Tender touching on creamy silky skin.
Hearts pounding like jackhammers.
Sweat dripping, warm rain.
Sheets melting.
70,80,90,100 degrees celsius!!!
Pulses rising,voices rising, music rising.
White rose moving down your spine tingling your sensitive senses.
Oh how you sing my name, I hope this song never ends.
Loss of air, loss of sense of self, two bodies in one.
Rose pedals broken under two lovers forms.
Waking up in a rose garden to the sound of your voice.

Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.

God loafs around heaven,
without a shape
but He would like to smoke His cigar
or bite His fingernails
and so forth.

God owns heaven
but He craves the earth,
the earth with its little sleepy caves,
its bird resting at the kitchen window,
even its murders lined up like broken chairs,
even its writers digging into their souls
with jackhammers,
even its hucksters selling their animals
for gold,
even its babies sniffing for their music,
the farm house, white as a bone,
sitting in the lap of its corn,
even the statue holding up its widowed life,
but most of all He envies the bodies,
He who has no body.

The eyes, opening and shutting like keyholes
and never forgetting, recording by thousands,
the skull with its brains like eels--
the tablet of the world--
the bones and their joints
that build and break for any trick,
the genitals,
the ballast of the eternal,
and the heart, of course,
that swallows the tides
and spits them out cleansed.

He does not envy the soul so much.
He is all soul
but He would like to house it in a body
and come down
and give it a bath
now and then.

arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.

a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.


wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.

bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.

spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.

dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.

but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.

Stick around
Shucks shucks
Long necks like water pipes
You spout words I like
Words I like

The bench we sit on can’t hold our excitement
Our legs like jackhammers
****** wildly
And there’s no switch to turn them on or off
Our word centipede crawls into our butterfly bellies our
Awkwardly loud laughter
Fuels our one way-two-way train wreck
You’re funny
I like it
I like it

I’m twisting my wire pipe fingers into
Infinite loops
I won’t stop
Because there’s no clocks in our world
They only tick away for legs
Straight and solid like enslaved cement blocks that sway
Only when forced by the machines they’re trapped between
The machines that
Won’t let them stop moving
And we’re breathing
Breath as fluid and exact as the clocks that don’t exist
Between our bodies so fitting

I think gosh gee
I think
If I could
I’d tell you it’s okay to sit closer
And the sun wouldn’t be the only burning
Gem in this world
Ill float upstairs with you
And the overhead light of your staircase wouldn’t be the only bulb burning bright and bold
The mattress a pseudo pool
Of fierce waters
And shallow rivets
Hearts inside clamshells
That peak out
Hesitantly
From salty sweat erupting from jackhammer limbs
Invigorating
Tell me you mean it
My taste buds sting with your coat
Of dangerous bumpy roads
And car sick groans and moans
My head hits the window and then your shoulder blade
And lastly the front seat
Drive me away
No
Drive me home
Drive me straight into this pit of broken glass and wrecked car doors
****** specks against cracked windows
The cracked sunroof fills with debris
Blundering amongst a whirl of unexpected destruction
and the eyes remain glossy and indifferent
Where star dust and bellowing wolves
Sink silently
Glare slovenly with laser beam vision
Sneering
Sniffing for a heartbeat lightening bolt
Shiny pearly whites
Against
Rusty stained gums
Hurdling into each other with irrevocable force
Beneath the corset of Athena’s bloated body
Where babies curl underneath to go die
They bleed ****** blotches unto bruised blisters, bleak and bolted tight
By warrior instincts now
Infantile, fetal
Caused by the men who tore off more then they could chew
Chosen like a useless card in a mismatched deck
No second thoughts I said
Why me
I said why me
Floating into your room
I’m a piece of furniture
A lamp a chair your headboard beating fiercely against your brittle wall
You look at me with double vision while my eyelashes remain speckled with the tears of
Spotty speeches and surly surfing
Amongst warm waves of love god would be jealous of
I’ll say it again
Tell me you mean it

