I still feel the distant gyrations
Of your eyes
When you’re off somewhere collecting
The marble shards
Of the skies.
And like the fall of roman nobility,
You always come again to rest
On illicit ground,
On my soft sultry breast,
Knowing that
Your past might resurface in a quick crimson breath,
Stealing you soon away
And yet,
Love is nearly as binding as death
In the provocative quiet
Of my soft bed.  
For though convinced I was that we'd gone astray,
Truly fated, we were,
To this life that we've led:
To trust love no more,
Yet to love one
No less.
You're my exception, sweetheart--
A tasty poison, at best.

In my striving to be
pragmatic,
Life's proven somewhat
monochromatic.

I doubt that I have ever
Waited
For my toast to
pop up                             on its
Own,

I’ve never                finished a
jigsaw puzzle,

I use my hairdryer to dry my
toenail polish,

And I
look for love
In all the wrong
Places.

Droplets of powder gathered on the counter
As I drilled holes in the linoleum to let the light in
Excuse the complacency and the drunken composure
But I'm eating my heart, and I'm taking you with me

Down the long fiery hallway at twilight
I will scream your fantasies softly to our moon
And your will to return will befall under its beams

Our private little world coming to an end,
Apocalyptic and honest,
Again to sleep.

I flew with you when you left ground, abandoning my soul and
fragments of my sanity.
You make me want to soar, you do.
Arms spread like Easter Wings, flying best in vanity.
Your will to be a stoic God burns true.
On these clouds you perch, preaching your calamity,
Yet, I bid you fall
                                   collide
                                               recall
                                                               reside
with me,
on the ground once more.
To be merely a man, in spite of sought after sanctity.

Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue  between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible

As this world wretches behind the piles of our institutional bones, I turn to look the other way.
When the beggars graze my pant leg, I don't stop mid stride and feign over their disparity,
For gaining the holy marksmen’s approval. When Judas kissed sanctity’s cheek beside the frames of broken-hearted men, I shook the feeling from my sleeve.  
And I no longer feel guilt, shame,
Out of mere cerebral obligation.
So, have me for a worthless sinner. I will fall to the dust before I bring myself to stand beside the husks of humanity that so many have become; spewing their filth on unfortunate blindfolded men, expecting me to follow suit.
       Well, *******, kindly.      
I’m living for the god that answers to no titles, and parsonages none of these black suited scumbags. I’m living for the god that inspires harmony, and lifts my fingers to dance for liberation, and pleasure, and hopeless longing. I’m living for the god of progress who shakes pieces of enlightenment from his gray beard, and swallows up the offerings of his every wounded child.

I’m living for the god of no religion,
Never saying
“God,”
For this name is tainted by old customs.
Cheapened by the misguided nature of man.

My recollection
of your jaded
eyes...

a beautiful
meaningless
nightmare.

We flourish in this partial reality.
As I quietly touch your face, your lips, with my thumb,
Begging to know the thoughts you never utter.
Perhaps this suppression is a favorable one,
Where after my uninformed dreams will run wild with hope,
And your affections are safely concealed by
Plaster walls and my contract to mum.

We really do thrive here.
In this vacuum.
I dare not think of when we must leave it…
When nights like this one
Come to a close.

We will only be able to dislodge quavering,
Reluctant sighs.
For we have so often recited the volumes of our hearts with
No words.
Always saying everything by saying nothing
At all.

Only fit for heaving heavy desperate breaths--
Airy, impalpable syllables.

On a silent quest for time’s
Antidote;
Struggling to exist permanently within
Such small moments.
Lips.
Hair.
Skin.
Snippets of life to which we cling.

Solitude may be a gift to any less than lucid mind--
A morning drug to purge my thoughts from restless night,
And a nighttime pill to slow the daytime grind.
But alas, here I sit alone, overwrought in isolation’s plight--
For the more I sit alone, the more my qualms take flight.

You’re my favorite pair of sunglasses;
White rims, rose-colored lenses.
Try you on, and the world just looks better for a while.
The muddy construction sites, this massive concrete jungle,
The blemish on my chin.  
Each piece of trash on the sidewalk has a story.
Wandering strangers don’t seem strange;
Everything, and everyone, seems deliberate.
No distance seems too great to run,
No weight too heavy
To be lifted.  
Sappy acoustic love songs sound
Like life’s most epic
Anthems,
In my car as I’m driving.

It’s the most beautiful delirium;
Every sight seen is a portrait,
Every word heard is a song.

Though at the close the day,
That rose light will dwindle on the rims of my lenses,
Turning the soft shade over my eyes to rigid shadow,
So that then nothing at all can be seen,
And all that is heard is hollow ambiance.

