Every injustice itemized and, with the skyline already colonized, there’s nowhere left but up to go—or so seem the images satellites spy, but this myriad is too myopic. Reel news flash flooded with changing topics. Don’t expect pilots to eject from their tape deck cockpits. All the missiles in the sky shot like stars, only seen by some. Secret sequence launched our residual outcome: Surveillance, [g]od’s got us bugged—we need to fumigate the phones and, if soap’s so clean, the fuck’s up with scum? I’m agoraphobic and homeless, but soon to form an alliance with the avalanche. Distract my scars from remembering the potholes they’ve patched with faces like flocks of pixels or scraps of syllables. Re-stitching the alphabet, strapped to the past tense’s front seat—no passenger present, waiting for [g]od to suicide me… Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Choke the windows and watch dawn roll new credits. Reverse palindrome, over the phone response had to give back words… So I blow my brains out, put on a hat so no one will notice the big picture winks at me when I turn away to start fires and yell rape. When no one comes, recognize police tape doesn’t separate the symbiosis between the crime scene and where I’m standing. And you can dust my pen for prints, convict my sins, but faith in [g]od? I don’t even believe in atheists. Just waking up feels like a field trip to the hospital. Life begat fossil. Man-made disasters: Colossal. A barbed-wire obstacle means scratch your own surface to overcome the impossible. Tonight, even the crescent moon looks like a broken collar bone… Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Choke the windows and watch dawn roll new credits. Reverse palindrome, over the phone response had to give back words… Useless as a revolving doorknob I turn to more fulfilling endeavors, like balancing a measuring cup brimming with formaldehyde on my nose—or even myself over an erection, limbs like helicopter blades spinning under a ceiling fan. Or, unrolling a rattlesnake along the length of a casino floor, its ice-cube eyes dissolving under my tongue but, seeing as it’s claustrophobic enough without slithering into the fireplace, I pilot a cryogenic carpet: Arms and legs thawing out in all directions like da Vinci sketching a crucified scarecrow—a voodoo doll pin-cushioned to the illusion of animation’s cross inverted… Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Better hope that chute opens when the prayer you sent up falls face-first, lost in the desert with only a cactus to converse with—one touch could quench your thirst—pricked, you think the cut healed but, still, it hurts…

Eric: Rock grammar tight, noose-like around neck bite, stub my ego on the next flight out from insight. Dwindling sun, time zones embrace twilight like mistakes erase hindsight: 0/0. Stake through a heartbeat’s decibel, three decimals spell my name shorthand despite my long prong-face power-surging a mic. Faintly floating, wings of candlelight flap on the wall—unveil paintings with curtain strings only the artist could draw. Architectural fractals—altitude increased summit to depth, winds push hours like smoke rings to save breath. And, if I may quote glass: “I was born to shatter—it could’ve taken years, but I got lucky. For a thicker piece, you can blow me…” Expose me for what I am: Transparent, clutching a cliff’s edge—to look up I can’t bear it, it merits aspects I wasn’t designed to expect of me. So I wait patiently for rescue to arrive just in time to see the vultures start circling my life expectancy. I look at a bull and think of words to scratch in between his horns’ parentheses, i.e.: “In a catastrophe, I thank [g]od for blasphemy,” or: “Naturally I chose chemicals via pharmaceutical industry.” Now my only complex is simplicity—this means my nightstick is gun shy. Innocuously unstable—firecracker chain reaction during a domino effect on the assembly line. While two mystics play ping pong with my third eye, when I arrive outside it starts snowing fireflies… Nate: Approaching the stereo I’m radio-interactive, premonition my tactic to sound so unattractive. Bastardless fathers so solemn topple like columns and fallen angels of different graces are calling out names for faces. Self-complication elevating my standard’s hectic, adjusting perspectives wish I could simplify metric. Conscience flutters… Blades for cutters—suffering mothers have other reasons to smother out the fuckers revealing stocking stuffers. Nothing will “ever and ever,” pursuing pointless endeavors. Cranial pulleys, levers pushing/pulling the best of nevers. Whichever consequence is consequential, influential influenza proving denser condensation—clouds essential. Confrontations, accusations, over-thought out reservations— complicating reparations, separating nations’ patience. Replacing places, every day’s a face that changes, rearranging mazes’ phases and the lackadaisic observations. Essence of a basic oblivious chant, uproarious—live obvious, vicarious, scary…it’s so hilarious. Intravenous like a penis spewing forth my lost causes, impregnate just efforts graces clearing space for the clause’s pause…

