Proof of Insomnia

Proof of Insomnia


Fluorescent view through the frustum that just glares
without a luminal idea who cut away its better section
to be part of a better holy society. I was fond of the
gunshot wound since my windows we’re tastefully
dampened by the shorter wavelengths of whatever shines
in the dark. But the bastard window stayed up all night
booze-hounding with the secant lines of the burlesque blinds
still drunk off of last nights moonlight and moonshine.
Flick of the wrist, slap to the prostitute of circadian
rhythms demanding that the cycles stay on intervals
that the pineal gland can understand. All because my
landlord decided to cut off my windows appendages.

V (Months Later)

"Sometimes it is time to revisit things,
Sometimes it is time to ressurect the dead."


V (Months Later)



Why won’t you just
Almost kiss me again?
Why doesn’t the Earth
Just let go of it’s gravity

And let it’s axis fall for
The magnetic field that
Had the reigns all along.
That held the positrons

In your bed, I was in your
Head inside my head, soft.
Plural like winter’s scent,
Unlike the singular tent.

Punctuate, practice on me.
Take the time to take the
Hour glass filled with time.
It is filled with your sand.

Quatrains haunt poems of
Everything that falls away
From things that converge
To my pituitary’s plethora.

Thin whipping into the thick--
Ness of high tide and clay
That I should have just laid
Entrapped in, perfectly plated.

Coincide with the times
Connecting the pieces that
Could collapse your eyes and
Color in the dot of your iris.

The Mesocyclone

The Mesocyclone


The mesocyclone lifts
catacombs you lay beneath.
your skin is pressurized like
porcelain in the atmosphere.

The ceiling embedded with
inhalations deep, then gravity
traveling deeper into countability.
one, two, three, just keep going.

Millibars descending from
the barometer speak like
prophets with biblical names,
they are all quantitative today.

Certainly the keys are fading
from the bombardment of storms
on the shores of countries that
don’t understand her name.

Pen it to the wall in black ink
so that it stains the brick that
these foundations build upon.
don’t look past me or my wind.

Swallow the shards of destruction,
digest the nothingness that can be
the completeness property of us.
carry the exponent to the next digit.

Four to the five, honey dripping
down your spine until it is
copulating with cauda equina.
controlling your convex contours.

The mesocyclone wants more.
it needs more of you and me.
it needs the difference of personality
to perpetuate its utter destruction.





sail as for