not to love things
living so that they
all could burn
and it would be nothing
but an inconvenience
have escaped my plan
through my designs
1. old white macbook
whirring piece of brilliant technology
you are already gone. next.
2. wedding rings
sold those motherfuckas in an instant
3. asian machine love
i am having a hard time
having to let you go
my beautiful, black mitsubishi.
i chose you.
i researched for weeks
trying to be reasonable
and out of all the machines,
you are the perfect shape
of all vehicle shapes, mitsubishi
i have a slight obsession with
c o l o r
and b o o m i n g SOUND
you are the perfect balance of safety
and fuel efficiency
(but you already knew that, didn't you?)
your headlights are so bright
and your high beams
it's almost embarrassing
mitsubishi, you little snake...
you have a manual mode
so i can choose to be a race car driver
whenever i want
mitsubishi outlander sport, i love you so
let's talk about your face
you have a pig-face like me
your nose is abrupt
it's blunt and it's different
and i love it
you know i hate the cold and the snow
i love the sun and the moon
so you show them to me all the time
moonroof, mitsubishi - brilliant
(with mood lighting for night? you dog!)
you wipe away the rain
without me having to ask
you cast light into the dark
all on your own
mitsubishi, you shake the earth
alerting my family
that i am almost there
through my dna
so that i am made
of vibrations and air
invisible to the naked eye
or playing my science fiction audiobooks
at a reasonable
and responsible volume
you respond to me with such grace
showing me impossibilities
with a rearview camera
saying, "hello!" in the morning
and, "see ya!" when i leave
(and i believe you mean it)
you heat my ass in the frigid winter
an alert me with an icon
when i am losing traction
or there may be ice
i could not ask for more, my machine love.
the deer was not your fault.
or mine, or the deer's.
we were all doing what we do,
and to be quite honest,
the deer got the shit end of the stick, mitsubishi.
i'm sorry about your dent and your crack
i wanted to fix it, but i love you even more now
you are my one machine love
you are electric
and you boom
i don't want to see you burn.
it would be more than an inconvenience.
two out of three things are gone.
but i chose you. i want you still.
my home is gone - fine.
my things are gone - fine.
that bastard is gone - fine.
my job is gone, mitsubishi.
i am being stripped bare.
i am being humbled, mitsubishi.
i have to let you go.
but i'm not ready,
my asian machine love.
Those guns were a lullaby to the world you left behind.
“Life’s too short if you ask for mercy. Because dying never ends,” you said
Like a whisper too late
We're all bombs in reverse
than can be seen from outer space
The world is a firing gun--
"My pain is my defiance. It's no longer a scar," you said
close to death,
The riot ate us alive
And I believed you.
I really did.
Everyone's holding onto the world
like it was a grenade tied to their veins
Voices, tiny earthquakes,
all their hopes and fears that might send the sky to blow
It was left to burn
in slow-motion riddles.
a long winding road of the torn up lives that were left behind
I felt your sound
Like a whisper too late
"Your heart is eternal as the sky--even as you feel it breaking."
My tears falling wind chimes -- they left a presence in the air
And I believed you.
I believed you.
I really did
When your voice was the last bomb
that I ever felt.
In the instant I knew
My soul broke the sound barrier
And I was home
in the fire
I swore that I must've heard
"Madness is the god."
"Sanity is a lie."
"Love is the truth."
That only the fire
could ever find.
Things that only death
could ever speak of.
the beer in front of her is just about empty and she watches the foam slowly sludge down the inside of the glass with thinly veiled disgust...she manages a fake smile as someone nearby is telling a group of giddy faces another embarrassing story about her...she crushes out her cigarette so clumsily a spark of tobacco coal leaps out and lands on the floor...voices are traveling around the room and screwing up the lighting, sweeping the ceiling and splashing through the windows out into the city night...fairly drunk she steps outside and tries to remember what had she been thinking a moment before clacking down the stairwell in her most comfortable high heels...the early summer evening air is cool in the back of her throat and the breeze pulls the newly dark lime tree leaves spreading that indescribable scent of mature summer green down the empty street...somewhere down the block a car alarm finishes it's cadence leaving the lone barks of a dog...the feeling she had about not deciding what to leave behind she'd lost somewhere at the beginning of this party...she'd find herself crying about this new regret long before she knew why...another addition to the myriad topics for insomnia that she'd write on the bedroom wall with her eyes...recalling the painful parts of the past with so much more depth perception than the good...like her happiness was an instant suffocated in years of desperation and insanity...she had to convince herself that she was happy with him...that she could be again...that she would stop wishing for him to disappear and leave her blameless for not loving him back...as it would turn out the wreckage was so minimal and she was the one forced to disappear...it took her two hours to pack and she was gone...
