It wouldn't hurt,
you know; if you fell
in love with a person
much younger than you

and if it doesn't get that far
to hell with it, you did
your best behind prison bars

You could at least
try to kiss the lips
of the same ***, or get
lost in the ambiguity
of a polygamous marriage

Maybe take a day off from
work and tell all your
family and friends
that you were born
an asexual, furry fan
looking for honest companionship

That'll hit 'em
right in the kisser;
leave their egos
bruised, burned,
and running back
to the arms of tradition

Perhaps you'll
never learn to love
and accept yourself;

Perhaps you'll
stay in a bad relationship
with no way out;

It wouldn't hurt
to cheat, lie, and steal
from your spouse;

It's not like you started
the fire in the first place.

a mild headache,
loss of appetite,
burning rubber, grinding
to a halt

she lets out a whimper

tears take a lovely
stroll down nostalgia
avenue;

tap dancing
across the New York
skyline

she clenches her teeth,
legs spread apart, a web
of deceit, a rainbow head
peaks out and whispers
secrets into my ears

we are all alive now

rest upon my ***** your
worry laden head, sore from
all the oral ***

this grave of carnal flesh
is our only pure rest

I did not die in the country I was born in.

I died much, much later;

had my American ashes
scattered all over Bangladesh;
traversed it's many vessels of water.

I swam the Brahmaputra River,
floated upon the skin
of The Ganga; the half-naked
children waved and I couldn't tell
if they were saying hello
or goodbye; but those
waves spread until
I was far out into the sea.

I was forgotten
as swiftly as I was welcomed;
and was loved as easily
as was I avoided.

I looked back on my American
life with discontent. I saw nothing
but tangled knots of thought
laced with consumption,
and accumulation; self-interest
and seclusion; even
sadness was commodified.

The discontent was the push
and pull of a rope
tied to my soul.

I died before I ever left;
but discovered another self
on foreign soil

It wasn't till I had aged
beyond the average life
span for someone like
me in America; did I realize,

I wasted all this time,

dependent on what others

thought of me; what they

expected of me; and what

they considered was best for me.

I was forever exiled from darkness;

but at least I got a little sun
in Bangladesh.

Ya look all over
and see people
everywhere

hands in pockets,
coins passing through
fingers; gold watches
glimmering beneath the
summer setting sun

These people
are people you could
love, have loved,
and may never love again

We share our
bodies like bees
with their
honey

And it's okay to
lose it all, as though
we never had it
in the first place

The tidal of days
ahead, crashing
against our open mouths;

Productivity
a curse

The pursuit
of happiness
a disease

Ya wonder if
it's going to get
any better;

if it's going to be
as perfect as it
was when we
were children

But the universe
had something
worse
in store for
us
instead

The air condition
hums, the car starts
and the engine
rattles, the baby
coos for warmth;

and somewhere
someone is holding
a door for a woman
who has an appointment
with a doctor;

there's a bump
where there
shouldn't be;

a deep love
that dare
not leave.

So you got the lips,
the tongue, the tadpoles
that slide, sliver, and slip
into wet crevices, the
insatiable lust, that kind
of desire that spreads
wildfires; the one, two,
southern pawed knock out
kiss, and right hook that brings
me back in; you got
the moves, your motions
like neon flashing arrows
scattered all over the dance floor;
they remind me of shards of glass
glistening beneath the burning
sun; O' how I ache
for the day I get to hold you
in these skinny arms;
beating on and on with
a worn out heart
steady and abiding;
a minimum wage soul
that rages and rages
until it can't take no more
and settles like the pedals
of honey scented flowers
where I thought I called you mine
and you were, for that one
fine day,

'till I opened my mind
and set you free;

O' how you happily
flew away.

Shadow object
of destiny;

guide me
into the
multicolored light
at the end of
this dark tunnel
of mine

There is no
humor and sadness
to speak of;

only what is perceived
by two flickering
vessels of black
and white;

Even then,
the mind can
be so hard to trust
at times

Or so
I find.