Let’s trade… This brick for that wall, this hammer for that nail—bang out… This door for “No Exit,” this cage for that field: Prosthetics… My noose for your halo, my water for your gun—drink up… My words for your time, my air for your lungs: Prosthetics… A clock for your hands, a cause for your death—good luck. A gold medal for your effort, a penny for your thoughts: Prosthetics… Dislodge the memory from what’s next, now amputate word from thought like endangered egg from nest. Lest I forget the incubation period necessary to comprehend the underlying text. So I tattooed “Do Not Resuscitate” on my chest. My hospital bed is a lawn of switchblades, hence I’m able to sever any knots in these chain-link vein kinks. Barbed-wire DNA strands span the lengths of their own spiral staircases which can open or shut case file my nails under crescent clippings. Can opener is more found out than instep-off sideline, upstanding-room only-child prodigy. Giant peach pitfall-guy—freelance free landscape, goat herd sheepishly closet exoskeleton. Spun web log cabin republican neocon-servative serving only professional criminals during confessionals. Ante up: “State of the Art” or “Taste of Threat”? Cloning a sci-fi cyclone unfurled. I fingered through all the catalogues, placed my order for a new world but the end is getting younger so I moonlight as sunbeams and when time comes to edit my sacrifice I’ll carousel ‘round the bite-sized frames of [c]hrist perched on perjury. Hoisted above the night sky stuffed with stars, screen-save the anointed aesthetically annoying computer cursors: Prosthetics… Prospects, hard to digest the toxin’s progress. The next Bush doctrine concocting plots to keep us from putting stock in our options. Live stock in shock, name-branded cattle. Dismantle candid discussion panel with locked-lipped topics ranging from health to wealth to pickpockets only to after the fact sever the hand with no plan to pro- or retroactively stop it. Redistribution of wealth? That’s my synopsis, but explaining that to a capitalist on the precipice of power is pointless practice for “Live in concert,” like preaching to the choir or lecturing a lamppost in broad daylight on poor posture… This automaton for that autonomy, this voice for your silence—speak up. Their dollar for our lives, this imposter for the genuine: Prosthetics… This hammer for that nail—bang out… My water for your gun—drink up… A cause for your death—good luck… A penny for your thoughts: Prosthetics…

The image of home: A rape victim’s on-screen shadow portraying the ghost of an extremity’s entry. Clutching a cup full of scars, who thought to copy every last corpse with a machete’s Xerox machine? I don’t know, but the toner’s getting low. Already you got a crowd of cadavers gathered around the abandoned commandments you’ve branded necessary to happiness, but it seems the standing ovation’s defective. My shrink thought I was bipolar but three therapy sessions revealed I was just overly objective, still I don’t feel so eclectic. My tie-dyed psyche’s skydiving over the burning wreckage of it must be separation anxiety from fire-hydrant piety, but finally soaked in spinal fluid—concluded cure to makeshift contagion, constellation in stasis. Fixed like stars where patience is a landmark and we’re too anxious to pull over the car and park. That was almost a close call, albeit still too far to crawl when my lungs stall in a Parliament pitfall, slumped breath with lit cigarettes in the same fireproof pocket as my asthma pump. New motto: Drink up the loss of life’s lotto. Help our burning homes race all this alcohol to empty bottles… Here’s where families can strap their burning homes into the back seats of their SUV’s, roll down their windows and lean into the intercom for an order of oxygen masks and plastic yellow hats full of water so when the children put them on it won’t be too late… The next thing I knew was the last thing I remember: The short story of a photograph that’s already been painted. I play Tetris when I have writer’s block, inserting bricks like memory cards into walls that’ve forgotten where we live, already what we’ve built. Now isn’t this the epitome of epitaph? Tombstone City’s a histogram, tally the dead with charts and graphs. I even carved these sneakers from my own calves like infant-leather skin grafts rather than bare-footing over the coals. Woven fire hose through the hole in my tongue, looping around the barbell it lifts to keep my