sitting in heavy traffic one day, 4-way stop
radio on, listening to the DJ describe
the excitement of broadcasting live
from a south side *******
between songs
giggly ****** screech in high pitched
dog whistle voices
trying to entice me
into meeting wild red heads
georgous brunettes, ***** blondes
yellow, then red, then slowly traffic
moves on
continuing the maze
blockades block, jackhammers
tear up half the street, change lanes
the heat of asphalt, a constant barrage
of noise
straining, amplifying
I turn a ***** off in mid-squeal
looking around I realize
I had arrived
this was the world of grown-ups
I so desperately longed for in my youth?
no bat mizvah, no tribal rite of passage
but if I'm lucky
I'll make that green light

Dear every being whom I may have titled my best friend,
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because I’ve experienced more compassion and reliability
From a nine dollar carcinogen encased poisonous mass produced product
Than any so called companion
A cigarette doesn’t forget to call back and a cigarette knows the inspiration I lack
I lack the tact to express myself and despise the fact I engage in the act
Of filling my lungs with poisonous smoke
But I have too much proof that my life is a joke
So I complain everyday yet still I refrain from fueling my brain
Because I’m ******* lazy, and I’d rather be stuck in a haze than
Do something to better my days.
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because that’s my ******* topic for this poem.
I could’ve chosen politics or the art of giving road dome
But I hate politics, and I might get sent home if I get too graphic
Cigarettes don’t mind if I get too graphic
Cigarettes embrace the moments I can’t even face

Sometimes, I forget where I am
Because Haley’s brain’s like strawberry jam
And bring her to places too tight she can’t cram
enough time, or a path that won’t wind
Without a 24 hour jet fuel power
Through her past locked in walls
With thoughts like roaring waterfalls
And migraines like jackhammers

You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because when words sink like anchors to the bottom of my ocean,
I’m tryna cop a bogie, I’m tryna stay coastin

Load your ***** clothes. Separate your colors from your whites. Try not to linger too long on the shirt you first met him in.

2. Add detergent, only half a cup. Fill with cold water, watch as cerulean galaxies form right before your eyes. Realize just how much of you is not you.

3. Fill with warm water. Start spin cycle. Press your ear against the machine, hear its prehistoric roar rumble through your bones(now your shakes have excuses)have it envelope your senses until you assimilate into history and star stuff.

4. Jump when the buzzer goes off. Brush yourself off and hastily transfer loads into the dryer. Persevere when the wet clothes weigh down your arms more than thoughts of him, of his smile, of his laugh(****)

5. Set the dry cycle for another hour. Try not to think about your homework, remember that he's in your chemistry class, bite your head off. Sit on the dryer, close your eyes, pretend you're on a space ship shuttling through the atmosphere, through the Earth's orbit, on your way to the moon or Venus(****, you think of him again)or Pluto. Salsa on Saturn's rings, fall through Jupiter, turn stars into sticker on your skin, add pulsars, neutron stars, and quasars to your scrapbook(even if you don't scrapbook)

6. Return to Earth when the dryer shouts beneath you. Fold your shirts. Try not to think about the way his cheeks and face folds how he buckles over when he laughs, or how you did that first when that stupid statistic about how people like to mimic the habits of their love interest(***** science, if i can't explain my feelings, neither can it)comes to mind. Don't even look at that ******* shirt, toss it to the back of your dresser. Tuck sleeves left over right. Shove away thoughts of tucking stray tendrils of hair behind his ears, the feeling of his soft hair beneath your fingertips, how he cradled himself into your arms when he gets embarrassed.

7. Hang up your dad's formal shirts, your brother's tank tops, your mom's blouses. Blane your fatigue on the time of day rather than your depressive disorder. Blame your depressive disorder on your tendency to box yourself in and hold your own head underwater and struggle to breathe.

8. Accidentally close your eyes too long but just long enough for your mind to project  slideshow presentation of him standing off to the side, lingering for someone you wish was you (but it'll never be you, you know this like you know how two opposite symmetrical particles annihilate each other upon impact, a fatal encounter)

9. Throw back the tearstained shirts, socks, and boxers into the dryer. Set for twenty minutes. Almost forget to change the lint filter.

