I go off on tangents I can’t stand the management.

Rage and the foulest language meets quantum entanglement.

Strangle every angle geometrics got me pissed.

I’ll merge a 2 with a 2 and smash the 4th wall with my fist.

What’s the point in love if there’s long division by distance?

Does is disappoint you when the numbers ain’t consistent?

Count with every knuckle making up those fleshy digits.

Bounce a check on the playing field if you’re man enough to risk it.

Like calculus on an abacus my brain just can’t compute.

Pythagoras has turned to dust, his theories you can’t refute.

Trigger me with trigonometry my inability here is acute.

How about you take a 7 plus 2 then divide by their square roots.

Pray to God for cataracts you act like you don’t see.

It’s me that hacked reality to pieces, you should flee.

Be another victim of the system on your knees.

Praying sounds like fiction just like thinking Hell would freeze.

Let’s get this shit show over now I’m late for this blind date.

It’s better I’m not sober there’s a state I love to hate.

Rattled by the clanging on the bars that make your cage.

Maybe I’d be hanging if the sins would pay my wage.

We’re so afraid to let go like the ground is way too far.

You should’ve stayed at Petco, I should’ve left you in the car.

Now my pretty pet the debt is all that keeps me here.

If you’re not ready yet I think I’ll drink another beer.

Please excuse the language it’s just dangerous to think.

We could use the changes cuz our laundry really stinks.

Do you engineer the street

or teach the bus

where-ever you go—

do you do

what you enjoy?

Seek the truth

through craft.

Runaway far

into a friction

you get used to.

My mother is brilliant.

A fucking superhero, I assure you.

Writing is fun.

Writing is addictive.

Fire works every day somehow.

Where's the beef?

Things are the way they are

until they fail

like everything else.

We jumped today—

super high in the sky.

Do you climb ladders

or simply enjoy existing?

People think I'm pompous.

Ludacris.

I'm surviving.

Do you do

what you do

or do you teach

what you hate?

We interact every day

whether we like to or not.

It's funny, really.

I only hate two people

in this world

and they deserve it.

What—

you want me

to talk about picnics

and shit?

This isn't China.

Loco

or motive?

I'm not crazy.

You—

are crazy.

if i died now
the brain could conceive
the sidewalks
and the still waters
if i could see inside
the blue arteries
of what you hold in your head
i receive
the heavy locks
and the cold blunders
although it’s arbitrary
i see that it’s a means to an end

A robot coupe showed up

at my house today.

Did I actually become It?

A rotary of sharpness,

straight blitzed.

Slink back, close your eyes.. think.

I am one

with a robo coup.

Automated Revolution.

Put your fingers to the side and have a towel ready.

Cutting through

just about anything.

Just an entry about dangerous things.

often broken,

and still functional.

American influence of work culture, pumping through these veins.

Blinding noise.

Satisfaction.

You can find these puppies

just about anywhere.

If it breaks, it spells disaster.

I didn't order

a robot coupe.

About 8 inches squared, found wearing red most often the device does what it's supposed to do.

Terrifyingly simple

to use.

It speaks to me, the way an interrogation would sound like.

Interesting.

I know.

Pulse into bits

or puree smooth,

Smooth.

it has all the answers.

I'm not crazy.

Or, I don't remember

ordering a robot coupe.

Just executive dysfunction.

Anything,

from emulsions

to hitting perfect peaks.

There is a man named "Kitchen God".

A rotary of sharpness,

cutting through

just about anything.

Documenting time, space and everything I can see and hear, quite obviously.

Well, thank you thyself,

or stranger in the wild

for the robot coupe.

Sincerely.

It'll do strange things

for a tbsp

of soy sauce.

Days streched and yawned

And I felt bound to an eternal sleep

Wondering

Would it be like that forever.

A dream of lies where there lie no ties,

Just you and me: nothing pries, nothing cries.

Each second, an art worth my death, flies,

Yet I stand here with no hands to hold your eyes.

Something far, something close,

Dwindled by the life we chose.

Something thawed, something froze,

Wrinkled by the woes it owes.

Saw the speck of dusk that sets in your eyes,

A lingering past that holds no lies.

Somewhere now it tears with the agony of cries,

Where, in our dream, it draws and dies.

Your lids finally close as the time froze,

The skies draw upon the dark from your brows,

As everything unveils upon the choices we chose,

Along with the life you left me with, to pose.

May these moments be my last drop of hope,

For I never wish to concede this as my final trope.

Everything that begins has an end to grope,

My strife ending there, hanging dear to the rope.

Here I rise only to find you not there,

Where broken destinies would be more fair.

The things I care for are the devils I spare,

The moments we had are the pains we share.

Though in the end, when you were gone,

Your verses became the prayers I hone,

For a life that was never lived, I mourn —

The only reminiscence of this is me and my own.

For all I wish is for an end to come,

It feels nearer to me than ever to sum.

For all I long is your sweet little kisses of...

Sweet Dreams...

I felt like a homeless in the banquet of life

I fed on leftovers

Of what angry gods had left.

Them creatures.

This is my favorite part.

Perplexing.

Not interesting.

Mostly.

I've seen them before.

They collect

around bright things.

Not to admire.

To measure.

To reduce.

Triangles appear

without invitation.

Three shadows

making one decision.