This weekend is Whitsun,
So I wanted this train ride
To be like the Whitsun Weddings,
A soaring observer,
- albeit in contemptuous fervour -
Watching the world for an instant.
Were our lives rigorously planned,
Or was coming here today a frail
Coincidence? But a two page spread
Of the daily mail is blocking my view
Of the window.
Stop reading this immediately,
If you are warm to the soul.
Stop reading this soon as possible.
Your insides will catch fire like coal.
I’m merely dead. I’m nothing but walking flesh.
Like pieces of broken-edged chipped shells swallowed up by the apathetic sea.
Stop reading this, this instant,
It’s my entire synthetic mind,
Slowly becoming a fractured aching hole.
These perplexities and burdens are only for me to grasp,
Always mine to keep.
Hope is a misused word; I’ll throw it off,
Gone from my vision, until it’s off so distant.
Stop reading this immediately,
For my thoughts are infectious.
Doleful is my disease.
Life is a beautiful music box never meant for me.
Echoing its prolonging tune.
Stop reading this immediately.
I've smashed the box,
The music has stopped.
Morbid has taken its toll.
He was out the door, slammed shut in 2004
and he couldn't get back in even if he wanted to
because the lock broke after he moved out to Hadar
the arm pit of Haifa, and wouldn't tell me where he was
as a punishment for my banishing him.
A friend saw him on Masada street.
In the end that proved to be his street
oh, the time I had for friends, in the hot Mediterranean sun
dinners in cramped living rooms with laughter and wine and always
houmus. You can't eat a meal without it, and prints of art on the wall
and the cement floor, and the too many cats
So he'd crash in, do something that had to be done, insult me, and leave
and this was it
I sat in that big apartment with he fancy black cement floors and smoked
cigarettes and took the bus to the cat shelter to clean 25 cat boxes in a cold water
bath tub and set them out to dry in the sun
and hang discarded clothes on a fold out clothes rack, each cat got a shirt to lie on
and instant coffee and chocolate at 4:45 PM and cigarettes as cats walked around in the
But at home, sometimes I'd try to get him back, if I could
But he could always be so much more mean, poking at the tender spots
without remorse and I learned, not to fight back
Just to collapse and cry as the door slammed or he said something
and then stormed out, absolutely not caring
There were my friends, here I have no time for friends,
and I talked to him and prepared for a time when I'd go back and
have no time for friends again
Everything would be work, work, get yourself back on track
you've lost so much time
But here, too, the losses are deep and I sit in my own apartment, with
carpet and a dishwasher, that I could only have dreamed of having then
and my own car in the parking lot, and
People make me cry.
People where I work, people I mistook for friends
and it's better now, I now, if I can only follow through
to seek no revenge
but just to mourn
Because the world can be more cruel and cold and uncaring
than I can ever imagine
there's no competing
it's better to sit and cry here, too
The words of anger you spill can penetrate deep into my soul, your icy chill makes my blood run cold.
The constant judging glances that you cast my way can instantly make my courage fold.
But that's just a family affair.
It cuts so much deeper when the knife thrusted into my back is wielded by one that shares my family name.
A person that I would die to protect suddenly has me second guessing if they would do the same.
But hey , that's a family affair.
You can bring out of me a rage like no other person can and in an instant all I can see is a fiery red hue.
But despite it all we are family, you will always be connected me and I will always be connected to you.