My mother and I  met on Cupid.com
I was thirteen and she was forty-five;
but on her profile she was listed as
twenty-nine. We agreed to meet
at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon.

The sun was out;
it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting
the dead, green earth
and snake-like sidewalks.

I sat in the far corner, my head
in a book; every now and then
peeking over the pages my
finger bookmarked. I was reading
******, and I had not made it
past the first page. Lo-Lee-
Ta, or something rather.

She arrived ten minutes later
than the time we agreed on,
but I wasn't angry. She offered
to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino
and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined.

We sat there for what seemed like a decade.
I was too busy looking around; acting
like I was admiring the art on the walls;
and she was playing with her hands;
humming to a popular female folk singer-
songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers.

'I can go,' she said after the track finished.

'No, it's okay.
Stay, please' I said.

There was silence.

'It's been a while since I've seen you'
she said.

'I know, I know' I said,
'You lied
about your age.
That's not cool'

'Sorry about that.
I just didn't know
if you'd like me
if I was older
than forty..'

'That's the entire point,
no?' I interrupted.

And I didn't notice
she had bad posture
until she started fidgeting
with her hair; it was in a loose,
unkempt bun. She tugged
at the hair tie until
it all fell down to her shoulders.

I was finally relieved
to see that I had a beautiful
mother and soon suggested
that we go to her place
and talk about my childhood.

She smiled, and made
an attempt to grab the car
keys she left on the table,
but I was quicker.

'No,' I said laughing,
'I'm driving'.

And that was the first
time I ever took charge;
and nothing has changed since.

If you want a name
you'll find it between the steps
of ladders, like the bullet holes
of wounded soldiers;
a body riddled
with questions
rather than answers

If you want a being
you'll find something precious
in the ugly, something beating, or
eating it's way out of the chest;
the imagination clumsily chooses
a newborn alien, or a
botched abortion

But no, it's neither
of these things, but it is...

And that's okay

If you want a poet,
colored and racist, a dancer
balanced and limbless,
an actor, melodrama
and actress

They're all yours
for the taking;

Remind me of the woman
who spoke of her vacation
at the round table of a small
town cafe; how she took
a vacation to the rainforest,
and had much to see; and how
her crimson red shades
matches the drapes; after all
it's the time of the month
and it lasts for days

If you want a lover,

you desire a well-lit cage;

and that, my prisoner

is okay.

You don't want to wake up
anymore

okay, that's fine

stay in bed and watch
the clock knock space
upside it's head, like it's
a cosmic episode of
the Three Stooges

let the doors close
themselves, and lock
whatever is left
of eternity
outside

You hear someone
speak, and it makes
a little sense,

something like,
he's still in there,
should we wake him?

The eyes roll
back into their
respectable sockets,

the mouth locks
back into it's rightful
hinges

Functioning
never felt so
good, especially
under the weight
of mortality

Your hand revolts
against your mind's
fiendish desires
and coils around
the doorknob

like a thirsty desert
snake

It turns the ****,

it resembles
pouring frosting
all over a bland
bundt cake

It tastes good,

the bed no longer clings
to your body, but still
carries your sweat stains

just in case you ever
want to go back to that
sick, sad,

escape

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.

are we more than the brittle
bones that occupy
our lonely vessels?
they bob up and down
aimlessly, like forgotten buoys
littered across this vast
deep blue sea;

you call it life,
i tend to lean towards:
the subjection
of the 5 senses

you and i are fragmented
wholes, divided into a million
and one categories

and somehow, i don't feel
as lost as i used to be

the air pushes it's way
out of the womb, it takes
the shape of something
soft, warm and vulnerable

it cries when surrounded
by nothing

it coos when everything
satisfies it's hunger

and who's to say
it's time is up?

those bones, like our bones,
will grow old and turn to dust

lovely, it is
for cause and effect
to have mercy on us

a man in the abyss
told me all about you

cleared up things
real quick;
and here i was wasting
so much time confused

i took a question mark
and straightened it out,--

was i too loud?

i am missing out
on your warm breath
at the moment

but aren't we the gaps
in crooked smiles anyway?

something that isn't there
has been here all along

or vice versa
ad infinitum

a woman held you
in her arms once

and fed you
till you became
plump with envy
and courage

now it's a battle
royale among
the voices

hush
you tell them
with your last breath;

an every day occurrence...

like the tongue of a
dull knife against
the sand dunes of time.

