mind.

can't here-

hear

did you lose your?

mind.

running through

empty rooms 

and time and time-

lines.

painting walls

watching monsters

stalk though-

walls.

barriers of false

assumptions and radial

dials, tocking-

ticking.

one hand to two

momentarily dissolving

memories of other-

days.

towers falling 

empty buildings 

and kissing under-

bridges.

walking through parks

talking, pursuing 

true lies and mix-

tapes.

soundtracks of years

forgotten somewhere

maybe here-

hear-

here.

did you lose

your mind?

Memories.

Decrepit.
Old catacombs of me.
I dare not trespass.
Yet often I wonder what monsters lurk there.
What demons might siren call me if I dare to listen.
What dark roses might have bloomed in my absence.
In these catacombs of me, what memories do lay.

Self-Destruction

Caught between a rock and a hard place…I choose self-destruction
Too late for a talk face to face, my mind can barely function
Thoughts moving at too fast of a pace, mostly assumptions
Sometimes I wish I had more gumption, yet I find myself too many times reluctant…

The paths constantly chosen will always seem to be a mystery
The notion to be open always seems to lead to injury
Too well guarded from emotions to let anything lead to misery
Just going through the motions to avoid repeating history…

Lies hidden behind truth, without even being able to realize
Left only to appear uncouth without the ability to recognize
Letting negative thought pollute and ultimately demonize
And emphasize on this mass emotional genocide…

There’s a reason I tend to choose self-devastation
Too scared to refuse paths that lead to self-desecration
Always ready to abuse myself without needing explanation
Pain leaving no blood or bruise, only internal mutilation…

I just don’t know the rationality, I wish I could explain
Don’t know why my personality seems to be the cause of pain
For myself, or others, brutality seems to be my domain
Looking to change that mentality, so that my sanity may remain.

Each sob
the pulsing of darkened skies,
Aching thunderously,
Raindrops suicide for her..
Falling in volumes her heart cannot comprehend,
But bares faithfully..

Untitled.. #1

Too in romance with solitude,
This ether bespeaks a sweet nothing;
But love, know that air is not empty,
And one day, we won't be so hopeless..

White Peach

Ever since I met you,
Your fruit has consumed me,
I've fallen in your pit
Great white peach,
Hanging above
Precariously,
Desperate in clinging to backdrop
As the stars,
Frail tethers by the millions,
All in luminous unison,
Pray
Not to be torn asunder,
See despite their numbers
Her glow is heavy,
Her light,
Her essence is thick.

The moon could fall into us at any moment,
But we never question it
We bask in this ambience
As if it doesn't even matter,
Yet this altitude crushes us every time,
So how smart are we..
It's hardly amazing you've managed to
Drag me down to this place..

Either Way

Sometimes
I bury the pen
firmly in my chest
and carve
through bone and skin
pouring life out
to the floor
in buckets.

Other times
I jam that same pen
down my throat
and waggle it
well past the tonsils
sending a jet
of putrid stink
out into the world.

Either way,
it's poetry.

Copy Machine

Lift lid
(the door's open)
Apply page face down
(the contract's signed)
Input number of replicas to produce
(the future's set)
Press large green button
(cash the checks)
Ensure that runoffs occupy top tray
(keep boss impressed)
Pages should stack from bottom to top
(land a promotion)
Remove completed copies
(retire content)
Clear data
(now hiring)

What Makes Us Human

He wears the yellow paisley tie
that he never unknots–
a gesture for luck–
to compliment the new suit,
which his employment certainly
afforded him.

He received this client
upon the call from the secretary
of the junior partner who
simply mimicked what his superior
had done to him. The great chain
of delegation. Associates
must earn such perks.

As he stands in front of
the double doors to
the conference room,
he removes a comb
from within his jacket
and files away the uncooperative
strands back into a hairline
in the early stages of
retreat–something sleep had
begun long ago.

He corrects his posture, as
upright as possible, and
enters the room to stern
smiles and firm handshakes.

After a litany of drafts and redrafts,
the contract finally rests in front
of them on the table. Each chair-
man reads and nods earnestly.

They utter words like "airtight"
and "boilerplate," even
"genius." Thumbs grip
pens that flitter upon
paper. No future
litigation will harm
another satisfied company.

Soon,
you or I can sign too
so they'll allow us
to willingly walk
barefoot across
a five yard stretch
of burning coals.

The Gardener

Futility is a gardener.
Burying handfuls
of seeds in shallow graves.
Stillborn plants stomped
by grass and milkweed

His shoulders slump
from being party
to constant death
by hoe, axe, shovel.
Head forever pointed down
Waiting.
For anything.
New.

And when,
on occasion,
the seedling kicks
a heel
through it's earthy tomb
and tilts upward toward sun
he knows
exactly
what God
feels like.

fallout

fall
out

like a bomb
fighting through the throng
of the wrongly
broken-hearted
half-healed
true believers
and surreal
non-believers
who say
if I may
interject
reject
and inject
reproducing momentary
awareness of time
sinking and creating
ending and resuming
just a thought
throughout the universe
timing and expanding
without much in the way of verse
you have to wonder
don't you wonder
if there is any
any place left to run
as the bomb
fights through
the wrongly
accused half-hearted
non-believers
and surreal true believers
waiting and waiting
for a oratory
of hope and glory
just a big gory
end
at the edge
destroying and multiplying
deciding the dividing
while adding the sum
of all regret
as they reject
inject
and interject
books
and looks and all the things
we idly have done
and none of the ways
through the day
though they say
there is no place left
no place left
to run
as the universe
omniverse
and multiverse
decides and invades
all the thoughts
like a bomb on a bridge
burning and damning
creating and destroying
stories and theories
science and faith
on the brink of truth
when there is nothing left
to save
and no place left to run

fall
in.

Shit

You can't
fake having a kid which
renders parenting an exclusive
club with membership
involving a familiar anecdote, among other
terms, that they all tell to
varying degrees to
relate, to
disgust, to
embarrass.

They tell how
they strolled into
the nursery one day to
find their precious angel's
handprints strewn across
the wall like a chain
of islands bridged
together by the streaks
in between.  The story's quite mundane
until you learn that
the diaper functioned
as the little artist's
palette.

I laugh
unfazed and reply,
"Sounds like writing
a poem."

Anger

The match strikes
against the grain,
fledgling the flame's
growling arrival–

And it burns.

Flickering up,
but fading down
like a light atop a buoy
in the surf of a storm.

The scorched head
leans lower, reaching
for the flame, hoping
it'll finish the job, yearning
for oblivion.

And before it snuffs
within the grip
of my fingertips,
I put it out
with a fire hose.

Elegy

That bulb
burnt out;
It's kind of what
they do.
And the melancholy
wasn't for the bulb,
but the picture
it illuminated.

