My brow furrowed as she read my palm
and whispered of growing interest.
"What?" I asked; I had my qualms
about the foretelling of a future
I haven't decided to live.
But I smell the darkness in the incense.
I trace the tendrils of the incense
with forehead firmly within my palm.
The streets below are live
with persons of little interest,
hustling toward a fuller future.
Renew me, my qualms.
Not that I had qualms,
replacing patois in my future.
The lurid waves slide over my palm.
instill a touch of colder interest.
With each sandy step, I live.
And as the water fills my shoes, I live.
When I quietly lose interest
the ocean shows it too has qualms.
The brine coalesces like incense
as my nails dig into the skin of my palm.
For I seek a better future
than the unforgiving future
that chose not to live.
The salt stings the holes in my palm
and instantly I have no qualms,
just a lingering fleck of incense
arousing mild interest.
The ocean betrayed not the slightest interest
being the shepherd of my future.
Rivulets of water became the incense
That I would breathe to live.
Instinct expressed fervent qualms,
as I pressed my mouth with my open palm.
It was the incense in which I held the most interest.
Her finger traced my palm, mumbling of a better future
ahead for me to live, free from petty qualms.
Too much to drink,
now you need a lawyer
or a wife to beat.
Now you're in it deep,
can't you adjust?
Just tolerate the heat.
It'll all soon be done,
then you won't need to worry
about not having any fun.
You woke up in the gutter,
thank god you did.
Your smile makes my heart flutter.
You came home late, it's early.
Don't tell me I fret too much
when I try to drive you to Hurley.
You'll never get older,
you'll never never change.
Sometimes it seems you'll only get colder.
That's why you wear the
silly fur hat with that
long plaid underwear.
Yes, it's cold in here.
Your feet are wet from snow
because you walked to the pier.
I don't know, why don't you just
jump in and sink into the inky
depths if you must?
One can save only so much of you
before the rest of you becomes
too empty to keep on.
I heard someone whisper "he's such an arrogant prick" as I entered.
Those crooked sons of bitches don't have any idea,
I'm the kind you hardly ever come across except in winters,
when all the street rats are begging for heat.
I command attention at the head of the table,
I am the head of the table,
and sever the head to kill the municipal body.
The wigs and robes and gavels I accessorize command it too.
When I sign things I do it haughtily,
I carefully etch each and every goddamned letter onto writs of demand.
A hush lingers,
I catch the eyes of Walter Weiss, he lies with every breath
and did you know he is unfaithful to his wife? I heard.
the shudders are shut, my druthers. Oh, Walter!
notarize my forms of annexation, please.
and take down this:
To whom it may concern:
You have 7 days to remove yourself from the premises
as you are aware of the edict that preexists
and preempts your residence
and your squalor misrepresents
Signed: The holding powers, in eminence.
Oh Walter Weiss, address it to yourself!
I pride myself on tact.
And package with the writ this evidence form
sent to my office following a secret examination
conducted by the Department of Residential Safety and Heath.
Do not bother me with demoralizations, Walter!
Due to discourse with the Act of Discontinuation,
(which of course is subject to broad generalizations)
the lien sector of the Savings and Loan Association
have concluded you are found in violation of, through reasoning by generalization,
failing to pay duties on your mortgage issued by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.
Oh, Walter, how distressing!
Don't falter, acquiescing
is always the way.
Just never, ever forget to pay.
My eyes are heavy in my head,
or more accurately, my lids,
but my mind is running figure-eights,
thoroughly, like fits,
and at the cross of the eight,
the little pinch, the skinny waist,
one point manifests itself to every sense,
sight, touch, smell, sound, and taste.
This one point dares consume me,
my skin condusive, tinder,
and my blood begins to boil,
and reason have I devouring to hinder?
I don't think so.
If not for the advancement of theory to fact,
for what does a man live?
Everything else is merely cobblestones
along a bridge, civility, politik, tact.
Ignore the brightened
neon agitprop I say,
and carry yourselves headlong.
Nothing else have we
on which to agree,
but on the idea to think,
this alone elevates us above
the throngs of simians,
gibbering like themselves.
Gideon himself believed in thought,
believed in product placement as well,
and with simple words this world
has onto it been wrought
with sorrow and beauty,
but of course, hell hath no fury
like an illiterate with a Bible.
You might as well give her a brick,
one cannot force an entry with a book.
