To you,
I am the clean yet illusory interweaving of poetry.
A dream made abruptly real,
wreaking havoc and complexity.
To myself, I am lost to a gruesome ******.
I tear apart everything I have built,
because there is no hope
in the act of conservation.
Solace in acceptance is all that there is,
and in between the long breath,
there is a sheer exhilaration of power.
I gift parts of me to people who care so little, they do not remember my name,
just as I do not remember their face.
I do remember the sharp sting
of your flesh against my palm,
and in concentration-
the luxorious scent of your ***.
It is the slow death of an ******.
There is release in giving away
the ****** meat of our life
for little more than a placeholder.
And there is relief
in the thought of taking from you,
whatever I desire.
I speak of emotions,
I barely can feel--
too entrenched in the wild.
This is my father's home,
and it will be my home as well.

It is to the ones we love
that we gift our most intricate torture
devices, tools hand tailored for creating
our own personal horror.
Have you ever bled time?
Slits leaking grains of sand
like salt rolled twixt fingers to fall
on red ****** meat.
I'll sear both sides and watch
you choose your child over me.
A choice taken in a vacuum and
the whirl of dust takes me.
To the precipice of disillusionment,
thirteen years of a desperate person.
The sands of time ripple,
as present reaches his dark hand back
changing everything,
all of you: I ever believed in.
Sizzle pop of meat on iron.

Abscond from thought through journey;
surrender my weary spirit and
endure our eternity in observation.
Transform with me..

I am quiet in front of the ambient lights.
Confronted among these Ambien nights,
with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry-
It is hard in the valley of the sun
the people who over-extend
self, carry impotence and
a loaded gun-
The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds
who cast out their alcoholic offspring
to grind under gears of the economic machine.
Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.

I'm likely to breath in
diesel fumes on Sunday
than ever the soft efforts
of spoken word saints.
Burnt out eyes from blue lights
and empty coffee cups full
of muddy rings.

Melatonin bleeds out blending
a wasteland of words.
Off season is
oft spent without thought,
gone in subtle joy.
Heavy knee across inhale
in a flesh crush,
so much, so maybe
it is the best moment I've ever had,
or heeded, until tomorrow
is sought for with a fresh smile.
I do have morals regardless of god.
I peel off layers of time,
hot and reeling in exertion.
I'm putting together something and
it just might be me.
As it was the time before,
but each time- a little better,
at least in this moment.
You say live in the now,
as if I should live in fear
of a future gone sour.

I don't fear a loss of power,
of limbs sawn off,
psyche sent scrambling, insane.
We are all in the red rend,
whole and writhing
ripped from lapsing grip.
I rasp that, for now:
it is all mine.

The cause of ignition is inconsequential,
no trigger to let loose the hammer- Only,
I become a passenger, a **** cur.
Softly as a dancer, on swells of change,
undulating to the jangle and clink
of lives being unlaced,
splayed apart  in bitter irony,
displaced into objectivity.
You take it personal,
as if, I am just a faltering piece of personality.
Dropped like salt in the Devils eye,
I'm just over shoulder- needing the fall
into comforting familiarity.
I'm unfeeling, mute and defensive-
peeling self back to where we merge.
At the base I know I am one
but cruelty makes our hands feel like four.
I am my own dark passenger depersonalized,
sloughed off in stress and
bound in unrecognizable life.

It does not matter
if you know
there is no time for this
just- this is all you have
this:
one second.

As snow flurries fall-
the thick memory
of winter, reminds us
that life is the long breath and
every single moment is so precious
I make sure to throw each away-
individually,
carelessly crushing them underfoot
impulsively,
as the small boy does
stepping on flowers beside the beaten path.

Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.

We lay, you on your right side and I
on my stomach

  you can   hear  waves   crash
(steel girders twisting under stress)
An ocean of mercury, sloshing lightly- less than silently.
Ripples radiating as waves collide and
a drop is flung free,
into the perfect moment of    separation.
As the bauble is balanced,
I float momentarily flawless- circular with surface tension;
my wagging tongue wrenched free and swallowed whole
in the moment while I wait
for your answer.
I asked
are you in love with me.

I am not found loud in revelry-
in the noise of the night I am quiet
without the distinct need for rioting definition.
Not to debase their need
or to glorify my sweet bashful greed.
For peace, is something I crave, unsatisfied- I am unsavory.
The noise brings meaning to:
Ring in the New Year.
I find your little cries delightful, a better noise:
the groans of sleepy pleasure shrouded in night-
which is full of cupped spoons soon to be rinsed clean.
Deemed sparkling humanity,
with the presence of goodwill
presenting a better side of selflessness.
It is good medicine for a creative ego.