We thought it beautiful:
sweeping brushstrokes,
robust color,
thought provoking
presentation.

Outside,
in sunlight,
it was hideous:
crayon scratchings,
eraser marks,
a thousand errors
traced and retraced.

We looked at it,
confused as children,
wondering
why we hung
the damn thing up
in the first place.

Inventor

It was a bit if a tinkerer
back then.
Spending hours
crafting
in the shop,
tools clanging,
ideas forming,
schemes drawing in
their first long breaths.

The shop's mostly empty
now.
The tools rusted or missing
or both,
and this pen,
the once proud inventor,
sits capped and dry
wondering if it can
ever create again

Murder

I killed my creativity.
Choked it out with twitter.
They make plenty of apps
that'll do the trick.
I threw it in a hasty grave
in the backyard
during commercials.

The next day
my dog pawed it up.
Dragged its ragged carcass
across the lawn,
so I chucked it in the trash can.
I guess I miss it
on occasion,
but I can't think of why.

two minute poetry on the back of a card

she gave me her number
started with a 7
ended in a 6
somewhere along the way
she may have said
this could end in sex
but this wasn't through a text
and just like that she flashed
a lash
and with a wave
not a goodbye
she passed me by on the wayside
looking for another starry-eyed
broken fool
or a tool
looking for a number
that starts with 7
and ends with 6.

Phoenix

And so we watch,
the sun burn away
all the years and all the pain
Peeling back,
Running down,
Time in this town
is just a dancing clown
wanting for a crown
To maybe run,
Maybe turn,
All the days,
All the nights,
Flickering like a torch,
into someplace
with just a touch
Of renown.

---

This uses a lot of another poem I wrote called "Politician".

Christmas Mourning

He wakes with promise
Eyes open wide
Anticipation creating
Perspiration falling

He knows he's here
He can hear him down there
Filling stockings with care
But does he dare?

Creep and silently wander
To the edge
Where he sees
Just his father

Kneeling
Like a predator
Preying
Setting each gift with care

And like a snap
The boy he sees
That Santa is just
A bit of a myth

A man,
His dad,
Isn't that jolly?
And never Saint Nick

And then he's gone
Back to bed
Off to sleep
Maybe to dream

Of a time
Just one more time
When Santa was here
Down the stairs

Near the edge
Kneeling
Though never praying
Setting each gift with care

For the morning
When with anticipation
The boy goes running
To his last Christmas mourning

---

Thought I'd jump in.

Santa claws

Sometimes
he slips off
an icy roof and shatters
like a ceramic ornament
on a hardwood floor—
not this time.

Other times
a ginger man clutches
the walls of his throat refusing
to join his brethren below; blueing
the big fellow’s face; falling
him in a lump.

This time
his rotund figure proved
the culprit, packed in
the chimney like his chocolate
likeness in an overstuffed stocking—
except yuletide stokes
below.

Arms bent against chest;
hands flat upon brick,
he crinkles his fingers
and scratches and
claws.

That’s not Christmas
spirit he’s inhaling.

A youngster opens
his eyes escaping
this singular vision—tears
slide down cherub cheeks—
bad news
from the front seat
again.

Sad Reflection of Dead Ambition

Never really knew the time,
Washed up memory
Ghosts of yesterday
All creating shattered realities
Shallow visions like prophecy
On the edge of sanity

Waiting for a slip
A stop to start and end
To wake to the sound
Of car alarms
And crying dolls
Dressed for daily circumstance
If not coincidence

Happenstance
And second chance
Third and fourth
Like a chant
Down and out
But never for the count

One, to
Two
Never three

Strikes and then you're
Out
Just before the lights
They flash
And the night
It breaks

Like a wave
Don't we have?
Another and another
In the mirror

Images of youth
And age
Needles and spoons
Bottoms of bottles
And denial

Maybe just systematic
Automatic
Promises and near
Misses
Going through the paces

Just sad reflections
Of dead ambition.

Poverty: A Love Story

We know the story:
The planks creak under the chair's
sudden additional weight.
The wonky leg barely stabled
by a small stack of food stamps
that expired long ago.
The culprit leans back
in a careful balancing act
to lift his feet onto the porch railing
where more paint chips away
revealing the weathered wood
beneath. He watches the mailbox
–waiting–
for the welfare check to arrive
several cigarettes late in these parts.
His life complete.

We fudge the end.

Santa Claus

He'll murder us all.
Bury us under aheap of debt.
Credit cards burned black.
Fried angels frantically
searching the dollar bin
for a prophet that's got
to be in theresomewhere.

bang, bang

i saw this kid today
he held a gun
and he went,
"bang, bang"
as he ran down the hall

he was fighting
invisible villains
hallway horrors
memories like shadows
of nightmares had

he ran and ran
shouting,
"bang, bang"
gun in hand
a little warrior
fighting evil

"bang, bang"

like an hammer striking
a man appears
the hallway darkens
"little man,
little man,
enough!"

anger and fear
the man looks
he darkles 
grabs the boy
by the arm

the boy, still armed,
points the gun
"bang, bang"
he whispers,
"you're not my dad"

too late
too late

bang
hit
bang
hit

bang.

jesus, man

jesus man
hanging nailed
promising absolution
solutions without a motion
or a notion
of what it means
who it demeans
all for a dollar
a little donation
for a nation
maybe a ration
just a smite
just to spite
shake a fist
point a finger
reactionary
revolutionary
a chance at redemption
resumption
perhaps revelation
always assured salvation

fragility

My confidence
is a blown glass curio
resting nervously
on the edge
of a fireplace mantle.

Time is a Glass That Ran

time is a glass that ran
heavy upon the floor 
where all the noise broke
upon a dusty shore
of memory and regret
sorrow and thorn
torn apart in a void like storm
where the voices of ghosts
sound so much like those
who live on high like gods
looking down at those far below
in an eden soon shattered
upon a dusty shore
where time is a glass that ran
heavy upon the floor

New Year

10,
they said it would end in 12
9,
memories of yesterday at the bottom of a bottle
8,
broken little moments of tomorrow
7,
hoping for some way out of here
6,
just out of range of hearing
5,
screaming secrets no one remembers
4,
just so maybe i could dismember
3,
all the images of reality
2,
staring back coldly
1,
at the dawn of a new year

Easy A

A batting of the eyes,
a flipping of the hair—
and if he doesn't notice,
I'll transfer to another class
where he does.

modern language

The kids
speak to me
in abbreviations
as if I'm supposed
to know
what the fuck
wtf
means.