10. Stand there, numb and wet-faced, as the machine rocks, focus on the shaking of the tumbles to remember where you are, who you are.

11. Realize how often you lie to yourself(it doesn't take a genius to recognize a pattern)(remember Matt, Jamie, Julia; all fatal encounters, the stray neutrons in your equilibrium)Realize this is self-destruction. You are matter searching for antimatter, the particle searching for your antiparticle. You love the pattern(you're a routine-loving virgo, after all; you live for periodic patterns)love the cycles like the seasons. Like Persephone taking summer and spring with her every year, you are both Hades and Demeter. Cherishing new companionship, mourning the loss of your heart and soul.

12. He is the bull, you tell yourself, and bulls trample. Bulls stomp and wreck and dance and fly, but bulls are wild and untamable. Bulls don't belong with China-shop girls with scorched tongues and thumbs and an affinity for loving supernovas and jackhammers.

A new day sprays my room with colors
and dust particles and light rays
like underwater sleep and showers.
There are chemicals to be blasted,
jackhammers with holes to pound
into mountainsides

This house looks like you and it was built in my honor.
Every time I climb the stairs, I hold your hand
Every wall, every angle, every archway, every door
They're all your eyes, your lungs, your veins
I revere in your deep colors.

Arms outstretched, a temple flattened
We will make our patterns loud and our faces heard.

I'd rather destroy this landmark than soil it with people
And their idea of success or power or God.
We are God. It's time we shout it.

We may not have every planet. Or the stars
Or the souls and tears of a million followers,
But we have knowledge. We have wisdom.
We have a healthy curiosity for more.

In this, we are the kings of our own world
We wear the crown of daisies and clouds
Muses are alive in every forest, every fence
Every field that we have wandered without sense
Every breath we have taken in this gulch.

When you looked at me, you didn't have to say anything.
I knew you were mine. I didn't have to say it.
And I wouldn't have given you the satisfaction in doing so.

This is a calling for every American soul aching to be free
I yearn for a revolutionary who will hold this man
With this face: no fear, no guilt, no pain
In the face of a billion firing squads,
At the edge of the gallows
With nooses around our necks.

This is a calling for a patriot:
"I threw that statue down the elevator shaft
Because I love you."

Tools heavy in hands weak from
Weekend's fill of laughter,
Beer and barbeque.

Sun in eyes narrow from
Sleep. Traffic in ears spoiled
With countryside serenity.

Not even eight am, and I'm
Bleeding from open joints on fingers
That left their gloves somewhere

Clever on Friday. Drops of myself
Form little red rings in the chemical
Rainbows of puddle beneath.

It is my passion; not my job
To play with words in the ways of
Poet. To drop a few lines instead.

I am a man of heavy duty action, the
Kind that jackhammers concrete to
Dust, a thousand demolishing words.

My work is so far from poetry that
I should get changed in the phone
Booth outside the barracks, but

For now my mind is as narrow,
My imagination as shallow as this
Hole that I'm paid to dig.

The road looks bumpy from down here
I'm sorry that sleepwalking me loves jackhammers
And wondering what else she can mess up
Without a concept to time to tell her when to stop

I'm sorry about my gasoline decisions and my flaming attitude
I burn everything I touch
Nothing near me  goes undamaged
Nothing  near me stays
I can no longer tell if I'm setting these fires while I'm awake or not
Though I doubt it even makes a difference

Somethings crept it's way under my skin
I haven't been myself for weeks
Every word seems to roll off your tongue in just the wrong way
I'm not saying it your fault
I swear i see a slyness in your eyes
I'm not saying its your fault

My pens have run dry and so I have I
I have said all I can say
I must now be on my way
I wish nothing but the best of you

The street is dark
Yet still visible
Here on the overpass

And yellow lights
Unevenly dot
The concrete and steel
Statues made of rooms
That stand blocks and blocks
Away

All I hear are the sounds
Of my engine humming
Like angered bees
Or silenced jackhammers

These are simple nights
In the "great" city
Nights of silence
Nights of calm
Nights of happiness
Despite being alone

The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.

