"Not like that!
Like this."

She turned over her shoulder to face me, snatched her hair, soft and strawberry blonde out of my hands and giggled as she tried to show me the French braid.

She saw my blank expression and buried her face in my neck and giggled some more.
"This isn't going to work."

She gave up on the braid and kissed me anyways,
She tasted like sweet tea,
mixed with somethin' southern and strong.

She said "thanks love".

Her porch was lit up like it was the hearth of her home
and we had stopped slapping at the mosquitoes hours ago.

with my head in her lap, I was getting the grass burs out of her skirt when my fingers crept up her thigh and picked at something polyester, it smelt like lavender.

She put her hand on top of mine and kissed me again. I watched the dimples form on her cheeks as she whispered "daddy'll be up soon."

Laying by the river, when everything is silver, and silent, just for a moment before
the sun rises, we held our breathes

and then the love birds wept
and rattled their cages.

My memory fades as she got up to go but she said something like

you're still dizzy from that southern sting
or
you're still dizzy from that southern swing

and that she was hungry
and that we were hollow.

and I just laughed anyways; I could never get her father's truck to start but my heart was always in the right place, she knew it.

*She had a way with words,
she had a way with wasted...

she had heaven on her ankles with her jeans rolled up, and I just wanted to linger there.
My first prayer, my first gray hair.

Little one,
try not to be

so broken.

Save a shuddering
breath or two,

you've already spoken.

Little one,
emotions,
energy

is spent,

vent,
vent now little one,

cry on my collarbone.

Nerves and naves
may fail you

but I will never leave you alone.


I need red.

Give me purple,

fuchsia, and maroon.

All of the colors that sear your insides;
carnivals come too soon.

Little one,
let it out,

just
save me some.

My name is not Matthew,
I'm not Thomas but take a little bit of me.

My name is not Andrew,
I'm not Peter, but give a little back please.

My name is not Bartholomew,
I'm not Jude; Philip always insisted but he was rude.

My name is not James
and I could care less 'cause I heard Matthias was a mouse.

Andrew couldn't give a **** though he didn't mean to curse.

John told me that Simon said Peter was sorry.

You keep walking out
to see who's going to chase you.

But honey fairness is and fairness was.
That's right,

fairness is
and fairness

was.

I'll be straightforward with you,
I speak in riddles and rhymes,
have you got the time?

I don't have
any flowery words for you,
the **** if I know,
fair chances,
careful glances
in my direction,
could you fall in love or in line?

I won't chase you.

It wouldn't be fun.

I won't chase you,

but it would be fun

to watch you

run run run run run!

I've got a glass of wine in one hand, while I'm trying to keep my balance, as I take my socks off with the other. I stumble, and land abruptly on my bed. Half a glass of Merlot sloshes onto my cream colored cloth sheets and I slur some sounds, shooting for '****' and '****'.

Lily takes her heels off downstairs and creeps up to my room; she moves easily, as if hovering a few inches above the ground as to not let a single sound reach my bludgeoned ears until she laid down beside me. As she began to loosen my tie she pecked softly at every inch of my newly exposed neck, tender, and begging.
My eyes flutter as she whispers,or whimpers (I can't tell)

I know no one's perfect,
but why do you gotta act so far from it?
Jesuit, you're desolate, but I don't know
where I'm going, and I'm slowly dying.

I know that we make
bad choices in mates and you're a mistake,
but I'm lost as to what the cost might be
because right now you're so good for me

and I think I can carry that weight.

Lily,
I've learned a great deal about love and languages tonight.
Just barely masked by metaphor, I couldn't think of a more cliche
way of saying I love you.

Nothing about it
makes any sense,
the way she puts me
on the fence.


Arbitrary grading

masquerading beneath
the facade of a rubric,

it's *******
and I'll prove it.

To construct a consistent
world view, a chore more
than anything else, really.

I don't know if you're right,
I don't care if I'm wrong,
keep singing this song,

ba da dum, ba da dum,
ba da dumb
dumb
dumb!