A Broken Love

a broken love
at the speed
you're going

you're lucky
you can still tell
who you are

a broken love
at the risk of knowing
it all starts
so you can feel

so you feel
so you can feel

a broken love
at the speed
you're going

you're lucky
you can still tell
who you are

a broken love
like a cliche

you can take
what you want
but you can't have it

a broken love
at the risk of knowing
it all starts
so you can feel

so you feel
so you can feel

so hit the ground running
at the speed you're going
you're lucky

you can still
tell where
you're heading

a broken love

a broken love

like a cliche
you can take
what you want

but you can't have it

so hit the ground
hit the ground

running

a broken love
like a cliche

you can take
what you want
but you can't have it

so hit the ground
hit the ground
running

'cause you still know
you still know
where you're headed

so hit the ground
running

a broken love
it never stops
so hit the ground

take what you want

hit the ground
running

you can have it.

politician

like a dirty clown
waiting for a crown
you're looking for a way to drown
all the sorry let down
little frowns
in this broken rundown
small town
just so you can wear
a pretty ball gown
or a suit made by someone of renown
to a place uptown
where you can become
a perfect pronoun
and win this showdown.

on the bloc

my head is full
of white noise
static screens
of television dreams

i sat here
lamenting pasts
and circumstance
just a chance at resumption

or halfhearted redemption
upon which i could reflect
all those radio nightmares
just outside of radial hearing

so here i am
head full of white noise
static screens
of television dreams

waiting for
just a bit of a chance
to get out of this place
and off this bloc

Bounds

Your argument is:
there’d be no Superman
if he hadn’t stepped off
a building’s edge
or leaped in
a bullet’s way
or sped on
the tracks ahead
of a train.

My argument is:
yeah,
there’d be no Bizarro
either.

the degenerative properties of the human mind
seem to be accelerated in mine
and only worsen with time,
until the day i shy and die away
and sublime
from whatever wine
cursed this stupid rhyme..
and i'm
happily hellthy until then.

stitch.

why, oh why do we have to die for what we believe in..
why can't we just live in what we hold dear.
why must you kill for what you believe in..
destroy me out of fear that i'm different from you..

countless people have died for what they believe in, when that shouldn't have been the case in the first place.

why does it bother you that i wrap my head, or bear a crucifix.

to you these are just stains for which i should be ashamed, but who are you to tell me what of my tattoos.
more than stains, the ink on me is synonymous with blood within me. with no shame, i endured the pain to shadow on the outside what's in my veins just so i could be closer to what i believe in. you see a mess, but i see transcendence the likes of which your hateful stitches can't sew shut or hold back anymore..

why can't you see that this "stain" is a part of me, why am i ostracized for the perma-tears running still down from my eyes, why can't you just shut up and accept me, because your god knows i would accept you.

i'm no different from you, i'm still human, i have beliefs too, so who are you to tell me mine hold no truth

stains..

to you these are just stains.
for which i should be ashamed, but who are you to tell me what of my tattoos..

dementia praecox.

i'm tired of being the good guy.. so what
i am so tired of being a sweetheart too.
why should i deny my animal insides..
i wanna be a wild thing too..

So your sick of being the good guy huh?
what the hell does that mean?
You're just as sane, you have arteries and veins,
you're just as human as you seem..

no.. i'm not, i'm different, you've noticed surely
that i'm not as human as they can be,
i plead and beg, i have a tail and four legs..
clearly i am a wild thing..

Listen to yourself, you are a boy..
you stand upright just like they..
You haven't a tale, nor a furry tail
and you've been sane all your days..
but it seems as if you're wasting away..
You are human, boy, not a monster
no matter how badly you want to be.
They're human, so are you, they've humanity and you do too,
you're just a human without me..
..but with me you can finally be free..

i know, and i see you everyday in me
but i don't know how it's done,
i cry and i pray, that you'd come and you'd stay,
she shouldn't have all the fun,
..i too want to see things undone..
she tells me it's not so great, that i'd hate it
but i love the way her mind works, so of course i don't believe..
because i know that with you, i too can see through
dementions.. and all of reality..
with you i know i can see through..

Boy.. you don't want me.. but i want you,
you have a perfect mind..
You're sharp and cunning, and devilish and funny..
and you're giving up on your kind..
..and you're losing your mind..
Perfect..

so here i am, envying the dead and the damned
waiting for you to come through..
..dementia.. where are you..

...

Look behind you..

cavities. (study..)

here he lies, with fire and sorrow in his eyes
waiting for it to pass,
but what he doesn't know, is that it won't go
away, its haunting his ass..
he lies awake half asleep, in cold disappointment and agony
and his body shakes,
as tremors rock his spine.. he looks at the time,
its too late for him to be awake..

...

why he continues to think and to sink,
no one knows,
but he does anyway, and despite them, he will stay,
for what.. no one knows..
he continues to reflect, and ultimately dejects
himself.. he fades away..
the sorrow is almost unbearable, but tomorrow will be arable
to sew the seeds of a new day..

...

finally it gets the best of him, and he gathers the rest of him
and carries himself to bed,
but the little monster caries in his teeth, they're still growing and they still eat
away at his breath and breadth.
he's right about one thing, that everyone and everyone can see
except he and she..
that despite his teeth stained with words both sour and sweet, they can see.. everyone can see
for whom his heart beats..

...

the best thing to happen to him in a long time, and it's about time,
beats in his chest well..
and with the monsters gone, he can find and sit by that pond
and open his eyes once shelled..
it is now, after writing, and it is how, after writing
he is finally aware
of all the rain on their bright days and all the pain in light's way
in which he was ensnared

...

cancerous cysts over his eyes, he missed that which he needs in his life,
but falling isn't so bad,
for in falling birds learn to live on a wing, and in love falling is amazing,
in love, falling isn't so bad..
now he can see that falling isn't so bad.

dumb dog. [all dogs go to heaven]

as the wolf waits, so hungry and lonely, he bays to the moon, "if only if only"
~dumb dog, you make us look bad..

3:00..
What was that... ears up, eyes alert, he's standing now.. since when was I standing, wasn't I just laying down half a second ago? And now I'm at the door? It's 3:00 now, she should be getting here soon. Oh boy oh boy can't wait, can't wait. They're gonna have so much fun. It's gonna be the most fun date. Even better than yesterday. Strolling through the park, meeting new friends and visiting familiar places that hold familiar scents and familiar sights, and familiar memories - memories that only her and I could share. He hopes they go by that place - oh I hope we do - I'll drag her if I have to - that place where she first kissed him on his nose, and I couldn't help but to kiss her back, that place where she first wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly and said she'd love him forever. I cant believe I've waited this long it seems like forever..

footsteps ~ thump....... thump..... thump... thump.
heartbeats ~ thump thump thump thump
stops.......
his synced up syncopated heartbeat ceases along with her step
as she stops at the door,
holding within his chest his first breath,
as his waiting ends forevermore..

he hears the keys keeping his breath in tight
and he prays that she'd take no longer
to open the door and give him first sight
of she, but he could be no wronger..

keys jingle and find the lock
they jangle as they caress the tumblers,
and he sitting, in his plans taking stock,
while his heart in his chest slumbers,
awaiting lights first glance to lumber
forth out of him withal; to cease a number existence

..then, before his heartbeat's end, when his heart's keys end, and before his heartbeat ends -
the door opens..