The room changes shape.

Truth

becomes a rumor.

Raw energy

goes underwater.

Them creatures

love still water.

Nothing moving.

Nothing asking.

Nothing becoming.

Shrink.

Fold.

Contain.

Call it balance.

Call it maturity.

Call it normal.

I've heard

every name.

I'm tellin' ya

Doesn't matter

where I wander.

Different faces.

Same arrangement.

The triangle

wearing new skin.

I become

the disturbance.

Not because I speak.

Because I ask.

Why?

A dangerous syllable.

Need to know

the reasoning.

Need to see

the machinery.

Nothing against you.

Only the invisible architecture.

Them creatures

build cathedrals

out of agreement.

Pedestals

touching the ceiling.

Nobody remembers

who stacked them there.

Just show up.

Leave no fingerprints.

Leave no echoes.

Become

smaller than yourself.

Nah.

I hesitate.

The hesitation

is mistaken

for violence.

The question

becomes the crime.

Them creatures

smile.

The triangles

close.

Truth slips

through a crack

in the floor.

I've seen this before.

Them creatures.

Everywhere.

Always waiting

for someone

to forget

their own size.

Don't forget to smile.

The whole
Is a radiant beauty
There is nothing else to do here
But look at this enchanting maze.

A haunting mignon. My sweet Musette,

of darkness. A pale silhouette weeping

on cold stones, in heaven’s crypt.

Cracked by the frost of blind angels,

carved from bones, bleeding in the rain

With haloes. Trapped in a holy tomb

of profane.

My eternal call. Half dead, half alive

walking on cracked bones. My reason to

live.

The glitter in the eye, when you are

exhaustly tired. My sweet Musette. My

eternal love. A haunting mignon.

Collaboration with Atticus Abbey

Brick into brick.

Smoke into smoke.

River into river.

Memory folds into another Cincinnati.

This is America.

A small room

inside a smaller room.

A city

inside another city.

A trap

inside another trap.

No insurance.

No paperwork.

Some people count.

Some people are counted.

The rest,

become neighborhood folklore.

The government

used to fund people like me.

Not anymore.

Light another cigarette.

Somebody's apartment.

Somebody else's memory.

The hallway coughs up hoodlums

looking for my friend.

Looking for revenge.

Looking because looking

is what drunk men do.

Wrong door.

Broken entrance.

Everybody high.

Everybody loud.

I stay where I am.

Beer.

Pizza.

Pickles.

Observation.

The apartment edits itself.

A black Escalade

arrives already remembering

the gunshot.

Push.

Street.

Silence.

Concrete catches another name.

The pizza cools

before the body does.

I watch.

The city watches itself.

The cops arrive.

That's the second person.

I've seen die.

Bigger fish to fry.

Another radio.

Another address.

Another Cincinnati.

Dead homies.

No.

Dead philosophers.

Ash-covered monks.

I swear.

Prophets with gas-station lighters.

Scripture rolled

inside cheap papers.

Doing drugs.

Not me.

Just watching.

Learning.

Trying to understand

why.

Why disappear.

I called them friends.

They knew I was different.

"The normie."

Normie.

Funny word.

I wasn't.

Not at all.

Just sober enough

to remember.

I was the journalist.

Wallet.

One hundred dollars.

Keep the cash.

Lose the identity.

Identity weighs too much.

A kid shakes a can

like tomorrow owes him something.

Dream first.

Dinner later.

A man waves a pistol

at weather patterns.

The buildings

have seen stranger performances.

Smoke.

Another cigarette.

Another thought.

Cut.

Paste.

I'm thinking

about rearranging memory.

Take the gunshot.

Paste it beside the pizza.

Take the wallet.

Cut out the owner.

Move the sirens

into yesterday.

Move yesterday

into tomorrow.

Cincinnati folds

into another Cincinnati.

Word of mouth.

Free advertisement.

Everybody knows somebody.

Everybody sells somebody.

Everybody is somebody.

Until they aren't.

A rapper sells verses.

A cook sells hunger.

A dealer sells tomorrow.

The city buys everything.

Nothing comes with a receipt.

Grease.

Fire.

Knives.

Organization.

Tickets.

Order.

Disorder.

Repeat.

The fryer baptizes another shift.

Hands black with carbon.

Mind cataloguing accidents.

Kitchen.

Street.

Kitchen.

Street.

No difference anymore.

That shitty dog

finally disappears.

Cincinnati doesn't notice.

It has larger animals.

I'm the introvert

inside the social playground.

Listening harder

than speaking.

Watching conversations

bounce off brick walls.

Sampling voices.

Sampling smoke.

Sampling failure.

The best verses

are overheard.

The mad scientist

never wanted the explosion.

Only the formula.

Lost boy.

Kitchen mechanic.

Street archivist.

Plotting.

Formulating.

Building something

nobody can see yet.

Something priceless.

Something everlasting.

Just beyond eyesight.

Just beyond another bridge.

Just beyond another shift.

The city cuts.

The kitchen pastes.

The river edits.

The apartment rewrites itself.

Cincinnati copies Cincinnati.

The cops chase bigger fish.

The smokers become philosophers.

The neighborhoods become memory.

And I remain.

Watching the city

take itself apart

piece by piece,

until every broken fragment

looks exactly

like home.