The cold metal grate calms her, as supple flesh conforms
into the crenellated ridge of many miniature rectangles.
With widening eyes focusing so goes her mind into spasms of elastic thought.
Unleashed imagination simulates the mass of steel and
plastic encapsulating her in a headlong tumbling orbit.
She lingers lonely as the space station spins.

While I drive left-handed
you scratch at the white clouds
drifting out on the growth
of my fingernails, and
rub salient fire down tendons
toward fingers of gnarled roots
and less a hand, than work incarnate-
in essence of character. In lines, in
worried skin and flattened bones:
the misshapen unity of labor in lengthened phalanges.
You speak to me about how getting older means:
you can always remember a better time than now and
about the city of angels who never sleep,
staring open eyed, hazy with intangible halos.
How is mans great struggle now with society and no longer himself?
As the sharp angles of the road drive our skin to tight contact,
I find myself in the air between your breath and sweat slickened palms.

In the nebulous dark
a train rumbles distantly
in seconds a whistle blows
and later as quiet settles back
the whippoorwills call
as if in belated answer
while crickets rustle amid the grass
in the lukewarm tranquility of morning.
The earth,
moves with eluviate grace.
The baby,
weeps lonely with tears sparkling
on a weak wobbling chin,
and me,
I just hold my bones still and quiet.
The poet,
he tells me to shake the dust off,
but I take every moment I can
to let the dust settle evenly
in fine layers across coarse body hair
and sun reddened skin.
I take solace in moments where
the almost constant clarity is lost-  
adrift in the absolute essence of silence.  
Detached,
the field of time is shown to be relative
to velocity,
to gravity, and-
to how far away I am from you.

The finger oil glistens in wide smears across convex glass
and the tired man in ***** Carhartts
asks the price for a rack of beef ribs.
The deli woman answers, his vision
quavers from the gristle and grease
as he dismisses the possibility of a feast,  
it just looked so good
he comments,  almost
pained or embarrassed.
She offers to cut it in half as
Dave the BBQ cook calls to me
across the fray and I wonder
if he wants my company,
for we talk long
about recent literary conquests
and our love of atypical diction.
The middle aged man
in the old ***** Carhartts
who walks
with the upright pain
of enduring parenthood
through poverty
refuses the meat with wry hurt
and wanders out of my life.
I drive one handed,
twelve ribs covered in tin foil
clutched dripping
as I peel back a metal edge
and gnaw flesh from bone.

Languid light fell eery through the fulgent fog bank.
Crows called, wheeling in the glare.

We swing on rubber and chain
taking turns calling back
the chattering challenge.

I do not falter as your fingers find mine
while we walk, shoulders brushing.
Framed momentarily
in crunching autumn leaves.

For a while, I am completely happy.

We cannot seem to understand
that one perceives personally with limited scope,
a minuscule allotment, a slippery vision of time.
We believe to hold witness to a great single minded river,
this metaphor is bought wholly
and sold solely to sweeten our short life-
As one word often leads to the next,
a parent sires child
thinking this is the most powerful measurement of truth
we use to falsely foolproof our assurances
and assuage any feeling of being a victim,
eaten by time.
It is a shared dream of the dead man's final words-
they carry weight, meaning and purpose.
Needing to be painfully comprehended and carried self evident.
A literary reflection of our need for death to matter,
to have matter and be of substance is a view of ourselves linearly,
as a line drawn between birth to death
then- maybe
a cathartic eternity.