Nor will she, however,
understand that blatant libel,
but it's irrelevant,
as this is the last place
I'd expect her to look.
is she of good fortune,
or rather good misfortune,
or rather than rather she
of a wheel of fortune,
a wheel that seems to have
I fear now she is a victim
perpetrated against by they
whom she had once before wronged,
and if they were arsonists,
they'd be fuckin' torchin',
and she certainly wouldn't be grinning.
If she has wounds,
and I'm sure she does,
or will soon get them,
she better get licking them,
because she's about to rub up
against those pillars of salt
she created looking back.
A funny thing about those pillars,
and I'm sure it's common knowledge,
they were once your friends.
Sure, I see a few tears aflowing,
but I'm damn sure its the salt in the eyes.
This carnal kernel of misogynistic
jibba-jabba came to my attention,
my attention, not because I cared too much,
but because of plain 'ol curiousity.
You see, want, and you shall recieve.
Ask, and you shall fuckin'
find the fuck out.
Simple as that.
Now, following that logic,
and I try to do so with furiousity,
even a mental gimp'll
come to a reasonable conclusion eventually.
One can discover the truth sensually.
I believe that the ability to perceive
people's emotions is as great a gift as any.
And of course that means
one can decipher motive.
Who has motive?
Ah, to know that,
you know the perpetrator.
I discover motive sensually,
and the trail for the contractual
assailant has been had,
the jury has deliberated,
and they find GUILTY!
Oh dear lord!
Can it be true?
and based on prior history,
it ought not come as much surprise.
One thing left to deside, of course.
There were two balloons
and a vinyl kite wedged
in the branches of the lemon tree
and I ate a sandwich
with cheddar cheese
and watched a little girl
She was sweet, weak, sad,
she had a lemon scented sigh.
I imagined how and why
and when she would stop
to dry her eyes.
But those tears that flowed
will wash away the tears
that flowed down yesterday.
It eased the weight of thought
off my mind and rent
the lemons from their
And each new lemon seed
grew another lemon tree,
and each new lemon tree
grew fresh new lemons innumerable.
And each balloon and vinyl kite
that floated in the breeze were caught
and held for ransom for little girls' tears.
And each little girl with years
and years and years will be a little woman
that has no time for kites,
between the money spent
replacing them for
crying little girls.
An earthquake sev
ered the land from the
other land, disconn
ected the bridge from the
I felt the rumble in my glass,
saw the ripple in lady dacre's wine.
The quivers influenced the
nerve endings at the base of my spine,
and the dimmed lights flickered
I saw the faces of the lazybones
in the bar, the panic-
Most people survived.
Ha! and I had hopes
for a better ending.
Placing my hand on the window pane, I felt it knocking
outside, as the rain pissed buckets and washed my car.
Every few seconds, the sky was talking,
but I would never let it in.
I stepped down into a dour acceptance
and bought a moderately-priced raincoat.
The spitting sky would never cease
And I began to imagine which items I owned could float.
I wished I chose swimming lessons over piano,
but at least because of it I had one.
I figured it might become a useful raft
if indeed no one ever again sees the sun.
How much water can fit under the sky? I wondered,
and at what depth will my body finally rest?
I realized I hadn't the time to consider intangibles
or to issue to God any vague, indirect requests.
I pressed my forehead against the glass, just stop!
There was a moat between houses now,
with pets and telephone poles and trees as islands.
The chill of cataclysm began to freeze my brow.
Later on my roof wearing my raincoat I daydreamed
about the things I loved underneath the silvery-grey.
I waved to my neighbor and he sadly waved back,
and I held up my glass of wine and watched the world wash away.
I'm a monster | an abberation.
A sightless loon | a desecration.
What do you want from me?
I live in a fantasy concentration.
A constant mental demonstration.
What do you want with me?
I want nothing but to make things mine.
I want nothing but to make you mine.
I own your every move.
Control your mind and lease your soul.
You're amusement | there's no other way.
I swallow life | there's no other way.
"Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?"
Lie to me.
Lie with me.
Lie right through your teeth.
Tell me of the joy.
Here I am
Tell me I'm lying | and hide
Your pain beneath your skin.
Tell me that you're pleased | grin
Let everyone else go.
Can know you like I know you.
Cares | cares to care | can care.
I see you laid bare.
Open | for me.
I know you | you are serpentine
Lie to me.
Lie to me.
Afford me a second look.
You are serpentine | simian.
A match | a head | a book.
Beautiful and useless | brazen and prey.
A word and a mind is all it took.
You are serpentine.
Coiled into knots.
Breathing like a drum | coming undone
Turning poison [cannots]
Into years of history-
Realms | orbs.
Spheres of stunning beauty.
"Digest a world of interest."