The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.

Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.

Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.

These thoughts twisting inside of me
Curling up just below the surface
Taking my head and clutching it close to my heart
Trying to listen to the hum of feelings
I can't stand up anymore

Wind drinking my skin
It's so cold
Nothing like it used to be
Is this the world you wanted me to see
Your kind moving quietly around me
Looking back at me

I remember whispering in your ear
Telling secrets you'd never know
Your fingers were afflicted with a nervous itch
Pointing like nails to pin my insides to the ground
All these people like golden souls crawling this way and that
Spotting every dark corner below the surface

There you are, flying over me
Playing with things unseen
I'm lingering in the dark
Pulling clouds low to forget this ground
Darling, lay your head down for me

All around me, jackhammers and timebombs
I feel insane, dropping below the still waters
Phosphorescent white blotting this soul out into the open
Twisting thoughts inside of me
Beneath the skin I'll run away
Under the waves I'll crawl to some distant shore
I'll try to hold on, I'm losing the fight
I'll try to hold on, I'm slipping away
I'll come back again
If I can.

I want the stars to shine
Over your fragile skin
So many morters and pestils
So many wrecking *****
We can destroy the buildings we live in
And keep on living

I want the moon to beam
Into your delicate mouth
So much concrete and asphalt
So many jackhammers
We can build a parking lot
And keep on moving

A want the the night to seem endless
As deep as you are
We can shine a light
We can carry it so far
Our hands aren't time

They are infinity

Forever is only as long
As I love you
Because I will die
But my love won't

i decided to wake up early today.

well,

i guess the jackhammers decided for me.

I’ve closed the doors and sealed them shut
I refuse to open them and see reality
I’m fine being in the dark
I haven’t tasted tears like this years the kind that start in your stomach and brim over your eyelashes like waterfalls
The kind that make your head pound like a jackhammers hitting concrete and your throat feel like someone’s hands are wrapped around so tightly that you think maybe they’re trying to help constricting my air so that maybe sanity has room in my body
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad
Maybe then, This wouldn’t hurt as bad
Without air my ribs would stop contracting and my body would go numb from head to toe
So, then , maybe I wouldn’t feel this hole as much
It wouldn’t be eating me from the inside out slowly as if trying to torture me
A parasite that’s managed to feed of my feelings feverishly
This holes so deep and only growing bigger, I fear one day it will devour my whole heart
That day there will be no pain, because it will have been eaten and done with
Or maybe I could stop it beating,  pounding like a constant reminder
You.
Are.
Alone.
Maybe if I stop my heart from pounding at my door , maybe if I lock it tight , every lock I have and maybe they’d go away these feelings I‘ve had
Maybe they’ll retreat once they notice  I never put out a welcome mat

Your whisper not loud enough
For there are blowing winds
And beating wings
Distance between the mouth and the ear
If what was said is of importance
I'm sorry, my love
I can't hear
Not with these angry cars
And jackhammers
Beating up the streets

Your voice not musical
Not memorable
Not special enough to be heard
When the message sent does matter
And nothings more important
The matter of the fact
There are birds singing
And evil radios
And all matter of interference
Good or bad
There's always something standing in the way

Now you are screaming
Like the wind and the light
Touching four senses
Lacking sense of touch
Its nothing I can feel
Its only the empty hands of ghost
The broken and her fear
The loving and her loss
You can shout at the top of your lungs
All the words that speak your soul
But you'll be shouting into darkness

I lie here,
dead ******* drunk,
whiskey venom swirls
through my veins
& I have become
the truest of believers,
****** madness
has made me more acute,
I am enlightened.

Outside my window,
cars honk out in the street,
heaps of molded steel
rush past each other,
their drivers flicking
fingers & butts.

And over in the next city,
I can hear the jackhammers
destroying the hero-statue
& the old *******
crying into their
calloused hands,
praying for the resurrection.

But those young ones
in the neighboring state
are waiting,
waiting
for the insurrection
to follow.
They know it by instinct.
They scream out in unison
that the time has come
for those ancient dynasties
to crumble.