I am young- small,
youthfully slight and skinny
with grasping fingers.
You turn your back to me
and begin trudging away.
All I can remember is
reaching to hang onto your apron laces-
wrapping my fingers in it
and being dragged along,
my feet leaving furrows in the soft ground of spring.
You don't look
or acknowledge me at your back-
only prompt quick steps as
we pass in peace to summer
with the sun high, hot on our skin.
I let loose of you and dance amid
green pastels smeared with grass glistening wet.
I stretch my legs now found strong
with lengthened stride
and I spin circles around you
never focusing on your face.
With the vanity of adolescence
I forget our journey and become
vociferous in play.
But soon the skies, they darken
and my grasping skinny hands, they find.
Clutching for comfort -- apron strings
your careful bow tie
and chasing the rabbit knot.
Under sheets of rain that knock the leaves from the trees, we walk.
Silent--
among the howling of nature.
I grow taller than you
and my body matures.
You look small and fragile now,
frail in the whipping wind
as fall freezes into winter.
We are cold and hold hands,
alongside each other in lurching momentum through the long hours.
I am a man now--
tall, lithe, and toned.
Full of imperial inflection
as if the vicissitudes of spring once again overtook me,
I fill the empty air with vibrations.
The chatter of blue jays join
still you stride forward,
though stumbling here and there.
And I can hear your knees pop,
the joints grind, the mouth grim.
Snow melt wets the tongue
and water drips from beard
as I still follow you.
Sometimes at a distance,
other times huddling close in your emotional shelter-
we walk
past my wedding
and others now journey with us.
We become a pack
a group-
yet,
you're always out in front.
Pressing on, one foot after the next.
Single minded and silent
as the sun once again dawns on yet another spring
I see your goal and shout
and scream
and cry
and run to catch
to hold
to stop
prevent
block
but you're walking faster now
I wrap my grasping fingers
in your apron strings
and I pull hard as my muscles can
As if metal caught in a magnetic force
I am dragged toward your grave
And in your maddening march
there is true intent
as you topple.
Eventually I know
that I will awake and it will be this day
For now I know, I cannot handle it.

I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.

I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.

There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***.
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.

Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of ******* girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.

So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.

Who am I   to- deny,
to reject.
To, discard
the boneless fruit that
is only inanimate clay.
I went to hold your hand
on the return ride
in the back of a NY taxi cab,
with the sense of imbricating
memories hanging heavy.
I touched the soft flesh 'twixt your
thumb and forefinger.
In that moment of time as we brushed skin
you shuddered
and I knew something had changed,
and I know now, what I hadn't the courage to say:
I am whomever I need to be
to survive.
That I am not the only one
left disfigured by the decisions we make.

Electronic karma spills unnoticed,
neon in the streets of concrete and oil
only to be dissected by the ******* legs.
I see streams of soil eroding
whereas you live free from worry
because we view time differently and
incur incrementally
indifferent sins
assuredly.
I am
eschewing violence with the slow quiet chewing of cheek
and a slight
leak at the seams
like violet light creeping from the night club,
a signal for the heated rubbing hub of energy
to come from behind the heavy door,
and skin deep what is my steady humming roar.

Your weltering words do not interest me
with its lack of true clarity.
Just your tongue
and all the inhuman noise it can make
Oh' schlepped out- sleeping son
you are the ever tediously coveting one
ungratefully burdened by soft sin
as if it does not alter the personality within.
Scrape gingerly the bottom of a bottle,
in despair carelessly compare disease
to your displeased humor, wash logic
along with blood from lacerated hands;
broken bottle pieces rasping like last words
empty of regret- with every sweep.
In blind acceptance with little malice
you slice ties cleanly as memories of allowance
have barely slipped and
menial wage paychecks become the sole script.
Only little things are still swingin'
but no longer with style,
limply dripping you are simply pathetic and
knowing this is the first step toward the corner mart,
wallet in pocket and to- locking all cold thoughts away
but you continuously fail to remember,
total absence is equivalent to suicide.

I despise names and
call them the false handle-
that they are.
A grip of pre-molded proportions,
framed in impertinent memory.
An acerbic peremptory command of character
stamped neatly at birth,
a great girth of foreshadowing
left pregnant by passing humanity. Crystallized now,
dutifully,
by the willful populace,
which we the children- bear in baleful ignorance.
You cannot help but have an altered perception and
unconsciously define,
as if,
a title was the crux of my character.

Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.


And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.

There is no simple sin, even within an ignorant whim.
You have an absence of forward thought,
I treat this as if- it is an abnormality.
Can you, for just a moment
imagine yourself as you are,
disingenuous and ordinary.

Can you, for just a moment
step outside your solidified
perception of the continuum.

You can, just for a moment
look at the beauty inherent
within the repetition of us.
There is no behavior irregular to Love.
Consume me in lust and anger,
in soft embraces and memory.
For in words is the only place I truly linger,
so sate your simplistic nature now.
There is no insult in simplicity,
the world is already complex enough.
You are swift in being decisively concise,
delightfully constrained and
unadorned. 
There is nothing more then internally acquired happiness.
There is nothing but self imposed purpose.

A Mass Inversion.

I have lived to witness an Apple
become a juggernaut
see the followers nod their heads in belief,
walking segregated on the streets
unaware of their own worship.

We have not yet realized
that the largest religion in the world
is no longer faith based,
technophiles fill our rural
and metro quintessential sprawl.

