Leave, left, leaving
I never felt the grass weaving
I never felt my skin peeling
off my shoulders and into my hands
Bent, break, breaking
I never left my hands shaking
I never held my throat, aching
down my spine and into the bedframe
Held, hold, healing
I never kept my knees kneeling
I never felt my mouth bleeding
off my chin and onto my chest
Heal, hell, heaving
I never slipped my hands, thieving
I never caught my feet leaving
off the grass and into the street
My hour
Quiet
Beside me an easy storm
Spirited
Through me by blooming power
River drunk
Recalling the taste of sun
My little sound rise and hold
My quick baby, who loves you?
Oh slow waker, who arches?
Backs bent over rolling water
Water, who swallows?
Chest shaking under heavy wool
Weight, who spins?
Thick dust down soft temples
Heat, who flickers?
Multiply- make room, make room
Darling, what gathers?
Soak my honey-stung tongue-tip
Cold, who wanders?
Leave my bent frame on stiff soil
Body, why bother?
Lazy smoke, tell me, tell me, who rises.
The air is thinner towards the peak.
blood boils
fingernails fill
cliffs only jump 'cus they were told to.
Doors and Keys;
Unlocked,
Open
My throat aches
I need warmth,
weight
On my chest and stomach
My jaw aches
I need breath,
breath
On my neck and shoulders
My eyes ache
I need tension,
pressure
On my ribs and knuckles
My throat aches
I need
I need
I need to get a grip
If obligation is a sin
I am such a fashionable writer
I am Bukowski
My brain swims in chemicals
and
My legs swim in sheet
My mouth moves subconsciously
and
My palms are always numb.
We were almost killed on the Freeway
My Father slammed on his breaks
I heard my Mother gasp
and brace herself
I was almost killed in the water
I kept my palms flat and far
I kept my feet on the salty tar
and wept
I've been known to have my fair share
of self-pity
and equity
No, he didn't keep
No, I didn't sleep
At all
I made a map
of the veins in my chest
I followed the lines
and ended up in a ditch
So I dug
As far down as I could
Before the clay became to stiff
for my fingers to claw
So I went back to my room
with fingernails full of dirt
and a mouth full of spit too thick to swallow
More often than not
If it seems like a short time
It has been
Quite often and more
If if seems like a long time
It has been
If you live on the Fantastic Planet
Some days
You feel steel on your scalp
and steel in your palms
You are the evolved, and the constantly evolving
Rapid; rapid; rapidly
And we live with steel on our necks
and sonic waves booming
from our chests and temples.
We were under the impression of evolution
we were living with evolutionary spectacles
covering our irises until they were torn
and we were naked
and our Garden of Eden was our impression
of our stance and state
The charts were rapidly running;
like a film.
We were getting left behind in our caves
with our left hands and our flat-feet.
We ran faster than we had need to
Till we were inhaling particles;
atoms that had not existed when we were still the spectacle
And we brought them out of their Fantastic Planet
and they brought us out of our sleep.
I'll have a hard time forgiving
The Art Students who were
marinated in cynicism
And left to bake in the hot sun
With brown sugar
sliding down their throats
Who speak only the language
of French
And the language
of Artistic Sex and Textiles
And
of course
The boys with the floppy hair
Who piss vinegar into scratched up sinks
And snorted cocaine off of the eyelashes
of diet-coke-head-high-school girls
Who grew up
Grew their hair
And let their cheeks sink like ships
Into the cluttered caverns of their mouths
These girls are always wide-awake
and fast-asleep
And they never get drunk off of
incandescent light
And never remember to turn off
the tap before they go to sleep
But not in their beds
'Cus their heads
told their necks
They didn't need the support
If dimensions were dollars
I could have bought you anything you'd like
If my friends were all scholars
I'd lead a very lonely life
My friends have enough perfume
and prankcalls
to last them out of University
Your friends speak
with the wrath of God
and the judgment of Larry King
Angry as the bees
Angry as the chosen twelve
He searches for his keys
Underneath my heavy bedsheets
I have no silver
To buy my field of redemption
Or to hand my body
to the rotting roots and rocks
below
I've still kept my head
He still speaks to me
Through leather seats
He lays down the law
I lay down my wheat
I have not blasphemed
your Holy Ghost
But
that was always something that
other people
did
So who knows?
I still hang my head
For seven minutes each day
I let myself be unhappy
I curse and cuss and cry
and deep-sea dive
until I run out of breath
and come back to my surface
Four minutes of the day I spend
wondering if I'm awake
I blink and burrow and brood and
pretend I'm in a sitcom
until familiar things
float back to my surface
And I resume kissing your head and mouth
because I'm sure that they're there
and that they're
yours and you
