It was mid-August,
maybe later, when I developed
feelings for my best friend.

I think I knew
when I saw that
the trees in the
backyard were dying;

they stopped producing
oranges, their leaves were
soggy, pitiful trinkets.

It was the day after
I stopped believing in Santa;

my mother saw it on my face
when she turned around
and offered me toast bread.

I usually ate bread with my
oatmeal, but the spoon
was still on the table;

the oatmeal still in the bowl.

She asked me what was wrong
and I shrugged. I wanted to say
I was in love.

I wanted to ask if being in love
always felt this terrible; I didn't
care to go back to school, nor
study, nor become the doctor
they wanted me to be.

But that's when my father came in.

I was sent upstairs
to my room, and was told
to memorize the fifty
states.

In between reciting their names,
I could hear my father yelling
over my mother, and my mother
choking on the words, don't leave.

I could feel myself choking too.

So I walked to my window
and saw the dying orange tree;

then I thought of my friend

and how I'd like to play

with her again.

It's getting late.
The undead are having a night on the town.
The rustling of feet fill the evening air;
it's a dance of shuffle and scurry.
Don't be scared. That's only your heart
beating faster and faster.
No one knows we're here.
We made love three times already.
That's how bored we are.
Remember when you had things to do?
Remember when I had a schedule to follow?

Remember little Susie,
and Timothy?...

Me neither.

The scars never go away.
The past had it's moments of pleasure
as they did with pain;
and not much of it has really changed.

Don't be afraid.
It's just getting late.
It's only ***** fingernails clawing at paint.
The old door rattles, and it's **** shakes.
Someone wants in on our love.
Or that's what we always thought it was.

Let's make love another time.

The scars across your body
tell me the greatest bed time stories.

I wake up as She
and she's auditioning soon;
vying for a part no one can play
but everyone auditions for anyway.

And so we all sit in those
steel foldable chairs that never
get folded back into their original
form, because the bodies always
keep them warm.

The original selves
long for something else to be;
troubled souls in search for
broken homes; like the hidden
shadows of the known unknown.

I am her lips as they
part, close together
like the jaws of a shark,
reciting lines back to the director
crooked and parallel, aligned
waves of soft sounds; they reach
the peaks of receptacle body language
only to suddenly fall back down
barely scathing the director's emotions.

The director sees that there is talent
that lies within the woman;
I am her, and I was
a father of three darling daughters
not too long ago...

But I stand before the director
as her, and there are others
patiently waiting,
like the anchored piranhas
of the binary forest,
the Stygian vultures
of the neon desert;

and they vouch for
each other's safety
until they have landed
the Oscar award winning
scene; the all white cast
beams like the headlights
of an oncoming car.

Their hands free of guilt
washing the darkness away
from my rising star, my ship
no longer corroded brown
but assimilated, organized,
gentrified;

a man redesigned,
retrofitted and recombined
standing before the petrified
live audience as Her
in an ocean blue
dress;

a blood capsule
ready to burst with
finite increments
of happiness.

He took the blue sari
and it worm him
like a blanket of
harpooned skin.

A rope wrapped
itself around his neck
and colored his
abyss-black lips red.

It was seen as blood
to those around;
unbearably sad and
overflowing wth
pure joy.

It was his personal sand dune;
sinking into concrete waves
of the nearby animals;

He took the red sari
and covered his insides
with their hidden words;
said the present moment
was the only elusive meaning
we could depend on.

And then without warning
hushed the entire world
with his siren.

He took the gold sari
and it gave him
the music that
tears limbs of dancers apart;

and that satisfied him
to no end, but he knew
deep down his shallow waters

that the eternal dream

was just getting started...

Once,

I spoke to myself in crowds;
a unibody with heavenly mouths,
clouds lost in air that carried serpent tongues.

I dreamt we had a child
and named her Many Moons;
she grew to be the slayer
of conquerers and the
thief to tyrants.

And in between
her coiled arms
she bore poisonous fruit.

