the house in the middle of the street, really

tropical sized bush meat
here and here, up there, up there
tropical wild hairy moss before a cave
swimming into coral reefs
it's the lost and found
coming together in a foreign land
piece by piece, aggravating every cell
life is now the collective dull
training shoes lift the blues in the dank Motel 6
try everybody
you'll like it
surrounded by a sea of despair and dissappointment to never disappear,
at least in your lifetime, they all like to think
on this island where truth mets no hope and cattle are non-existent
people have learned to think like this, they were always thinking about
somthing relevant during their whole lives
they had noticed the trees and the the earth below their feet their entire lives
they would always, without relent, sratch at the earth for the days in their lives
these were and are lives that know truth and some know what to do, while others, I'm sure,
don't
were are the others with these truths?
why me?
why am I here?
I can't feel myself.
I can't feel myself.
I tried.
I did. I tried my best.
It's just too hard. I'm so alone.
I am almost going to try stretching out to hit the very next anything I can
loose my already lost mind to
always jumping, never floating
trains go by, but without a sound, while every house nearby lit on and off
persistently so
static snakes around all things in the universe,
it drowns everything out
charades run throughout the humble artist's town
rush past the cruel neighbor's house
trying to hide their eyes while they think about their pride
home in the middle of the block is just home
I don't recall whether I hated it or not at some or all points of life there
I wish now that I could go back though
many people have hobbies and so does she
she would always make deranged pictures with elves, gremlins, and other
made-up creatures
she would shows these drafts of hers to her various gym teachers
most of them encouraged her to keep drawing, no matter what
so she did, but she always keeps losing it and replacing her time with
harsher things


front title?

slip easy
try to breeze me
breeze is already here, simple and complete
not hard or fast
bits of weed conducting inside of me
how strange this pleasure is
although not the filler for life
neither one
what was it then?
or what is it then?
alway with the questions, but most flutter in your mind
few reach the surface to breathe
true, it is impossible for all of them to survive
but there is a dark notch in the slowly decaying tree in the unknown, strange field
over there
the notch grows darker as the sky grows faster
and darker