"heyy", the girl speaks, and she speaks with a voice that scorched the sky and shakes his world. That shuffles the mundane rigmarole of running in circles looking for the perfect whole to bury lies that just lie anyway, from chasing things that I'll never ever catch but can't help but to dream big anyway.. and it's a good thing too, my attention span isn't that impressive.
But when she speaks he pays attention like no other, as if her words determine the very outcome of the end of his world he lingers..
On the touch of her fingers on his neck and awaits her beck and call, the heck with all everything else he gives up on the world when she comes around and now he's hoping..
That she can somehow surmise that past his deep orange eyes he's devised the perfect day for them, one in which they're are imbued with each other, but demise..
Is all that's in store for him, but maybe she'll ask for more of him, he's hoping that she'll ask for more from him today..

Yes yes yesyesyesyes, your back, finally your home, oh how I've missed you. I've been going crazy in here by myself without you, thinking of what to do, and how to keep from tearing this place apart, and thinking of you, like cats think about fishes, like washers think about dishes, and tongues think about dishes.. like the sun thinks about the noon where wolves think about the moon, I've been thinking about you.. my moon.

"Did you miss me, - you have no idea how so - so sweet".
"Heyy wait, let me get in the house before I'm yours. Come on now, take it easy I'm here, - yeah your here, now we're here, now lets "there" lets go! - I know you missed me all day, and you probably want to spend some time together, ­­­­- again you have no idea, you're my moon, and I'm your night, and night is just an empty dark anomaly without its moon - but I'm not gonna stay long, I'm going out again soon.. sorry," - ok we're leaving soon, alright awesome, she's going that means we're going out...

he sits and waits for her to change, and he's changing
from moods unpredicted to sentiments forlorn,
from happily young forever in his plans to aging,
slowly decrepit and time-worn

it sinks in, what she meant, what she said
about her leaving out soon.
finally it sinks in that joy illimited,
that he, nor she, nor they were meant to be this afternoon

standing 13 inches on 7 feet,
orange eyes like flowers and fire
his massive heart skips a beat
and he suffers now the dire
consequences of hoping higher
and baying nigher his so called wholly moon

try as you may, you dumb mongrel,
you're not going with, and yet so you bay
to your so called moon, or so called scoundrel
despite whatever she may say,
but, haha, one word you obey
although two feet above hers your head may stay
you sit and just roll over when she may say, "stay"

zombie..

"..and lo the beast looked upon the face of beauty, and beauty scathed his hand..and from that day forward he was as one dead.."

i am the damned,
i am the dead,
i am the agony inside the dying head..
this is injustice,
woe unto thee,
i pray this punishment will have mercy on me..
save me from this disease.. ennie..<3
~
i should be damned,
for this i dread,
because like the beast we are as one dead..
but descend unto us,
both halves of me,
begetting our ending and setting our cold heart free..
please save me from this ending.. jammie..<3

..dead men tell no tales.. but look at me, i'm freaking singing. singing along with a ringing in my ears the same as the beat to which falls all tears..

i was tired of being in a whole mess of fading life, devoid of light, so hear my plight. i stand now to fight that what has plagued me, so save me and raise me from a daisy covered field, because any place without you is deathly..

my tombstone should read, "here lies a stupid man.." because only stupid men lie, and by the by as i've died so too have my old habits rotting inside, turns out they don't die so hard after all. and by the way, i've come back to stay and say all that what should have been said like, "sorry i missed our day, i was dead.." but i rise up from the ground sound and safe now because around me i see only deadbeats, most with two feet still but not a will nor a leg to stand on.. you're my legs.

months ago, when the year was cold, as we know before i died, i lived a lie, so i buried a promise that someday, in some weird way i'd feel alive again, and only again to gain a knowing from the pain, and to go showing again what i became from that growing promise grain, and it's a shame.. that it took me so many months to realize that these veins ran dry in vain, and i died for no reason. it's really silly, for here i am rising from a grave that was hollowed for me in order to save me from myself. i've been stuck in a hallowed hole, for the sake of divinity, with me for what seems like an eternity.. and that's a long time all by me onesie.. so at last i decided to be free.. one hand through i raise myself up and with two hands i get my head unstuck and now i see that next to me are the lilies you've been sending me for months.. you didn't know i'd be back so everyday you came back and sat next to me to keep me company. and to who's surprise would your cries harmonize with my sighs and give rise to my beat. it's no shocker that remorse would, of course, inevitably raise me from the locker and empower me to live and be once more.

getting up is the hardest part though.. breaking the bond of which i've grown so fond was almost beyond whatever unearthly endeavour i was clever as spit to come up with. you see i was so accustomed to just laying, and staying in one spot for so long, and it was comfy; quiet and stuffy, but still quite comfy. but as i thought about my resolve, i found myself coming to betray it as i emaciated, thinking i may see a bit brighter of a day if i escaped this place, and so i did. and now, i take my first breath in too many months..

i breathe -and i breathe deep- the cool night air and i can't help but to think that a sense of macabre is there and it seeps, as i breathe deep, that this macabre i'm feeling is the odd sense of living filled with graveyard till inside me and a need to scoff those lying aloft in their dirt so soft until i cough because this breath is kind of hard.. my cough is brazen and up comes shriveled lungs like raisins, dried and tethered together by wilted bronchi. i pop them back inside me and they go inside scuffing me but coincide and i bluffly rise with a dead front side and literally half a mind to stride again straight and true.. straight to you.. but i can't do that for i am dead.. zombies don't walk through crowded streets

