I fell in lust for a Montenegrin woman.
But, an Albanian dude had already tied a noose around her neck.
So I took a sip of her Rakija, when he was off working,
and rubbed against her supple skin, when I thought we were alone.
I will never forget the look on his face,
when I called her by her name, without a hint of western inflection.
And when he saw the glimmer in her eye, when she answered me
I felt a despair, which cannot compare with nearly any other
I have been sliced with, ever since.
Of all the flesh I have felt, but failed to penetrate,
I think I would have feasted on my own fingers,
to slip between those pale white thighs.
But, alI I have to comfort me in the neverending silence of the ages,
is the sound of her whispering my name,
and the message of desire, sinking,
in her brown, drowning pool eyes.
Cut your eyes out
if you can't see
the beauty buried in each pore,
in each scar, and blemish
that stares back at you
beneath the surface of the mirror.
Put a bullet through your brain
if you don't think
that you deserve happiness and pleasure,
because of the pain you have caused,
when that pain is just a reflection
of the horror you have endured.
Smash your body on the rocks,
and shatter every bone,
if you believe
that the flesh you wear is a curse,
and not a blessing.
And, after you have destroyed yourself,
and rendered your being down,
into a pile of unmoving meat,
know, that even so,
you are beautiful, beyond description.
For a man without a home in this world
the road becomes a lover.
With rubber fingers running over blacktop skin
the miles are shared
with something that falls just short of affection.
But, the road has her rules, she demands so much.
For each mile together, blood must spill.
Ten thousand tiny bodies must be mangled,
and strewn in bloody tangles along the shoulder.
Leaving brown streaks behind, for months,
as a reminder of her bloodlust.
Ten tons of rubber must be shredded,
and scattered across every lane.
Bouncy black booby traps,
that thump and tumble, and startle the unwary.
Crushed glass, and crumpled steel make her smile
so sacrifice must be made for every single mile.
When you are alone, and your world is a blur
of fast food wrappers, and lonely motel rooms,
only occasionaly shared,
with women who disappear before dawn,
you are willing to make such sacrifices.
But, when the sky bleeds blue, and paints the highway its shade,
the horizon merges into a hazy sea.
The lines and the lanes disappear,
the cars ahead appear to sink into azure nothingness,
and for an instant the whole world wavers,
until the next hill is crested, and the illusion is dispelled
by the brightly glowing city skyline in the distance.
Only then do you realize that the city you see there isn't yours,
and the road leading you towards yet another alien world
never loved you, and never will.
Deny your desire
to browse the images
that you thought brought you pleasure.
Toss the mental albums in the fire.
Release the songbird of sweet memories,
do not clip its wings by revisiting everything,
until you have drained the treasury of the past.
Only touch my skin with the hand of your mind
when the night is blackest,
and loneliness howls like a caged hound.
Lock my face away in a place it can't be found,
in an obuilette, so deep in the ground
you can no longer hear the sound of my memory.
You never should have written me into your history in the first place.
I was cracked on the Checkerboard.
Black and white became everything to me.
Now I teeter totter between the joyous and the rotten.
So easily I was fragmented, by a scrap of paper,
and a pattern.
The Green Monster climbed inside my eyes,
and I saw behind a picture,
what the picture really wanted to be,
A blinking glimpse of another reality.
The White Widow unleashed the black daimon in me,
From then on, I couldn't stop seeing beyond.
Beauty became brutality,
and I have walked across this tightrope,
longer than my legs have cared to walk before.
A golden spear screams out
In search of a silver shield.
The burn of fire demands the soothing cool of water.
Wild and delirious
with civilization and sanity,
Perfect Only to me.
I have leapt into the chasm,
only to soar towards the sun.
I have force fed the angel
To starve the devil,
But, the beast can feast on darkness,
and besides, I think without it
the angel would die.
The mind is a terrible thing to shatter.
But the scattered pieces sparkle brightly
In the darkest night, when all other lanterns are shaded.
Like red lights in a darkened ship.
But, it has always been a checkerboard
strobing beneath my eyelids.
Even before I licked the paper
I saw the pattern.
It has been with me since before
I learned the words and their meanings.
Before I drew my first breath,
A checkerboard was tattooed on every cell of my being.
The blotter just brought it to the surface.
Now I can only sit and wonder
what my soul did to deserve this.
Pines line the lane
Beside the field
Where you and I used to trade our brains
For a bowlful of fleeting moments
In the glowing giggle zone.
Bowling on the green we called it,
Back when I still possessed my hand grenade,
And my head bore a flowing mane.
I haven't spoken to you since you found a better place
but I remember your voice, and I remember your face.
Merp and Midland,
and stuff like that.
I'm glad you found the secret.
I used to know it
I forgot it.
But I remember bowling on the green,
and the songs we sang together.
Men cannot march together in unison
for prolonged periods of time,
without the insistence of sound.
There is an individual cadence we conceal in our cells
which must be silenced
by a hypnotic pattern.
One, two three fo-wer,
Yuh, three your four
Yuh one and your two and your three your four.
It is a passionate howl in the distance.
Accompanied by living drums,
fashioned out of flesh and rubber and the earth.
The first time you hear it
it reverberates on your senses like an immaculate illusion.
The cadence being cried
in the foggy florescent light.
Over the barking and posturing of the rdc's
As they herd you in an unorganized mob.
It pierces the apprehension you brought with you
And a seed of determination is planted.
Your one two,
two your three your four,
Your one and your two and three your four.
Something greater than the self speaks,
a desire to contribute to such harmony develops.
It is the chromosome of the cadence singing,
from within all but the most damaged ones.
Your one two three fo-wer
three your four,
Your one and your two your three your four.
And when you finally become part of a column of sound
off of other competing columns,
On a simple morning march to the messhall
You can feel a power beyond words and symbols.
And your inner musical score skips a measure
To marvel at a music,
That is cruder, and blinder,
than any music that one individual can create.