language in shape. Take two sides and call me if there’s a choice to make. See, I’m borderline whole-other-country, but split screens don’t exactly focus on the big picture. So, we only point to things we don’t need—I’m still poor, so I’m on what fast-food flames feed but, possibly, rich people have a brush for each one of their teeth. And, if that’s not why you never hear about dogs having cavities, then what the fuck’s so routine about comedy? There’s no telling how much a scale weighs without another one. Pump sun, overdose. Like Miles muting his trumpet I hold a magnifying glass to the end of this fire hose… Here’s where families can strap their burning homes into the back seats of their SUV’s, roll down their windows and lean into the intercom for an order of oxygen masks and plastic yellow hats full of water so when the children put them on it won’t be too late…

Nate: With each exhibit a new limit, common prophets bury hatches for the masses’ latest gimmick, skillful, crafted so vindictive and addictive. Such a poet, dynamite and pack of matches lighting fuses—so let’s blow it, write my name in the ashes. Antibiotic like a white blood cell, instincts robotic and then overstay welcomes like a comfortably numb narcotic. Time/space dissolve with no trace resolve, continuums genuine folding minimums overall. Dropping the ball like a neurosurgeon strung out on Haldol or a drunk juggling clown no longer juggling… Awww!!! Recall your products purchased by hypnotics. High-tech, futuristic—exotic, neurotic: We bought it. So second-guess it, statistic: Another listed—no names, just numbers, only matters who they miss. A tryst forms between a silent night and a dream, soon balls up in a fist of insignificant gleam drawn from pixels and vigils watching over the oblivious visuals of residual principles placing critical. It’s time to honor the occasion of changing occupation—we’re no longer perpetual to specialist and patient. Competitors in purgatory, quotients of division—I’ll handle the heat in hell so stay the fuck in the kitchen… Eric: Reverberate sucker punch. Drunk tank, flunk prank—thankfully lungs overrate / override. My motorcycle eyes roll by while my third made a tricycle with greater front wheel-one circumference. Sleeping friction: These REM RPM’s melt my eye-cycle—painstakingly take the last night train to Nonstopsville. Derail windowsills while the wizard wearing a traffic cone for a hat misspells the simplest riddles most critical… Nate: Just a blessing, distressing situations that keep you guessing—I’ve martyred the differentials, the appropriate's impressing. Here’s a process, almost as awkward as incest. I once guessed the answer to every question of life’s tests. Interpret everything to represent, and repent my two cents thrown in the mix with lassos silent—who’s the pilot? On mind’s vacation through shades of violet staring at the sun just to see how damaged my eyes get. Things I said tend to be hypocritically told, only cuz my mind’s a self-operated remote control. So through goals: Always up to my ears in diagnosis that determine the pressure steady building in the psychosis. Symbiosis of atrocious melodies blindly concocted like a reverse rocket—I’m the sorry guy in the cockpit. Doors lock, bitch—you can remain in the cold and cough up the memory that gave the impression that I was soft. With eyes full of dollar signs and a mind with no sense, the outlet shortedly shouted out the world’s current events and at the pocket’s expense the hands are playing catch with threats—empty, so powerless, clutch a cardiac arrest. I profess numerous experiments and test to determine the outcome of the bored, dumb, depressed. Think of it like going under at the orthodontist: My power strip tangles vocal chords, trust me—I’m honest… Nate and Eric: Honestly, honesty’s always been stalking me, mocking me, mockingly mocking the real personality… Technically checking the right technicality… Has to be bastardly lost in normality… Honestly, honesty’s always been stalking me, mockingly mocking the real personality… Technically checking the right technicality… Has to be bastardly lost in normality…