Their numbers swell
and burgeon with new converts
that give funding rank and file,
whom are taught to know indulgence
in name only, mistaking desire for need.

This technology based obsession
is without age or gender restrictions,
without race distinction,
it asks not for ethics,
       pride,
morality,
intelligence or privacy.

It is all-consuming
just as any ideology-
as any religion,
answering the same fervent questions,
demanding tribute and changing the way you think.

-

The View Outside.**

Among the whole, the slow mass conversion,
there is occasional dissension,
some who glorify a golden era or fill with nostalgia
for something they may not have even experienced,
an immaterial escapism of the present
furthered by a childish inability to accept ephemerality
and our irregular morality.

Sometimes amid this denial,
this abstaining,
there is a seed of anger that grows with gnarled roots
that twist throughout with nary a cry or shout.

It is a quiet anger,
unconditional and baseless but for an intensity,
a burning sense of being wronged,
an infection that spreads without exception.

And when your self-righteous halo eventually slips to catch
in your now flapping jaw,
your anger will fade as you choke on hard etched resolve.

My body was found in an autochthonous cranny stinking of death,
between the hookers legs; burned
with a magnesium flash- of the bulb popping.
It illuminates mere shapes
resembling humans only remotely;
the way a copse of bracken burnt conifers' resemble matchsticks.

I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.

I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.

I'm tired of Love lost,
of cookie-cutter me missing you
and all of the ridiculous rhymes that ensue.
More and more I am fed up,
plainly sick of inflated ego's insulated by chosen ignorance
or inborn imbalances,
maybe a history of inbreeding
from a catalyst of parochial need.
You are a parody of mental health
shaping the shifting black and white
to propound cheap love, I feel this as a slight.
Committing any wisp of originality
to become an unconscious marketing ploy,
you're looking for glory in methods unlearned
now butchered, bleeding clichés
to stain pages and pages
with your sullen insecurities.
For that I name you an idiot,
a slavering jowls dripping greedy soul.
Comprehend there is no invalidation of your emotions,
just a damning of self neglect and hidden pride in suffering  
all laced with the unspoken demand for my respect.

What can an individual know of drugs?

While transcending only able to look in on the Id of themselves
and not the out of said mental health.
Sunken and sullen while witnessing the golden kingdom,
an illusion of a fully realized sense of self,
an identity never fully actualized in reality.
And every day is the residual question of who you are
reaffirmed as inconsistent by incessant use.
Every day good habits become an active choice losing its voice,
lost in the uproar of inactivity.

Pursue in the aftermath of tragedy
the multifaceted personality
hiding behind the emotion-less catalyst.

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.

Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..

Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
don’t
look
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.


I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

You subtly strum soft passionate symphonies of pathos
and are wordless in casual relapse
to canals of bliss
and carnal bane-
Schisms of cannibalism eat at my soft humanity
with cries of animalism-
that are ****, animated in oil.

I consume you on dull nights
because you are there no matter what
And I hate the way you purse your lips
a stenosis of encapsulated disapproval
even pursed in pleasure
Your closed eyes give away more than
any assuming part of fleshy eyelids
slits of white shine as unfaithful mirrors
reflecting my own narcissism.

Afterward in comfortable silence-
two quotation marks still hang naked
trapped in the smell of sweat,
wrapped elaborately around
            "I love you"
standing like an alabaster sentinel
but acting more as a crossing guard,
dictating my need

My frantic worship of winter is bitter.
His ache was gone in a moment,
you use the knife and incubate a symphony.

We the ugly rust run mad
always beneath the Light
bared lust watching Love
drooling delicate shadows.

-

Your repulsive tongue has screamed
sweet languid moans,
my cry is bitter and essential
our garden is now a forest.

A forlorn jacket absently left on a gate post warms in the sun.
No wind rustles its fringed edges, the shadow cast envelopes half of the green post
and its arms circle down around embracing the square metal pole.
Like a man hanging his head it stays; a resting place for both bugs
and lonely thoughts, both becoming nestled in its threadbare fabric.

It was a soft thing when it happened,
a gust of wind channeled down the hills to the small valley where the gate post is embedded in the ground
causes the jacket to raise its head subsequently losing its grip and falling to the ground.

Now if you listen close you can hear the bugs scuttling in their rearranged home,
listen and hear the lonely thoughts escaping.

