I am the hypocrisy

The bearer of my own
Extension towards what I cannot
understand but me still carry
each of seven faces
balance fourteen holes forward
over this plugged set of word
forms

Ishmael! I am the same I am
The one who wants no desires
a machine that feeds on air
a horrible contrast white
juxtaposing the beauty of black
me my truths’ lies those around
boiling from my skins
each layer pains because pain is
nothing but metalloid arsenic rubbing nothing
digging deep when I find I find my model
has been discontinued
put on back dusty shelves back in the
contemporary thought processes of this locality
this social construct this what we
call reality I am
hypocricy

Rubber souls (all 32 to take the curves through)

Curb chokes back
through throat like DEATHGAMES
the kids with right
pills will make
the right hand write
Collect, cacophony, clatter
our lips wont listen
but will shame while Sun
Taunts a rubber soul
back with the weight of awaking
gravity and sleep kill dreams
Downing hard on a place
Where neck base meets
our bodies disintegrating frame

Cityescapes add race to make the night fly by in ventured course removing moon from sky

Four feet squared

two
citied hearts,
blocks abound,
Filled in
-side walk
around their
in-betweens
a gleam
-ing scratch
spill
fire ants out
their cracks


Rainy days and Mondays

rusted over
grates that
latch,
lead under
-neath earths
brown thatch,
locks round
a drain,
Mondays
slight impair


Yellow time

lines drift
up rock
round corners
dotting out
taillights,
punctuality
vectored in ties
thankful pacing
day dreams,
their schemas
for making
love or
lust.


Shadowed people

under canopy
white, siding
up neighbored
homes, drones
the day
advanced in
its glanced
parturition


Roof rock

tops on
city spaces
side viewed
apertures pastoral
faces gracing lots,
plots of land,
given up
in floods expanses


Noah’s art

stand tall,
soot and full
grain stock
the shelves
preserving, in
numeration
pillars, bound
from linoleums cap
to grey sidings
illuminations, ones
construction supplying
worldly
Salvations.

Festina Lente

for dawn will
find us

among tracks
meaningless lines
among steel
blocks rotting
brothers to
our ancient
gods among
broken glass
and scraps of
printed word

dawn will
rise

from disfigured
black piles resting
beneath gray fog
luster fixated rubber
hearts melting clusters
white curling round
skinny sleek
frames

dawn will
rise

over sickle celled
moon our corrosions
hidden cycles
old and new
a poor mans fall
through dusks
deep blue

big bellies big
night lead us
eyes astray huddle
quite nohomes into
alleyways Over
subways tagged in
epochs wide expanses
that mix up our
nine to five
clocks advances

quite city
searching

will find gates
horned with liquid
tar holding life
huddled in bones
matter to call a home
from creeping down
six feet

twenty-four hours
till next round