I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home
mI miss you, I say,
Like a 100 year old fire,
Misses the touch of rain.
And how the bold young,
Miss what they don't yet,
And then the dying old,
Misses being younger.
And the silent wanderer,
Miss what is not home,
And the sheltered folk,
Misses all the freedom.
And new celebrity crushes,
Miss a very lonely life,
And the one hit wonder,
Misses stars at night.
And the mused poet,
Miss the days unmused
And the writers block,
Misses all the words.
And sharpened blades,
Miss the feel of rough.
And a wedding ring,
Misses being worn.
(Even if it was in spite
Even if it was in scorn
I still miss our poison
I still miss my love)
My heads underwater,
in a sea of salty tears.
Wash down stained cheeks;
are heavy to push them away.
try to breathe easy..
Stomach tightens in crying cramps,
begging for an escape
to feel something good.
Dark ringed eyes tell more stories
than a 100 year old tree.
Try to breathe easy..
I grab a pen
I grab some paper
and I write
I write words to calm the soul
write write write write
smoothing scribbling sounds
tears only exchange hellos
on intervals now.
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale breasts that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
my hands shake like they always do
and my breaths shake like a 100 year old house in a hurricane
my heart beats to a stuttering drum
and my voice cracks like a preteen
i am alive, that's enough
somewhere a violin groans
and it tears my heart in two
my head is nothing but thoughts
and my thoughts are nothing but dreams
and my dreams are nothing but whispers
whispers of something
something i haven't dreamed of in a long while,
someone i haven't let into my life yet
or someone i have
i haven't decided yet
someone who isn't here now
i am alone, alone but not really
alone in the sense of without you alone
alone in the sense where it matters
alone in the way where my muscles tense
and my voice quivers
and i have no one to hold
i don't know if i want someone to hold
or someone to hold me
or someone to be there
or to be alone, alone with my thoughts for a long while more
You know that you're not supposed to cry over a boy
You know that you should be independent
But your train-wreck of an ego was depending on him
You had never opened yourself up to anyone before
Because love was a risk
So you will pretend
Pretend you don't care
Pretend that he didn't make you feel different about yourself
Pretend that you are better off without him
Pretend that it doesn't hurt when you throw away the sheets that he slept on
Pretend that you're not waiting for that Baby, I made a mistake call
Pretend that you don't cry yourself to sleep at night
Even though you're not supposed to
Because you're not all that independent
Because you're falling apart faster that you can put yourself back together in the morning
Because you can't stop looking for him
In that coffee shop where you met
On the bus stop that he walked you to everyday after school
Next to that 100 year old oak where he proposed
Pretend that you don't have feelings
You know I care about you.
That I would regret nothing with you.
If you told me to escape at the crack of dawn to some nowhere place-
I would not hesitate.
You have explanations far to reasonable, they seem idiotic-
but why contradict.
I'm not saying I have a one track mind and that you overpower it entirely.
All I'm saying is I don't mind.
Regret is just one thing I refuse to taint you with.
There are places I would go.
Things I would do.
Thousands upon millions of scenarios we can outplay.
Make new cliches and shatter the sky.
Decide if we believe in our constellations being perfectly aligned.
Then resolve to say everything we did was merely make believe.
I love you.
And I will regret nothing.
Our time together might stop-
so when you see me at tea for our 100 year old reunion,
remind me how amazing we lived.
Show me the images in a whirlwind.
Recount the adventures.
Tell me the secrets all over.
Since we're both good and sober now.
You don't have a one track mind, it's all more like branches.
You've regretted nothing except the lack of expansion and slow timing.
I care far too much for you to ever see you stuck.
And for exactly that reason I'll see to it that you never stop-
even if our 'us' does.
A dream over due
it is august
the flies are insects
growing the Vice apple between the graying chicago winter fern of the vagina
empty parking lot super market trees
negro and autumn
skin like apple sauce
dancing inside the mirror of Lust and his Sister Fresno California
On a Payphone
At a Fuel Station
Lights all Blue
Lights all dull
dullified by the gasoline
the cigarette butts that collect in the mouths of mountain saints
Burn all the books that led you too led poisoning
I am Van Gogh
Scrapping off the dried paint of my walls
of my women
naked in my bed of a hope factor
I am going insane
and the stars do not mind
the Clouds seem to be careless
Vagabond seasonal weather Kansas
Everybody is on the Train
headed to Dreams
100 dollars a ticket
Give me your Wallet
your nights and your day-shadows bouncing off walls and mailboxes like school-boy toys
Glancing at the peripheral French Decedent girl with black hair
hair black like wet once lit cigarettes
God, smoking a cigar made in The Ol' Great West of timber and the elderly gasping away their lives as a window sits neatly with tundra flowers
and a cacti that never dies
Winter comes in a Van
Full of soup
Full of the Dead Children of Days on in
Full of Dogs with rabies
Full of Cheap women
who gave up on 7:30
and washed their hands in the juices of an Apple Eve sank her yellow teeth into
Headlights heading towards Home
Towards Late-Night Television
God and Satan
Spooning on the water bed of America
America the great
America the greed
America the want
America the me
Pigeon on the side street of NYC push town till suit bye Death
Coffin constructed of Iron and Filled with Wine
Coffin made by a young man sitting in his jacket
smoking a neat cigar
smoking with Gin
The Fireplace is where we may have made Love
But the Heat was ours
and the Torn down back door back yard Tall 100 year old Tree
only a Stump
A beginning of its sprout from a seed
to a Giant
to a home for Birds and Flies and ants and rodents
I am in the Tower
Drinking your Whiskey
Drinking the lipstick of a woman who has nothing to do
so she falls in love with the Shadows of night bricks
of City Street Walls and streets
Like love it self
Left out in the Sun
Left with the cacti of Old Age
old hands and old eyes that quiver like melting ice in the 90 degree Texan weather
We run to the fountain of Youth
but the gates are closed
The Pool boy quit his Job
and now the water in contaminated
Clear the mind
the hairs on your chest
the Teeth in between your Chin and Lips
It is no Longer Time
it is no Longer Past
Murdered by a knife
It is no longer 1AM
and the Sky wants me to wake up
But the Coffee Machine is crooked and only works if I hold it at an angle
Goodbye Crows of Brooklyn
I'll be on the payphone collect call to subconscious
I'll be on the road
traveling with my hair
traveling with Life
traveling with Destiny and Hope and Emily Tennessee
5 dollars a gallon