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Heat Death

This is when the universe is no longer able to perform work. It’s an absolutely terrible shaking. They all start at the same point and then they move away. History calls this an explosion. I got my first real haircut in two years just a day or so ago and I tipped the barber too much I thought it so nice the way she washed my hair; squeezed the water out of it after with both hands. She ran both palms flat with fingers flexed over my scalp flattening the water out over and over again my blood felt hot and I let out a soft sound. Science describes an endless space and the endless movement and expansion of the space, already endless, getting inexplicably more endless with each passing moment; the arrow of time. In the early universe before cosmic inflation energy was universally located and thus in this period was similar to state of its eventual death. They look the same but they are very different because things only matter in a situation where stability is possible. One has to work, you must work, you really must work, work hard to have worked, work to make sure you know how to work still, work to remember what the end of work feels like work to continue the great build. It’s so important that you have more than you previously thought. Your ability to wake up in the morning will treat you as a light gas and with time you will feel less of it. Your breath will taste warmer; your bones will only hurt more than they do now in fact this is the least they will ever hurt if you forget about all of the past. Ape you have red lights. My books are bent for your in-jokes and the wet tip of your dick. No one gets to be like you. Building things for another time, parliamentary, just. There’s a boy in New York City who loves you.

TO CALL YOU BACK; Sweating in clothes I decide to embrace the receding calm and reach out for more sand to pull, sliding into the frothing gulf in chance that there may exist a companion to join me in sifting through the glass bits and foam. The case in my head is bending now when pointed and not numb. The little pieces hug rapidly and call into the larger dark hungry and afraid of being fed another dead meal. The skin is hot; there's air in my eyes. I learned I won't lose my grip; means it'll only lax when broken. I learned it weakens; means I have to grow more blood until not enough. I learned they can leave too; means I can't ever stay. TO FALL THE WHOLE WAY; What is it we are in this great shit, sitting elbow-to-nose under racist patrols getting off at Great Jones and then stopped and then frisked and then kicked in the heat and arrested for pot. Out of men with a father-like charm and a bait and a switch who is looking to coup from the top of the world will it bring the banks home or bring the money back? Look at Brazil. I've eaten, I mean, these clothes were made by slaves so you could say I've eaten, though I believe the ingredients list was mistaken or straight up lies. Which reminds me of the time when I looked in your eyes and you said you'd come back but you didn't show up so I went to Vermont and got bugs in my neck and I spent all my cash so I locked up my bike on the side of the road and then hitched a train back and arrived in New York to try to get rid of it. And got fucked in the ass by a dyke from Connecticut. That's the end of it. DON'T WAIT UP.

This is a guess; I'd have a simpler time not standing. Who now that string-heart has been snapped & history no longer exists but as fracture support will I get to give to my tired eyes? How many starts happen or can. Is there an angle or groove at which one can continue to fall beyond the straining arm digging for at least most of forever - or does the feeling of a lonely death predate its own occurrence to get comfortable. Or does the feeling of a young pulling need deserve its flat-faced scowl in a maturing death long before it receives one. Who am I in the wind tunnel but a blower lacking someone to watch the glow slowly fade from.

i was a little freaked out by the way they asked me to adjust to their cold demeanor so they threw my wallet in the path of the bus. Dry ass corporate fucks wrung out & run circles round the rest of us just nodding in the rain. Thinking there's better than this, i'm sure there's probably less pain on the south side. So we get up & move. You know, it would behoove us to stand our ground one of these times. Like Argentina, Mexico & Indonesia singing "No, no sir, this is my daddy's land, you'll have to rent a favela." Or come back where you came from, rubbing two coins together under your nose until it makes you- I reconnected with an old girlfriend & she said "where's your head been?" & I said "lonely & dumb." I made her sweat she said "I need you to cum." I feel alone inside my body; company makes it fun. I need help. Mostly no one's noticing my manic juices flowing so it's easy not to eat or sleep and keep the poems going. Either it hurts to stop or hurts to get started; either way I'm pretty sure I was raised to be retarded like my mom's medications makes her dumber every day. She thought I was going on vacation when I moved away. And my dad gets mad, says shit that just embarrasses her. I wonder if the rhythmic pattern of his words molded my character & broke something inside I didn't notice. Something small & fragile with exponential consequences. He made me feel so small that growth was used as my defense. The kind of slight that stays in you. I'm not gay Dad, I just like thinking my attitude's bad plus I suck dick & have a lot of opinions. But I don't honestly want to die I want to be left alone & be around you people all the time. & you could come back from Viet Nam & live in the states. Is that so hard? You made it so easy when you said you loved me too & then you packed up again & moved. The land is long.

I am each age: I am starving & some strength & I am well- willed & the dust of lions- I am indigenous you are worldchangers & I have a white patch & I have liquid feet & trouble I don’t feel good anymore Once I don’t feel good anymore. Again I have trouble. Fit yoursel f into real land & you’ll feel how There is dust there are flies & instead there is wood everywhere.

paternia

The dabbling fish typically nest in tidal nowhere locations/deep in creased mud; I find two natural friends in the way to the sea. The city that slowly leaves and glows through the hills is thinking hard/cannot attract the kinds of friends I have. There are two of us wrangling through switchgrass. Words of home are like bright thoughtful birds amongst sheets of sky when in the dark nest; where am I & is that place the most empty/it is packed with two brains thinking. A spark is a child/do I make a completely new thought just by blinking/we keep rings around our eyes. We make a hurt smile with two people in it. The city cannot think & has not sit since it woke up. I felt its wires when digging in damp earth; I met earth with damp hands & reached until shoulder for new fish. I lost my friends in damp grass & with hands covered in scales. There is always a humming.