Now, who forgot to document their sources? Plagiarism gets awarded while inventors can’t enter the doors of the patent office. Permanent paralysis. From thought to nervous wordsmith to wordless word list to find which would fit. But who’s more fit to judge the glitch? Lunge this hazardous gift to spit madness and abolishing national anthems. Blow out the patriotic lantern—eternal flame turn phantom. Smoke roaming the halls of its own burning castle, ghost-hunting for he who planned the scandal and secretly lit a trick candle. You disinform despite the evidence protruding—I’ll sit watching the Atkins epidemic unfold on a cell phone movie. If we had film way back, born-again [c]hristians wouldn’t have to fantasize about [g]od raping Mary. My ears are question marks beeping at the ends of messages no one leaves. My three-syllable limbs juggling raindrops with mannequin hands overlooking golf courses with staked flags like immigrants claiming land. Stitching two halves of the serpent’s tongue into one lump sum up the eyes in one-third. I’m sick of writing—I roll the dice and think I possess poetic license to siphon insight from my own enticing third iris. Here, the crisis arises: My heart is spineless. I sat down naked in a field so long a sunflower grew up my ass, then I had a brush with death while combing the desert. Outdistancing the sensors of backyard motion detectors—hopped in a line with the rest of the protestors who detest torture through altruistic gestures… Now, who forgot to dismantle the warheads? “Control panel to fortress, this is Catacomb Contortionist.” As far as an enormous breech of defenses this is the worst yet. The silos erupt like volcanoes—our corrupt president twirling his halo ordered “All systems go…” Bombers dropped their payloads—release the ball, Simon says so. Primitive synapses like telephone poles transmitting Morse-coded messages—you could’ve warned us in time for that coming wreckage, but instead lamped in the deceptive lack of checks and balances. Mold old habits like plastic mannequins, dancing leper-limbless around factories where the media machine’s already sewing craters like fabrics to our eye sockets. Stain the spotless, psychologically monstrous concoctions of obnoxious consciousness. Now watch this as these permanently pressed lids unfolds like silk sheets spread across your king-size bed—new linen devised to tuck you in tight where in the dark it’s quite obvious we might as well be eyeless, so pull the covers over us and keep it real simple with magic marker handy while I keep blowing this whistle. The burning Bush keeps firing missiles, turning the youth hostile. Pull out your driver, surrounded by no survivors—your last golf course is the ozone hole-in-one so, now, who forgot to keep the yarn ball of information spun?

Tidal, shock or radio .wav file—mind the miles we travel to cradle profitable toxins. Out-of-stock oxygen, I spent seven years counting fault lines in a cracked mirror. Painkillers furnish my bloodstream while I amputate my signature—spill rubies. Spotless miniature jackhammer tattoos my concrete flesh’s outer perimeter—no primer while they adjust my braces with a sledgehammer. You’d lift a finger but your miracle forgot its camera. I lick every paw’s thorn out and use this standard-issue neck brace to jump through burning hoops of posthumous preempts—something along the lines of, but not quite, solace. Being held responsible must be the equivalent of hostage. On the one hand it’s right I comprehend this—the other is writing with what’s left. And even [g]od has a stunt double, wearing a steering-wheel halo zooming through NASCAR prayer circles. Unable to stop the growth of faith as cash crop, hoping the fish on the end of that sword you swallowed doesn’t decide to flop. And, even when the tourniquet suspends the appendage’s hemorrhage, I’m still a skeptic for suspecting the question’s answer wasn’t worth the lesson—revealing the essence of shadow, eclipsing what remains of the crescent. My life was postmarked “Return to Sender,” still hesitant to just wait until Never ends… Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts and turn back? Stay or stray? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road… Picture the timeframe… I open a window to let the fresh air out and, with a desktop mandible, the rock in my mouth is a paperweight to keep my tongue form blowing away under my breath. Stuttering concepts stumble their way off the throat’s elevator only to scoff at failed tatters of fluttering sailboats or the airplane’s paper feathers. I prey on wild hunters trying to trick the candlestick lit by ritual burnout. Decode the sketch’s collision with realism. Now, your microscope can magnify my skepticism—watch the lens process your empty assessments which still have at least a hint of silhouette. Men with lab coats and linoleum shoes recalibrating their eyebrows’ height by degrees of slight misinterpretation. As introverts we don’t recognize our senses lie outside us. Here’s a sleeping tongue in a wet crib with loose bars, fallout shelter around which you drive by shooting stars. My last request? Please dig my grave with a stop sign… Trespass beyond landmines that let limbs dance at length, though the song’s long over when time comes to if ever land there and expose my insufficient insides. Think tanks crunching butterfly skulls like gravel, while trickle down theory’s a wet leg. My doctor suggested I quit drinking, it’s not good for my health, and said, “Here, take this, it’ll help you stop medicating yourself…” Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts, turn back or wander the globe? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road… From nothing to nowhere, I’ve come…been utilized by every aspect—not the wizard but the magic tapped from his wand like cigarette ash as evidence that all things must burn… Which way should I go, which way to turn, to see that straight path I once followed behind me like home? Should I face facts and turn back? Stay or stray? Either way, I’m white, used, dirty—a plastic fork in the road… From nothing to nowhere, I’ve come…been utilized by every aspect—not the wizard but the magic tapped from his wand like cigarette ash as evidence that all things must burn…

Eric: From city to hinge, my question is: Whose drum set of keys unlock crescendo when the knob spins? I forge time’s signature on expired permission slips to file grievances while the blind touch treaties and the deaf can only sign agreements. Toy soldiers stand post on windowsills while armies of entire anthills march on makeshift treadmills. You build up new walls with built-in heating vents like fish gills labeled “Exhale Only.” This reminder useful but, nonetheless, institutional—every rhyme a sigh when it’s time to swallow this musical pharmaceutical. So we take pills for disaster relief and fall asleep against the door like narcoleptic Christmas wreaths… Knock, knock… Mystique is peeking through submarine peepholes like telescopic air pockets of deep sea clothes. Wearing a dry wetsuit is implied, I suppose, it goes without saying, yet I told that story to those who weren’t listening, imposing slipstream of consciousness when pulling this garden of teeth up by the roots while the weeds are loose—a reasonable excuse for the remaining screws to refuse any other relation (-) mother (/) ship to maneuver around even the most reduced width of my Jupiter… I tried holding back, but even Cain wasn’t Abel… To all the candy rappers littering the streets: All you spit is misdirected, bittering the sweet… To all the players wearing cleats: It’s game over—just accept defeat… To all the jumpers staring thirty flights down… Nate: …at concrete, taking steps with cold feet…cuz when you hit the pavement psychologists explain it. The portraits we’ve painted reveal who’s dedicated—refinish a beat like hardwood floors after you stain it… Eric: Flying off the popular catapult like a curled-up skeletal cannonball, I skinny dip you do a flyby overshot and hit the asphalt performing somersaults. I enter with a chorus effect when bursting through locked vaults, then I realize it’s all my fault, cuz DNA is my digital defect. Like mirrors in funhouse hallways, I reflect sound waves that display every molecule displaced. Open my mouth and eat my own face—don’t talk with it full while Newton vomits gravity’s sequel. An apple’s computerized blood spill, synthetic magnetic pull erasing description. You try decoding encryption but smoke from the friction resembles steamboat emission from alcoholic ears during prohibition. It’s a new year, count down to ignition—together we equal just a fraction of pretension over self-recognition… Nate: I loop de-loop like a 666, with every hook that I fix with words I match and mix. Getting sick like immune deficiency with efficiency, dispensing expenses like a priest at a christening. To all who’s listening, like beads of sweat I’m glistening with such a shine that burns your eyes to the extent of blistering. Yeah, I’m a product—think of me like sawdust. When finished and polished I’m that and the demolished. Abolish all repetitive prophesies like Plato and Socrates, disturbing all minds at ease, exposing deficiency. Strife erotic, violent, exotic as a silent melodic contradicted by a psychotic. Making a flavor that Mother Nature would savor—my pen’s blotting this paper like arthritic acid makers. System’s erratic like carpets producing static rubbing wrong like streaming song turn automatic sporadic. Instamatic: Your expression’s conceivable with what makes me believable, so golden yet unretrievable. A fired-up example like napalm free sample dishing out toxins like cards when you gamble… To all you candy rappers littering the streets: All you spit is misdirected, bittering the sweet… To all the players wearing cleats: It’s game over—just accept defeat… To all the jumpers staring thirty flights down… Eric: …at concrete, taking steps with cold feet…cuz when you hit the pavement psychologists explain it. The portraits we’ve painted reveal who’s dedicated—refinish a beat like hardwood floors after you stain it… Nate: I’m on a bender when I enter the center, low-down verbal offender, violent-message sender. Pretenders mass-produce on a daily basis and, if they did it my way, you'd