picking up your lilies that smell like you, they smell of hell too, but only because i haven't washed my dead hands yet.. since they're covered in spiders' traps i'll do just that. i'll wash my hands of this place.. oh but if only if only, if only i could erase away the dead faces and complacent smiles; smiles that wasted away from faded faces over the years and became jeered with sorrow waiting for their tomorrow that never dawned. and beyond hell you were my tomorrow, and like the moon i rise when the day ends for my own ends to amend that what i've done.. like the dusk and dawn i'm just a spawn of something betwixt not quite there and almost.. more alive than some, but still deader than most.. the light of the moon grants me glances of a chance to make it up, but it shows me for what i really am.. an abomination walking through a quite nation.. the tombstones here border a personification and have an eerie sense of persuasion just for the occasion that one such as me should be free from this macabre. but this second life is of love, i've been born again of adoration as love's enation, contingent to hearts half started in buried chests and the treasures of lovers' passed.. but the moonlight is too quite a sight behind the thicke shrouds of clouds, glowing proudly to welcome me back to this life, and i just wave a broken hand happily and shoot a senile smile while i stride with my own pious pride; things don't come back.. and i'm living proof to the contrary of that. against long odds i came back.. slightly wary with an internal sack of maggots and baby butterflies i'm back.. with nicks and knacks in my face from this place and eternal cracks on my back from a lack of a precipitate.. but worse than these are the cracks within me through which i bleed dust puffs from a heart that's rusted up.. but i should suck it up because i'm back, right.. *sigh* now that i think of it i was quite fit being lower than shit in a pit with broken hips underneath wreaths of reaping daisies.. at least then i was useful. but now look at me, and what i've become; walking undone with rotted teeth sheathed in decayed enamel that taint words otherwise sweet.. a contradiction to which the conviction of death wasn't consistent; now i'm on a mission of forlorn descent to achieve divine consent to remain prevalent; because i'm too persistent to stay slayed, and for your sake this breath i do take to have and to hold, but why else would i be so bold to raise my cold face and tell tales dead men shouldn't have told in the first place.. it doesn't seem that just you would be enough for me to do that..

you see, all are for the main frame of things, but i guess i wanted to change things; rearrange the schemes in my dead head but it seems i'm just as the rest of them.. and this shitty self-pity comes with an aridity drying out my already dying skin, dehumidifying what's within and evaporating all but sin and again i come to face humbly the boundary of my entity.. why was i revived after i'd died to come and live undone among a bright moon unsetting too soon, and a haze of daisies. lamenting this, i keep breathing wisps because all that comes out of me is dust. and around me are the pushed up daisies made healthy by us, and the scene is just the prettiest thing, it would take my breath away if i had it in the first place; these flowers sing happily because we feed them rottedly under the ground and the sound they make is so beautiful.. a slight ringing is all one would hear just standing here but in the decrepit ear there is such a luster here listening to the sound all around from every wreath as they reap the life from those who give it willingly; they sing nattily while they glean life-blood and it seems egregious that they'd tease us without rue; living from us, once living too.

and i come back to you, and your lilies, to which the daisies lack credulity and can't be compared.. even though my senses fail and have faded i still feel cold, and i can still smell you on these lilies.. the lilies allow me to partially keep what i've come back to seek, oh but to see how shrilly the smell forceably retreats inside my nosey.. i should just take it off; this meek dried up creek cannot keep trying to run, dry and empty, and this is killing me, hehe, so i'd rather put my nose in my pocket than have the scent and lock it in my olfactory socket.. but with the scent stuck in my head running its course, it rocks it back and forth, and back with a lovely attack on the back of my fractured head.. and it spins as i begin to breathe again and i wish it could all end again, because living like i am, for a second time, isn't fine if i can't find myself next to you.. what the fuck am i supposed to do with another life if i can't make it better than the first one, there's no point in a fate undone if it's only won me something even worse than the hearse. being stuck in this horrid place with my morbid face is too much to bare. i'm so bored of this fate, i want to live and take place amongst you in the fresher air, because here it smells like dead-daisies.. i thought i didn't care for living anymore, because what's done is done for us; we lay peacefully, soundly, and eternally asleep, serenity, may death keep for us all, except for me being undead and all; living a reality in which death is merely a dream withal.

while i was lying in my hole i was lying to myself saying that i wouldn't miss it. that this is the best path for both of us to have that what we should've had. life for you, and for me whatever is on the other end of the life curve that i deserve. but i had the nerve to reverse the chorus and of course sit up again even though it was ended. to try again to be once more what i was before, but the score was settled, and i can't beat it when it's that high. when my number was up i was counted out and mounted about a stone not with but a few words. personal sentiments to my laments because i went too far and my heart has the scar to prove it. i always had a gut feeling that i'd be reeling into this arsenic hole, i was burning myself alive every time i sighed about how things were, when i should have enjoyed them while they lasted. now every reminder of you it seems is nothing but a rueful piece disrupting an otherwise eternal sleep.. now instead of sleeping i'm stuck dry-weeping as dust comes seeping from under my eyes, and i want to cry but my tear ducts were shut up around the sixth month. i want to find a way to cope with having no hope but it's difficult to know that there is none when every time there was always at least one; one chance, one time, one way you would find a way to say that it was okay, and that i was forgiven.. but given my current living i'm sitting here wishing that i didn't go away in the first place.. and i don't know why i am being like this.. it hurts to wish that this could be undone like me because for me i had too many chances. too many days have passed away like we have, decrepit and time-worn, that i spent unhappy for no reason and now in the coldest of life's seasons there's a self treason against me, i'm hating me. i'm hating all the wasting away that i was doing even before i was dead, something going on in my head that told me to be ready to see the cold end but i never wanted to let go of something so golden. i am an idiot, a now dead idiot.. and i suck..

sucking pavement i'm stuck paying life rent in this god forsaken rend in life's bend hoping that the pain will end but it won't. against my usual wont i try to cry but my leathery eyes have been dry ever since sometime in July, and it's easier to be angry. not just angry with you, but angry with me too because there were a lot of things i needed to do but never did and i hid away that what should've been yours way back in the day, in last year's october.. in this blue october a homecoming would've been something but nothing would have compared to the air around you there on that night.. but two outta three ain't bad, and i relish the time and two we had, but i'm still mad that i let go of life so easily. sure i came back, but as a worm snack and there's a crack in my empty hourglass. i'm constantly losing time that isn't even there anymore.. and it sucks.

with the moon half ominous and half illustrious by my dead side i slip a smile contrived by twisted muscles.

it's been over a month now and i still can't let go of what i used to know, i don't know what's wrong with me. it's funny because i believed that these lilies meant something, but nothing can compare to the despair i've been feeling ever since i began this existence.. i can understand why you haven't come back in so long.. constantly waiting for something that was taking too long. even though my eyes are fogged i can see clearly why you wouldn't pick me.. i wouldn't pick me.

i've heard the moon, and to me it told, "oh deadened kin, my sorrow for you runs deep and true within my porcelain skin.. and i lament you, deplorable you, my morbid, zombie friend." and since then, my deadened, sinned skin is no warmer,and in the corner of my chest my breath still feels cold blowing past an appropriate mold within the folds of hanging flesh; my heart feels torn and time-worn, a frozen testament to times old.. because my time has too long been too old, and my lovely opportunity passed gracefully, unlike me.. oh, despicable me.

love's enation.

veneration..
ephemeral thoughts of love's enation..
mere ghosts of adoration..
ghosts that haunt my dreams
of you it seems,
and they too are of love's creation..

gumheart.

malleable..
changeable, re-nameable,
expendable and re-bendable
such that it cannot become undone;
stuck in his chest, warm as the sun,
it cannot break, for it is made of gum.

asunder.