A ***** blossoming
infernal scents of dews...

She looked like you
when you were a young illusion;
an astral image projected
by a silent conversation.

I sat to myself and pondered
the freedom of thought
with limited mental capacity;

I sat by myself
and tried lonesome on for size;
and I saw that I lost you
in all the useless things I find;
a fragmented concept
produced by a whole mind.

I dreamt we made love
while others spoke of
it's practical uses;

I dreamt you were inside me
while you surrounded me;

And then I saw the eclipse
eat itself alive.

I've been handed new lives to live,
multiple perspectives, laser-like attention spans,
kaleidoscope vessels, an ****
of acute senses;

all at my disposal; I am free now.

But every now and then
a freedom is challenged
by another sentient being,
dependent, under developed;
a weak and vulnerable specie.

We're as one,
thinking tanks at war,
on our own;
the bee
and the honeycomb;

Health is only a
decoration; our insides
a personal labyrinth

a complex tomb
if you will;

and will you shall.

I am ushered in
like a corpse
full of science;

a personal example displayed
only in public;

The reality and it's
magic;

the distracting
sense of self;

and the absolute
breathing project.

We're free now,
let's enjoy this
enslavement while we can;

While we're
still sinking
in fruit.

I want to be kissed by a small
wounded animal. I long
to have bullets graze
past my chubby cheeks.

I'm too busy
looking away
instead of focusing
on what is right
in front of me.

I want my belly to be filled
with Death's babies; and for
my hair to grow long and
spider-like.

Blanket me in a thousand blacks.

Pixelate my entire soul and transfer me
through the infinite circuitry.

I am Image
and Image is legend.

Bundled up in dry words
of a snowstorm day dream;

I reap all that is beautiful;

it's definition not so definitive

anymore.

It's been quite some time since I've seen my father.

He rests like the mask of a retired luchador;

a soft, withering hero's costume of my childhood.

I know I don't talk about him much;

it's not like you ever ask what he was like anyway.

My uncles and aunts who used to shine like diamonds

when talking about him, have corroded over time;

stuck in the dying art of living.

I used to be superstitious you know.

Each time I visited the cemetery

I'd make **** sure I wouldn't walk over his

grave.

I can still remember the expression his face would make

when he got angry with me.

I feel that demon seethe within when I don't get my way.

And I never, ever get my way.

So what gives?

Pay a visit, let my words rise and fall in the afternoon air;

Feel the hopelessness of communication; each word

a petal that's been torn off with no regard and roughly

placed on a half-assed craft.

At least there is a consistent mood I can depend on;

where every question remains unanswered;

a predicable outcome;

always a safe bet.

I was so young. Just born fresh really. My flesh was as tight
as it could manage itself around me. Somehow
this attracted your gaunt wrinkled fingers; your corroded bones
found their way into my new home.

You tickled until you found the right spot,
and then you prodded until you drowned out
the stops.

You made a holy body
laugh it's way back into the womb.

Who knew safety
was never real? And yet
it would be worth more than
the King's jewels, Made in China gadgets,
and hell,--

God?

You took every intimate secret and made it public.
Shoved a black crystal into my heart, like a child
stuffing a cube into the star shaped gap; positioned
it just right so that every horror would
reflect from any light.

You penetrated the silence of night
and the pleasure you inflicted with ease
lingered for life.

The sweet and subtle pricking
caused ripples that would prevent
me from ever being truly satisfied.

To hell with your lovely disease;
your seductive ways in resuscitating.

Your plague shadow
remains a smeared blotch on the wall
of my humanity.

No one tells ya
that love is a risk.

Love? You ask
with pursed lips,
that smooth one
eyebrow lift;

quizzical, indeed you are.

I am reminded of my 2 year old kid.

She's always asking questions.

It's been figured out, I say.
Everything. Just search for the answers on the internet.

But it's never to your liking

is it?

You get one, two, three,
four million answers to choose from
you can agree, or disagree
or vaguely do either;

and not
much of it will make a difference.

