obliged to what?
smile and say, "danke"?

I could hide forever if I could hide forever
behind something.
anything.

I'll abide the dust and sunshine
and the blood i taste
on my tongue at night,
every night,
but not you putrifying the *******
ground water.

anything.
anything.

She gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets
in tiny light-riven rivulets
to pool in cold futility
on sill and ledge.

She could not remember
how long she'd been here;
indeed, she was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
measuring life merely
by periods of dark or light,
humidity or aridity.  

Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same,
here in this white-tiled purgatory
where endless days merged
into non-existent seasons,
and the world turned slowly
on a rusting showerhead.

A newcomer jostled her suddenly,
anxious for a glimpse
of some fancied nirvana
outside the crying windows;
“Do you come here often?”
he asked hopefully,
trying to peer beyond her.

Scarcely admitting his presence,
she continued gazing
into the abstract distance,
answering as only
sentient slime-mould can;
“Me?" she shrugged,
"I only come here for the condensation."

What if my eyes were blue, my hair jet black
My ******* were firm my jaw not slack
My hips were narrow my legs a delight
My teeth were even my smile was bright

But...My eyes are red my hair is grey
My hips are wide my ******* now sway
My jaw is clenched my teeth are sore
My legs are aching from pacing the floor

My eyes were once green my hair flaming red
My ******* would entice you into my bed
My hips would sway my legs would dance
My teeth were perfect and my smile could entrance

Are her eyes still blue is her hair still black
Are her ******* still firm her jaw not slack
Are her hips still narrow her legs still a delight
Are her teeth still even and her smile still bright

been at the end of my rope
for what feels like infinity,
Orange and red roses growing beneath my feet though

minutes eat the days up,
it's ok because my days **** anyway.
pity is paid to the same mud
all mystery came writhing up out of.
anyways,
what the Gehenna was I getting at?
oh yea,
the revenge-**** of the century:
me swinging like a tarnished gold pendulum
from the Ash tree I planted a few years back.

but the moment was so ambrosial,
like snow melting in gorgeous chestnut hair,
like Coltrane's Favorite Things for the hundred-thousandth time,
like the morning Sun shining
through Manuka honey
slowly dripping off my spoon into
the black abyss of my coffee cup.

I am present.
I promise, ya.

I'm indebted to the
wretched headtrips of "yesterday"
for never letting me do more
than whisper a single death wish
(thank you)
between labored breaths.
I'm deathless now.
just flesh stretched tight over bright smiling, and otherwise unbridled,
sunlight in love with just being here to lend the luminosity in the first place.

I only learn of grace
from kids grinning and ripping birthday gifts open in grainy VHS tapes I probably shoplifted from the local thrift shop.
Either there or on park benches
tossing seeds to flocks of pigeons
cooing at my feet.
Did you know they were brought
to this country by immigrant chefs?

Again, I'm present.
Honestly.
I'm as conscious of it all as it gets;
the God of the phenomenological slog
we all call "the now",
unbound from His vow of vigilance
in the watch-and-plot of all apocalyptic
loss of momentum...

my attention span is like
incense smoke curling out of
a monastery window somewhere
in the Himalayas,
like the hidden weight of a whispered "thank you",
like the half empty silver cigarette case rattling in Camus' coatpocket as he walks,
collar up and head down,
to Café de Flore for breakfast.
or lunch.
or...

I'm present.
I promise.
(thank you)
I'm present.
Honest to God.
(thank you)

I'm ******* nowhere.
no, thank you.

I'm present.

Somewhere
a kitchen light still glows
on an immense orange cat
waiting to scour both dog bowls
for leftovers
that have yet to appear
after even a single meal.
Twilight throwing
lavender shadows
across the cramped
polaroid drenched kitchen
where you slow danced
to something acoustic
before saying your first goodbye
on a bare concrete balcony
studded with cigarette ash
and stars.

Down by the river I lie alone. Folks wade on the banks,
Sifting for gold. Washing the aches from their brittle bones.
This land of the forgotten, has never felt so close to home.
Detached from the blood-oiled machine,
Not much to part with, but
Every footstep carries with it
An imprint of meaning. The current here
Flows away from greed. Deposits into a reservoir,
Of pure intentions and peace. Tucked away from the cracked city streets
That mirror the crying streaks of those bewitched by the banal belief
Of progress by any means. Power here,
Is a drink for the weak. The outstretched arms of willow trees,
Cradle this quaint town. The last bastion of human passion. Bereft of malevolence.
Indeed, the realms of Hell seem to have a slice of heaven left.

she told me her saturn was returning
the icing on the cake
of a well baked excuse

I asked, 'what on earth',
but she was far from it
she felt my climate change
and had jumped in a rocket

the recipe was written on the stars
and we were following it with ease
it said to turn up the temperature
but she turned 180° degrees