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.

Ever get curious about
how important you are?
Whether or not
you're pulling your weight
or dragging the whole world down?

For every center of a universe
there are pounds of flesh to mask it
call it what you will,

Human, homosapien,
the individual,

or Norman.

This planet is littered
with biases,

and each one
counts just as much
as the ones that don't.

"I'm gravitating
towards the shiniest
object in the store"

We say to ourselves,

unaware our consciousness
is simply a loading screen.

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.

right before your
cotton candy eyes
it all falls apart

you worked so hard

positioned your
corpse six feet deep
only to find out
you missed the
pearly white gates by
a couple of inches

and someone heard
the tapping of your heels
against fresh lamented
wood floors

and told his brother
and her sister

that you were alone

and vulnerable

and so you hid behind
the tanks, lit the fuse
and watched the battleground
explode into tiny fragments
of new beginnings

made the best of loss
is what you did

but the others knew better
than to let this peace go on
much longer

thus the internal
struggle continued;--

licking your sweet lips
until they parted,

you revealed gaps in
hardwired teeth

and they never
looked so beautiful
as they did now

My friend extends
her arm and in her
hand is a small bag
of Cool Ranch Doritos,

'Ere you go'

I say thanks,
as I pick and ****
at each chip carefully

'They ain't women
for chrissake'

she says,
annoyed at how
meticulous
I can be at such
ordinary things

I grab a large one,
perhaps, the largest one;
caked with red, green, black
sprinkles, like a flat
earth birthday cake
ready to be eaten

I take 3 bites,
slowly, as though
they were drags
from a cigarette
before the hanging

'Thank you'
I say, more grateful
than she could ever
imagine

'Aint no thing'
she says

And out of nowhere
I begin to think about
what I'd like to feed my children,
and what stories I'd like to read to them,
how I'd like to teach them
to dance my father's favorite dance,
and sing my mother's favorite
native songs, and on and
on these dreams
unravel before me

I am filled
with sprinkles of
hope, nothing too large,
nothing too small

but the kind of hope
I deserve to have,--

seasoned
on this fragile
heart of mine

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.

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.

Do you look around and
pick an attractive stranger and ask
would this individual
make a good spouse?

Are they someone I can depend
on when the going get's tough,
when the world starts
to tilt on it's axis; when
things fall apart,
and everything
I ever owned
is shattered
in tiny
unrecognizable
pieces?

What about the ***?
Can this person
keep up with
my desires, or
will the judge me
by my
turn ons?

Do you take a survey
that outlines this perfect
lover; and do their
beliefs and ideas
align with yours?

Such a beautiful
and tidy future
so easily predicted.

When you're young
it's easy to make a few
mistakes here and there;
it's only when you get older
that you start to
cherry pick.

Don't want to waste anymore time;

Don't want to feel like such

a fool.

No one taught you to
believe in forever, but
somehow that idea
burrowed it's way
into your heart
and set the whole thing ablaze;

Now it's a cinder
of what it used to be
when you were a child.

Twenty or so tabs
of online dating websites
and surveys are open;

Potential partners
profiles preferred;

and plan B's
starred and bookmarked,
cause you never know.

That special someone
is out there.

It's attempt,

after attempt,

until you get it right.