Young, lover of fiction,
dont force it.

You don't need a dictionary
to write a poem.

Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.

I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.

And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she

belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and

she had a broken look in her eyes

when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;

what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?

She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.

We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I  unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said

follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window

and she said

*lets go.

She gets impatient
so quickly,
even though
I've told her
things worth
cultivating
take time to grow.
That she's always unsure
is all she really knows.

God had already
given her a sick
set of six strings,
so she sold her
steel body to the devil,
to do what he will with it.

Now they
resonate
together,

one howlin' wolf,


all through the night.



*Haughty,



naughty
necked
girl,

Why would I
write you a jewel,
or a star,
when you already
are one?

Really man,
Roxanne?

That song

is

so

****-
ing

old.

Obsessed
with these
western scales,
embrace your anxiety.

It will probably
make you a better person,
that is,
if you ever
considered yourself human.

"Deeper" means "meta-",
make an analogy.

I sleep with the pigeons,
I sleep under bridges,
a deteriorating photograph
is all I have.
She left with that winner,
the one that looks like an athlete
but he's actually an artist
you know, the one that gets noticed.
I can't blame her, I've lost it all.
These are the types of injuries that occur
when the ethics are below your pay grade.
So now I sleep under bridges,
the grass is my bed,
and I
bathe with the pigeons.
I keep a hat on my head
while I read the paper with my shoulders
hunched over, although I don't
get cold anymore.

Agitated at how this guy has me figured
out, I just want to throw him on the ground.
I look up at the board in front of me
now and see
that Bukowski has me cornered again
and I want to scream expletives
as loudly as I can, but I catch myself
just before I begin to vent because
the three and four year old children
all around are the only people that
don't yet hold me in complete
contempt and I'd like to keep it
that way.

They came
out of the sun.
They came as one,
and then burst
into a thousand
brightly
burning birds,
colliding
kaleidoscopes-
smashed up stars,
mashed up Mars-
crimson
in my eyes,
feathered
arrows
in flight,
flocking
to the flood
beneath us,
the stars fell
like trickles of blood
from the brow of the sky,


I was high.

So high.

It's a long walk,
the way that women are,
and I've already lost miles
to the races.
Try appealing to a youthful
star, have 'em throw money
to the wayside.

I was howlin'
like some horrid wind.
I was prowlin',
bayside,

sick of the **** I was sittin' in.

I was a wizard,

baby,

I was a blizzard
blowin'
through your front door.


I try, I try,
I try, I try,
now put me on trial,

baby,

you can't fake style!

It's not a mask,
and it's not just a past
but something more.
And I'll be able to tell
just what that is
as soon as I
figure all
The above my brow
considerations.
The ones that we
crawl towards,

the delicacies that
you spit at me,

you spit them from your
mouth; young,
European tongue,
look at what you've done!

Why?
Why so profound?
Why,
just act petty,
demographics
don't stop me.
Why?
Why so profound?
Why,
just be pretty instead,
demographics don't stop me.

In a golden glow,
while you slept,
I strung together
a few haiku
for you
and sang them
to a sad tune,
the only one I knew.

Your words are like clay
before the kiln,
I try to mold them
into thousands of different shapes,
and it's never right.
But I don't
like to complain
and I'd have to say,
I think I handle pain
pretty well,
wouldn't you agree?

Your explanations
need explanations now.
You speak to me
in worlds,
I only know the smallest words.

Your mouth races my heart,
I always give you a head start.

I will chase you all the way home.

The summer night
is the summer day,
in a daze, we fall asleep
in the a.m.
We wake up,
we find our friends,
we do it again.

Lamplight
can't save us now,
we're out hounding.

Hey Barista!

I don't like
my wrist-clock
but
coffee is only
comforting
while it's
hot.

And it's
more important
in the morning
than when,

than when I
go to sleep.
Ahaha!

Ha Ha Ha!
Hey Barista,
since that's what they're callin ya these days,
Aha Ha Ha!
Hey there Barista,
so how much are
they paying ya?
Ha Ha Ha!