So is that why she asks
for a bed time story every night?

Not the one where the princess
is saved by the knight, or the one
where a group of guys take
on the witch of Ice, or the one
where the lover dies and the hero
destroys the villain
only to replace him in the end.

She likes the one
where love is simply a risk
between one, two, three, four million
strangers, and you can laugh, or
cry, or do both at the same time.

It's what you want for yourself
that makes all the difference.

OK. OK.
I admit. I was
a little scared at first.
Can you blame me?
I've been through
5, count that, 5 bad
relationships; it's like
every finger on my hand
is just another bad acid trip.

I don't want to lose myself
in another. My identity
means a lot to me. A first,
middle, and last name.
My very own pet
DNA.

These things, I cling to.

You understand,
don't you? If I seem
a little distant.
My head is in the clouds
while you're knee deep
in conversation.

But you're in my dreams now
and I no longer feel alone as I once did.

I don't feel like my solitude
has been compromised. Or
that you get in the way
of my crossed eyes.

There's still a little fear
that rumbles, and tumbles
around like ***** laundry.

But it's getting better,
or I assume as much.

I don't have anything to go
on but my word.

Please,--

Take it with
a mound of salt.

My first American love
was 4 inches taller than me,
had a muscular upper body,
(all they did were push-ups,
day, and night, day and
night) and stood on
skinny legs, pale;
mustached by thin,
fine brown hairs

They wore pants,
nothing but jeans,
black mostly, sometimes
faded when they weren't clean;
sometimes denim if they
were purchased by me
(They had to be Levi
or Calvin Klein)

And their tops
had torn sleeves;
holes punched in
everywhere due to the moths
in the closet;

nothing
but torn seams

It was rare they wore
anything else

We first made love
in a 2004 Tornado Red Volkswagen Golf
they received from their parents
as a graduation gift;
that night my body was just another present
piled on top of it

And on and on
the shape-shifting went
until we got tired
and slept

We were smoothed out
like freshly baked
carcasses under the
rising dawn; and when I woke up

I realized that great American love had gone

A promising horizon peered over the
dashboard, past the Little Tree air freshener
peeking through as though it were
a mother returning for her runaway child,
and saying it's time to come home;
breakfast is ready, father is waiting
and your future has been put on hold
for far too long

My first American love
was found in the form of a song
once the car radio was turned on

A close friend of mine was enthusiastic about his upcoming botany project;
he wanted to show me what he had learned so far;

the anatomy of a flower, a rose, a tulip, a daisy
a lily, a Poinsettia...

As he was talking I couldn't help but
interrupt his silly game of catch
with a hearty laugh

I said people don't want to hear about the inside
of something so beautiful, so perfect, so clean

They want the illusion, the absolute, the ideal!

After a couple of hours
of hand motions, direct eye contact
and awkward body language
I finally managed convinced the man to quit school,
and take up poetry.

That was 2 years ago from today.

Last I heard of him,

He was roaming around
some small city in France,
managed to use what little money
he had to phone me
and tell me poetry was the best thing
since American sliced bread.

He is now a starving artist
that goes by the name of

Hawthorne l'bouffon.

Keep a lookout on his collection of poems

entitled: A Life Worth Leafing.

Silly me. I thought I had a choice.
I assumed, like most people do, that
I could put pen to paper
some other day, perhaps
during an hour of peace,
or once I've had my
first, second, third
fourth cup of coffee

or wait till later on
when the sun crashes into the
earth exploding dawn everywhere
golden beautiful like *****

one beer, two, a shot of
whiskey, a few puffs of the cigarette
walking back and forth
mumble here and there

My roommates talk over each other

Moving on

Let's put it off till another day
My muses take their turns on me;
a ******* of creativity
So much possibility, and emptiness
is an illusion; the ego is the *****
for the masses

And I shut the door
rock back and forth
I am nothing, be something,
everything hurts and more

It comes to be,
whatever it is,
it comes to be
all that's all there is

It comes to be without me,
these hands, this vessel
the breath, the life
I live, it just comes to be

Silly me. I thought I had a responsibility
I assumed, like most fools do, that
this life was mine, and these actions
were the inevitable outcome of freewill

I'll go to bed,

and the night blends
like half and half
into the morning's
grief

He don't mind all da rain
it pours down and down, tears de leaves
from all da trees; gives da roots
some time to breathe

No sir, don't mind
if she goes away, because
it's da life we live dat has da
say

at da end of de day.