We spoke of hope
with frogs in our throats;
our pulse
leaping from one
boiled heart
to another

We stood upon
stilts, laughed like
dying hyenas;
and saw that our
lungs had made
nests in the sky

Smoke billowed
from the gaping sockets
of your skull, and I tucked
my fingers into the holes
as though they were empty
change purses

And with a little jangle here,
a little rattle there, it made you ***
a bouquet of roses from betwixt
your getaway sticks

Suddenly we were memories
all over again, unwoven seeds
planted deeply in the great abyss

Where dark was but a word,
a skinny string tied to your
*******, and it was
something we'd always remember

I croaked, and died right after;
but death was only Act 1 of
this anti-climatic nightmare

We woke up,

and with hush

upon our trembling lips,

spoke of

beliefs.

California is burning with
premature smiles, highways
littered with mechanical
insects, foaming at the mouths

They make a beeline
for the stairs, going
nowhere they sigh

and wonder how

or why

they got packed
in so tight; we're much better

than sardines, much
better than peas

Another valley
is carved across

a November
sunset

The bridge smiles upon
these fiendish ghouls, sheds
a few fall leaves and opens
it's arms wide;

welcoming the ever flowing
upper/middle

class tide.

My socks are soggy
with yesterday's dinner,
a couple of nameless
heads laugh in the background;
what is empty space
without the concept
of occupation?

If it isn't the tiny
dots that string
our precious molecules
together, it's something
else entirely.

There is no brain
without the fluids
of perception to
saddle it down;

the weight of thought
consumes our shadows
tonight.

I take off these socks
and put them aside,
I'll wear them for the third
time tomorrow.

If it doesn't rain,
I'll be fine, I promise
I won't complain;

it's such an easy action
to commit oneself to,
but like I said earlier,
I promise I won't do it.

The lapping of water
emits rays of subtle sound;
as though it were routine-like
calculations of the complex kind.

I bite my nails, I count to ten
in my head, but there are only
images of said symbols,

the number one is a man
resting on stilts
reaching for the sun.

The space
between the skin
and the star that
melts it

is a parallel reminder
of the thing all of our
vessels contain yet still
desire to obtain.

I'll wash the dishes tomorrow,
or put it off till next week.

I should call my girlfriend
it's been a few days since
we last talked.

Its been even longer
since I've seen her naked.

Guess I'll open a book
I haven't read in a while
instead.

There are times when I'm afraid
to ask you questions I know the answers to;
afraid of the night rearing
it's heavy ***** as though it
were something I needed
not something I begged
for when I was at my lowest

(and would soon regret after)

There are days when you're
sound asleep; like a balloon
living on borrowed
oxygen

Laying on your side
your eyes flicker
on and off;

taking in the AM
particles, eyelashes
that sweep dreams
back and forth

back and forth
until the dusk
smothers you in
promising scenes

There are times when I am
grateful I get to hear your
voice at the end of the razor-wire

and wonder, (because
wondering brings me
back to a childlike
presence)

if it's really you
that I love and appreciate,

or if it's just a dream
that continues to blanket
me in it's infinite ardor.

On the eve of Halloween
we took your aunt's car
out for a joyride;

You took us to
to a chicken chip
corner joint and
I ordered a small
box of chips;

But you insisted
I try the chicken
even though I told
you many times I was vegan.

It wasn't even a week
before you started finding
my interests funny, like
they were bad jokes
or something;

started poking
and prodding,
bullying me
into thinking
your thoughts;

forcing me to
feel your feelings.

We sat in the car,
ate our food,
you got crumbs on
the pleats of my skirt
(the perfect excuse
for your trespass).

'I'd love
for your tongue
to do laps around my ****'

was your way of
saying you never
wanted to see me again.

But we did meet again,
didn't we, Henry?

It was at the coroner's.