I eat your eyes.
You are serpentine.
I was approached long ago in the Red Star Lounge.
"I offer you personal lessons on the art of detection,"
the stranger said. Now, my disbelief has been on suspension
ever since I arrived,
but I knew that accepting this offer would be less than wise.
I asked, "What do you mean?"
He answered, "Do you notice this ring on my finger?"
I nodded, he continued-
"Now this..." the last syllable lingered
in the air as he paused,
wishing I grasped the suspense he hoped to cause.
"...is a ring, but it is not ordinary." He stared at me-
Too intent to be a glare-
"Than what is it?" I queried.
As if I even cared-
"Its power extends beyond this mortal realm,
and if you are ready, to you I bequeath it."
"If I were ready?" I stared back-
"How can one tell?" I had had about enough of this, I was exhausted.
"I'd deduce if you were prepared,
but I know already you are-
the look in your eyes,
I've not seen in decades,
in my travels near and far-"
This wandering loon, this destitute pariah,
and it was I that captivated his attention.
His attention was rapt, though wrapped too tightly he was not.
It was Orpheus I thought of, and his lyre,
as he removed his ring and offered it.
"Wear this, assume my role-"
Burned was my wit-
I accepted his gift,
and as I gazed at it foggy-eyed, he told me-
"You must comply! Put it on and do as it commands!"
I was in a daze, too confused to flee-
So I did-
And nothing happened-
He stared at me as if I were a ghost-
"Well? What does it tell you?"
My face went sanguine with rage as I answered virulently-
"Nothing! I hear nothing! You are a fool!"
He looked dejected, grey as a ghoul-
I was mad at myself for buying into this nonsense,
though I felt guilty for being so cruel-
"Are you..." He paused as he considered my eyes. "...sure?"
"Then give it back, you aren't the one I was looking for."
That offended me-
"Wait, wait! I implore you to wait!"
I concentrated on the ring, I will make myself this one.
"Just give it back," He held out his hand-
"Maybe it just isn't going exactly to plan," I conceded.
He still looked defeated,
but his eyes were the eyes of a tormented man.
"No! Return it at once!" He seized my wrist.
Instantly I made a fist-
"I feel something! I swear it is true!
I know now exactly what it is I'm to do!"
He struggled to open my hand as I clenched it ferociously-
"I must travel this land, gifting all with my wisdom!"
He sneered at me and bit my thumb-
"Why won't you believe me?"
"Because you're a liar!" He said, as I bled into my palm-
"You can't possibly know that!" I shoved him away-
He pushed me back and I fell from my feet-
He pounced on my chest and as he spoke I felt the heat
from his words-
"I made it all up!" His spit specked my cheeks-
"I stole it from a doctor, I've tried to sell it for weeks!"
I couldn't understand-
"You were supposed to wear it,
then pay me to thank me!"
He rose and I rose, and I dabbed my face with his shirt-front.
I felt betrayed from my head right down to my toes-
"But I don't have any money-"
From the look I received,
I don't think he considered that funny-
"I know what to do..." I said meekly and smiled.
"...the ring speaks to me, I must be the one,
the golden child..."
He hung his head and shrugged
and I thought of the doctor he mugged,
and then I thought of my hatred for doctors-
"But keeping it I don't think would be proper."
There was a gleam in his eye as my hands came together,
but as hard as I pulled, the ring stayed right on-
"I think it's stuck," I said-
He stood as if his bones were made entirely of lead-
Frustrated beyond speech.
I kept trying to remove it,
but it wouldn't even budge-
"Maybe you should get some soap and water,
maybe that'd get it off-"
Turned, and walked away-
I waited awhile, but he never came back-
So I still wear that ring to this day,
though it has yet to utter another mention of my duty-
Then I went to city park
to feed breadcrumbs to pretty larks.
I brought my niece Elise
and my nephew Patrice.
Well we stayed 'til after dark.
My brother's wife, she called me,
so I waived the dollar-nine fee.
She wants her kids.
So I closed my lids,
and I told her that that won't be.
Sorry, I'm taking them now, they're mine.
I'm not wantin' to listen to her whine,
so I hung up the phone,
let out a moan,
said it's time to go, it's after nine.
The children asked when they're going home.
"Well, we're hittin' the road, going to roam."
After 77 miles of driving,
they both got to crying'
and I told 'em to SHUT THEIR FUCKIN' MOUTHS.
I pulled over the car at Oregon Shortine,
took the W. Michigan Cross to Madison
merged to Blancheflower Ave.
I said stay right fuckin' there.
