god made man to re-caulk the bottom of the bath tub for his daughters to splash in,
man made god to send his stillborns someplace nice.
people don't take enough showers in the dark.
those that do- or have know that
one of two things will happen,
either you feel yourself fill up the space like some gaseous soul
or you shrink as the void consumes you.
it differs from time to time.
when i stepped on a dead mouse- or a crushed leaf- or something
and the milkweed was long gone
and my hands were wet. and fingers cold.
i stammered onto the edge of the opposite curb.
we all have a box of cigarettes stashed away somewhere
whether that's a metaphor or not.
but i was walking to the reservoir on another one of my nocturnal visits.
and i wish i could remember all the things that i've learned about the night sky
or at least see it better by the spotlights on the side of the d.p.w. building.
and i forgive you like i forgive the mothers washing the last of the dishes in their kitchen windows
and i forgive the low, traffic-lit branches on the way back that cause me to crouch to the side
for fathers must scold their children.
and in 1955 there were black and white movies about madness and murder,
a man who comes back to find his father dead.
and at the end he discovers that he himself, had killed him.
four years ago.
forgot it all- fell to pieces
there's no reward for the children.
there's no love during a power-outage.
a dog-biscuit god,
lonely on the 4th floor landing
biting his knuckles
as the night sits on her hands and waits for something spectacular to happen.
somewhere a huntress is hurting.
somewhere we finally live.
we are beautiful- clean, like some ocean drug,
smiling out of nervous fear.
sitting shirtless in the dark,
slapping our fingers against our thighs to warm them.
we wanted heroes
but god kills like a hero.
we found a crumpled hand and a cigarette.
saw a girl hiding from a killer in her closet
man with crow on his collarbone-
for some hot, damp woman
lost a piece of our prize in the coming of the sun
sign of the father.
we need no such badge of courage on our sleeves.
everyone thinks themselves the hero of their own story,
but that simply can't be true.
for those of us that accept the comfort of villainy,
it is much more liberating.
its not that i adhere to any great evil,
its just that i don't care for such vanity.
villains simply walk away
god kills like a hero.
I watch and walk away.
"do you believe in madness?"
i whispered in the dark, half afraid of a reply.
the walls pushed forcibly on my chest and spine each time i inhaled.
i had begun again to forget what words felt like,
both on the lips and upon softing the delicate hairs of the inner ear
all i could know was the dark, and my breathing, and her breathing. and i begun to wonder if she was breathing at all,
of if the fainter, more distant breaths- were not just echoes of my own.
had i gone mad. was i truly alone- my companion, just an invention of the silence.
animal vegetation, visitation rights and eight days of blue sunshine
on a red.
bird feeder world washes yellow sparrow birds sundial weather watch the water get so warm
all the lines drawn down your arms-
the skin on your lips
desperate and parted for pine-needles and paper-dolls,
tear me around you
pass up opportunities in favor of numbness
shuffle around me like the wet stones under your feet,
you barefoot rain catcher-
moody making idols from chewing gum and string-
we've got you.
you've showed me the flesh under your fingernails
and we've got you pinned.
you scrape out paint from cracks in your hands under a two-skinned sun
and you're burning.
like a furnace full of hand-made nails-
like a black-tar roof-
like a whore wrapt up in hot white sheets
what of it then,
your head, your hands, your hair in your face-
what of it for the fire that
need not, know not, will not what you want,
we will not
rain in the shame of me
she ran after me
she drilled small pilot holes in my rib-cage and left me to fall asleep on the floor
howling loveless yelps into the corner of her eye while she's away,
hands tracing mad things,
fingernails scraping long walks home into oakmoss dripping from stones like picket fences.
some ghost of a neck-thin pulse runs a chill down to her toes
fingernails scraping good red lines down her arms
we stay up all night just to read you
you wear down your whetstones.
we stay up all night to hurt our eyes with bright bedside-
i wish i had a better word for you
a finger for a dead piece of glass
heads drifting side to side for insects caring down the sheets.
and on the wall there's light
these tongues you've had taste like old neighborhoods,
stolen shopping-carts sent through puddles that fill up the side streets,
dressing down to the sound of rain.
i've spent a long time devouring the human condition, devoting my being to absorbing the richness of instants, the passion of moments, deciding which music i like and what i don't.