I do my best not to age you
beyond your wonderful years. Your skin
stretches far and wide. Your belly
has no end in sight;
and it's in the way you
move under such dim light that has me
wondering if questions are worth answering;

I wonder if these feelings
are worth doubting.

What are bodies,
other than lonely spaceships
without aliens?

You're my favorite stranger,
my kind of danger; the blood
that boils deep in these veins.

Is that not living?

I do my best not to shape you
past your immaculate form. Your mind
is a curious device; your brain
contains no stop signs;
and it's in the way you moan
my name through telephone wires at night
that has me wondering if questions are worth answering.

I wonder if these feelings
are worth doubting.

You're the settle of taut
muscles; the easy ***
and difficult to let go.

Can I say anymore
that hasn't already been
said out loud
and in secret?

3:45 A.M.

Hi. I kno itz been a while. im up l8. Thinkin of U. Yeah. U told me not to txt U ne more but i couldnt help it K? Dad keeps asking why we don't talk like we used 2. like when we were yungsters. i tell him itz cuz U found a GF. Itz not true. Itz hard for U. Hard for me 2. i still replay that night in my head. U came over. We watched horror movies all nite. Ur hand snuck up on me. It felt like a spider. i thought it wuz a spider. i screamed and U paused the movie n told me to shh. i did. Then i realized it was ur hand on my hand. i was scared at first. It wasnt rite. But i went along with it anyway. i was alone. No1 liked me at skool n U were ****. Then ur hand found itz way between my thighs n that was the 1st time i smiled n years...............i just miss U. i miss US. im still here 4 U, K? Letz talk.

4:13 A.M.

O n tell Auntie Jane i said hi plz k thnx bye

The cafe is quiet
except for the constant
clicking of keyboard crickets.

The warmth of
a chai tea latte; blanketed
by it's Styrofoam vessel.

It never gets too cold in here
where the ivory youth outshine
the labor of darker shades of design.

All heads are bowed,
the offer of unconditional prayer.

Apple shaped God,
the remedy of hellish boredom,
dull each of the senses
tear away at the organic carcasses.

The exit is just as beautiful
as the entrance.

Existence is as ordinary
as the data and
chemicals; as lovely
as the cures
and poisons.

The cafe is quiet.

Okay, we started off on the wrong foot. Wrong foot. Is that saying relevant anymore? After all, you're 20 years my junior; and I'd like to form a connection. We're into the same things, you know? I enjoy The Walking Dead, too. Did you know there a few video games based on the series? Of course you do -- you have an Xbox One. I bought one for my daughter last Christmas. She's about your age now. I think she'd be fond of you. I'm getting ahead aren't I? I didn't mean to. It's just that I like you. Am I being too pushy? I'll go...

It's not something I'm very proud of
but I feel less guilty
when I know I'm not the only one

There are others
but I don't know their names,
I don't know where they stay,
and certainly remain ignorant of
their personal pleasures and intimate pains

We're all in this together
but on our own
in constant motion;
petrified from the tip of the iceberg
down to the floor of the unknown

Is shame real?

Or did we built this atrocity together?

Our ancestors had the best intentions

After survival, what comes next?

The rational decision making,
the fragile economy, bastardized standards
and capsizing traditions; and it's as though
we keep asking,

no,

pleading for more of it

Almighty silent search bar
answer all of my questions,
direct me through this
neon wilderness, guide me
with your fluorescent light;
north, south, and every which
way between...