Lo and behold this, remorse..
Low he beholds one of his greatest blunders,
Twice, even after, he stayed his course,
Tears tore her eyes asunder
and like thunderous
cries her eyes
shouted horrendously
back at me..

birthdays

A collection
of sighs
gathered up
to blow out
candles.

West Fullerton

The college kids come
down here
from Associated
to get drugs.
Hipsters in old Volvos
hunting hallucinogens
in the park
where the cholos
play handball.
No one seems
to notice
down here.

They're careful
slightly paranoid
not making eye contact
speaking in
mousy whispers.
They know a guy
who knew a guy
that got beat up
down here.

On their way
back up
they stop for tacos.
The best taco places
are all
down here.
They roll their r's.
They drink horchata
and think they are
authentic
when they're
down here.

Then they
race back
beginning to peak
speaking of their
adventure on
the other side of town
as if it were a third-world
village.
Two mile away
seems like a
world away
when you're
down here.

Snowman

This snowman did not leave after winter:
He endured the seasons,
And after eventually melting,
We still remember
--Almost annoyingly--
The advice this snowman gave.

From grade school to December,
Graduations, weddings, funerals,
We all speak of the road not taken,
And the difference it has made,
And though this snowman is no more,
He still smiles beyond the grave.

Bubastis

Beautiful abomination.
Loyal monster.
You exist
solely
to challenge
everything that
they think is real.

Family Business

Our father's first franchise
featured a small menu, from one
to two to three items total, that
failed to leave too bad
a taste in his mouth.

So upon the next,
he dropped item one, the one
he conveniently could, and added
one, then two, then three more.
Similar to the first, the initial
item here soured

And on his third attempt,
he refused expansion
beyond an item at a time,
as the ancillary fees piled up.
Four staple items,
whether he liked them or not,
and one new,
until it would spoil.

This trend continued
with the failed fourth.

That led to the fifth—
an outlying merger
that still lasts.

That's our father's business—
always five items in,
but only the most recent item
to particularly care for.

The Limerick of Sir Ezra Pound

I cannot refrain from calling you sir,
Though I question your seat in literature,
Yes, you've earned my respect
With your great intellect,
But your work's axed when I'm editor.

Ozymandias

Truth piles high
in alleyways.
Pooling in puddles
on the sidewalks.
Everything expected
in it's usual place.

Fact sits atop
the tallest building
in gilded, laureled glory
pressing his will
into us.
And we,
because we are not
the ones paying attention,
turn to our affairs.

a fight in faith

a fight
in faith

a little
sanity
in truth

a disaster
waiting
for it's master
in time

a promise
broken
before us all
just a token
in tune

a lie
told
just a whisper
in confidence

a little
insanity
in truth

a fight
in faith.

The Commonist Manifesto

Eliot has come and gone
and no love song of any
language will bring him
back. The elitist is dead
and buried in the back-
yard beneath the budding
lilacs.

Inside, the party
is wasting away—flat
champagne; flatter
conversation. The fat cats
have retired. The help
has quit. A storm
brews outside of town.
We race home to
escape it.

Upon the first thunder,
the heart stops—fearing something
massive, something more
destructive than any tempest
within our horizon.
We are mistaken.
This is home.
This is safe.

We are fools.

The world now fits in
every pocket and witness
the result: desolate
tables, empty chairs rusting
along the sidewalks
of Paris. In the lofts above
Manhattan, the lights of vacant
homes are off for good. The law
of London burns, police
car by police car.

Together,
we are
apart.

There will be a time
when those lilacs will bloom.
We'll stamp them beneath our boot.
No longer will we be the foot-
notes subjugated to the bottom
of the page, as together we
infuse the narrative with the lines
they can't forget,
with the lines
they won't forget—

The lines that everybody will understand.

Crossed

Like the vampire,
I turn away from the the cross--
a revelation of all those wasted moments
romancing pleasures of the flesh,
feasting on intoxicated back alley vermin,
crimson-lipped prostitutes, still
preaching of powers
that tear the seas, tame lions,
fill the empty glass, the plate of crumbs.

Redemption--a cruel tease,
not for my kind,
I lurked too deep into the shadows,
shook the hand of too many midnight dwellers.

My eternity--closed in. Coffined.
With the light of my own pale skin
betraying me. Burning
too bright for sleep.

Cursor

I'd like to think that
she stares at me blinking
or seductively winking,

but I know her
medication's depleted
and that annoying tick
is as ugly as ever.

Mess of Confusion

never trust a
cop
or robber
or just a little
boy
or girl

teacher
or preacher
you've got to wonder
if they're just wanderers

never trust a
politician
or a optimistic
optician

if there are such things
after all,
blindness is, well,
kinda cynical after all

never trust a
cop
or robber
or just a little
boy
or girl

a butcher
or maybe a poacher
they're in it together
looking to take bets
for the right cut

just selling skins
and shiny shins
together little bins
full of sins

so just never trust
it's a must
because all we are
are pessimistic
mystics making mistakes

little give or takes
without concession
or confession
a mess of confusion
in unison.

schizophrenia

see it

the world

beyond sanity

where the metaphysical becomes tangible

hinted at times

by the homeless shadow

that makes you look twice

by the heat of a body

when all there is is you

by the aroma of dreams past

when logic suggest otherwise

by the voice that speaks only to you

it breathes

any life to dream of

any simple joy to attain

sucked in

releasing in a whistling shriek

like bloodied fingernails

tearing hard against rock

trying to etch memories

something

anything to remember

my son's innocence

my husband's love

but all that's left

my tormentor

traveling through space

motionless

except for his pupils

clinging to mine.

money/fame

The poet longed
for money
and fame.
"My lines"
he thought,
"will bring me
all that I desire."

He died,
soon thereafter.
Penniless.
Alone.

Machine

This machine manufactures
the doodads which fit inside those
thingamajigs that interlock with these
whatchamacallits to get
the gizmos going.

The gizmos wake
the widgets that hammer these
doohickeys until those
thingamabobs spark this
machine into making more
doodads.

Pick Up Your T.V.

pick up your t.v.
it's blasting you with x-rays
mirror images of reality
filmed in a backroom factory

the crowds raged
a naked teen raved
a priest prayed
and they all said,
"it's only entertaining"

so pick up your t.v.
it's blasting you with x-rays
mirror images of yesterday
filmed in a living room

the team won
a bomb blasted
another man lambasted
and they all said,
"it's only entertaining"

so pick up your t.v.
it's blasting you with x-rays
mirror image wanna-bes
filmed from a circus stage

the room exploded
a quiet cry sounded
another day wasted
and they all said,
"it's only entertaining"

only entertaining.

