you raise a brightly colored flag,

but you don’t see it hit the top of the pole

because as your hands tug the rope

your eyes are looking at sidewalks and benches,

at the level of others

but no one is around.

with the flag up and a dull wind nudging,

you just stand for a moment and feel

the lack of  meaning in that liquefied area of time.

the feeling of pointlessness is something

you awake from

like a reptitive daydream

about being somewhere else.

again you look to the level of others,

this time with new determination.

the lack of people is urgent,

a vacancy that is uncomfortable.

you lose all patience and drop

to your knees on the crumbly asphalt

that is the surface of the parking lot

where you happen to be.

it’s summer so the pebbles are burning,

they grind deep into your knees and shins,

microscopic rocks.

the company of all those rocks isn’t anything

when it comes to destroying the loneliness you feel.

you roll on the ground with the sting of the roasting

hard little objects pressed onto your body.

you give a sigh that you know is exaggerated.

it gurgles and fades because no one’s around.

Breathless.  Wind.  Two beautiful words that oppose one another.  What opposes is also what defines.  When defined, the Essence is lost.
Waking up, during that first second, there is a blissful heaven of invention.  Language does not yet exist.  The forms and our connection to them or our separation from them are not there yet.
AWAKE:
Breathless.
Wind.

Breathless…is to have no breath, it reminds me of something that it’s not…
Wind…where does it come from?  Why is it the loneliest of all weather patterns?…

Just breathless.  Only wind.

Sure you may have peeped through a keyhole, but have you ever noticed a keyhole looking back at you from across the room with its hollow eyeball?  It waits for a slick and jagged object that hangs from a ring attached to a belt loop to be put into its socket and twisted sideways into a crooked perspective.
Every time a key enters the hole (which is sometimes often and sometimes hardly ever), the hole is never the same again.  The shape of the hole is altered on a sub-atomic level.

Try as they might, children who poke their fingers into the keyhole will never open a door that way.

Once a child experiences the pain of a heavy oak door slamming on their fingers (which it seems they all do), they may stop fussing with the handle, the lock and the empty socket all together.  The door, the suspender of the keyhole, reveals itself to be what it’s always been: impenetrable, opposed to the organic human form, at ease only when clicked shut.

plastic bag stuck to a barb-wired fence
(rusty old thing)
surface billowing from invisible hands
that slap the dust off a kid’s blanket
a loner
a litterbug’s egg
a decomposing leaf
a view of beige dead grass fields
that stretch to the edges of its peripheral
as channels of wind play on its back

Light pierces glass reflects off a face becomes something else a distorted trajectory on the path

“What does it mean,”

(you ask the concept of “paint”)

“to be raking leaves in a forest while wearing tan overalls?”

answer:

“I’ll answer with a question,”

what is a pond,

skimmed surface and chloronated?

Here _ is the Crux of mass and over production

The moss farted.

White guys bled the ocean.

You untethered blimp of potential, flitting to hallway’s corners, areas unshakable by earthquake, ingesting weighty objects of association of feelings, a lone choice, the solace of your meshy, anchor-free, swung wide, self-classified condition.  There, above the underside of a reeking, pity-inducing crevice, with only your self’s servitude simmering socratic symbolism, you find the time never to sleep.  And what is piece to you, if not, upon gaging, a stair above the spotted linoleum floor’s foundation, argument, sexless twin sister of rivalry, shuffler of power, satisfaction’s lonely effigy.   But, whether abstracting, undulating above the cement bed on inaction, pursuing an enclosed offer to no one but alone, sea-sawing, generating submersibal patterns, concluding, marinating in potential of sandstorm, you can’t manage, while managing, the right, the pill of nature, to shed old skin.  Unfathoming countless pencil tics, the me factory gone upwards, those potentials may be stamped into quantification.  Rightfully, with sly mobility of, nonetheless wincing, pergatory’s cartoon agent, reruns, the white noise of dull hum, static defense system, sensory clogs of colored variety, bar genuine query, children’s society.  The conflict, long running, something of a classic breeding, purposes not depth of height, discovery catalogs, elemental, omnipotent, emphathy, but, forthrightly, low waves of safety’s frequencies, emitted habit enforcement, trust dumbers, remembered imagined potential, fizzles and burps a steady win.

somebody had an idea

to force monkeys across the surface

of windy places

where land mines sleep underground

but

it would have been too cruel

* * * * *

A Killer Whale, procured by Marine World from the Indian Ocean,

had the best of lives.

“Martia,” the tank manager named her.

Thousands of pounds of dead fish were fed to her.

The fish even had special vitamins mashed into them.

Everything was taken care for Martia.

Nobody could say for sure why she bit Craig, her trainer.

The good life over, they had no choice but to let her go her own way.

* * * * *

Dogs wear sweaters. Hats. Mittens. Shoes. Sweater vests. Sunglasses. Backpacks. Bibs. Training bras. Fanny packs. Handkerchiefs. Beanies. Watches. Socks. Jean shorts. Swim trunks.

Trust me. I saw a commercial where one ordered some shit online.

I saw that mister.

(Home time coming.)

I’m watching you.  Yes.  You.

(Happiness the cigarettes.)

Quiet!  Excuse me?  Quietly.

(Undo shoes and socks.)

If you could live any place

as any person

within the time of your choice—

(Pray.  Remember pray?)

All I’m saying is please be careful.

Look, please, alright?

(Begin abstract: trillion, potential, spaces.)

How about shhhhh?  Too tired today.

(Fortify.  Structure.  Repeat Strength Words.)

Now, I want you working together in groups.

(Loneliness exempt people: how?)

When we are all listening

we can all—

No, not yet.  I’ll explain.

Please wait I said I’d explain.

(Play the game like record players.)

Would you like to purchase these brand new left-overs?

We have:

Punctual muscle slip-ons,

A, “Please, I don’t want to die-et” audio tape,

Several pairs of celebrity hairs,

The furniture of Peaceful Dreams,

Subconscious wrecking balls,

Toothpastes used by the lonely and oh so outta luck,

Fat-Free Brain Blisters,

Anorexic Lady Bug wagons,

Baffling electronic grade-gap boosters,

Plastic trees,

And Pixel Paradise weekday getaways.

PLEASE DO NOT RETURN