I am guilty of nothing

I left living in your hands
and it's become a complicated design;
mistaken for a binary fairytale;
an illusion of flawless bells and whistles

Sign me up, an elegant scribble
like a mouth dribble, along the
dotted line

Modernity
is malnourishment
pristine

It was never something I was proud of
never something I asked for, but questioned
constantly is this right, is this wrong, is this normal
is this healthy?

Look up, look up, look up,
Define me

We're all in this together,

But on our own, as though

doors never open

and windows stay shut.

I vvant to be yr chocolate covered caramel,
the abrasive hush sound, obtrusive star spangled
banner, polite creeper in the rear view mirror,
the bookmark tucked betwixt
your getaway pages, the *******
and going of change in every season

Let me seep fathoms
below your loose knit fabric
like blood that refuses to dry
but instead

leaks,

splatters, and

spills

to get you high

You won't come back down
until it's time to die
and even then
you're not going anywhere

I am a dream weaver,
destined to be a misconstrued concept,
misunderstood existence, plain and simply
put: complex and self-destructive

A bomb without the hand to light it

A destiny without the God to guide it

I vvant to be yr candy coated lover,
a pristine set of swear words,
a systematic lexicon, a werewolf
in theresheep's clothing.

The absolute pure filth
splattered all over yr royal artist
canvas.

Oh Gosh. I thought I'd lost you. The signal was cut wasn't it?
What were you saying? Something about how this is too much
for you and... That's all I caught. What was the rest? Too much for you...
and you still want more? Well, I've got a lot more to give so don't
you worry your precious head over it.

i.
I fell into this hell
at the age of twelve
on a warm Sunday in Texas.

While the rest of my family
left to church, I was to remain
at home with my 16 year old
cousin.

They thought her harmless
because of her physical ailments.

I soon found out
anyone could be a Roman.

She held both my skinny arms far apart
as though she was preparing to nail me to a cross;
Later on that night she taught me how to dance
like a demon; I've never been burned by an
effervescent fire since.


ii.
This hell does not define me,
but has marked me forever as an outsider
to pure happiness. I've been set ablaze
for life. My relationships have sunk
into the depths of the inferno; their remains
are stories now. The kind you tell
at campfires to ***** all the naive
children.

iii.
It's a long climb when you
start at the bottom. Where the scarlet
teeth gnaw at your insides, where
the claws tear away at your badly drawn design.

iiii.
Mother, you have forsaken me.

A fool who only wanted proper nurturing.

Goddess of Neglect,

Your imprint has stained

everyone who wants to love me.

iiiii.
I can live with these tattered wings.

Bruised skull. Punctured Lungs.

Aching muscles. Taut body.

I can fly if only for a little while.

Be free. Be free. Be Free.

Love myself.

Love others

just as well.

Desire suffocates me like a thrift store scarf.

What was I thinking, if I wasn't thinking at all?

I roamed too far from the herd; saw a wolf

I thought I could love and spend my life with;

wanted to kiss the shaking sun so badly; longed

to give the moon my baby; so I wandered off,

far away from the innocence of everything.

The burdens multiply;

The swollen heart heavy.

Now one need remains.

No more questioning.

The seeking of death
is a young man's game

and the dream of romance
is a little girl's fancy

Is there anymore room
between these two things?

Living without life
is just as easy.

Can I promise you the impossible,
be the photographer without the scenery
or model, be the pen without the
paper or writer, be the mind
without the creativity or logic
be the voice without the silence
or argument

Can I show you what I see in you
without the fear you cling to through
self-image

Can I love you without condition
or question

Is there motion
in this lifetime

Can we make it together
through the horrors, and
sublime

Can I promise you
what can't be promised
and love you
till it's no longer
possible to love anymore

If I can't,

then I hope I am able to

at least make it through the winter.

4 Fried stuffed avocados.
Migas enchiladas.
A craving,
an appetite, a hollow
vessel.
Fresh Tres Leches.
Packaged chocolate donuts.
*** after work. 30 minutes.
Flaccid existence.