Notes in ink
jump between
the black, they
jump between
the white, and

there are lines being repeated here.

Sit in libraries,
pretend to read,
grid out fantasies
on a globe,
there are lines being repeated here.

Never did
have **** to say,
I admit it,
and so

there are lines being repeated here.

She's more of a poet
'cause she went to school for it,
and she tastes sweet in the morning,

and in the evening,

sunlight filters through her
and lights up that slice of lemon
that I love so much.
I think I'll have a writer -

on the rocks.

Every time I come home,
my room smells like *** in the summer,
and it sounds like the vinyl is still under the needle.
Best album of two thousand and nine.

Best album of all time.

Sand between our toes,
we wrote prose
on a filthy mattress but
roses never grew here.

And they never will.

There was something about us though,
something that had a feverish pulse
behind it.  I'd say it was something to
do with the way we have of never putting
a cheap laugh below us. I think it has
something to do with resilience but I'm not sure.
Humming trite voicings of things we'd heard
in the backseat of our fathers' cars, radios on,
you use to tell me to flash the turn signal,
in the black of night, just so you could make sure
we were alive. Dry, but at least alive.
A little beacon to justify us,
and just defy them.


Whiskey,
come over
here and
kiss me.

C'mon
Corinthian,
keep me
company!

Set this manuscript
to music and dance for me!

Put a bottle opener
on my key chain today.

A **** poor
puddle of greed,
wouldn't it be
terrible
to have fifteen
people,
exactly like you,
all in the same room?

Your perfume,
a concept
rather than
a fragrance,
I must
accept
the difference
between
being upset
and let down.

There was a bible,
its' pages fluttering on a freeway.

Maybe,
if you crush
up just the
right grapes,
and put
them on
the highest
shelf,
in an airtight
jar,
maybe,
in a hundred
years,
someone will
drink them and
think,

wow,
that kid was
pretty *******
smart.

She loves the beat,
bass so heavy
it hurts.

She loves the heat,
ecstasy,
short skirt.

In the middle
of these times,
I'm square.

I'd like to be
with New York City,
if she'd ever take
a bore like me.
But
in the middle
of her times,

I'm square.

I'd like
to hear her
digitally
repeating,

with her
lips pressed
against my ear,
soft whispers,
heavy breathing,

*they can't stop me.
No,
they can't stop me
from dreaming.

I tested her water.

She was almost frozen over.

Had I tried to dive right in,
she could have stopped my heart cold.

She said

*some are more shallow
than others,
so
don't dive here,
or you'll hurt
yourself.

I swear,

   your
imagery

  taps
  the
acid
in my
spine.

I am a poem,
so complex.

Although,
I'd been written over
thousands of different times,
you never even read me through
once

because

you

were too

stupid.

She never said she'd stay.


I'll be okay...


...one day.

You've got a lot
of thoughts in your head,
like rocks in your bed
they keep you up.
Tossing and turning
dreaming about
buses, one that I'm on,
coming to see you.

I know it hurt you
when you hurt me
and I know
you didn't mean
for the apology
to sound so empty.

Kara told me
you aren't eating,
that the color
from your face
is fleeting, and
that the habit is there to stay.

You could
never figure
out
what was more
risky,
getting
lost
or standing
out in the crowd,
and yeah,
it's hard to make
mom proud
with all that *******
around.

I know your
neck is
still
aching
from the accident,
but beautiful,
taking medication
just isn't safe
with your
addictive
personality.
I know because
mine gets the better of me.

I know
you don't want
to hear any of this,
and I know
you don't want
to hear me,
but when you're
out of money
and you've
got
nowhere left
to go,
then I won't
sound so hollow.

Tonight,
I'll come over
tonight,
it'll be
like old times.
I'll bring the
gin
and my
violin
and we can
sing
this bottle dry.

I could
use a drink
right now,
yeah, I think
I could use
a drink right now.

