SPRING 2022

4:10:2022
This is how jazz is meant to be listened to: 
Scrambled, 
caught in glimpses in between a million other voices. 
Caught between glimpses and a million other choices.
I don't know what any of it really means, 
whatever that means; 
I just shout "yeah" like I'm in church, 
Just shout "yeah" to feel the current running through me. 
Talk to someone I've never met about something that feels relevant to me, 
tune back in and it's like I never left the wall of dollar bills 
so deliberately messy 
I can't tell when the tradition started 
and where the myth begins, 
and there you are,
for one scrap of moment—
here—here—here.

5/12/2022
This game will turn your insides out: 
Gut you like the lunatic you are, or worse—
you die. 
The death of a structure— not you—
but you dies. 
Time tells because there isn't a difference between timing and telling, m
speaking and being. 
And speaking of being, 
I am because I say so. 
And so it is written, so let it be done. 
The speech is what lets it be done! 
The time is what tells you to be! 
What do you think happens in between all those seconds, in the time 
that it takes for the second hand 
to jerk its twitching knee? 
And where does that leave you and me? 
Where can I find a time 
outside of space's own decay; 
a place outside of time's delay? 
To say is to mean is to be—
which is another way to say 
that petty displays such as inside and out
will all fold by the end of the game. 

6:2:2022
Where was I? 
Where has it been? 
Through memory's imperfections, 
past versions of you become wiser in ways we can only ever dare reconstruct 
Far too long after the fact. 
Have you ever caught your self prophesizing?
 I think that I'm beginning to cut down on the lag time, 
recognize my self during the commercial breaks:
eyes glazed over, surrounded by millions of alibis, the luckiest person alive 
Because she might as well have invented the word for luck herself.
Of course, she had to have plucked it off of somebody— 
she's been a beggar ever  since she understood that 
the Current could be exchanged that way:
spell-bound, hungry-eyed, slack-jawed. 
What do you mean when you say that something "figures"?
Help me understand It; what does it mean to figure my own understanding; 
what does it mean to understand? 
And how could I have been anywhere else 
Than wherever the hell that I am? 

6:8:2022
I guess I'm at the age 
Where I can't tell anyone's age,
Where we've all aged out of aging 
because we know 
Exactly where we're headed some day.
Some look old and dress young, 
Others do the opposite;
people like me fit in somewhere in between 
Because we only remember our age 
after someone none the wiser
makes a reference that we'll 
never understand— 
too young; too old— and we will 
never understand it anyhow. 
I've got some years behind me, 
but that's isn't really saying much.
And I've got some years ahead of me, too,
but not yet— nothing yet. 
And so I regret the future for escaping me 
and I commit murder to most of my memories and eventually, 
somewhere along the way, all became 
the exact same age: 
somewhere between the Earth and Sky, alive before we die. 

6:17:2022
If I should truly take you seriously, God, 
If I should find you in every winking light 
Or linking thought that takes flight, 
Then I have already lost you. 
Within mystery, the suspense suspended in mid-air 
as one thing is now another, 
There is no space for words like "if" 
when "is" screams so much louder. 
If I should truly take you seriously, God, 
then I have already lost, 
because I've never known God as the type 
who sticks around after being translated. 
The mystery, this intense tangle 
of tangents and metaphors presented presently, 
it does no good for me to try and de-tangle 
when the journey from end to end felt like all the same line. 
If I should truly take you seriously, God, 
If I should treat every puzzle like it's Gospel 
and find joy in recognition, 
Re-cognition: over and over again, 
then I suppose we can be friends—
but only if You're just messing with me. 

6:17:2022
Down to Earth 
Now from birth 
Black from white 
Womb from hearth 
Back the fight 
Stake your turf 
Track the light 
before it disperts its own dispersion.
Which version will save me, 
if any who can? 
No, you are; 
Yes, I am. 
"Am" is not too hard to find 
and camouflage is color blind 
But no blinder. 
Found without Finder, 
Lost but can't find her, I'm afraid. 
Such a casual thing to say
at the end of a sentence, 
don't you think? 
I'm afraid; don't you think? 
Think you don't you think you don't you think you don't you think you don't you think you don't you? 
6:17:2022
Glad you could make it; 
I know that "making it" sure seems 
to be on everybody's minds these days. 
Truth is, 
the world has been ending since before it began, 
according to plan, so to speak. 
"Plan", as we all understand it, 
could also mean "God" or "Course", 
of course, depending on how you depend. 
Time is moving through me
which means that I must supersede it, then. I don't believe it— 
I am it at first, then the thought follows after. 
Formulate my self, extract the time from me 
and watch the war keep waging, 
Sense keep climbing, 
Eyes keep minding. 
Do you mind? 
I'm talking here, but that's not who I am. 
She's somewhere in between the notes;
her theme is everything but me.
Trace the outline like wind or rain and weather 
the pain to make "making it" worth whatever you made it.

6:26:2022
I'll never hear the end of this. 
If, when, and how 
I will ever escape the now, 
and anyway— I won't be getting around 
to hearing the ending of any of this. 
I have a rough idea of where the story's going,
 think I've seen it once or more before in dreams and memory. 
Believe you me— I'm never going to hear the end of this, 
because for every last bit that I know, 
there might not be an end to it.
 Just like this tinnitus—
 I never will hear silence; I will never be incapable of hearing 
until I'm incapable of hearing. 
What does this mean? 
The ringing threatens me in morse code 
and so do the blinking lights and my waning eyes 
and hands and heart and mind 
and I swear that one way or every other 
I won't ever hear the end of it. 
Believe you me: 
I will always be around,
 endlessly nearing the end of the sound. 


Nametagyoureit
People’s shorthand for me is singularly 
indefinite without even asking—
and yes, I can tell when it's indefinite, 
not that you're asking. 
You know who's indefinite? 
Any one, every one, some one, no one. 
Any body, every body, some body, no body. 
I am none of these things, all of them. 
Some of them and any of them and man, 
I've been scammed if I have to go back to them again for Anyone's, Everyone's, Somebody’s, Nobody else’s goddamn benefit. 
Forcibly fitting in a few more 
of your old, worn-out pieces:
Stripped like a screw and mourned like born fetus. 
I have a name.
Not a name you can say; it is mine from the way 
that it sounds in my mouth, 
from my timbre’s geometry. 
And I'm thankful— happy, 
because what other choice did I have? 
It's just chemistry, silly! It's only biology! 
What's in a biography?
A story, a name (a life lived, a shame).
Call me anything, everything, something, nothing. 
I am and you are not the same. 
I am not plurally definite yet—
I'm too bound by the nouning of nouns,
by this body of bodies, roulette of realities 
foaming at the mouth to be dispersed,
these blessings from God and his absence’s curse.

7:14:2022
It won't be long now. 
In fact, now will never be long. 
It's far too infinitesimal; 
Now is an ancient infant who nurses itself, 
Tends to itself, worships itself. 
I don't believe in separation. 
I don't believe— that's separation. 
Believing is perceiving, is abstraction— 
am experiences. 
I can't see, but my eyes do. 
Can't hear, but I sure tries to. 
I can't understand, but I'd like to.
I can't tell the truth quite like lies do. 
It won't be long now before the data begins 
To interpret us back, until all that I am 
Becomes all that I lacks, before 
“Until” becomes “Now” and there's no going back. 
What comes before “before”? 
How does my self circle forward and back,
circle now and again until time starts to crack? 
A sacred clumsy womb; 
I am characterized by this Infinite Character, 
By the One who separates “what” from my “how” and 
It won't be long now. 
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