O yes, the effects of inebriation
have taken hold me
& sadly,
I am at a loss to help
such rebel souls rumble.
I cannot even crawl
across the floor
to open the door.

So here I lie
in my own puke
& yet
I still
smell the roses
& think about
the other junkies
who lie drunk,
****** *******
wallowing
in their own puke,
dreaming of the revolution.

my breath?
ragged
tainted
untamed
uneven

billowing gusts of air

how
can it
even escape my lungs
when my
heart
jackhammers so
mercilessly?

i’m filled with nothing but
curiosity
and
intrigue

i want to be filled with nothing but
you

i want
your lips
your hair
your hands
your arms

i want
time
to explore
the
inches of your ******
surface

i want to make you feel
a way
you have never
felt
before

Isn’t it funny how an earth-bound drink
modifies our cones into brilliant saturation
and burns our circuits, showers with anticipation?

Well I think it’s funny when the days link
with the invisible individuals in demonstration
of lacked existence while shouldering the cold. They all take a drink,

we all take a drink, and we all never think
when the answer is held in mused assimilation.
                                                                                      Take another drink

of one that jitters; one that’s sync’d.
Jackhammers in our heads amidst deprivation
showering acid rain in our circuits,      down the burning drink!

My ******* agitation forces this alliteration
on the lack of restraint on the dull of saturations.
My soul castigates my being not to         cradle and devour the drink,
My body, my circuits, hardwired to anticipation.

New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawks a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.

Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting an offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.

Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.

At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.

We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Central Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.

Don’t hide
behind those drapes, boy...
come on out here,
let us have a look at you.

Does he do any tricks?

Shake his hand, son.
Don’t be shifty eyed
or stare at your shoes,
they’ll think
you’re hiding something.

Speak up!
Be a man!
Stand up for yourself,
shout the other guy down.

Maybe you can be
president someday.

All you do is sit
in your room,
playing with blocks,
reading books...

Why don’t you play
with the other children?
Get out there in the crowd!

What are you doing
roaming in those woods
all by yourself?

What will you do
with all those books you read?

Come on...
we’re going to town,
gonna do some shopping.

I know it’s loud,
but you’ll get used to it.

Gotta be prepared
for car horns,
jackhammers,
gunfire...

What are you doing
over there?
Don’t turn that over.
Leave it be.

And smile for the camera!
Come over here,
into the light.
Don't skulk around
in the shadows
like our guilty conscience.

Aww...it’s all right.
You’re just a bit cracked.
Here...a little putty,
a little paint,
and look how you shine!

The bulldozers and jackhammers
blasted the concrete away
clearing it of water, aggregate, cement,
tearing it down to the soil
until it buzzed with reclamation,
smelled of loam and petrichor,
the release of geosmin in the stirring,
ozone expelling with first lightning and rain,
surface bubbles releasing aerosols
like fresh baked bread from the oven
through open kitchen windows.


Over the watchful hum of drones
circling overheard the first crop
of the community garden
was tilled and planted in nine wide rows-
beans, cucumbers, zucchini, pumpkin,
squash, melons, clover, mint and basil-
drawing only the attention of hornets,
the disinterest of the rain god
that let their tender love dissolve
back to the earth in a pool of rot,
that never allowed a harvesting or tasting.

The second crops were planted in five narrow rows:
tomatoes, peanuts, green peppers, sweet peas
and eggplants, offensive to wasps and immune
to the silly whims of an offended deity
that could not flood over their high walls,
their collective pride, red as clotted blood.
They reaped its first beautiful harvest,
thought it tasted of airy summer dreams,
sold it with joy in their farmer’s market
until the first secret taste spit it out
for it was nothing but sawdust and glue.

The way that the day cuts the night from the sky
making it into one huge apple pie,
summer mornings are the why of it,

City noise,
where Jackhammers sound like woodpeckers
and sirens like..
well
sirens like the cops are coming,

someone let the sun out and it come out
running.

I'm already done in and it's only four o-clock