I opened the trunk.
And with a THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
I bashed out their brains on the seats.
How are you, my friends?
I miss you, I was hanging out with some unsavory joggers,
and they always wanted to see some buffalo.
So I cleaned the seats.
I love a machine, I love a machine. I love a machine. How can this be, how can I feel so eruditely unclean? Is this the ends to my ill-gotten means? So how are you?
Then I left them lying there, across from the Lebanon Computer Cafe.
So I left them-
It was after all getting late.
My life is a net, my life is a net. I swirl and unfurl and stone the design, I curse myself, my heartstring facsimile. I played piano to forget, but my mind needs 89 keys to remember how to do that, and all I had was 88.
So I went to bed.
It was tea time.
This truest love, triumphantly
is a bird of prey
marauding 'twain these grayest skies and tenured gain
dine with blessed distinction,
And any mice caught in between-
For does my love in summer's rain
prey on the solace of my nightly dreams
Do gauge my love as span of wings
the distance 'tween each finger
Her wings are spread and through the sky
she soars in arcs and swirls
Each and every blissless night,
she passes coyly o'erhead,
The curtain in my blood unfurls
and this presence ever lingers-
Perched aloof and tauntingly in a bending oak
she says: "These stars that hover
above the sky I disbelieve-
Their palaver, quaint and lasting,
They grip and guide my flutters as an ever-tightn'ng yoke."
Each hand I place o'er the other,
'til each branch is a rung, ladder to the moon.
Said: "And coldly does this horrib' moon smile,
she laughs 'til my tail is the dust
each stroke of hours and minutes speak to me
this cunning moon pours in our hearts this lust-
How could these shambles any trust?"
This sky, though blacken'd,
cannot rend apart what's happened,
and all it sees with terrible eyes
can prevent not this love fore'er mend-
She glode politely out o' reach,
To soar delightly by me-
Said: "I see the jilted morning glory
bowing to the moon.
Each stalk twines traitoriously
a capsulating swoon-
Each fruit it bears bequeathes 'nto me
callous forms of elliptic bracts,
eats as nothing more than flax-"
For every morning glory's betray'l
I'll harvest ten thousand Orchids from the meadow's fringe,
plucked from the margins of the bog-
This love is not a passing arc
that follows does that jealous moon-
I'll trek the acid, foy an' dinge,
and, if those mice do not erstwhile dine on this orchid's seeds,
that which lays dormant, 'neath the leaves
will send up freshly blooming stalks.
He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.
Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.
He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.
He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
"Tard de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.
King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.
He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.
Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.
This is not atrocity
This is the basement
This is the sea receding like lips to reveal tooth-like shells
Amongst the bullet casings and corpses felled leaving the boats
This is the sand like an inverted moat around the
Kingdom at sea, and this is the Remainder.
Yet they remain jubilantly-
Is this what being jubilant means?
Chamomile anklets adorning a hanged child.
This is not atrocity,
Ignorance wielding pitchforks and fire.
Anger alight and hostility riled
This is not atrocity.
This is not far from this reality;
Remember this child-
And the mob piled like tinder on themselves
Convincing carrion feeders
And unimpeded breeders that
Halt the march of science that
This is not atrocity.
The certain hot song by which Earth is greeted
Has an immediately recognizable tune.
This is not atrocity;
It sounds more like opiate, opiate.
But I can't hear it
And I have no fear anymore
I open my eyes to another routine killing, and I know-
This is atrocity-
But a necessary one.
It's hardly enough to stay alive
And as I and we strive for
Money and coffee and love,
I and we let
Climb into us like a hand does a glove,
or a puppet.
It is not nature;
And one needn't be dead
to appreciate the ability to open the senses
and actually sense.
I am certain,
Is not an atrocity
You handed me your heart and I held it
felt it, squeezed it through my fingers
staring lingers, that's the ringer
it kept time once, pendulum swinging
in metric, you were electric
ten ticks for every tock
it was a shock to see you waste away
tumbling like a lock, in decay
gave it up on Christmas Day
filled my stockings with trinkets
then meshed with the machines
that beeped and kept your time
ten ticks for every tock
I sat beside your bed,
ate vanilla bean ice cream and
stared at the sea foam green ceiling
and counted the time between beeps
ten, ten, then eleven, slowing down
it wasn't in my head, the nurses
said it was routine, a regression to the mean
but it was your heart that was routine
keeping time safe
but then your eyes were empty
and I could see interplanetary space
in between the accordion regulating
your breathing's pace
then the beeping ceased
and where once I was with a man in a bed
in a room with machines and statues of saints
peering down with stoic grace,
I was then alone.
Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm hardcore-
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-
So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-
I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-
As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-
People, they just ain't all golden, not at all.
Not even silver, magnesium or copper.
Maybe zinc, because it tastes like ink and it does your body good,
but you never get enough, even though you know you should.
But had I the means, and the ends were understood,
would I be zinc? Would I carry the common good?
Would I feign precious metal? Or am I nothing but wood?
I met today aluminum, he said, "I'm bad luck."
"I know it," I said, "You're out of your element."
"My melting point is 660.2°C!"
I told him my name was Kristian Huselius,
but that turned into a testament.
"You're just lucky you aren't a duck," he said.
"Maybe, but I find I've got too much will."
"You can't spread will on bread, my friend,"
he said, much to my Brazil,
"but lucky for you they make contraceptives in pills."
I didn't want children anyway, but when Boron arrived,
I was feeling less than sublime.
Boron said, "My name rhymes with 'moron'!"
"No kidding, Boron," I replied.
"I can come in both the dark crystal and brown powder variety!"
"That may or may not be true," said Aluminum,
"but at least I benefit society."
Oh, yeah, he said it, he went there.
"I value correctness and propriety!" Boron shrieked.
"And you can be flimsy, squishy, and weak!"
I wanted no part in this, so I meandered.
Not too long after, I met Helium.
I told him my name was Carlton Deandre.
"I don't believe you, mealworm," he bombasted.
"You're gaseous," I said, "I wouldn't put it past ya."
A perfect engine
Neither claim nor hint
alludes to friction lost.
Neither faith nor glint
reflected love at cost.
Saving grace and bliss
cold as the morning frost.
Neither waste nor sins
do human creatures wash.
Identity resolved, blue ribbons taut-
I am speech, a verb, a praise, a participial phrase-
There are many battles yet to be fought,
but with respite and awareness of everything throughout,
and to know one's self is to know the world-
Action vernacular, I use words like disappear to identify-
Find one's self in all mundane, rain and flame and claimless blame,
I am the Earth-
Words like crush and blight,
For philistines and charlatans, I preach intrepidly-
Belief is as an ageless hearth,
smelting swords for smiting fear,
for pain and trepidation to disappear.
Reborn red-horned, and one dozen eyes can see
I'm a word, a noun, a kill, a key, and All alive is a mirror,
It is dangerous to utter truths when lies are all the rage,
But I reflect the truth-
Every creature, refined or uncouth,
is a form of life, a light of myself.
To forget is just as whimsical as a simple turn of phrase,
all I can advise,
is to simply turn the page-
Normalcy and tact are artificial-
At base, one's merit is no longer superficial,
but to assert this fact-
This is the greatest battle of all.
On the train, the "Caretaker of Bastard Masses"
Taking classes on fascist asses,
hiding my eyes behind rose-colored glasses
I am in transit:
On the rails between Wayne and the Western Passes
the shellgrasses on the plains
on either side of the train surpasses
the wane of the forest in the distance.
A florist in the aisle peddles her wares
The poorest seated triple-file give her longing glares
"Will you buy some roses today?"
She holds no roses, only hay
Fingers on the arm of the chair
wafting in the smell of her hair-
Come, my dear, if you dare
quietly, how will you fare
if you hear the words I have for your ears?
She passes, another transaction
supersedes this attraction:
No reaction? No pause.
Even in asking my question withdraws
to the rear compartment.
This line is miles through benign black pines
and white cliffs, stained by time
Every hour she hovers near, marked by the whine
of passersby lamenting their confines-
Every hour fails to entwine us,
so I sit alone with wine and swine.
The conductor tells me we've arrived
but I consider it survived
I've died and revived by the short hand
in anything but repose.
Disembarking, she brushes my sleeve,
then through the crowd on the platform leaves.
Never to receive my rose.
I've been delayed,
a breath betrayed
by getting paid
and it cuts me to my roots-
So send it all,
send it all
so send it all
send it all
What do I warrant
less than a torrent
Damn it all,
just damn it all
damn it all, all only time
fixtureless and frozen
captive and hope is this
heat below the ice
confused by up and down as sideway is just as respectable
help with thisssssssssssss
this pile of lines scream make me a circle.
and my stack of circles reply with I'd rather be a cloud.
the clouds have coughed
and coated me with coats.
You can't adjust the wind but you can jump off the boat.
It's like wine
made in the gutter
fermented by the sun,
broke the diatribe's flutter.
I exchanged the anger for a bottle
for my cellar.