the sensation of the wires hanging loose from your headphones gently brushing up with the blonde hairs on your neck like little hairthin whispers- spiders crawling on you throat
fleece summercamp sweatshirt
the a/c rumbling
wax paper tracings-rubbings of leaves
with my left hand resting forcibly on the soft-spot of my temple daring myself to push all the way through to the other side
the heat darting down from the gutless open
and searing my body from hot night sky
i never tan, its either sunburn or skin cancer
if i could
reach over and pluck out your lunatic thoughts and stick them in a mason jar on top of my
bureau by my heap of assorted flashlights and pocket knives
alongside the fat, waxy tallow of mellow-dramatic candles that i never did manage to get.
stepping soft by the pads of my feet
dirty water pools around the balls of my heels as i dig into the moist earth
leaving holes in the mud as i step away.
a bitter gurgling sound crept out of your mouth
your lips burnt open and split apart from the heated words bubbling from the back of your throat
let's talk about the poetry of that one beltloop you missed getting dressed in the morning and the pebble you've been carrying around for the greater part of a week between the treads of your shoe. how long do you have to keep it with you until it becomes art?
tin cup flowers
and cars slurring by
a broken man touch the earth,
sad bandana wrapt around his hand,
God gives him road.
the dirt believes in what his hand reminds
i feel the moon,
and taste the sky.
you're wind in the washboard,
swallows dipped in silver and rum sweep in and out of-
sparrows sparkling and-
kicking stones to the side.
i fell off the whole universe just for a moment.
the front door open.
the dogs not barking,
slapping some wet skinned faces in front of everyone,
wishing i was a broken bottle
or some sort of watercolor portrait of a man,
face-stern and luminous against the white of the page.
i've whole trees of paper waiting to be planted.
there's want of a forest in my yard
-the whole world burning down to
action dust; to the girl that screams:
there's no such thing as sinners, there's no such thing as love, there's just people and what people do,
whole forests of paper feel your words.
we're all just crazy.
sweet dharma dewdrops fell off the tongue of the clean-cut kid.
he had soapy teeth and no shame to speak of
and when he spoke to us, his fingers glowed
did you think that words could do more than arms-
and that anything else alone could do more for you than a full bodied embrace.
i looked at the rose you had buttoned on your blouse and i tore it off and dashed it upon the ground
tonight is defined by a low and yellow moon
and the mist of a mild night, three days before new years, wishing open the yellow billboard
lit up softly like a wheatfield
and frost was setting onto the long blades of crisply dying vegetation
and flicking the edges of their yellow to orange and brown.
and there is the matter of those ghosts in the parkinglot
unaware of the cars that skid by full of people, all with capacities to know and be known-
sometimes i wish i could tell them
that it's okay to reach out with soft red fingers, wet from running water, warm from hot running water rinsed
over our hands to bleed out the chill that leaches into our too-thin fingers on cold nights such as this.
meanwhile-whole forests of bright white paper burning down all around me,
i think that if i ever found you, it would be walking on a road next to blueberry blossoms-and close, dry
thicket branches that crunch swiftly sometimes-and slowly, others- behind our heels
and hands shaped like mantras gesturing towards us from trees- telling us to go this way, and that,
welcoming us with their imperfect notions of morality and telling us that everything was going to be
so light a match on the bathroom window,
take one step closer to breathe in the bad-handwriting of the graceless morning. put one foot forward on the floor-
one hand on your temple.
only time will tell
if this is hell or just a special hell for me and you
choke me in the white-noise drone
of the shower.
push against the vitalities of my neck-
offer your hands around my faltering voice.
tell me about the pharaoh.
and the legless learners of passion.
tell me that you need to fall forward onto your face just to remind yourself that you're alive.
drum against my chest imperfectly with your
the unskillfully applied paint on your nails already chipping off- (you do this thing with your thumb and
forefinger as a nervous habit and always ruin them.)
break off into rhythmic beat poetry. in the middle of conversation
(-now that's hot.)
the sun come
i trace over my neck with cartridge-blade razors
-rip away the stubble like peeling off snakeskin shadows.
and snow falls slowly.
dusting my eyes
with the harpsichord sounds of porcelain.
there is no longer bitterness nor sorrow.