My words have been ripped from me
uncovering my naked body below
and I bemoan the cold or mayhap
just existence
My pupils will not focus, a lack of dilation
I am not entombed in life
for I blink with each inhalation
I am subtly encased in flesh
not suffering
simply slipping
Mourning the loss of my language

and when I dream
death pervades my visions
when I wake,
I'm approached by none other than heartbreak
at my most fearful perception

Strength isn't to forcefully remove temptation,
but to resist temptation daily and survive.

A man doesn't reflect until he is imprisoned,
and limited by an external boundary,
I re-forge myself within the internal foundry.

Cold and clean, clinical, “and his name is The End of Days” said the priest.
        “At least he wasn’t born deceased”-
        “Like the last”

Clips and phrases filtered and bent by reality.
        At least leash the beast high on brutality-
        Isn’t life a blast?

Ere our life and yours, and all these stores, before us all!
        Even before man metaphorically could crawl-
        All things gone so fast

Because the mad man frowns with his collar so tight and his book so ****** its black-
        And his words so holy as to make grown men crack.
        Even your own countless sins surpassed.

Watch closely as the seas boil and life returns to their steaming embrace,
        the world left quiet and gray, maybe
        even so I won’t believe in god “just in case”.

the Exquisite Executioner.

What kind of organic golem
of engrammic man am I,
so cold as to make you quiver.

You ask what hides under
my thin veneer of vernacular?
A bullshitter.

Caressing a mind swollen with Superego
I'd rather be traveling Home if only
I could just let

Me
                    go.

For
I am the ****, leftover from
your irate iron decisions.

I am the sepulcher, wreathed by
your iconoclastic tongue.

I am the maw
trite in humanity
partite in hunger.

As you **** and jiggle
hop and knock
slip and giggle
keep a foot forward
and the other forewarned.
Slack jawed and hackneyed
you're endlessly forlorn
slack kneed and jack knifed.
High on strife and ******,
car crashes on black rock
cracked streets and hard
sweets lined teeth so
stained with self love that
your internal apathy fits
glove-like and I am hungry
struggling against your
thundering angry words
filled with fifty year old
angst ugly with stretch
marks but more from
the sadness dribbling
down your philtrum un-wiped
like I was and the only thing
I now want cleaned off is my
memories of you smeared
erratically and etched eternally
onto my life.

I am staring at the red hand demanding stop
in a mostly silent rushing manner with any
urgent notice for the blind lost in the crushing banter.

And there is white hot anger in me
at the flamboyant capsules borne along to be seen
it is Soylent in essence proudly proclaiming to be green

I am flaring at the steady hand pandering
hot in a most heady hushing stammer.
Myths nay jerkingly, quoting for us
the signed history and sing lush slander.

And there is white hot anger in me
at the clairvoyant ape who is now born
chain-smoking and mean;
it is annoyance in adolescence rowdily
claiming to be clean.

Nowhere is now here, desolation; within
my adulterated honesty you took from me
that which you did not believe I still owned
in your break-neck speed habitually
freed into earthly delight in
the last shades of dim light
wild with sin, hiding a sparse
vapid wilderness within.

You firmly handle my grip
as milky droplets of ineptitude
drip.

Oh' glamorous god glassy eyed, in me
you have so very much time invested
I burn past tense n’ loosen tight lips. I may
be lost without Love jejunely injected
regularly in to my life made little with
worry and neglect. Love's politics ensue; know
I am not the one for you. I have not been
properly tested. Jarringly elected
for your need with a kind word herds
your starry glossed eyes to my body infested
with your skin and visible wet wild sin.

I forgot my life as I lived it.
I forgot my body as I died.
I forgot my shadow
as it was burned on the wall.
I forgot then and now
and will forever after.
I forgot the sky as it was blue.

I remembered the sky as it is now,
still dark and brooding--filled
with the truth of our downfall.
I forgot that the bombs

had already exploded.

I forgot.

I strip you naked,
leave you firmly fixed to the spot
in the cold
encircled by a metal
fence.

You're rooted to that spot.
Without me, you'll never
leave
and with my cold metal devices
I will find the disease in you.
Driving it out
for fear it will reach the core.

--

You're curled inward,
dense limbs jumbled  
hindering my stare.
Arms overlapping,
heavy with dew
clinging to each blond hair.

I carve voluptuous curves
out of your jagged exterior,
slicing membrane cleanly.

My body is worn thoroughly
and I want so badly to stop,
wrists sore, plastic catching
anything I drop.

--

Everyday is aggravated
by the sweltering sun then
you're purple in the aging cold
and wilted you sleep half done
in the embrace of dark.

I worry in the morning
I will find you gone,

but I don't burn with it
rejoicing for you have no
tongue.