With this I shed my glasses,
To look upon an ordinary world,
Until the next sunrise, when I will undoubtedly don you again.

I blot people onto me, just to buff them away. Soakin em, and pressin em on.
Dabbin, pressin, soakin, like temporary tattoos.
Easy to apply, and pretty to look at.
Fun to show off, without any commitments, and then I just let em peel away after some time.
After their bright pigment fades, or their adhesive fails, I just rub em off.
Scratch em with my fingernails sometimes, when I get impatient.
Rub, scratch, off. Now, right now. I’m tired of lookin at you, feelin you on my skin.
I wore you for a bit,
Now it’s time for a new one.
Rub, scratch, dab, press, soak, press again again again.
Skin red, dry skin rub rub dab dab dab peel peel dab peel.
And then,
the ones I like the most, the most beautiful, the most vibrant,
color, color, color.
Purple, green.
purple purple
Purple,
are the ones I try to keep the longest,
they’re always the quickest to fade,
and to peel,
and to fail.
Fail fail fail, come unglued.
Keep em out of the sunlight, outta the wind. In the dry. But they peel.
Peel peel peel, fail.
They fail.
And then,
I can’t find others quite like em. So I press on any old picture. Any color.
Gray, red, yellow, blue. Not quite right, no blue, no citron, no salmon.
Not quite purple enough.
Not quite green.
Not quite, never quite the same.
The same purple, the same green.
Just soak soak soak soak,
Press. Peel.
Until, again, something might feel right.

Hold me.
Just me.

And make it a conscious decision.

It is my conviction
That life began inside of a dimly lit corridor.
Not with a flash of brilliant light,
Inside of the creator's grand hall.
Not even in the decency of a simple room,
No.
It was an accident that happened when the Gods tripped over their robes,
Simply walking
On their way to the heavenly mess hall for coffee and a drag,
Shaking the proverbial gold dust off of their feet
So that it slipped through the cracks in the marble
And crystallized in random little patterns,
Wherever they happened to step.

Beauty, some are bold enough to call it.

And I'll find it on my face sometimes,
Those golden remnants,  
When the weather is warm and I've eaten a little less that day.
I will linger in my mirror to see where they've landed
As I whisper sweet nothings to myself,
Wishing I were worthy of these repercussions of
The Great Biochemical Accident.

But once in a while,
Someone will come along who tells me that I'm wrong.
Once in a while,
Somebody has enough gall,
Somebody has enough, call it grace,
To peel those golden freckles from my face,
And to hold them gently in their palm,
Perceiving them to be precious.

After you finally fell from my tongue,
Your ambience
Expanded.

It's amazing,
How words will only actualize our realities
                                        Fully                   ­               
               When they are uttered
                                   Aloud.


And once those unspoken realities transpire,
It's as if the all the air in the world gets caught in a primordial vibration,
                
                   And those vibrations                                                       ­                     
Break the internal balloon                                                
Detaining­ veracity's ink                    
Painting our insides like the canvas of Jackson Pollack.
                                                        ­       Seeping through soft tissue.
                                          Spilling into chest cavities.
         Sloshing around.
           Saturating the hues of our flesh.

A single utterance
Resulted in irrevocable emotional
Infiltration:

"I'm in love"

*******...

Scarred hearts are often cheated
True love, and like a lame dove,
They fall hard from an ancient heaven above,
Having flown only once before,
And what then is in store?
Only a crowded bed, by a lonely wounded *****
Who ignores whistles off the street;
Sunken, broken men at her feet.
‘Stand up boy! You’re a drunken deadbeat
And can’t see what true beauty
Is.’
Stricken down, he never knew
The life that could’ve been
His.

There is a divination of unbearable banality which one often has whilst watching their water boil—
Perhaps for their tea, perhaps for their stew—
Which transcends the kitchen walls and permeates larger realities,
Leaving them grasping at the scalding stove top, or
Taking a meat cleaver to their knuckles;
Seeking merely a feeling.
And Lord, isn’t that the most primal
Affirmation?

Sensation.

Which may in fact be mankind's
Consummation.

Not to mention its greatest frustration.



If only we waited a bit longer for the boil...

Accepting brute fact would permit
a sad
self-induced
mental castration.

The foundry is wet and frothy with felons like you.
They all say you’re not a bad guy, but your breath reeks of Grey Goose,
Your eyes are wild, and your morals are loose,
But I also hear that you have enough heart to share between two.
It wasn’t hard to tell the meager malignant magicians from the brutally bruised and the blue.
You always told me that was true.
Yet, I feel melancholy now that I’ve spoken with this lowly American middle class few.
I pray their sweat will count for something worth more than the products they produce.
Their dime will only go as far as a brick and a bottle of juice,
What will come of such men, I haven’t a clue.