live your lives in stasis. Coming from all sides, I’m the whiteout in the blizzard—if this was a fairy tale I’d be an all-powerful wizard. Arising dysfunction, under construction, sealed tight like a suction seconds from eruption that goes flash through the shattering glass—I understand that you’re slow but you better think fast. It’s your ass begging for mercy from these showering shards piercing so powerfully hard you’re multi-hourly scarred. Everyone’s so susceptible to rehearsals and commercials. I bring sound wave disturbances to vindictive reversals. Coming with curses like snatchers grabbing purses, increasing the need for nurses—decreasing the fuel in hearses. If you were a tumor, you’d be diagnosed benign. To spin around and pin the tail’s your intimate design. To all the small-game bait, I’m the big-vein master—like a nine and two ones’ a recipe for disaster… Eric: Leaving us fake as a face on a magazine, like a psychotropic dream on Thorazine… On the road our whips careen down the back of another false Nazarene—the bread of life is an accidental cuisine. It can’t be weighed or measured. Suicide lines—in the electric chair I pull my own lever. My skull is a three-prong outlet: Plug in, don’t get upset while waiting for the onset of side effects. My third eye’s a malfunctioning implant, burst when I blink like a silicone breast that won’t float when the mainland sinks. They’re not to be tampered with while your phantom lips are licking my pampered wit, while I spit these economically viable sedatives. I don’t submit to the editors—that’s time wasted better spent working on rhymes like pills dispensed. Your dogma spilling ink on my pants—the knights and samurais got pissed when the pen could invent new ways of murdering us all, before brick-wall critics could mimic insults with aerosol… Nate: To all you candy rappers littering the streets… Eric: …all you spit is misdirected, bittering the sweet… Nate: To all the players wearing cleats… Eric: …it’s game over—just accept defeat… Nate: To all the jumpers staring thirty flights down… Eric: …at concrete… Nate: …taking steps with cold feet… Eric: …cuz when you hit the pavement… Nate: …psychologists explain it… Eric: The portraits we’ve painted… Nate: …reveal who’s dedicated… Eric: …refinish a beat… Nate: …like hardwood floors… Eric: …after you stain it…

Catalogue the misplaced punches when the pugilist malfunctions with head-hunter reluctance to utilize the barrel’s circumference. Now, my heart’s a satin anvil ready to drop on prefabricated imprints. Jump-start heart, pump blood to lubricate the pistons. The dagger’s getting slippery, nervous and anxious ready to kill Whitey: Affirmative action synergy—crackers employ bias to balance supposed symmetry. Let’s persuade these rifles to safety, hypnotize the alliance to hasty decision. Wasting time is not an option except for legislators in congress: “There’s a hesitation in progress…” Black-magic mark the documents, jettison the evidence. It’s so easy to slumber when the number one offer is corporate profits under the guise of stocks and bondage. I love the starched rhetoric, like a mild sedative. How can I think competitive when I possess the false pretense of your condensed neo-Genesis. Wake me when it’s over and my complacency’s been upholstered, when I’m not inhabited by contaminants in my lunch order with stamina to withstand drying wet sand—slab on the mortar. Under orders to brick-build New World borders while Lady Liberty’s practicing her scales—the show’s tonight, it’s too bad we can’t afford her. That’s one more aspect tossed in a wastebasket ignored by reporters. Initiate pandemic… Fanatic rudiments rooted in lunatic masses who always manage to panic, but I’m not influenced by flocks unable to comatose this. Expose my every waking hour to suffer the diagnosis. The diagnostics: Bogus, when doctored components told us ignore the social holster where they keep the homeless. We the populace have not spoken, just braided rumors and carve initials in sabotage: Bar code scan: Cattle prod… Evidence circumstantial, fantasy, spectacle. Identity susceptible to theft with no amenities left to convince one fingerprint it’s yours, so test retinal hemorrhaging centered around the endlessly compliant fucks festering. I’m a populist held under oath’s astonishment channeling remote-control dominance of corporate monoliths. Ellipsis wants out of this, his pseudonym signed in third person, namely: Resistance… Too many spares and not enough flats to fix… Too many spares and not enough flats to fix, we all showed up for class but it’s already been dismissed… Too many spares and not enough flats to fix, tire irony’s a pacifier for pacifists… Too many spares and not enough flats to fix… Transcendence via unmarked victim since skin is just a skeleton's pseudonym...

