like the sweet sugar
The tiniest droplets of my presence,
raining down from this frozen sky,
are so insignificant to your tongue,
as to make me important.
And I wish I was.
a seedling underneath the permafrost,
hardened against winter,
harder for summer.
Today is a day,
For the reaper to finally and momentarily be
Even in all of his infinite wisdom,
in which the past becomes just a laugh,
and the lurid poisons of our love,
have the shallow touch of a feather.
When the snow begins,
we relive all those duldroms,
all those meaningless nothings
seemingly so meaningful and wrong,
We retell our stories,
feeling less bitter as the words
litter our minds,
powdering the pain,
and covering with joy,
our love goes stronger every day.
in old ways.
I hope to be like you someday.
we will beat the bitter sandpaper of tomorrow,
that which rubs away our definition with every brutal blow,
with the soft tapping of our fingers
against our skulls.
Puzzling over what made us beautiful and purposeful,
instead of what crowds against us like a box,
instead of what destroys us like a skipping cd,
instead of what sings against our mind like a harpy
with it's constant verses of regretfulness
that grow stronger with every fatal flaw
we rehash in ourselves.
you will be as beautiful to me today,
as that swirling suffocation.
I watch you fall outside my window,
covering each and every lichened rock,
in a linen of newness.
I stop listening for the return of your love,
and instead marvel in the present satisfaction,
that you are,
I revel in your presentness,
in the swiftness of your presentation.
In the delicacy of your touch,
and the humility you drive me too,
as you take me too my knees with
you will melt.
I will remember.
I will see the snow melt,
driven away by the erosion of the sun.
In a long time,
like a good dream
that just faded away,
and now I relish in its memory
like a junkie,
I can't stop holding on to what
so badly needs to let me go,
can't stop tugging you closer,
as he calls your name from that crack
in the front door,
can't stop saying how much I love you,
in how many different ways and shades,
that you can never remember
or never cared enough to in the first place.
Can't say that I've grown,
and become greater than what I was,
a new shoulder for you to rest your head,
new muscle to make you feel comfortable.
Sometimes I wish that I could scream,
at the top of my lungs, just the way a rabbit does in the maw of a lion,
or cry the way the sky is blue,
infinitely, with new meaning everyday.
Sometime I wish that my anger,
could become as sexual to you as anything,
and that it would be as masculine
As everyone of your most embarrassing desires.
Sometimes I try to find things to cry about,
and when I don't, I drink,
feeling emptier than ever, because I can't seem to feel
what everyone else feels everyday,
like I'm missing the big story,
the biggest, brightest explosion ever known to humanity,
the show of God in the light of your eyes.
I wish I could say that the long swish of your brilliant hair,
Or the tiny crinkle in your mouth, the trickle of a smile,
Or that hopeless cuteness in your dopey brown eyes,
I have been overlong,
wanting to understand everything about what I could never be to you,
thinking more about what you were to me.
Each memory a needle against my heart and brain,
trailing across nerves, tickling and destroying,
and all the times I couldn't satisfy your hunger.
But, on the edge of my desperation,
reaching out and holding air,
swiping at nothingness,
slapping away feverishly at my own dark emotions,
I keep looking for you,
like the memory of me that you are,
while I'm sifting through the dream of me that you became.
The idea that I couldn't make whole,
the ache I couldn't bend in my favor,
the lie I desperately plied as truth.
I have loved you,
I have loved you.
We revel in the sky,
Moment to moment,
we are the ever-changing aurora.
Our lights and our heat,
in the fading dark
we watch the horizon
where the mountains meet.
The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning at the muzzle in heroic glory
ending in the stomach with epic sorrow.
The sky is large,
the moon is bulging,
the clouds are pastel and burning,
smeared by the wash of darkness.
I am famished, but painless
is the dim smolder of love and freedom
suffocating deep inside.
That fire has not been stoked,
untouched for a while.
The oven has gone black,
the charcoal tastes mild.
And I have been loved with no freedom.
And lived for freedom with nothing to love.
I have gained wisdom,
and talked to myself.
The sky aches for its reunion with the horizon;
humbles itself, all out of color now,
and hungers for the embrace
of the mountains.
Into the murk,
the tracers go,
round by round,
lighting up that dividing line,
between hungry sky
and famished mountain
in a world lost in time.
The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning in heroic glory,
ending in epic sorrow.
you look so good
like a goddess
where's the courage to tell you?