Found humor
in it all.

Guess what?

Today, I didn't find the cure for cancer.
I didn't stay faithful to my wife. I didn't
call up my father and tell
him Happy Birthday. I didn't
bother to feed my goldfish.

Instead, I stayed in bed all day
and texted men and women
and anyone just as lonely as I am.

I didn't bother to separate the whites
from darks. I skipped breakfast;
had two large pizzas with
extra cheese delivered. And
you know what? I didn't tip.
I burped in the girl's face
told her it doesn't
get much better than this.
She smiled at me, turned
around and as she was walking towards
her vehicle, I whistled and said
Nice *** there, Sparky.

Then I was suddenly inspired to write
a poem about what I didn't do. And how
much I enjoyed being on the other side
of accomplishment, goal setting, and
your typical, modern bragging rights.

Today, I thought
being a sore on the mouth
of life was much more charming
than flaunting money. I thought
it best to be honest rather than
a sick, fat facade marching his ego
down the aisle; digging through the many
layers of the inferno.

If only mother could see me now.

She'd offer me one more cigarette
from her deathbed; make a racist joke;

hollar, hoot, and hack.

Then tell me she's proud of me.

And I'd shout, you bet your *** you are!

right back.

I really couldn't
love another.
Couldn't really claim
to make such
a bold statement.
Random may be
my virtue; and
contradiction my
very essence.
But let's be honest.
Lies come
easy as truth
leaves the body.
Enough falsehood.


There's that.
There's also
the fact that
I've never
wanted someone so badly
as much as I want to live
to tell the tale
of the greatest heartache
I've ever known.


But in order
to speak of such
a feat. I must
continue onward.
The heart beats
and beats. It's
such a silly thing.


And what of
worry, you make ask.


Yeah,
you got me there,


Moon reflecting
from the face
of a nearby pond.

There is darkness, and then there is utter darkness.

In this pristine atmosphere I have crossed my legs, clasped my hands and placed them in between openings. My eyes follow suit. I am in the pyramid black and yet I don’t feel lost. I am here amongst the burning wild bushes of thought. These are fires dying animals gravitates toward. In this day and age, we long for more fires rather than water to nurture our dried out hearts.

There’s a drought.

I try not to feed it. And so I stay here, not perturbed in the least. What was I thinking? A beautiful young girl all the way in Afghanistan. I’d like to hear her whisper sweet nothings into my ear. No. Wait. I think I can hear the bombs now. A voice that slithers through nearby carts rushing past on freshly built railroads. A trainstation of the mind.

Often, I feel my body contorting itself into the youthful rage I once loved. And by love, I mean grew truly comfortable about. Comfort is a great ecstasy.

I am no writer.

I have no motive.

Never have I wanted to kiss a boy so desperately
since the last time we saw each other

That was  almost thirty years ago;
and as I'm approaching fifty four
with a family of my own; two beautiful
girls with bristles of fine gold, eyes so
arctic you can catch a cold,--

I realized not much has changed
since I've become an antique
always on the go.

Your lips were puckered up;
reminders of the silver linings in my
life.

Your body trembled beneath mine,
both my hands at your throat like the gnashing
of wolf fangs.

We never got past our soiled clothes,
never stepped beyond our comfortable homes,
never straightened out those fine folds...

I often look back on those days
as a long and hard lesson. You just
don't choose who you'd like to share your body
with; it could be your best mate, his physical features
reminiscent of a porcelain doll; so pale.
So sick.

I took care of you the only way I knew how.

By filling your head with lies.

I was taught by my mother
on a quiet day in November.

I was cleaning the dishes,
and I dropped the
precious china her Godfather
had bequeathed her.

And in the gentlest voice she could muster;
she whispered

It's okay, my dear, we can get another...

And from then on
she threw me into the wilderness
with not one word uttered;

but by her one and only departure.

