rip off and busted egos not face but kind of wrist.

this is how it starts.
six maybe seven tracks and neosporin,
nasal spray and cigarettes.
i sing to you like no one is watching
and in that moment i love myself for it
even though the windows are down and
i am out there in the sense that the scensters
and flairwolves and bros and pros can hear me
as they walk by on their way to whatever it is they
are looking for.

i like car talks and the present
because its a gift and the future
because i like weeks and weaks
and friends and not friends and
flavors and finals but not taking them.

enter the past:
dangerous and dark and grey.
a place that takes the wind out of
sails in dreams and pulls ankles down
when i knew i could fly.

ankles that are too thin and worn
and need five thousand calories a day to keep
up with the weight that can so easily
be lost when the brain moves like my
forty seven-seventeen legs.


nothing poetic about battling.
mustache versus flairwolf
versus you and me and us
and them and prius and prithem.

words that i want to say cant be
put on paper because i dont know
how to say them, or worse, begin
spell them.

ego battles eggos and legos and
robots that i used to build when
wearing a mask wasnt even an
issue let alone an option.

nothing rhymes and im okay with that.
do you hear me? im okay with everything.
im okay with my roomates meeting soulmates
and im more than okay with all night dance parties
and pretending not to laugh because if i didnt pretend
my face would hurt from smiling so much as of late.
because of you.

my shoulders are as narrow as most of your world views
but who am i to judge as i cant even draw iraq from memory.
i am destined to be peter pan the lion tamer but wendy loved
him and he had a much better time than men in suits and suits
and men and men in general. give me my narrow shoulders;
it just gives me an excuse to be a boy.

this is how it is: somewhere along the way i fell...
im not sure how or why or for what reasons but
when i did you came to rescue me. and even if i turned
down the ride i just might love you someday for that.

redcloud-ed

I've heard that there are
two sides to every story.
is this the good side?

haiku (i,you,we know.)

paul schmid disappeared.
in alaska bears eat fish
yey faced eagles fly.



paws for hands he growls
i am the lion tamer.
home safe angels sleep.



warm ponds. trees grow tall.
one block up and five blocks over.
floating loving summer.



desireless. real.
no handed trackstands and such
redcloud wordsmiths skid.



boones for the bike kids.
big bugs do drugs (the bad kind)
dance-off pants-off dawn.



no brakes plastic face.
nice jeans form to lanky frame
live love laugh love more.


in tents at times broke.
a real zen lunatic lives
two down five over.



delicious. cluttered.
reincarnate peter pan.
beautiful chaos.



half moon on its side.
adventure awaits my friend.
finds himself alone.

look behind and see o.

potsmoking proletariat playing on paternal
passions and pixilated parallels; paradigms of
preposterous proportions.

basic entomology: a guide to mondays in the city.

teastick twists.
she incysts, you have a one in three chance
and would never even know it.

i make no apologies for not making apologies.
im sorry.

big bugs do drugs.
red clouds and full moon nights.
i love everyone.
inside jokes. outside vietnam vet
bums cigarette, an unlikely member
of carpool eight.

ride glide slip slide
wine with
a european twist appearing from behind
a pink and yellow and blue zippered door.
head cocked flip flop nintendo dance moves.

they look at me wild eyed with bloodstained
fangs and howl at the moon.

religion as it relates to geometry:regifting the past as an unsoud investment.

small white lights hover in front of big bright lights
at acute angles to the ideal trajectories of
peace and understanding.

hope and bikespokes spill from heartshaped hells of
tomorrow is yesterday and everything means more
than even those who say it.

you have painted yourself into a
room in the wall with a small size door.
two hundred fifteen days become the
two flashing lights half a block ahead
that i will never catch up to.

universal insecurities are little white lies
and a knot beneath your right shoulderblade
and words in paintings and pictures in poetry
and the fears of failures that not trying never made.

universal truth can be found in the innocent ramblings
of corner drunks
and the spraypainted mattresses
and the back alleys
and unnoticed freckles beneath
the lips of obtuse angels sent at odd hours
to save us all.

small white lights hover and
i throw away everything not bad
for me. throw away, delete
everything good.

children hide behind men in tom selleck masks
and flairwolves howl at the moon and the sun and the son
and the father and the holyghost.

change comes from within.
that is to say there is two dollars
and fifteen sense in dimes and nickels and quarters
stuck deep
inside deeper pockets of shallow pants
that these fingers could
not possibly begin to reach.

small white lights hover at acute angles
in a cacophonous comatose dream
spanning the pain of euclidian plains.
this has been a weird weak.

its easier to breathe up here (shallow poem)

zip! zow! love! yow!
hotdog handjob blackrob
you are to he as she is to me.
just be.

glib glug wine jug.
big bugs do drugs.
the bad kind.
words are fun.
fun is done.
the word is mum.

three word. it rains pain
and brains and clogs lanes
with lame kids and nasal congestion.
you really let yourself go.

the fear of intimate connection
and contamination.
not living. living. loving not loving.

dirty air the smell of springbreak.
it will all be over soon.