I was there to identify
your mutilated body.

when i was a child
i drew an outline
of my future
with broken chalk
across the side
of a road that
no longer exists

you see
when the eyes
persist
they reimagine
the past as some
kind of bad joke,
or a science
experiment

when i was a child
i was forced to make
love to people
who didn't deserve
it;

i guess asking
for permission
didn't exist back
then

or were we all too
scrambled in our brains
to get our bodies
to do what we say?

instead they just gave
into their instincts
and impulses

our tiny naked bodies
under ***** blankets;
tightened fists, kicking legs
and strained muscles

the trees outside
still swayed as though
they never had mouths
to feed, as though
they weren't desperate
to think, feel, or be
free

it all came so naturally...

when i was a child
i broke twigs in two,
kicked empty beer
cans, and poked
rollie pollies
in their bellies
until they got
sick and threw up

i laughed, cried
and wished that
i could die

i did this well
into my late
twenties

until i realized
i was going to live
for a long time

then i said **** it,
**** the world,
**** the creator
he, or she
doesn't exist

they were never
there to stop
my father
from his routine
abandonment

they were never
there to stop
my mother
from withholding
nourishment

sometimes
there aren't enough
words and wishes
to conceal the truth
from it's own existence

it has to live
in order for
me to die

perhaps, it's been a joke
all this time and i've
been to stuck up
to spare a laugh
or two

i smile more
than i often believe
i should

but at least
i know my body
is strong enough
to rebel against my fate

when my mind is
too afraid to make
the change

A trail of blood trickles from
my dear cat's nose
and down her neck;

part of my shirt is damp,
thick with crimson touch because
she nuzzled deep into my chest

I wipe the blood off
and begin to feel
it pour from my own
nose like a leaky faucet

I get up and go to the sink
and clean my face, and I look
to the clock on the wall
and realize I'm late for bed

I got work in the morning,
and if I don't make my usual
rounds, I'm as good as dead

My dear cat follows me
back to the bedroom, where
there is no television, no
shelf filled with books, and
no one to hold me close
and tell me everything is
going to be fine

I shrug, kick off my slippers,
switch off the light
and jump into bed;

my cat soon follows.

As I begin to pet her
I start to feel another warm
body in her mouth;

she purrs, and nuzzles,
and drops something
onto my head.

It hurts;
I yowl.

But I'm too exhausted to turn on the light.

It could be another lifeless rat.

Tonight,
instead,--

I imagine it to be
a  full, healthy heart my dear
cat was kind of enough
to bring back from the dead.

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.

don't over think it,
she said to me
as we stood
under the fluorescent
light of the post office
sign

knee deep in our plight
she kneaded knots
into my thighs, tied
me up tight

I couldn't move

I was still as a mountain
on fire

I could feel the pain of the
entire world

and they felt like insect bites

We are in harmony she
said to me, but I was too
busy checking the time,
I had somewhere to go
somewhere to be, I was
a thousand times
more important than
the land and sea

This is flesh at
the mercy of thoughts,

sight bound by the
force of darkness

I can move through
every element labeled
by Man, praise any God
without consequence,
speak a hundred languages
and understand nothing
all at once

but she held my hand
firmly, collected every
bead of sweat from my brow
and wiped it against her
skirt;

kissed me on the lips
and held me close

she whispered
don't over think it

and I was asleep
once again

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.

There's a choice
whether you
want it or not;

a choice to be made

a choice to be thrown away

choices, like ragged,
1861 copper pennies;

Power sits on
the shelves,
collects dust
as it's owner

takes the blame,

tries hard to shake
the body from
shame;

a victim with a story;

an object with a name;

choices are made

let responsibility
be the reigns

and you behind the scenes,

in your own movie

or game;

the owner of
it all.

I sure could use
a poem about me*

said no one
ever

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...

Sometimes I confuse
my brain with a heaping
pile of rose tinted
mashed potatoes

If only I weren't so
hungry all the time

I'd be fine, doused
in a fair kind of life

where everything green
on either side of the picket
line

has a fresh, polished
emerald shine

Sometimes I don't want
to wake up and do
anything,--

well except

for rubbing my eyes
till they turn
red to prevent
them from leaking.