My rhymes travel ‘round your head like satellites in orbit, not even in your game I step on field and make you forfeit. Gorgeously enormous, the B.Y.O.R.S. Party blimp passed over unpopulated gorges. No print, ignoring the fame and fortune advertisement forges while you deflate amorphous—miscarriage aborted when the storks crash land on your porches. Cork the air hole of the porpoise, swim-meet the cadaver to see who’ll wash ashore first. These rappers throwing up sets to upset enemy vets and impress themselves, but I also grew up in a housing complex/project, and I don’t rep shit but my cerebral cortex—enormous muscle that flex thicker than governor Schwarzenegger’s pecs. Immense left-wing span whose shadow repressed the upper hand you use to jerk off and fertilize that line you drew in the sand. I cast broken bones like spells or fishing poles into a sea of sinking boats rather than casting votes for putty to plug the holes… Cuz I surround sound… When my eye drops, my ear rings… When my eye drops, my ear rings… When my eye drops, my ear rings—and when my frown keels over complacent, face it, this vision is deafening… Cuz I surround sound… My phrases are metaphor that cower like similes, intrinsically burrow and scatter under mind’s skin subliminally. Surreptitiously clamp revamped societies, I hope you never have to see that side of me—profile: A burning oil refinery. I’m on the railroad tracks screaming, “Untie me,” or better yet on the shelves screaming, “Please buy me…” You’re at the counter in your skeptical skeletal spectacle thinking your skin is my opinion but, to them, it’s just optional. Closed arms… I’m ashamed to admit it, yes: I’m an American, awaiting casting calls—my next reality sitcom shenanigan. Here’s the soundtrack to my disappointment in which every song’s a single—but, down that road, the sun’s eclipsed by every traffic signal. The proud owner of vicarious vision through step-by-step video cassette lessons, rewind the reels without touching the edges. All I need’s a blank tape to copy and learn from futures past—face the mask and start from scratch like the latest cast of “Cats”… Cuz I surround sound… When my eye drops, my ear rings… When my eye drops, my ear rings… When my eye drops, my ear rings—and when my frown keels over complacent, face it, this vision is deafening…

Nate: Through creation I make situations dedicated to contemplated peace of mind wished obliterated. Participated particles of articles outdated, a presentation of prophesies emancipated… No imaginary friends, just imaginary therapists and perilous derelict bounce to heretic prophets reciting rhetoric. Strangely pathetic, empathetic—this verbal anesthetic’s embedded with threaded memories woven by medics divine. I’m a porcupine with so many thrills in each quill that I will summarize every day till my will’s read and guilty pleasure—guilts are measured by the pressure. I’m the lecture professor of what I never knew better. Vendettas between panoramas of mob scenes, I’m a makeshift eulogist—a misinterpreted vaccine. Serene... I represent death creeping—the present repentance at the end of each sentence when you’re offended by lessons. I’ve signified nightmares, stared at the sun’s glare—burned out my pupils so spare me the “eye/I care”… Eric: Who cares? Nate: Sigh, if I could just live in oblivion, changing colors for the scenery: Chameleon. I’ll murder one, I’ll genocide a million as you mistake brilliance for rebellion… Through creation I make situations dedicated to complicated peace of mind wished obliterated. Participated particles of articles outdated, a presentation of prophesies emancipated… Here’s to you, and you and you and you and me and you. Addictions redundant like assembly lines and power tools I never knew. Walking in circles had a circumference that averages the number of crevices in my thumb prints. Some friends are causing a grievance, lacking importance, then enormous grows the ego to the point they can’t afford it. (Barney Gumble chimes in…) That’s just a frog in my throat, choking on oats that I sowed, soon to develop a note sung on the mellow brick road. Misadventure when I travel through time with a psychic as a sidekick—play mind tricks, sublime. Asinine is the vigil of broken hearts in the middle of these head games pretending that these issues are simply little. Part of sea of tears and fears of cracked mirrors—images smeared, expressions of motives commandeered. I’m the encroacher, identity poacher like a vulture—spectating so patient as death draws closer. Poster child they profiled “beguiled,” reconcile denial-style, so vile with each mile. We walk cocked and issue to take off to the terminal terminally… Eric: …at loss… Nate: Through creation I make situations dedicated to contemplated peace of mind wished obliterated. Participated particles of articles outdated, a presentation of prophesies emancipated… If I could just live in oblivion, changing colors for the scenery: Chameleon. I’ll murder one, I’ll genocide a million as you mistake brilliance for rebellion…