Thought Police

The original concept called for
a telescreen in every home, a TV
that could watch you back.

On the other end, a panel
of experts clinically trained to
inspect your every move: how
you like your eggs; which
way you part your hair; what
shoe you slip on first. They
would know—
YOU.

This concept far overreached.

A much simpler interface
was instituted where
you volunteer your
#thoughts and #rethoughts
140 characters at a time.

Lord of Winterfell

i just laughed
given that i surmised
what they obviously missed
that there were always the books

although they were never hidden
in a nook
if only they had
given a look

literally,
if they were just
a little more
literate
it would have always seemed
deliberate

the lord of winterfell's
"untimely" demise
was not a desperate ploy
nor a way to play
an audience of drooling
mindless zombies
it was always right
even if,
what the heck,

he was cut from the neck.

In (Sane)

look, i may not be
exactly sane
but who are you
to say i am

wait, wait
look, i may not be
exactly sane
but who are we
to say what i am

i am one
or two
personalities
clashing

flashing
wait, wait
look, i may not be
exactly sane
but who are they
to say, who...

all these voices
dishing and fishing
for attention and
words are nothing
to you

or me, they're nothing
to us
once i was a knight
or a robber

cop?
coping, complying
you get this message on
your machine
are you?

look, i may not be
exactly sane
but who are you
to say i am

laughter and
crying
remember when?
second me
third
fourth

fifth place?
i don't know this place
breaking
down

who are you
to say
i am exactly
in

sane.

Confession

I confess my sins
in stanzas.
I sing the rosary
in blank verse.
Every wrongdoing
meted on paper
hoping that God
reads poems.

Happiness

Happiness stared
at me from across
the table with those
come-fuck-me eyes,
so I offered her more
wine. She summoned
me closer.

I brought bottle to
glass, closed my eyes,
and tried to trap her
lips in mine—
no one there.
My eyes opened to
nobody there.
She was gone—definitely
nothing there.

I finished
her glass,
my glass,
the bottle.

A hangover greeted me
the next morning, breath
stenched by vomit, sheets
soaked with bodily fluids.

I couldn’t wait to see her again.

Myths in Fairy Tales

walking paths

to find pasts

where you were

the one you never wished

to be here

alone 

in the dark

waiting 

to make your mark

upon broken histories

of no real

significance signaling

a future where

rubble strewn cities

are full of little children

screaming

for mothers and fathers

brothers and sisters

gods 

are waiting and laughing 

stalking the believers

with a fearful

patient presence

that's just beyond the bend

on this path chosen

that leads to nowhere

real 

just a myth in

a fairy tale.

Three Pigs

three little pigs
built houses
made of hay, sticks
and of course
bricks that click

the Wolf
he comes
and with a breath
and a chomp

say good-bye
to Hay
and off he runs
this wolf to Stick

Stick he cringes
but Wolf
with a breath
and a chomp

breaks with a squeal
Stick is just a pick
for Wolf and he runs
off to see Brick

Brick laughs
Wolf doesn't stand
a bit of a chance
and he throws a brick

Wolf, he's hit
but never forget
he is quicker with wit
as he leaps

Brick, he sees
as wolf, he seethes
and with a breath
on his neck

Brick, he knows,
what comes next
a chomp and quick
hey, it's death
and it sticks.

GOB

His namesake would be proud.

This modern day wizard survived

backside shivs

from poison blooded family ties,

tricksters pocketing one-eyed jacks,

sly foxes disguised in monkey suits,

gentlemen of the night playing bad cop/worse cop,

ogres cloaked and hooded in white,

and one analrapist obsessed wife,

all wide-eyed and foaming

whining and bitching for a front row seat

to his final countdown.

A Little Lucifer

he falls
he screams
and barrages his fate
with accusations
and recriminations

then he rises
the indignant little child
a little like lucifer
he decides to blame this fall
on god.

Nursery

My poems need
a change. I can hear
them in the other room.
I robe up and slipper
down the hall and their cries
only amplify as I enter
the nursery to
their cacophony of
screams and sputters.

Moonlight knives through
the blinds, slicing across
neutral yellow walls. I'll leave
the lights off, for my
little darlings await, row
after row. I should feed
them too. I sigh—
so many blessings.
So.
Many.
Blessings.

And like any self-
respecting poet, I go
from crib to crib and
smother them, each
and every one,
with a pillow.

dinosaur bones

We're dinosaur bones.
Relics of the long-gone.
Committed to the old.
Buried under rock.
Encased in amber.
Refusing the temptation
of 140 character
text lingoed
nonsense words
and waiting for the day
when everyone else
scrapes the dust away
with a toothbrush
and acknowledges
our existence.

New Gods

one while we're away
just one and you'll know
it's time to get out
before the time
it's up and we're back
to where we were
judging and watching
like clock faces
ticking
we're waiting and listening
spouting regrets and requests
just a little pressure
and it's a sure way
to disable
independent thought of motion
mostly an ocean dried up
creativity shot in the back
through the heart
and then gone
just vanished like old gods
prayed to but forgotten
listening but mute
so take one while we're away
just one and you'll know
it's time to get out
before the time
it's up and you're back
on your knees
praying and hoping
like sand
through an hourglass.

Self-Contained Chaos Theory

if you only knew
these traditions i go though
day to day analysis
of self contained chaos theory
breaking down my id
into even less than animal instinct
controlling every aspect
of the mundane over-reaching
self consciousness of broken dreams
turning into nightmares
on the brink of a perfect wreak
of weekly misery
where you left me
to see death's disguise
hanging over me
like a pale cloud
hovering over the memories
of haunted days long since
left behind
in the corners of my mind

suffering

the poet saw suffering walk by her window

she rushed open the door and yelled

come back come back

suffering knew not to turn around

and the poet continued to suffer

for not having suffered at all

fashion

-verb

the act of trying
hard to look
like you haven't tried
at all.

Last Weekend

The kids took designer drugs.
Pills that turned the world neon.
The music rattled their insides
while tracers ran across the sky.
Some wore masks
or gloves with lighted tips
to intensify the trip.
Some danced until their feet
splashed in puddles of their
own sweat.
Some had sex all night
in the wet grass.
Some overdid it
and passed out cold,
returning to the party a minute later
with a chuckle or a grin.

I fell asleep in front of the t.v.
with my glasses still on.

Last night, Shahrzad came to visit me in a dream.

It was dark.

I could only see the shadow of her; and the whites of her eyes sparkling.

I could hear the tinkering of her bracelets from a distance.

