The times
were great, greater than
most;
the pulse
was rapid
and fired constantly;
the worm's
saliva
was sweet
and made the earth rumble;
the coffee dripped and
my tongue looped
to my intestines
to lick caffeine
off of the inner walls;
the sanctity of the mind
disintegrated;
the fabric of it
became singular
disconnected threads;
everything became drastic
and instantaneous;
my teeth dissolved
because they could not survive
this tongue of destruction;
I will eat again
but it will taste like iron
that has been grounded
into a soupy meal;
the mouth is a bitter place;
its bacteria
are swollen
like the arteries
of a vacuum clogged
with desolation
and *****.

A girl flicked a lighter next to me,
she flicked it on
as the whole room pulsed
and I felt strange
because her skin was on mine,
and Stephen rolled
on stage.

The cloud in the room
was thick and it was
a fog of Marlboros, Virginia Slims,
Menthols, Menthol Lights, Kools,
and all other sorts of ghosts.

Stephen made fire with his hands,
flailed like a marionette
and let the spirits loose.

He blew a baritone:
"I feel like we can really get close to each other,
in this tiny room."

Demons
can rise
and make fire;
can rise and make your belly feel
like hell
and molasses:
black and sweet.

Demons
can rise together
and make love
in a tiny room
that crackles.

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.