I know the right words?
An innocence of love like
a bird in the sky,
in its cerulean heaven,
all its purity
all the painters in the world
using all their colors
like ravens and vultures,
and the advertisers
using maroon and crimson
like doves and love,
they just don't know.
How you look in a snapshot,
is better than a mural.
I hate that we can't talk any more,
seems decrepit, I'm so poor,
spoiled by the gift of your lost love,
like a pearl in my mouth,
every gulp of the sea
is a tearjerker.
All I want is love and affection
from the eden of your love,
the juice of your apple
only concerning to gods.
The seed of your body,
a peachtree paradise,
each pod dropping to the body of my death,
like the shroud of renewal.
Each new picture of you:
the destruction of your youth,
and the eruption of your wonderland,
is another nail,
another regretful wish
that I'd seen and understood
everything beautiful about you.
Even in the moontide hours,
when the dawn brawled
and your teeth crawled against the loose skin of my earlobes
as you gripped with pearly whites
my lying flesh,
and my lips touched every truth you'd never known.
Only god could ever know the pain of now.
Only I could ever wish I knew your heaven.
I've been away for a while,
contemplating this degraded earth,
putting different things into place.
I know you've moved on,
but I still think about your lips.
The sweetest joy of an impermanent heaven,
and the messengers of hope.
I took too much time loving you,
too much time holding you.
Our bodies were the worlds
separated by eternity,
I could not bridge.
Wishing I could make you mine
marching in time,
Pearlesque moon played the lighting,
in our drama,
as I held you on top of my car,
lavishing in your plums of delight
and your wettest vagina
Don't let me go now,
when I've just begun to remember
It's that time of night when i get feverish
in my dreams, fucking girls with tits loaded,
thighs gloating and supple, pressure of hardcore
in between us, when I hear the thump.
A slamming; a jarring; a catapaulting into never.
Carlos lost his wife, she dipped in the middle of the night
when he'd passed out, she'd slipped out, gripped the kids
over their hidden mouths and whispered something about tipping out,
Pop had gone insane now.
Carlos broke a month later.
Told me and Ash to take everything. Exhaled a marlboro,
shucked his shoulders, ripped open that tiny Celica
and shifted. Gone.
Burns black-eyed into the carpet, bottles on the sill, pacifiers thrown like condoms--
haphazard, but carefully placed.
Now the people living there
throw the girl around,
Foolish roiling krakken,
go back to your basin. old-timer,
No wit, no heart,
just energy enough for that last leg; to beat the pack.
Old timer, schemin in the swirl,
wrapping those loose arms around me so tight.
Im hungry again, thirsty.
krakken crackling through
all the fluid in my body
And making my lungs
howl in hatred.
Ive seen your eyes in the mirror
not to deep below.
Hungry for oxygen.
someone left a letter
it's at the front door.
it talks and talks about
breaks; beginnings; ends;
you were never comfortable
in the first place.
behind the door
from the pill of ignorance.
the letter was sealed by a tongue
fire and futility:
a big fear that someone wanted you
to be there's,
but you never would.
I make trips to the corner store, at 12 in the morning.
Calling all cars to get the fuck out of the road,
Calling all lights,
blink and be gone. Streetlights,
stoplights, lamps, lighters,
blunt tips, cigarette butts,
all lights be gone.
Dear Earth, get low in the darkness.
On my first trip,
I was accosted by rabid dogs who drooled shoelaces
and I could tell they were being hounded
by the kilter of their angry maws
and sawed-off minds.
They barked like guns.
And they saw me--completely irrelevant---
popping caps off Lokos
taking sips that could fuck up an Orca,
I had to kick them home.
At work today,
Someone got caught stealing five pesos worth of food,
and got threatened with a felony,
but they've got some lint in their pocket,
and knew how to keep it cool.
My girlfriend operates in ideas.
I've been at work for so long,
that I yell and walk around,
like I'm in the shower.
The cars scream all they want.
Sirens wail if must,
Your sunset colors are killing me.
Let those angels hurtle down the highway
Gripping steering wheels with white knuckles.
They have to call out over their cb's
"I'm five minutes out!!
as I lay sleeping,
In the nonsense of a dream
Thousands of miles away from the scene.
My body could not twitch
with the pain unknown;
My mind could not wretch
My heart could not wither
Under the cover of nubile darkness.