Catching a glimpse of her tattooed feet, drawn hyacinths in pink piercing darkness.

She is like the scent of jasmine flowers

on the saddest summer afternoon

you

have

ever

had.

She came close,

leaned in on my face,

her voice

a

sweet

breeze:

"I have a story for you to tell the King and only when you wake, will you remember it."

Speechless--mute, I awoke.

What is the story?

Ah. . .I remember the dream.

Mass

This dance they do
several times
a week.

Muttering crass jokes
to each other
from behind their robes.

Rituals of
bread
wine
song
Rote memories.
Habits of the trade.


Salvation
to most,
just another job
to them.

Piracy

Their ships still sail
among the torrents,
within the world-
wide web of enforcement,
to a code beyond right
or wrong.

And those raided protest
as their coffers shrink—
hardly enough to
cease a trade
marked by private exploits—

So the industry strums on.

Yet these swashbucklers
hack away
anonymously
at the greater tyranny
that’s been accepted
far too long.

I Write Poems

Unapologetically.
And they never rhyme.
And sometimes they don't make sense.
Maybe they're about noone.
Maybe they're about you.
Maybe they're just thoughts
that pick at my scabby brain
forcing me to commit them
to living form.
Words simultaneously nothing
and everything.
All things cherished
and maligned.
All things deified
and demonized.
All.
Things.

I write poems.
It's simple, really.

The Whole Rest

I play your music.

My fingers stick to piano keys.

Too many eighth notes.

Too many pauses with your deep

breaths preceding and following between the two-and-one-eighth beats

per measure that are really two-and-one-eighth beats

plus an eighth rest that equals

3

beats

per

measure.

I want to rest a whole rest: four quarter beats. . .

not an eighth rest,

not a half rest,

not even a long pause.

But the whole rest.

Yes, the whole rest.

Yet your notes string me along,

and I play

your music while I look for the rest.

The whole rest.

Reality

A punch connects.
A man falls.
Kicks enter the fray.
Blood spills.

Bystanders hide behind
camera phones.

con

in spanish,
it means
with—

in english,
it’s a
lie—

so pardon
my pessimism.

touch screen

like a horny teenager

this thing stirs up

to the slightest touch.

I can't stop playing with it.

Ghost of Words

Lost

between my thumb

and my index finger

are an ocean of dots and crosses,

deserted in some far away nowhere,

once so close to being rescued,

screaming, waving,

convulsively shaking

for a home

never realized,

left with a whimper

and then

with nothing,

not even a lingering memory

of what could have been.

Love Poems

Flesh
cut into words;
Sinewy punctuation
splattered onto
the page
in the ragged
shape of
a heart.

storm.

silent..
a silent storm tearing through my mind
destroying everything inside
to the soothing ring of piano strings..
in the eyes of this storm,
as i stare, i am torn,
between malevolent grace and lovely undertaking..

the beatitudes

hidden atop a storied mountainside

somewhere left of Matthew and Luke

the scripture offers its blessings

turn too far right and you'll miss them

Nerd Jesus

The kids flock.
Their messiah returns.
Scarved and bespectacled.
They line up for hours
to catch a glimpse
to touch the robe
to rub excited fingers
across his broomstick
and disappear from their
troubling world.

Nerd Jesus.
False prophet
like so many
before him.

Harry Potter

I am a Muggle:

ignorant to Witchcraft and Wizardry,

but while most of the Muggle World

oohs and aahs at the Magic, I think

it stupid. A bloated abomination

befitting of Dursley scorn. Unworthy

to wear any One Ring or Golden Crown:

trinkets of far more enchanting realms.

Starving

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

- Mark Strand

I'm starving!

Dickinson--

In the name of your Bee--

Your Butterfly--

And your Breeze--

Feed me!

I'll need utensils, Mr. Simic:

a bird's foot, straight from hell,

if you please.

Ezra, oh learned sir,

I'll order 300 Chinese characters,

with a dash of Latin,

topped with Greek...

...on second thought,

that would be much too much even for me.

I'd rather dine in Sylvia's kitchen.

Unfortunately (with all due respect),

There's not much cooking there that I can eat.

I know! I'll have some of Grandfather Whitman.

Let me suck thy long, pale locomotive so that I can lick my lips, fully pleased!

Politics

The children are bickering
again.
They chirp
back and forth.
Volleying
blame
and hatred
and pride.

It's been a long
car ride.
It's hot,
the windows
won't roll down
and you're exhausted.

You'd love to turn
the car around.
you'd love to
shut them up.
You long for silence,
but they're the ones driving.

Ice

...and with one swift chill

you shrieked,

"Winter has come."

pessimism

You jump into
my outstreched arms
smiling like the devil.

the golf clap

impact and rhythm,

measured by the millimeter.

discarded: guttural chaos,

a property the alchemists cannot define,

and as with the canopic jars,

that which matters most is lost.

they

they whisper around each other

lips faceless

ears floating

eyes glancing passed all the truths and answers

A Love Poem

shards of you slice across my flesh,

carving memories blood deep,

burying me into you and back into me.

our elements clutching one another,

violently, shattering molecules,

each piece reflecting something different.

the scientists cannot define it,

the violence, a mere whisper in their ears,

a whirlwind in ours,

mirrored only by the matter

that once swirled the dust and the stars

into earth.

regret

I carry you
in the heel of
my shoe
like a rock.
Small.
Jagged.
So that every time
I move forward
you bite deeper,
and the wound
never heals.

The Death of Words

They were buried
en masse.
Curse words
on top of bible verses
on top of curse words.
A ceremony was held.
We all showed up
in our best clothes.
I bought a suit
and kept the tag on
to return it later.
Those things are expensive
and words and I were never
that close.

We gathered in little
groups at the reception.
3-planet solar systems
circling a dead sun.
We didn't talk.
I went home,
wrapped my suit
back into it's clothes,
and slept.

I dreamt of words
of all types,
buzzing in my ears
like flies.
Phrases, stories,
anecdotes, idioms.
Tomes in all languages
rifling around my head.

Waking in a panic,
I picked up the phone
to call you, but found
that I had nothing
to say.

nub

The pulverized
piece of chalk
with a single letter
left in it.

The cigarette butt
smoked to the brink
just filter and ash
soaked and soiled.

The last sip
at the bottom of
the bottle
more spit
than drink

Yeah,
that's me.
.

Torture

Contrary to popular
belief, the Chinese did
not invent water
torture. A lawyer
did. He'd strap you
down and intermittent
drops of water would
hammer your fore-
head until your sanity
submitted.

Fortunately,
relationships do not
condone this kind
of behavior—

They're much more subtle.

Disagree
over beers, then finish
yours first, and the silence
you endure until the last
drop is drunk
might persuade you to
go find that
lawyer.