I'm tired of seeing dudes
get killed
over some *******.

STOP THE GUNPLAY.

Stop the role of the gun
and misused bullet,
it penetrates
too much.

Too many kids
getting strangled
in the dark,
too many mothers
left behind
in the acrid past-tense;
too many of the homies
seeing blinding lights
and useless flights.

The Supreme Reacher
was a watcher of dreams.

The Supreme Reacher
was an inclination.

The Supreme Reacher
was the instantaneous
and the forgettable.

The Supreme Reacher
could recede into the shadows of a thought,
only to emerge from its triangles
clean as a remembrance.

The Supreme Reacher
had veins for hands
and could reach across the mind
like lightning.

The Supreme Reacher is not
a person,
place,
thing,
or God.

The Supreme Reacher
had thighs black with feathers
and shoulderblades
hairy with time.

The Supreme Reacher
could talk and talk for days.

Lazing on dreamt-up
park benches,
green in their concrete holes
with algae,
and become green
as well.

The Supreme Reacher
could lay her heart on your
heart
and
place her lungs
in your palms.

The Supreme Reacher
could never be reached,
but only dreamt of and felt
like heavy fog on a tongue.

If ever there was a time for the Supreme Reacher,
to be Supreme,
this was the time,
the time of limes
and wicker minds,
of transposition
and aberration,
the time of larks
and loons
and goons,
of thugs in power suits
and kings in jumpers
and dreads,
of revolutions gone stale
in their infancy,
crunchy and pale
even to their cores.

The Supreme Reacher,
could not be reached,
but it could reach out itself
with lightning hands
firing up the whole earth of minds.

Really?
Why don’t we just
Break it off?

This must be a test
Of endurance
Or self-sacrifice even.

We both don’t know
the waters around us
anymore.

There are no safe coves
or humble islands.

So we drown in the
fishbowl of our little whims
And tiny gripes.

That keeps us together.

I know that every-time
You get into bed,
You think
“****,
this guy,
again?
I hope he chokes
on a cheerio.”

And I’m thinking
“****,
this girl,
again?
Why can't it be socially acceptable
to **** someone
with a spoon?”

So why are we still here?

Why do we remain
When everything else has left
in boxes.

We eat our sorry cheerios in silence.

In bed
you keep mentioning a bowl,
that separates the milk
from the cheerios,
like I'm not good at code.

And I feel us growing closer
in scales.

Beer:
All gone.
10 bottles each.

Twenty in all.
Crowding my desk.

White foam
covers the last film of beer,
and looks like the top of ****
in a toilet gone sour,

but at bottom of the bottles.

Stomachs:
There are no shirts on our stomachs and they heave and sweat.

Arms:
One Underneath her back, hers on top of my chest,
fingers splayed like peacock's feathers
and cold as freeze-dried hot-dogs
dripping thawing oil on concrete.

Legs:
Hers are a trellis. Mine are the base beams.

This is a trellis made of loose bones and loose limbs,
loose lips and and sweaty, tired thighs burnt out
from repetition
and stupidity.

We are stupid
because we like to **** each other,
and we don't do anything else.

Stupid is when you delude yourself.

Stupid is feeding
off the final boredom of your corroborator.

I get off on her looking disinterested,
it really does make my **** harder
and I can feel it pushing up against
her walls.

It's the most truth,
this truth of disinterest,
we've ever
shared.

The gravel crunches
as we walk
and it's cold.

We push our breaths out
of chapped lips, and wipe
away dried spit, with nicotine
fingers.

Pigeon feels the baggies in his pockets
full of vicodin,
that's gonna get us ****** up.

His fingers look like earthworms through his jeans
as he gropes for the baggy.

I get that jolt, just thinking about it;

that jolt of happiness you feel right before you get
real ****** up.

I look around and pull out a Camel Light,
because that's all we smoke.

And light up. It's real
white out, white and cold.

The moon's fat as a snowflake
and foggy up there too.

I move my toes,
and can't feel a thing,

****.

We crunch through the woods,
catching glimpses of the moon, and the lake
through the trees.

I want to hit this fifth of Henny
jerking in my backpocket,
but I'm saving it.

Pigeon stops.

Me and Gus keep walking.

Pigeon coos.

We turn around.

He whips out the plastic baggy,

In the moonlight the Vicodins look
like those tiny, candy skulls you get on halloween.

I have hope for the little black boy and girl.

These Mars to universe-colored,
golden-eyed children of the sun.

Some of them sprout up
out of cracked earth and concrete.

Their root-minded growth being spurred on
by the nourishment of the sewers.

These are tiny black flowers
pushing out their pistils like tongues,
and licking the unsanitized water
like nectar.

They
take everything you throw away.
Watch them make tree houses out of
trash cans, and spaceships
out of discarded cardboard boxes
that smell like beer, and *****
and sweat.

The sprinklers are on
and they slide down a hill
covered by a plastic sheet
the size of a whale's tongue.

Their smiles
open wide like zippers,
and their teeth are coconut flesh.

The milk of their laugh contains enough calcium
to mine happiness
out of overly-injected fructose bones.

When they tug at your pants
and ask you questions,
they just want to know
where the moon came from,
and how to get there.

love doesn't end
like piano keys
across an array,
the dream of a body
and a mind,
across the spray
of the ocean
and a memory
of kisses
shared in the screen
of a heart's blinding display,
i have hoped for a long time
for a bridging of time,
a feeling of the stomach
and it's dramamine
against hope.