Marcus,

I left a message on your answering machine
but you have yet to respond. It's been
two weeks, perhaps more. I lost count.

At the moment, the streaks have accelerated
and multiplied. They resemble an arial view of
cyclists competing in the Tour de France; they're
like multitudes of ***** pennies vying for that one
eternal slot.

Hey, man. At least I tried. I'm drained of all that
is sacred. The me you knew as a child, is still that
innocent figure left standing by the door. Except
this time, he's not coming back anymore.

I guess you could say I'm finally free.

How silly it is to depend on such modern
machinery. Man has come this far just to end up abandoned.
And yet  man is constantly searching for a self to wrap up
in a tidy little package; to display for the entire world to see.

I thought I'd drop by, in the form
of random sequences; this present motion
is like a ballon being released from it's
needy little string. The desire was always
following me around, but now
I'm fathoms deep in the sky;

Drowning happily.

Marcus, if you find the time
to put aside the nuclear children
and wife. Please call back,

so we can have that man to man

talk you promised for so

many years.

When one looks for cavities
there's a myriad of sweets to choose from

So why is there
an incessant desire
to be fulfilled
when you can dig
more craters into the soul?

Milk shake,

rattle-pop, and

Tootsie Roll

No one is ever gonna know,
who dipped their hands into the bag
and stole a couple of this,

that's, and

those

Cause a kid who tells
on another kid
get's a sweet and tasty
6 foot hole

You were looking through my recent Google search history weren't you?

That's fine. I predicted you would.

You see what I want you to see;

Those iceberg eyes sink deep into me,
and the anchor is all this misunderstanding.

There was never any trust to begin with.
No real love. At least not like the **** we consume during
our daily binge watching. So drama ensues; the only thing we can count on. It turns the pale skin walls into crimson red curtain calls. Threats to leave fill the midnight air. Someone falls down to their knees, prepared to crawl. There are stains of tears that plague the carpet floor. *****
on the piano tucked in the corner of the living room. It's a coffee-caramel coated body that's seen bitter days. How sweet things were
before the necessary change.

We're still here aren't we?

There are fools that believe it grows on you;

I don't think so.

one just gets used to how awful it all really is.

I.. I..

I.. Honestly didn't think it would get this far.
I thought I had meant it when I said I was in love.
It was only a week, but that's all I needed.
I felt I was right and finally belonged.
So why does my heart say it's all wrong?

My father said my heart
has no tongue, and that
the gut speaks all the words;

He told me to trust it
first and foremost;
command me not to give in
to this wolfish urge.

But when I see you get off the
bus and walk towards your door
I focus intently
on the scars across
your arms; they remind me
of the congruent shapes
on mother's favorite
curtains.

I.. I've thought so much
about this.

Forever was an hour in your embrace;
it was the sound you made
when I plunged into
your ocean; causing
a thousand and one waves.

You moaned my name,

Moses, and

you were the deep red sea

all over the cloud 9 mattress.

I'm in love, tell me it's so, and
I won't question it ever again.

Ever since I fell into this
cave, I've noticed

The night

isn't as black

as I first thought it was.

The bed is like a mug full of
***** fog I drink in.

Before I wake up, it dribbles
off my lip
and after I go to bed
it softens the blow
of living without
it during the day

It's a fading mist,
and I'm a lost ship
tossing, and turning,

in all it's glory.

So before I start this poem I'd like to acknowledge some helpful folks in my life.

First off, I want to thank my literary agent, Richard Shelby for suggesting I take my current frustrations out through poetry (He's a big fan of Whitman). I, however, was never much of a fan of poetry; although in High School I was taught Horace, Wordsworth, Milton. Yeah, they actually had us blokes memorize poems!;

What slender youth, bedew’d with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
             Pyrrha? For whom bind’st thou
             In wreaths thy golden hair...

Secondly, I'd like to give a big thanks to lawyer Dawn Young for pointing me to this particular website, Hellopoetry. I haven't read much of anyone's work, but I doubt I'll have any difficult time fitting in.