But you lie there on the highway
a sideshow I feel so horrible about,
And I felt no pain, and can't even speak
midnight tragedy you have taken my mouth.
It begins on those humble mornings,
Where wispy clouds linger in the sky
the color of white oak.
When the leaves collect in the gutters
and are soggy like corn flakes
and their color is markedly indistinct.
A morning for the birds to make
their shrill calls
And enhance the feeling that
you are at a low, cold altitude.
If the coffee is hot, burnt, and stale,
then it is a coronation of this morning.
On the highways
People listen to news radio with the windows cracked
and a ribbon of cold air and sweat on their faces
and know that soon
They will be home.
A quiet kid,
Lonely in the rain,
Fingers the nickels and pennies
In his pockets, waiting for the bus
To splash around the corner,
So he can get to work.
He lives with a demon of a roommate
And shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.
After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
In a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.
And he stumbled through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption in his mind.
The worst kinds of late night wanderers.
Coffee and sugar keep him alive
Just like war and famine are the black angel's wives,
Bringing him back into this liquid reality.
in the mornings he breathed in this world.
it tasted like sourness
and the milk of pussy entrapped in blue jeans in 100 degree weather all day.
It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.
He lives many lives:
One for his mother, Where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks. Little wreaths of future disappointment.
She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.
One at work, all smiles
And plumb Submission.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.
All this in 5 dollar clothes
And a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
One for his girl,
The one who'd hurl her tongue at appollo,
Puke up her month's sugar intake,
And curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
and made a fist like a christmas cinnabon:
All red and white,
If he ever told her who he really was.
His love for her is secret.
One for himself,
To keep the mirror happy.
This kid. He's all or nothing.
In the alcoves I hunt for mystery
and pleasure. Seeking your joy. I hope
to break you to the core,
and make you crumble to all my love.
Id hope your days are perforated silences,
my voice a trickle of whiskey.
I treasure your absence,
thinking to myself, with a cigarette.
I sip down evan williams
Pretending not to hurt,
but with a hurricane
your surge through me.
Hectic breakneck of the chopped up music.
beautiful wilt and hungry wither of the hips.
Drunken fingers grasping a drink and shaking so feverishly,
its like the adrenaline of war.
Knowing there is something past the moon,
past darkness. The freshness of sweat.
A black skirted woman dances.
The fabric squirming up her hips
as she drives her thighs,
whipping them back and forth.
Dreams bellow out of hollow bellies,
the bottom of the roar,
The bouncers in bowties and charcoal suits
The opaque lights and streamers of brilliantly lit people and huge parade of bodies
washing and bouncing inside are like fruits in the dryer,
Tumbling and tumbling until they are fully juiced and induced.
But you can never find a willing partner
For good rough sex. Or even
love: the canary in the mine.
A pink, throaty croak
Emanating from its black lungs.
I miss the drunks. The y3lling.
The inhalation of beer and cigarettes
Chased down by ego and godlessness.
How many times
hqve I written to this song,
and never heard beauty once?
Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit,
before the sunset of sweat,
the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys.
I loved you so much once,
I still do, but you are like mist,
and I am blind.
I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish,
When I was young I would screech down the hill
in my toy truck,
plastic chassis a powerhouse,
canary and howling,
I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times.
Call me Avalanche.
Call me Indisputable.
Call me the Powerhouse.
I missed you.
be the body of grace.
horrible grace uttered over
and over a
you and i told lies for fear.
we were never really there
but now we're here.
prayer can't stop a thing,
I try bending a knee
or a wish.
I ain't to religious; so talking to god
becomes addictive too quick.
you have found something new,
I've found the old foundry.
all night pouring cauldrons of liquid hot into a bad cast.
sparks so sexy and comforting,
i see them jumping from the window of my belly button.
there's hell in me.
i'm being disposed of as i watch
a new lava
being poured in an old way.
i'd suggest you go now.
"You on a path to get shot."
In the form of a bullet,
straight through my head,
pink mist and all.
How much is a life worth?
or how much does lead weigh?
In forms underlayed with venom,
I have perpetrated goodness.
In ways misunderstood
I have appeared evil,
and maybe this is so.
it's no good,
No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.
It's no good.
No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.
Definitely not a monday morning thought:
A day for hangovers,
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.
It's no good for that time.
It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.
Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.
When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.
You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.
Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.
you and her.
It's good for moments perplexing,
It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.
It's good for moments of confidence,
It's good for clarity,