That's how it goes when it's a family affair
the corner of my fetal
what about the skin of demons
the shadow that turns away
a slow placid individual
hollow from everywhere the caution of snow-wheels
cling to manifest
the picture burning inside an apartment for rent
outside walls carried memory of days
eyes and bones demand face
what if nobody’s here
myself as sunshine with so much to offer easier
what is the difference
the sentence that defines
unbelief the chain
breaks I wish
dilate the never-belief
wondering effect paste my semen on your voice
an animal feel i cannot deal with your sense
an unborn skull
the wallowing feet under cypress
skies of fleece and miniature dogmas
slices of fragments red purple green crows sound
the deep drum beat i accept
where i fall
a flashing voice collapsing towards the inside
throwing punishment the idea that i am foliage
corresponding thought process that machines never
pale doledrum insomnia my hands
the lines of another car
the breath of being manipulated
the shoehorn a new salt visiting magnolia
a knee high minute falling upside
my carpe diem fuck fist theory
and all day i plead for the corrosion to move within you
the system eating itself into oblivion
i announce it when ears are in rooted to the floor
i had a dream of a jesus picture on a fanbelt
curved penis shit on the outside
apocalypse on my lips
fumes down on the floor
a few hours’ days
i am stripped
speechless walking home
can this be your silence pregnant with strange
looseness in its belly
stars fragile your arms
pins forced into throat calming
touch faking the vomit sounds of avocado
driven into soiled ground
crumbling face in another room they lay your hands on
a fragrance of wings missing
dense and unchanged
kind of melting from you
i give in
the shoulder manufactures what is real to the sound
life is liveable
nothing accepted when offered
the thought process of engines
an angry naked shout
the underbelly of hanging
to what i show you
baking soda explosives
cake walk fixations on the vaginas of modern andromeda
i hope to never be lost with your sanctuary
dog sized emotions
a world punching out its timecard from the slot
a season for betrayals
the mantra of your dreams
dead enough to explain myself
a sunken cheek caring for the sun
a sweet lullaby placing of hand
the round syndrome between the
the strings attached are anything but labeled
upstairs is another passenger
first name last name
mute all that is here
the collective harm of all those images which if excluded contain
the replacement address of my kidney being
or is it the usage of hiding
dove’s postage junk mail
what you’ve seen before
the cost of being asked two days late
my fluorescent teeth the talk of spit blood
magnification of insects
the body moves
fondled colors blend
the cervix the cortex of beethoven
no answer yet
on the verge of letting
wall of trees
a crowd of tongues the simple denial of light
my envelope seed
in cornucopia grinding
teeth machine a pullover switchblade
wake up from me
given the distant sun wrapped in
pissed on clothes my miracle
your fingers in me contemplating the ounces
of an inch thick sore
calmly anything in surrounding
distortion a weight of idle hands
the acid belly
the victim of my believing in you
silent dead motionless
butterflies cradle the eyes
in the slit of dawn’s early malice
complacent and mind full
the choke hold is apparent in you
i wanted it
heart and throat convulsions the situation derives in itself
the wondering thought
your sickness dives among our pussy oiled mouths
spread like a homeless saint
save your self from the outside of me
as i look up you dissolve
the undeniable number of times
i spent inside you
it beats on
one short felt breath
my time is gone
on my back
seeing unreal reasons for wanting
a crawling thought a
slip off the hand
grinding small animals the
door opens still life asphyxiation
the roundness of my echo
inside this explosion I ask for
blind allegiance to your vomit
the simple duration of lust and gasping
acquaintances I have had
but all in tiny dreams that
eat away at my intestines
and rows or birds wait for their turn at me
for empty boxes cold whispers
and dead words
are what is left
There will come a day
When you will run out of second chances.
There will come a day
When everything you've ever known will be gone in an instant.
There will come a day
When disaster strikes
And you can't do a dang thing about it.
We all have become so prone to the idea of disaster.
We think that it will always happen to someone else.
But it can happen to you at any moment.
Your loved ones:
Your life as you know it:
In the blink of an eye,
Everything can disappear.
You are not safe from the evil of the world.
You are at your most vulnerable point.
In merely seconds,
You could get cancer,
Or a tornado could strike your house,
Or a loved one,
This is not a call to scare you,
Or make you run away.
This is just to make you realize how special life is.
And how you should cherish it,
Every single day.
But most importantly,
You can not run from disaster.
Disaster will strike you.
Just be prepared to take it.
And know that it was all for
I am a pretender.
Looking through a window that is slightly open,
so that a breeze winds in
with gathered memories
of subliminal pain.
And I'm lost
partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand.
With the sun no longer reflecting,
A reddening burn
and a quickened pulse
and held breath.
I know where I am.
I am a fake.
But I cannot go through with it.
If I do not in the "real,"
why lie online?
Why hide myself
and view myself
criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine,
not even who I want to be?
Why do I ignore myself,
and let fade into lingo.
Because I am human
and I don't want you to know me.
Even when I want you to feel,
I want you to share this moment with me.
And that is why
I post these
discombobulating pieces of no reckoning,
non-entertaing, ultimate suck "poems."
Because I want you to understand this
in this instant.