Lastly, and most importantly, a big shout to for my jezebel of a wife, Courtney for inflicting upon me all this unnecessary pain by means of a quarter million dollar divorce. We were High School sweethearts up until my 48th birthday. She thought it would be the best time to drop the bomb that she was in love with my old Rugby ally, and Rutgers roommate, Henry O' Shay.

I have to admit life has been ***** ever since then.

Well, here's to new beginnings.

My poem starts now.

Where do we stand?

We're like a couple of broken DNA strands.

Your mother left you when you were young;
you were this tall, barely a know it all, and your body
grew thinner and thinner as they days went by.

Do you often dream of the night

I dragged my fingers across your ribcage?

It tickled you into adulthood.

I sawed you in half
held you down until
you cried for me to stop.

Limits weren't my specialty in those days.

But you asked, no,
begged to be torn apart;
said limbs were for soldiers
and dolls.

How right you were,
with two elbows and
kneecaps edged into the
wood floor.

Now were do we stand?

As we lay like bags without sand.

I await your response.

I don't know how it happened.

It started like any other day.

I was rolling the dough in between my fingers.

I was making something. What was it?

I don't remember.

Ma said to get the tortillas ready;

Grandpa, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles,
Nephews, Nieces, and Cousins would
be here any minute now.

The dough, it was the flesh of the dead
in between my filthy fingers. I was
killing something; the space between
me and that thing was only a million
or so molecules...

Between two materials.

I made a break for the restroom.

Clumps of it's carcass were squeezed
in between my brown knuckles. I spoke a few
words. The language wasn't mine.
And yet, I used it to settle bets.
I used it to talk my brother off that ledge.
I gave my lovers the best of days
with no regrets.

How silly it is to watch the tongue click,
click, and click against the teeth!

I washed my hands, but didn't use the soap.

I spoke a few more words, but felt
more like a ghost. I got paler,
and paler,
and

paler,

with each O

I made with my rub red lips.

Snap out if it, I said.

But why, in English?

And that's when the storm came.

A rumble of incessant taps against the door.

It was like my head was in the wrong part of
the clouds. Where lightning screeches like
an eagle on the prowl; where the rain
pours down; pregnant with the intent
to destroy; with the intent to push
the dead infant out.

I never made it past that night.

I don't know who is who
anymore without Mother
or Aunt
or Niece, or Cousin
there to tell me who

speaks to me with such tenderness.

As though I weren't the only

planet outside the stars.

If things change between us

Let them be for the worst

Seeing as how it's been so long
since my flesh has seen the blood
that holds it upright

"Let's ruin it all,
and reunite in The Fall"

I'm sure the bones still crackle
like the witch's laugh; and
the older I get the longer
it takes to heal

But don't hold that against me

Let the blood spill
where they may

Someone is always there,
ready to clean up the mess
forlorn lovers make

If things get worse,
let it plummet into the depths
of this fictional earth

Where stories begin with I,
He, and She
and They

Like weeds, love somehow
always finds it's way into the
crevices of naive
pedestrians.

I turned off all the lights
and lie in the dark;
tossing side to side
like a log destined to
plunge.

O' great waterfall, where
art thou?

And so you see
with your eyes closed;
above and beyond this painted
scenery.

I am this close to touching myself;

It's because I shake...

Not out of joy for harmonious dance.

But out of necessity; this body is

a part of me; my very own unraveling.

I let the hands do all the talking.

The conversation is subtle, and much
like leaves rustling in the dead of night;

Everything seems to happen outside an abandon house,
near a factory that's been closed for years;
amidst a vacant parking lot that could
fill thousands...

I touch myself to the sound of you leaving for good.

And I feel shame slither up my spine;

Quite an immaculate spectacle...

The lights remain off,
and you're still so very far away;

My very own constellation, a web of
stars, stars, stars

staring down upon my naked flesh.

I am yours to love and abandon...

I am yours to engrave upon

with scars, scars, scars...