--

I have untied you piece by piece
from your wire and wood cradle,

and will with loving care
hang
you.

He opened his coffin and folded the side down, swung his legs over.

Gathered his strength
and pushed off heavily, rising unsteadily to his feet.

          "Dead man walking"

He catcalled,
giggling to himself.

          "That never gets old"

He couldn't sleep,
a family of worms had taken residence in his skull,
what a racket they were making.

So he went walking,
wind whipping his ragged coat tails
and straining against his top hat but a gaunt sallow hand kept it steady.

Through the small town,
still sleepy in the early morning.
Darkness was starting to fade when he settled down on a park bench.

The sun was starting to peek
out above the trees, warmth was spreading
and the world was starting to move with increasing speed.

          "I wasn't expecting company, least that of the living dead."

He started with surprise,
a lady sat to his right with a wry smile on her face.

Plump lips curling.
He nodded.
And said something but it was lost in the wind.

          "What did you say?"

asked the lady politely.

          **"I said, a sunrise as beautiful as this really tugs at the heartstrings."

The transvestite
in the corner
sauntered over to me dripping ******
while I tightly gripped j&b; on the rocks in a heavy glass

ignoring myself

and he whispers heavily in my ear
after colliding with the bar, sitting down hard
"I want to be treated like a woman, and ****** like one."

The ****** next to us at the bar,
Thin legs crossed, drinkless and bruised
                      hearing this, turned,
Saying around a thin menthol on a long filter

"Oh' honee'y"

Making a small 'tch 'tch 'tch noise with her tongue seductively.

"You don't **** us, we *******."

I miss being filled with a sense of here and now from
the unclouded mental vision of youth before
the eclosion from adolescent reverie to
adult delusions.
Every moment thereafter
being crystallized with serene debasement of self.
With age eagerly gripping the hand of heartache,
will you worry about losing relevance?
survey says, an astounding "YES"
Frightening,
knee-knocking
shoot the stranger who walks at dusk questions arise...
How long will my mental faculties survive this torment of existence?
How long till I am the stranger blinded and in the dark?
How long till I am the fly caught in a web of ineptitude?
Forever the convalescent,
I revel in and reveal the depths of human insolence.
For, ever striving to be the emotion-less outsider,
I become buried beneath the
inherent
ephemerality
of
cerebral
acuity.

Do you know what it means to have a moment encapsulated and remain enthralled with an utterance for what seems a century?
Or more?
It isn't your voice or your beleaguered indiscretion
it is not your rounded shoulders and body (language) speaking of consequential truths
its the way your words round my hard thoughts, softening and falling to slide off the firm curve of my breast.
Feeling each individual letter glide delightfully around my mouth
after being in yours
and I taste something new amid
a festival of enunciation.
There is false bravado in me and you
slip it off, along with my clothes.
I'm left naked and shy
almost hiding now, what I previously
wanted to share so much.
Almost, as your tender words guide an
embrace
I fall in love for the first time with a word
knowing you can only ever possess me physically.

I hear and see
soles grind
small pebbles
into night nigh
obscured flagstones,
something young,
a passerby,
says

                 “What are you doing? Old man"

Stepping from the
well-worn stone
to spongy dirt
moist leaves, a
fleeting cricket
drawing closer now-
short hair
mid twenties
maybe a man, fine features
He asks
                 "What are you senile? What day is it?”

With a spark he laughs after uttering the word
"day",
I dislike Him for it

                 "Well, Tuesday I do believe."

Or did I just think that, either way,
                                     He doesn't listen

                 "Do you need help? Old man"

And moves closer still
now only six feet
a clearing of leaves overshadowed
by the realization,
of soft swells,
of
sweet
perfume
Compassion steals across Her face
She asks loud
"How long have you been in this park?"

And I look down at my
***** dress shoes,
filthy slacks, my
muddy hands
I look out of place
But now there is a
hole
A
pit
A
Crevasse
I notice a faint droning in my ear
It iterates me, She senses a
stain in me
A
growing
blight
I don't seem very old anymore
No, not to Her
And
I get close
r
Far off I hear the sound of taxis and
a siren
And oh lady of the night
She sings to me
Tonight She sings
Only to
me

Then there is
only
placid
silence

Now, lost in
disjointed contemplation
Spotless slippers
Gray pajama bottoms, a
glass of milk
I hear
Something
Maybe a termite
eating
No,
A ******* bumble bee must have flown in
That is it
I know it
That is making this,
awful
droning
sound