avant garde Avant-Garde

little poem

I miss nothing.

Too much of  that, I



I miss nothing like a boring picture of nowhere.

Too much of this. In that, I cannot afford.

avant garde Avant-Garde

Aquifer Photography of Portland

I shouldn’t act more prone in my prose to genuinely see the street from my cracking window, my breath upon the glass like a ghost of what I long to really say, my pathetic rant of sacrifice listens to me on Halsey, the bus sounds run through my head over the massive egos and rage of the road     free writing clause under this massive pen     my appointment willing to lend a shoulder for me to weep upon, though I haven’t let loose my bullet shaped tears    my fire escape is a valve in your heart, in your pants between the world I can love all night, with public demand wreaking havoc for another night, simply cautious for the end of the world    my crush is lost in the herds of masculinity   my local coffee shop rests on the corner of my social status, a square to study the faces of a glance misunderstood    the shifty furtive thought of a cat lover    not my murmuring nemesis scaling mount tabor round 4am on my birthday     the torture of  inequality in fashion, the wait for a bus in gray showers    discussing art to make you crazy   a conversion of theories making whoopee in the dance hall

music from decades ago

the barista is adored

my mind gone soft from the crippling medication, not like your stimulating energy in the night, the current state of forgotten sensitivity    the everyday low price of my affection    my attraction to feedback left screaming by a drunk punk   the resistance of a real experience to be discussed    the dose of my blanketing solution fears the touch of what I hide, the truth of a good point/ the last joint you burn away in

avant garde Avant-Garde

okay if you say so

“to actually survive differently, alcoholism must abuse the surprise, intentionally fun, closing back time, and again everyday stretching along the streets of everyone’s difference. Learning is an experience of a realm outside yourself, sleeping with a group of men in one soggy box. The rain of portland will gladly shelter the rich, but no families will support the cellphone nerve, brother and sister shall treasure spiritual riots outside the minds of morning beds of lovers, human connection starts to speak in the hope of the harlem homeless, such strength and wonder simplify purpose of strength, weakness to calm under the sun slightly sinking into the sand, humble hearts tattoo the existence, when an open spouse sleeps with guilt my heroes will never say a thing, lost under bridges, coaching the devil through a class on natural birth. a group of children me’s sit outside laughing as they watch through windows, the toll on them they swallow with pride”       -voice

avant garde Avant-Garde


uprising predictions- our dreams create this need in, the human condition of this warmth filling our pumps, a spirit rejoicing on her knees before the scavengers of our cloudy tomorrow, I will face a smile through the energies of our thought, i have made up in my mind sour lime flavored question air, my culture requiring me to answer paper tongue swaps swaying the sayings, my wired reversal rehearsal seduces the ears that see today’s tonality, abducting shattered mirrors that spill the lines that our youth marches through, the streets of our prayers, neighborhoods the mind envisions, in recalling out loud my therapy session stages/ between the layers of explanatory grief, my parting proficient always through the years, a lonely countryside setting, battling the blue vast stillborn sky. holding the sun to show off my marked burning arms, moving every creature from the sidelines of life

avant garde Avant-Garde


my projector lens is a dusty friendly foe
showing casts of characters all drunks
and bums staggering supreme delight
the lights showing ways throughout
are flickering in my jealous hands of joy
admittedly smooth I soothe
the crevice creasing your chin, filling
with clear liquid moments the meaning
moves in and out
of the warmth filtering through
the seasoning sun. a bland face for
baristas to serve, the city streets
forgotten not
by the men I left there to crave and kill,
my sentimental thoughts thrust the last
active cell, primal needs cower through
the party, the most popular crowd
a firing squad aiming inward,
the most attractive face
a face having been bloodied
in the alley

avant garde Avant-Garde creative nonfiction Poetry And Poets Sound Art

I Have So Much To Tell You

In a lovely rural setting under the roof

of  my bungalow tonight, dulcet you

dissembled our pride in egyptian night,

rubbing on with a lotion of emollient ether,

the shadowed smell of earth after rain,

with large fetching felicity of my compromise,

serendipity sparks the very smallest of everything,

my talisman has disappeared, cheering on

a dreaming dalliance, my elixir becomes a spoon fed

dose of effexor, forbearing fear I have

alone, your furtive discipline has taught

me well, I, an imbrication tangible

of all your affection, a vicious bite

slithering silent down the Susquehanna.