The dedication
was ingrained
in his fingertips,
(like Bowie,
like Bob), yet
there was no
boldness,
no brilliance
in the decay,
(like David,
like Dylan,
lord willin').

And so
I asked him:

Shall I
dare

to play
Baudelaire
over six flights
of stairs?

No?

Is it really worth
that much to you?
Is it worth anything at all?
Is just getting away always good enough?

And then I said to him,

kid,
sometimes
you gotta bury
'em.
And this is coming
from me with my chest
resting on the ground.

Snicker snicker, giggle giggle,
it's funny,
the way your pen wiggles.

Hustlin' out of your garage,
it never takes us far.
My hands are in your hair,
now it's all up in the air...

Hard love in your garage,
hey now, we are what we are.

And it's okay darling,
for the stage you're in,
'cause you're still shedding
so much skin.
Push the blood to the tendon -
lend me a hand, save Sunday
for sleeping in.

When the rhythm hits
and the syllables split,
I'm just trying you.
If I get to heaven,
or, if I could only
just get the hell on
out of here,
it would be
'cause I followed you.

Finding
my identity
as I fumble
through your
laundry,
I'm finding
my identity
as I stumble
through some
palm trees.

Sitting on the sand
where I watch the tide,
I'm sitting on the sand
where I syllogise;
sunshine and sugar pills,
of which I am comprised.

Honey,
if I'm a ***,
it's because you made me one.

Like the artist
with a shattered heart,
I part with my senses.

what's a heart
without art in it?
A tortured soul
with a hole in its defenses.

Simplify your poetry.

Make it fit for a pop song.

Simplify your poetry,
make it fit for me,
your little *****.

There was a ransom for a queen,
a shining glimpse of hope.
There was a sick and dying scene,
a message for the pope.
The disparity made us desperate
and so we decided to occupy
a building of the public sector
until they met our demands.
What a plan, what a plan!
We were comfortably clinging
to the safety net of fashion,
we were terribly in order.
There were things less trivial
than the status quo, you knew that
I knew that you didn't know.
We were perfectly defined
in the terms of academia,
hey,
        can I follow ya?

She rode by motorbike,
one bag and an oily rag swung
over the handle bars.
A little denim jacket and a lavender
scarf wrapped all around.
Her cheeks were charred
from the cold when she got to me
so I packed in kisses
to cool them down.

Get wise to me.
The sun will rise and you'll see
that this windy night
was no match for you and me.
Get wise to me.
When all the leaves are falling down,
when the wind makes a wicked sound,
we'll walk side by side.
Get wise to me.
When you see inside of me
you'll know what it means
to have a home in a heart.
Get wise to me.
Don't be as shy as me,
tell me how it is
and how it's going to be.

Some people write all day.

With a head that stays inflated,
I hope I never become that way.

To believe, it's all important, what I have to say,
would indeed be a sad display!

So I went to the campus today, for the first time in a long time. I smoked cigarettes outside of the the lecture hall with some kids from the eastern block whose names I could barely pronounce. They were talking about McCarthyism in a language I couldn't understand - snippets in English - an American history exam. I cut class again, for a reason I can't quite trace, just lost sight of it all I guess. Or maybe I was wishing it could have been a little easier. They never gave us a course in what it means to try, you know? It just seems as if the only thing that stops us from doing the things we love is a fear of failing at them. Thinking about this on the walk home made my head sick and my heart sad, and so sleeping through the rest of the daylight seemed like a good way to get by.

I met up with the friend, later in the evening, he was at the local venue. He had his hands in his hoodie and his Adidas were swinging over the side of the stage, head bobbing, and rhyming in time to the beat of an electric bass drum. I asked him to buy me a beer and he slid his last two dollars over the counter like he always does when he notices my lower lip quivering. I didn't ask him about the doctor's and he didn't ask me about my black eye. I told him to tell me the story again, the one about the cool kids he met in the East Village and he did, he told me about the whole encounter in the snow, with the lights, and how badly he was shivering. I smiled that type of smile, the one that ends up with your lips curved the wrong way and wished I would have went with him.