if there was nothing it had to become something, something had to become more and all these things had to become more complex, more chaotic, more realized.
net zero game
nothing is created nor destroyed, energy to mater, only changed between forms, how many forms are there that are being changed between
good and bad in the world, net zero game
that is the purpose?. get the most out of a net zero game
something v. nothing
at what point does there become so much something that it becomes the nothing and then the nothing, the something. what is the difference between a blank white and a blank black sheet of paper. at which point do the negative and the positive space switch definition in the eyes of the perceiver. does it need to be perceived to be real? and when there is all of one thing, and none of the other, does the other start to grow and become the new something
it still follows?
is this the birth and rebirth of the universe.
the behaviors of subatomic particles and the units which compose what we think of as reality, change when observed, what else changes when observed. electrons become particles, electrons become waves. in one place. now another. both never and always here and there.
i often wonder if i'm crazy
of if everyone else is crazy and i'm among the sane. few and far between.
of if we are all crazy together,
and the craziest thing of all is that we never let each other know just how crazy we are.
that would truly be the most tragic.
for each and every individually to believe so much. feel so much. break apart so much in every instant as to doubt the sanity of their each and every moment.
and never be able to tell you exactly how it feels, or even to hardly try
while all along, i know. and you know. and they know. exactly what they could mean.
if only they could ever decide to talk about it.
or if words and impressions were enough to know someone by
i wonder if you've sat in the bath tub as a child- while the water was running out all around you
pensive about the whirlpool twisting everything small and fluid around it down the drain.
i wonder if you've wondered what it would feel like to be really small in the water as it got sucked down- not an object, just a view-point.maybe like a disembodied perceiver that can see and touch and feel. and what would it feel like. and be like to be washed down and plunged into swirling sensory overload.
almost like something that would happen on the magic school bus.
what if at every instant we could be everywhere in a way like that. every possible place the magic school bus could go. or explore. or know. we could be. all at once.
but at the same time we would be big too, so we could put it all into perspective make sense of all things things and live by them. live in a way where we knew how to be right to each other because that was true.
what is we could magic school but into things that were not physical like feelings and love and comfort and personalities
that would be pretty cool.
what if everyone i meet, knew instantly that i was the first born of the many cousins on my dad's side of the family and that my grandma lived downstairs and my aunts and uncles were always there and i was babied and all the time i was was young, there were babies and children and people who loved them there. and i was always around that and that i have never left that place and that i am young.
and i am very sweet. and very sincere if i can get the chance but i cant; get the chance anymore because its hard. and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. for my casual insincerity and defenses because all of my stoicism is me so full of feeling but i'm not supposed to show it anymore. and all the people i can't run up to and hug anymore would know. and that at any given moment- i'd give anything just to make a blanket fort and fill it with stuffed animals. but i'd look pretty foolish. and everyone would probably say i was mentally handicapped. even the ones who used to baby me. and the babies i built them with.
isn't that something.
i had a sand dune
and i had a sky
i had the dirt below me
and the small stones being filtered through the edges of my fingertips as i sifted thought the ground at my side.
raising my arms up-
letting the dust and pebbles fall through into the sphere
there is passion and there is numbness
and there is something inbetween.
something that's alotabit a both-
that's all mixed up and frantic.
its quiet on the outside but unpredictable
there's the meanness in this world
and there's the not
and there the winter time
and an old LP of houses of the holy jammed up at the cardboard corners and worn down to the white along the spine
even if things get better
we can never be the same.
even if i can reach a point when i can say "i love you" again, (which by the way i still do- even though mostly i wish i could stop.)
it can never be the same.
even though no mater what happens, i'll still care about you for some reason- and i'd never wish you ill,
it will never be the same.
your name upon my lips will never be quite as special.
don't take comfort in any kindness i extend.
that's just who i am.
how i'll always be.
i'm still taking everything in slowly.
i never yelled.
or called you names.
though i don't think i would- don't think i could-
that's not who i am.
i've tried so hard.
i wish that you had tried just a little bit harder
- a lot harder.
it turns out you really didn't try very hard at all.
it shouldn't have been that easy to bury 4 years of me giving you everything i ever could and more.
-for the love of god, you were the first girl i ever kissed.
that was in highschool.
that seems like a long time ago.
i feel old.
i can never be the same.