avant garde Avant-Garde


for the day you celebrated an adventure

of optimism for a lush face, forgetting

again to mention a soul to be the partner

in crime, decided to fight the stale

wreckage of semen in my room,

alive in the spiritless tangle of conformity,

level with a desperate need,

the taste of rotten

overcast serenades the city, and my

surprise falls limp on the tiled floor,

my nerves play about, at the moments

you left, the pure state of confession

I allow, to settle, to move on again

and deliver delight

the foreshadowed fear

avant garde Avant-Garde

I Want I Want I Want

on my guard the stills are quick…

I walk on by the sex with so much

gratitude, I beg for my line to

break the screaming amp talking

in utters, the speed going into

my mind with worthwhile

thoughts invading, the night

casting me here to hide, out

there the face turns corrupt

from out the being, where I

would be, where out there I

would attach a pretty tone,

with spines that curve around

our spinning mind, a voice

with tones fulfilled in lust,

we gave a crowd a mace can

shout, the breeze of their breadth

blowing over the cause I pity,

and turn around another corner

tonight, not past the house I shut

my eyes by, to repeat

the manner stated, an ocean

of only swells and storms, by

and by, the songs ask why


avant garde Avant-Garde


down foster ave, the casual

jinx of volcanic

bars, our hunger pulls in

reverse the sample, eating

the nerve and

following the sun to swallow, taking hold

the purity i awaken,

a doubtful indication traced back into those eyes, fixed for

me to hurt                                           a prepared incentive

with an anxious agenda, forming lips that curve into

our mind, one and together a kiss into the night

many tones fulfill lust, the fall of a gesture

i shall be, and madly run about

the streets of the city, but only drunk in

the skies of my sleep a tantrum,

my honest attempt,

my dignity

knee deep in murky thoughts

arousing silent

friends to explain, the resin

i come eventually to smoke, in

desperate moments handed, i

hope for good,

my farewell stretching,

in my head i wish, must

i surrender,

shallow myself,

i promised never

again, and again

and again

avant garde Avant-Garde prose poetry

the pelvic pleasure of a good lay

i cannot bang around and mimic the need i have for another, this soggy texture and chewing made hard    comfort with the hands i wave, the beauty against my will, a true story made out to all critics who feed my opposition      i float around the neighborhood and calm my view    above i see down upon the crowds i force my face to see, and they who stare at the damage i label through years of error     in the yard planting white cells along the paths, a breakthrough in treatment comes to exist, my meaning a shade of difference on a signature let down    I remember the tracks on my arm that led eyes away vanishing thought judging an act that children fight amongst   i capture the chaos proceeding, i start a new page with a list of promises broken   i sign the bottom with painted fingernails, a real voice i have wished upon    the study of movement forges a remark i take to the grave/ too literal for understanding/ an art form in words exiting existence    a novelty never was a guess i recently had on the strung out corner of fremont         dividing my strength with and into negation   descriptions following all this sound around, the head of our god rejoicing in reality, the masses of code in any book or silence on any record, training american youth to figure the lost forgotten       themes of concrete subject bore me / i am not american    objecting a world forced to imagine, to that concluding fact is made beyond me    joint efforts condemn the weakness, leaving to whatever blank comes to mind    i try on the idea for once and trust the fall, vintage faith drags the cross, staggering east delaying the voice of a breathless moment, your face will seize that thirst to feel what i only am    an orgasm hidden in plain sight