The waitress that hates me gave me a ride home again so her uncle could close the place down. I offered her one of those Ukrainian kids' cigarettes that I swiped but she said no thanks, and I was glad I had more. She knew this wasn't going to be the last time she did me a favor, the way my track record was but I like to think she doesn't mind too much. I invited her inside but she said she had to run, maybe next time. She told me to try and hurry up and finish school so I could give her the world, and then she giggled and winked at me before she sped off. Back to bed, I had a long day of bullshitting myself ahead of me when I awoke.

I used to have the most sensitive skin.

Just any old graze could
raise the hairs on my arms
and send me into a shiver.

I used to love being touched.

Your skin is like plastic
when you breathe and stretch,
a wretched figure with
more than one world of
pain endured.

But you know,
it's interesting
(our skin),
now that I'm
calloused.

Sunday was sad.

I used to have a dog,
his name was Jimmy.
More happiness than
you could ever give me.

Poetry so eloquent,
I read like you,
I bleed like you.
Prose I find so arrogant.

Baby, draw me
an album cover.
One that's in tune with
all my thoughts of you.

I used to have a bike,
it had five gears.
One for every path
but fear.

Baby, I don't have
a dime, but I make
a **** good cup
of coffee and the
cigarettes I roll
for you will be perfect
every time, I promise.

There are more interesting things than your phone.
Look up, look up and you'll see.

There are more colors and tones
Surrounding you than you will ever find in that glossy screen.
Look up, look up and you'll see.

There are more interesting things than your phone.
Look up, look up *******, and you'll see.

I left before I could blow it.

Bright light, moonlight, whatever,
it doesn't matter, the setting is irrelevant,
the fact is,
I've noticed you before the grave.

I left before they could know it.

Call me whatever you like, whatever,
it doesn't matter, the semantics are irrelevant,
the fact is,
we made it all up anyways.

My dear, I left poetry to the poets.

Massage the soft tissue between
my thumb and fore finger
to bring the feeling back.
My hands are half numb
from the way I got cuffed.

The sun was glaring up at me
from the pavement,
like a dog that didn't know it's master.
I just wanted to ask her
when I could go home,
and I meant it.

A barrage on the issue at
hand, my palms are hard
and scarred from the attack-
my hands went half numb
from the way I got ******.

Tears are flowing like the riverside
we're sitting by. I won't ask why
but I'll dry your eyes tonight.

I'll stay with you 'till
the day breaks.
This is honey for
your heartache.

I won't hate you
for your mistakes.
This is honey for
your heartache.

Face is glowing, all starry eyed,
bluer than sky. I know that I
don't want to see you cry tonight.

I'll run with you
when you can't wait.
This is honey for
your heartache.

I'll stay with you 'till
the sun breaks.
This is honey for
your heartache.

Bitter and blue,
because I was never true.
Bitter and blue,
I see the quitter in you.

Bitter and blue,
I want a better view.
Bitter and blue,
fit for only a few.

Bitter and blue,
it's quicker to chew.
Bitter and blue,
I'm a lot sicker than you.

These are the flowers I picked for you,
remember to keep the blackest two.

These are the songs I'll sing for you.
Remember, I hope you remember
the saddest tune.

These are the lungs I blackened for you,
remember, always inhale those fumes.

These are the lies I spread for you.
Remember, you better remember
what's really true.

We would need a ton of luck, and maybe
half that weight in dynamite and guns and such.

We took some photographs,
hiding behind the tall grass
on the knoll. You had never
stolen a thing, but I wasn't going
in alone, so I told you to grow some stones.

They were staring at the clock
when the bank blew up.

It didn't happen over night,
weeks of planning, a couple conflicts
of interest. Nothing that a few hundred
dollars couldn't solve. We'd be in the
money soon enough anyways.

Keep bleeding, its a great distraction.
Lock and load, time for action.

Hell, if we pull this off,
we'll be living easy,
maybe even acquire a little fame.
Honey, I've got one in the chamber
because danger is my middle name.