Nuance. (Stream of Conscious Poems Updated Weekly)

I USED II

I used II

I

I (used to) swear upon (used) mason jars an effortless cracking rims something about those close up curves and unlipped snips—topside of the arc of the bacteria’s world I doubt were Neatherderathlic, emblem of me and you (too?), of city building of empire crafting, crafted atom by atom for the start of barn burning I used too differ from the hold of holes agape in skulls. I can equate and measure the area, round and round—hole I know you’re quantifiable but what you held… much to much

Of glasses and of tinkering tin (men) sailing across mental Oz lands, there is the tiny old native Eskimo ever crafting their walls of half-domes, bending more than seven times a day to ensure its freshness free from the indentation of the natural forces (“for me,” I say, “for me”) eyeing the curve of his world, I used to too. Tangential stray thoughts, they jutt forward

now I rest (I do) and gather the snowballs (thoughts while each bulge before thought puddles). . . looking for my thoughts to curve less than a hyperbole arcing downward no skyward not halfway (High time, for my time, one used to mean much more) this thought of Arnis sticks waving and dash across the curves of our world from those that wish to intersect, intersect again against their skulls unlike lovers all so skillful. One used to repent of these things of the birds that toil nor worry no such thing as cardinal sins, yes they enflame and growth-up the same through the hole of the brain, seven things I’ve seen I’ve owned none, but I used two for this,

gluttony(?) and lust(?). Imaginary, thats what it is, imaginary. I used to cosign these thoughts for me, I won’t cash it out

My thoughts they run across another line, battleships of shells flying, a PTSD—not of my own but of the imagination of it all, these thoughts are nothing more than ductaped around the whole of my brain. A SIGN. I NEED A SIGN.

I used to imagine, now my skull’s horizon is marching from me, I see colors flashing a muzzle of nighttime dystrophy—my goggles are of nighttime, I cannot search their is a green flash there by the end of light across the seeing under the seeing everything dances when the moon/sunlight is out, down in the depths of the rim-of-it-all, I see a borealis a curve don’t intersect I beg don’t intersect wholly

II

Look (how) they line (up), pity the children and the snowmen iiiirregardlesssss and pout with your nostrils. Winding up their tiny straw hands not to inflate but to depress for the future. I gave that snowman mittens to grip upon the sun, I gave that snowmen eyes, I gave that a carrot from my freezer, they are like the cream on sundays—undone oneday.

These are your thoughts now—but they wound up in mine, potential power though apart shat divine. I used to toss and chuck away these thoughts in pews of my supposed temples, they too are trobbing for relaxation, two thoughts of my brain’s temple two towers they collidge my thoughts

Not now but sometimes it starts with the visuals of these porcelain towers, two of them I used too wanderless in thoughts before the ritz of it terror of a time that shouldn’t/can’t haunt me.

I think of Moocows in Moscow sworn to bayonettes of my grandpa’s time away in the

seas away with the M1-Garand all to flat against the skulls of the...I change the (overused) story of those who’s names seized are carved like the curve of their skull like the curve of a snowman now I rest gather the snowballs . . .looking for my thoughts to curve, to connect the slimy Alamo idealism to the tasteless à la mode of realism refuge the tastefulness of glorious sin Y (TU)=B(√2+TE),

Oh the chill of the golden mint upon my hands tinkering all’so’skillful I used two of these realization of a nay say of Yin-and-Yang, but the truth of the tinkering tin cans, one of rust one filled with dust and the intersecting dents

Elders of compartmentalized “woahs” the old “I used too”s

Useless trees that cost me my memory headed my call an olded welded memory memory of thine tinker savvy of Tetrabyte binary, there is curves in 0s and depends on how you write ones’ “1s” old mystery

—A son to revolve around—thats what the program states

—A love a’las, to blast to compart along—

We don’t dare to stare at the curve when the sun is setting, its circle is to hard to define, the light upon our earth is ever reaching and for thine divine, my eyes are snuffed (“I used to, I used to”) those are my last words for sure, but no noose no dented pill will ever stay with me or digest in my membrane.

-I

These things don’t exist

-i or √i or i

They curve away from me,

Like everything around, from the bacteria, the snowman, the skull, the numbers

I used to too two to you, you now know from the eyes to the nostrils, I used to too

For this: Y (TU)=B(√2+TE)

The “b”s used are 0 not anything else,

The “t” intersects at that 0 as well. Ah well.

I’ve crossed nobody—I lie to myself. I- I- I- I- I- I’m sorry.