All clap, and no snap out of it. Wishful thinking broke my thought bone connected to my hand’s palm in half, haphazardly planned but with contingency: Failsafe-B was but a predicted memory. In retrospect, it’s still not as infuriating as an amputee’s masturbatory fantasy. So, if it’s already lost, what’s left to cut? At all times or costs, but no more than a lot does my sudden loss of amnesia cause my walk-in skeleton closet to composite me with the world itself inventing my footprints across it. Cuz after all, plural’s just one word. Each letter, every alphabet—all tongues tripping over their umbilical jumprope strands of time and play leapyear. Time’s a trick like candles, blow out your age for humor’s sake—I feel like it’s my birthday, about to jump naked out of my own cake… So I’m an accomplished accomplice to my suicide, and just by staying alive I die while surgeons molest poisons. My vanilla diaries washed to stone under naïve tides, dizzy and screened in rust. The barrel loops like a tender kiss in my mouth, guzzling the arcade bullet—a packrat’s panic attack huffing recycled breath from paper bags. You wanted to drag implications from beneath betrayal’s welcome mat but what strike ever intended to spare a few pins? I only take advice from dying widows and diabetic voodoo dolls. I know I’m still using a crayon—it’s too late for omens. Closing in on the oldest known form of exposure to frozen moments via photographic components to fathom the last phantom insomniac laughing at mattresses while the narcoleptic’s burning match’s collective ashes forget to ask the director’s cut to cast a change of bandages before camping us out in caskets. I stand in the aisles of crowded theaters burning discarded stubs with a mouth so big when I’m old I’ll soak my dentures in a bathtub…

How easily fascinated by coming attractions like scripted answers to improvised questions we never practiced asking. I’m willing to trade amnesias, or at least close these lobotomies with chromatic scales of male hypocrisy. So the higher up the rank, the wizard behind the curtain dissolves the note’s honesty—a white-out coated past. Humor must be the seventh sense. Memo is short for long-term memory, laughing while gasping for air. Distract us from comparing our own clues by ignoring historical facts, known by who’s shoes truly walked about before the glory memorial stood to gain profits from gift shops? Tourist emporiums and classrooms using euphemistic euphoria—so who’s really writing this? Only the winners in movies kiss at the end, classics that never explain why villains resort to measures so drastic. Impacted wisdoms’ too commonplace, if only to extract the sour taste of silver-spoon fed headlines. Let’s design a barded-wire fence around the shrine—security measures: Protect the divine who, anyway, just chalks it up to an outline. I scribble a moustache on the hologram, kinetic stand-stills, photographs past-tense that access memories vanished. Set standards with no map: The eyelid is just a Venus flytrap, a centipede leg is just an eyelash. Now, let’s see: A continent is just a bigger island—that sandless shore is no match for global warming’s global warning of melting polar ice caps... My teeth form the unemployment line around the corner—this whole system’s out of court order like a vending machine pay phone drug deal when I forgot my two quarters. When they reach the close-door policy sign it reads: “Cognitive need not apply…” They fight to the death until one’s left standing, but witnesses notice only what they would’ve missed if they weren’t looking and nothing happened. Paralysis is no new home… And still [c]hristians want me to believe in more signs than perforated poles know to post. So I keep my eyes peeled for a praying mantis hula-hooping halos the size of a growing hole in the ozone. The illegitimate child of twilight’s back seat—no light left to spare like a zebra whose stripes are only visible when the pony’s not there. Refrain means stop and repeat phrase… Refrain means stop and repeat phrase… Refrain means stop and repeat phrase… And defined on the crest balance the clash between light and tidal waves. Maybe I’m amazed—sound the hornets. My sentence is a run-on fragment, read these random pamphlets only to get lost in the mechanics—grammar fastened to the wings of every landing. Punctuation functions to mark conclusion to another day of waiting. At the factory gasping, operate elephant forklift. This drowning workforce using lit cigarettes for snorkels—but some of us called in and stayed home sick while the rest of us are at work homesick… If a sharpener’s what it takes to make a good point then Ritalin’s paradoxical effects could carve my dull mind into an arrow. As far as emotions go, there’s nothing left to evoke cuz I’ve stripped them all down to the lug nuts and lightning bolts. Rehearsing lopsided squints, the windows tint as time has the sun convinced it’s time to set the clocks ahead to double shift. When I finally get off on this makeshift orgasm, proof is walking home to a dead end on Progressive Avenue… When my eye drops, my ear rings—ripped out. I clip obituaries like coupons for deals on daylight savings. Graveyard pharmaceuticals: Headstones are chewable tablets, like the kind commandments were chiseled into—[g]od digs, it’s mutual. The world’s a bottle of pills: Once night’s cap is unscrewed the fluffy clouds must be removed. Here, wind doesn’t exist so we reflect this city’s magnitude, believing in horizontal latitude—we’re dead statues… Blow the candle out if you can… Here, skin doesn’t resist so we respect this city’s aptitude, conceiving of air designed to breathe by opening labor’s manual…