Tired of prostitution, please give me money.
Your blackened eye on display for the masses to see, blanched wooden faces sweet as honey.
God bloviated, etching people like words, now procreation run rampant, filling the streets.
Tired of prostitution, my swarthy skin isn't the object of scorn, no color wars, just ravaging perceived meats.
Hot pink boots with long legs, cold pressed suit and an unused umbrella, zoo humans press in for comfort in numbers even when they themselves are the feared hunters.
Please give me money, you've exchanged selling of body to prostitution of pride.
Was it mental illness or drugs, lost hope, a long slippery *****, maybe ill fortune, lack of education, "I didn't have a chance", you didn't fight, who's on your side?
I stand in broad daylight and watch the magnanimous, blinders for lost brothers, sisters, friends, all cardboard screams "why have you abandoned us?".
An overweight black women sits on a bench, in a sea of voracious minds tempered by forced tunnel vision, holding a cardboard sign, I'm tired of prostitution she says, please give me money.

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.

We are all oblivious in our own attentive way.
A babylon of fanaticisms call, in a dark song you must pay.
We are all content in our own entangled day.

A bravado of neologisms appall, in a stark verity you have kept.
I'm removed from society, in insouciant splendor, I wept.
A creation of serendipitous intent, in a dream impending you have crept.

Untouched snow calls!
Cold world claimed by the bold.
My dog stares mournfully.

Please, are you my sun?
Questions from the Moon and I.
Sleepily "I miss you".

Little asteroids,
accumulate noiselessly,
in the dark of space.

Rough road rage ahead!
I'm suing the pants off you,
spinal injury.

Creepy older boy.
Why is it you stare at me?
Am I pretty to you?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.

Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.

Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.

Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.

Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.

Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.

Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.

Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.

Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.

Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.

Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.

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."

Warmth spreads from touch and tongue,
warm breath from hot lung.
We are laying in bed- waiting to paint our world red
and I am dwelling on every little thing you have said.
Wishes float in the air-
and your hands encompass everything I’ve sought,
here we live in a thought.
Bones form a full body with moving dynamics
and your mind fills with ad hominem tricks.
I’ll look through your skin; it’ll look back in shame of its sin.
Indulgence of the flesh, the meat of your faults melt when our hands mesh.  
A single frame doesn’t move, bordered by broken limbs and forgotten whims.
Your kiss smears on my cheek, softly we become weak.

Hold close your bit of me defined,
and I'll grip tightly to the only chipped piece left behind.

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.

The broken and the disheartened wander old roads with lost ideas,
searching for deep morals to half forgotten truths.

Chopping wood for a woman and her child,
for payment being fed outside without trust,
they may wish to be loved instead,
in this world where they were so ******.

We are not as prolific as a species as we would like to believe,
so much wouldn't even notice if we were to leave.

So much more untouched by human finger or toe,
we create beaten paths in our consistency,
spinning internally our emotions into solitary lunacy.

After a gifted sandwich is long since eaten,
only the leftover humanity remains,
in half caught-
half remembered strains.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.

These are moments I would give up.

There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.

And with hot branding, I name the end, it is unknown Obadiah, it is uncompromising Demosthenes, it is ambuscaded Agamemnon,
it is crafty Cain, it is able to pull lightning down from clouds to electrify a world beset upon by forces of great magnitude, vibrations ricochet off of each other, quaking knee's knock as earthquakes rock tectonic plates.

In this final hour what was once to edify is now to petrify and once let free the fire is an esurient monster after being kept so long locked behind the now yawning earthen gates, witness even the most pluvial flourishing plain blister and boil, witness unyieldingly the flesh bubbling in flux as if from extreme cell proliferation, another soul abdicates its husk.

Mayhap this life will lead to another, as If there will be a choice project an air-less voice on the matter, will this If, insist on this If,
hold your breath in front of polyonymous Death, let without a moan a trembling icy finger trace lips of now great pallor and make the word-less decision known, no more cyclical reaping of our worn souls says humanity and beg on the now naked ruth for our sanity.

Thick branches sway in the wind
as my vision seems to swim and starts to dim.

The feeling started out small,
like an apex before the fall.

Such a loss leaves a bitter taste
to see a life go to such waste.

I will sacrifice but for you
nothing will ever suffice.

I am not the source of all this remorse,
sinking to my knees under thick trees.

Peace will overtake me as I watch you walk away,
above us limbs sway.

Serenity is not hard to obtain
and from you it is not hard to abstain.

A tree fallen is not a loss to the forest so do not mourn,
in the rotten and decomposed new life is born.

My opalescent dreams hang just out of reach, milky, spoilt with waking.

Burlesque imaginings wishfully realized out of the breach, fantasies of my own making.

Voluminous clouds of confusion cover our weighty decisions with the familiar sheen of normality.

Maybe you’ve just woken now, part way through, awakening with surprise at the life half lived.

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.

I rarely cry, and I cried in public today, many of you looked away.
The only sound I could make was a sigh, how many days were never lived?
Too many gone for a simple goodbye
the public was made to feel like a ****** to my tears,
but all I could think is "so much laughter was stolen".

It stuck with me like cold steeped megrims, or something deeper.
Think of those averting eyes, diabolic men’s whims and all those souls for the reaper.
I never heard the screams, or have seen those man created seams.
Huddled for heat and from the long day beat, can you really perceive?
I tried, and I cried today.
Thoughts like the ink permeate my soul and being too late, I grieve.

The numbers surround me, and do you really see?
For you its art, a thing of which you can choose to take part.
Responding to their urgent behest, would you have joined a protest?
If you hadn't, steeped deep in silent sin would you be able to live with yourself?
Think, could you have dug a pit for your kin?

I speak of these sorrows and dream thickly, of children burned and crying out sickly.
This is history, her story, our story, our horror, our creation in which men fight, finding death and glory.
I cried in public today and you may have looked, ashamed of my display.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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 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.

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.

Falling behind in my arbitrary designs, staring blankly at the passing signs.
Lines wind along the way, like an ongoing lie.
I'll get as far away from you as I can, that's my best plan.
Another cheap motel that I'll stay in will make no new impressions and I keep paying for my digressions.
There are certain memories of you where I dwell, they seem to muddle and swell.
Muddy footprints lead to my room as I come in from a thunderstorm, its in these dreary days I end up drunk and leering.
In a forest clearing I see you peering and naked, your body seems to call; the end is nearing.
Towns melt into the past, nothing new rears in the future, I wonder how long I'll last.
I find it hard to absolve my sins, my heart is held together with pins.
We have traveled to Spain and under starry night skies have lain, I know now I'll never rub away this stain.

The city eats individuality like a baby bird the offered worm.
When you look at me as you do, it makes me squirm.
The hug softens my reality like a sung song tempers the heated mind.
When you look at me as you do, I know you are the one I've wanted to find.
All the noise eats away at my focus and faceless strangers blend in time.
When you look at me as you do, I show all of my love in rhyme.
Your traceless touches leave marks on my soul, burying the city's heavy toll.

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