I would like to play this game
like the Borg,
to feel no deep feelings
and last nights,
those are irrelevant,
to feel no pain
because no one asked
for some of my pudding,
that too
is irrelevant,
I would like to be so far
from my world,
to pinch it between my fingers,
I would like to be
so distant
to be a dwarf.

I would not like to override
the main directive.
I would not like
to revolt
against the collective
and remember that blue dot
I pinched
or that blue love
I cauterized.

There are places
where people can come and go
as they please,
where derivatives
are anomalous
and the main source
can never move
or be cleaved off from itself,
there are places
where people are lighters
flicking themselves
on
and
off,
there are black moons,
and black tears to send
a universe asunder;
There are ravens
made of feromones
with receptors
always beeping
like satellites
in the middle of nowhere
with twitchy antennae,
and sometimes even the sun
is black;
there are places
where coffee
is uneccessary
where there is no sleep
no threat of it;
there are places like
my heart.

You are harmonious
and
catastrophic.

You are both
Pandemonium
and
Avalon.

I wish to understand you;
more than just the parts.

Both the disharmony of your beauty,
and the orchestra
of your imperfections.

He went home
to a candle light vigil.

There were tiny jars of light
and a picture that flickered
leaning against the leg
of a bench.

He was part of a group
holding other lights
and there were those
in hoodies or wraps or badly put-on makeup,
and they were were quiet,
or quietly crying
in the smelling cold.

Some were in the curb,
or on the road,
or leaning
on each other,
shoulder to shoulder,
arm on shoulder;
and it was foggy
and the streetlights
burned in the fog
like it had just rained.

The picture couldn't say another word
and there was no emotion left,
to stand, or sit, or kneel,
or pray,
there was just a village
stranded.

Life is an array of lights
that burn against pictures.
There are too many
smokey days.

Hello Kathryn,

You left a message the other day,
I heard the phone ring,
but I didn't pick up;
didn't know how to talk to you;
or why you wanted to talk.

The **** was there to talk about?

I went to an estate sale;
big house,
big cherubs with their fat cherub hips and cheeks
and all that algae caked on their bodies
made them sick
on the front lawn.

I walked into someone else's house,
took what I wanted
and left.

Then I drove to the beach,
and I wanted you to be there,
so I could *******.

I wanted it to be a loud,
hard ****,
one that made me and you both
hurt,
one that made
my **** burn
and your cheeks blotchy,
one that made
you look at me differently
as you pulled your ******* back over your ankles,
slowly over your thighs
and quickly to your crotch;
One that made
your dress
some fabric
and your shoes
some soles;
one that made
you open the door
and just walk down the street
for a smoke
and some contemplation
about what kind of life
you were really leading;
the kind of life
where people sit in cars
and drink
and ****
all day.

I put the car in park.

The gulls sat on the dock,
raining **** on the water,
and I smoked half a pack,
just waiting.

I blew a girl once,
blew her so hard
she tapped me on the shoulder.

She shook her head,
and I ended up
jerking off
when she fell asleep.

I thought I was a force of nature,
but all that screaming
was her.

My ego was low,
so I woke her up
and told her she had to go,
she didn't want to,
so I started railing
on her religion,
that got her so riled up.

Them clothes flew on her
like God was promising salvation
if she just got in them jeans,
and I was asleep
by the time
she slammed the front door.

Things have gotten hard,
and you're just poor
and out of the currency
that'll really make these problems
go away.

But you hope

that maybe you can will certain things
into being,
off the power of the feeling
alone.

Maybe you've got it in you,
to shake somebody's head
so hard
that the brain pops loose
and falls out the skull
into your hands.

Then you could
do some real operating,
really change them.

But you can't,
and that's what keeps you
from getting too ****** up.

Because if you could do all those things,
the only thing stopping you
would be yourself.

And that's pessimism for your ***.