Wallet of hexagons

here is a collection of poems I wrote in very near death and extreme situations, in worry of dangers about to unfold in the life of a street wandering in a strange town, where people drink alcohol and get violent, I wandered home to my abandoned house to my cat to live a quiet life and write these poems with the constant worry of someone catching me at every turn. 




Palpitate fragments in all colors, in all cuts and all sizes:
Put on
year leakage
and watch the radar.
Ear-parts moisten,
found-parts drown the soup of a pale room,
lit in carpet --
Cane and Able threads the burlap
and numbers the times downward,
through the toilet.
Green filaments are party watching dials --
groceries and double helix.
Meta-data folding up, new bundles, old bundles.
coaster nervous system.
(me)up into a mean machine,
dumb and lost and worlds
and either and fault and white
and stocking and over thumbs,
or now I'm back in the layer.

An innuendo party, a layer on fifth street, a fifth street apartment clutching the raven -
accident shoulder
patch double trouble,
five fingers eat,
five toes eat,
little socks eat - mean britches.
A photograph for eyes
- thin slits for memorizing -
A pin hole camera.
Man memory.
Killed thoughts with a slice of bread covered in mold, dumb instinct ritual ate a little too much at an English table, stained fake - water down the beers, sell them for more, thicken up the tea, use it for a bath,
riding stones of two tone lightning


Pace makers and cigarettes


Donuts laying in foam oil, in pink cardboard on the table lead silver smoke to the door from the futures cigarette of a carousel fragment, jutting
forth membrane that makes room whites thin eye whites; the same membrane that allows
sunshine to rinse red fabric and green fabric.


We soak the library in processing matter and thrill on the sewer opening, lifting our
harmony to the sauce which pours from the side, leaks into place a hole in
the membrane. This is where the ceiling is located.
Now, a tree into the bedroom;
It grows on electric light, bottled in symmetry and ions and juices.
The port of the root systematica unfurls from floorboards, shifts from ashes to orchids in a
lake of our foundation. ??
A moment in warm tapestry for the visitors. [No one sits]People stand in the corners of
the room, watching the slime grow the tree. ??

I get a transmission from somewhere explaining an abstract.

Violet glasses#1.1

My son's mother wears
My girlfriend memory
in argyle socks that hang
in the distance.
It's a symbol that races through
meat, cheeseburgers, rock and
Follow it into the terror,
follow it into a mountain.
Pulling down the rocks and
breaking through the symbol,
shattered diamonds flip
sides, reflect the others.
The city comes into
focus, a standing and a
thin spray of color
lay words down on
the street.
Broken thoughts
hang in the windows,
where a boat can flounder along.

Pieces of it flying into
the rock side,
the mountain,
the river spinning through 'em
spinning down the Lego's,
pens and dragon tails,
empty bone and empty elbows.

The boat--
it made eyes--
Wood smiles, it sees me
and tumbles into the shapes:
argyle sex and memories
then down a dark hole in the mountain,
tipping upon one side.

Absent bone meal,
set on stage
within shattering

Violet glasses #1.2

Effervescent limestone
on my head wakes me to the
weight of it. Crashing through the geyser.
Makes me smell like mountains. I sniff my velvet.
So much moss,so much funny blue.
Stalactite dreams melting
down me.
Heavy headdress, lights a ruby (green)
Sweaty armpit(s) down the river (slope of time)
Hair at the end of
a rooster and then floating up through argyle as thoughts,
turtles perching in a smile-a-dactyl.
and then stalagmites and stalactites. Rushing rapids/
Rinse and repeat.
Wake up.
Walk home.
In and out
Dreaming/rinse and repeat
Walking/rinse and repeat

Bone meal Plexiglas
and snow in the stage--
this is what we wanted to be
with the limousine squat.
Home in everything


It's a wallet of hexagons,
a periwinkle philosophy on cake and the bully.
I see hungry pants inside the telescope…
the hands of doom come closed together around the lemonade stand.
I zoom through ghettos,
clutching a respirator in one hand
and the wrench of overt wisdom in the other.
My pelt is a vicious satire,
it is the lampoon of my ravenous approach.
A small girl with a pink dress and blond hair becomes an illustration before me.
"Nobody move!"
There is a reference scan of the city.
The airport terminal, missing
the train tunnels, abandoned
the taxi lines, forgot it
bus stops, abandoned.
Every point in the city is
viewed upon a cool half inch screen.
The picture is grainy.
The thing is covered in crisscross.
There isn't anybody to watch the screen as it scans,
only a reference tape that is going to "parish" later on tonight.
No one settles in but the macrocosm these days,
just to watch the telescope show.

Zachary Scott Hamilton lives in Portland, Oregon in an abandoned house. He writes poetry and short stories to his cat and some of his working has appeared in Ignavia,Otoliths,SEin Und Werden and the Mary Mark press out of New Jersey as well as in Letter founder and karawane magazine.
Contacts can be sent to:

Zachary Scott Hamilton
5028 NE 26th Street 
Portland, Oregon 97211