blank delusion, look side to…

distractions are much more welcoming, more present. all moments equidistant, nothing changes: we open our eyes and begin to claw wildly at the immediate sphere, protesting its intrusive nature; the world gets larger, then smaller, atomic indecency. each night presents a familiar struggle, a war that never ceases, only a changing of circumstances. don’t drink,…

short and to the point, an eviction of local demons however friendly, hoever familiar. however many awful things lie in the heart of our hearts, spilling outward this ancient dam bursts, flooding the narrow pathways like tributaries leading back to that capillary temple, the spread of thought, a disease we cannot be rid of. cleansing,…

the crows grew angry with the onset of rain, aligned in fits along the electrical wire, the trees rose from memory, pre-runners, the universal neurons, early dendrites, thoughts that span millenia, expanding elegantly inside a little bubble. 2014sm

there are no masters, only variables, divisors meant to prevent your progress through the arithmetic, to keep the answers unstable. 2014sm

my mind is an asshole always pitting against me perilous loops, paradoxes, false messages from a broken filter that serves some other master, the maker of ultimate entropy my mind is an asshole clogging the days with terror and lies, a deadbeat waiting on a check in the mail meanwhile grooving in lanes of muddy neurology, the…

the dead live forever. alfred hitchcock speaks a slow morbid poem in our room, what of his atomic descendents; are they spread out like dust, nestled in a nerve cell, a tree limb, or are they gone. 2014sm

there is no parallel to the horrorsheld within familiar neuronal roadsthat lead back to birth,the first lines fired and the fates that formedare strange and large decades on. i am a poet firstand a failed human thereafter,well versed in mimicryand vouyerism,watcher of other threadsunwinding in this present loop. would that god come claim this,this that…