introversions: rosetta lobe

i can feel the eye liner running 

down my face

for the white lights

streaming by like 

comets who would round the sun

they are cars and trucks and whatever else

and they'll round 

the world

if their itinerary dictates

i'm perched on

the freeway overpass

i'm a roman centurion

and i can feel 

jupiters eye

in the pit of my stomach

the updraft from the 

traffic ever flowing

we will all return to minerals

one day

but i will return to nothing

and halloween

will be

a word

upon the rosetta stone

crestfallen ants

baby boom

the ever

said nineteen forty-six

how the snarky

my way or byway

drools like catatonia

perpetuum

plays timpani in the ear canal

entrance a color world

decimates itself

like collapsed stars

a john gestures wild

but an intercom voice 

cannot see

loudmouth

of the slop box

for whatever organic anything

just get it right

just read marx or lenin (i'm sure)

just smash the accelerator

of a prius 

and it hums away

middle finger metaphor

how a screaming asshole 

pairs well to

july heat

cracking a human

into the human animal

syntax

become

little things

in our atomic dust mind

of a star

exploding in the black

inkwell

i see

you phosphorescent

in your anesthetic jive

laying naked

and at the centre of your hive

where do our roads go?

it is always rome

and of black forevers

magnetic

to the vapor form

spinning little anathemas

on the radio

brain for entropy 

eardrum for the 

culling song

syntax

in the key of E

introversions: the catalyst

he understands

the descent

it makes sense

grass is simple

as grass is green

and concrete is cold and hard

substratum is self-explanatory

and always

how it ought to be

and trumpets are for entrances

rice for becomings

silence for egresses

but his hands

are strange

how they close into fists

and how they blossom

for reasons not always apparent

the metacarpals

the phalanges the joints the tendons the veins

they are strange

and how they sabotage

his footing

to exist for the fall

and for the ground

rushing up to his face

he understands

the descent in every way

it's the catalyst

that perplexes

he knows 

that he doesn't make sense

and he doesn't care

of a (hell)

she is 

symbolic

severed things

to reveal lava

gushing to the metronome in chest

it is the hell 

behind her coalesced lips

the little inaudible things

the little brink

of release

fluctuating

it is composure

for the damage within

the war of her eyes

and heaven

is an alphonse mucha salt mine 

flooded with rain

and spilling down pleated tapestry

into the sockets of her skull

fountain-esque

i can feel words 

coagulate in my throat

becoming esophageal tissue

and her

of the downward heart

of the body convulsions

the sodium war

of her eyes

i feel this

and i hold her 

because it is all 

that i can think 

to do

measurements

an incomplete

lesser worm

at your feet

aroused

smooth milk white of you

for scissors and saws

and i wonder

where you go

when i breathe

a dirge

and a juxtapose

eats the red lights

plight sight

noir rite 

confection of an 

iris blooming my

rib cage dripping

fire engine red

like bone geometry

measuring the distance

that has always been

between us

gould

the smooth convex of
freckles speckled on white shoulder
foreign as
unmapped venus
he suspects there is
a heart-shaped patch of hair
dyed rose red
below her waist line

but he is not certain

one day we will all atrophy
her little voice box said
and this was true

there exists an acid memory
to devour all short term memory
to know only acidity
a melody spinning like swans
and then into webs

it's always webs

her eyes are open
like second story windows
they're green
but not money green
and not envy
just
green

and she sobs

in a memory
crying how atheists cry
through a telephone receiver
only some thirty miles away
but it might as well have been eons

and deep down he knows

that it was an hourglass

it was never a heart.