Raise your awareness
up to the sky;

lower your standards
till they hit
rock bottom
and die

Make sure
each copper lid
has an eye;

make sure
each silver lining
isn't a lie

A shine for
a shine

makes the whole
world fine

Tomorrow
we wake up
bright and early
to nothing but
past memories

Lather, rinse
and repeat

till the *****
pile of laundry
is pristine

Our souls aren't
clean, nor
will they ever
be

That's how sin
came to be so handy

Tonight
we live for infinity,

hearts ablaze,
lungs torn apart
from all the
unnecessary breathing.

how did we end up here
face down in the puddle
of dying fluorescent lighting

our eyes flicker
memories of woe,
(you're
a one digit
reminder)

and gravestones
with ropes
tied to their
sides;

crumble
with days gone by

how benign
it is to see our favorite
lovers arguing with
one another on
the corner with no
name

let's never
cross that street

when i dream

it's of
rotten cornfields
and charred
newborn bodies

a man hunts me down
tears right through me

then i tear right
through the next man

and this goes on
and on...

until i'm unable
to shed anymore tears

The afternoon is like
the bristles of a broom;
I am swept away by
the dance of
grass and blade

If the trees could
speak, our hearts
would hear of
the atrocities our
bodies committed
while we were asleep

Tomorrow is neither
here nor there

I wake up, brush my teeth
rub each arm down with
lotion, and light my
lips with ruby red
matchsticks

I open my mouth
and set the world
ablaze

The evening is a cardinal
resting on the perch
of a Northern Red Oak

and as it sings, my age sinks
deeper, and deeper
into the abyss of my skull

where memories sit like stones,
the voices trying to claw their way out;

going on and on
about what history means,
and has meant to others

As the night approaches,
a death throe emerges;

the grass places soft kisses
against my bare feet,
and I cannot
see color, but feel
it

in everything.

I weep for the willows
unsung in their
bed of nails

tossing and turning
like razor wires
that cover the
fences

I promise to save
you a seat;

Right next to me,
my precious left rib,
darling *****

Your womb
resting comfortably
in the palms
of my callous hands

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.

The screen is lit.
A pixelated wildfire.
Next to it, a 1TB HDD
hisses, then eases
into a subtle hum.
There is a pencil
inside the Best Buy
advertisement; bookmarking
the electronics section;
two 4K HD televisions
are circled.
The cellphone lays
on it's belly; it's
no side sleeper.
There is a nearby
pulse, lime-green;
the internet
heart beat;
the door into
a different world
that seems recognizable,
sounds familiar;
the most known
unknown.
The screen stays lit.
Words readable
at first glance; countless
forms of languages;
copy-paste micro-transactions.
Left,
        Center,
                     Right,
alignments.
And the keyboard
is like a child
being tucked
in a silver blanket.


The fingers of God,
any god,

dances.

remember  when we were young?

i was a baby mammoth
and you were a giant squid;
at first we ignored
each other in the classroom
but paid close attention
to our awkward body language
by the parking lot
next to the jungle gym

you were just one syllable
and i was an entire conversation
the subject somehow landed
on the preservation of science
and the fall of religion

your eyes lit up when i said
i was single because you
were in a long term relationship

said it was perfect timing
because you were ready
for marriage

i scoffed at the idea
with my legs trembling
inside the mouth
of quicksand

you pulled me up,
told me not to worry
and reminded me
that the ending
was all part of the plan

my ***** swam like
a swarm of insects
into your gaping
wound; spilling
over the sides
of the womb
causing your eyes
to roll back;
you moaned
you were
ready to come
soon

we came to,
as two;
our bodies intertwined
under the gapped-
tooth moonlight
smile

this was our crime,
we were young at the time

now here we are,
older than life permits
the body to exist;

i admit, i wouldn't
want to share this
moment with anyone
other than you,

my feline friend

you can bend my leaves
until they crack; inflict
creases upon my skin
until i'm no longer
readable

tear my spine
into a thousand
pieces and scatter
them across the bay;

where the sad girl
goes to lose
herself in thought,
'it's shallow' she thinks
as she stares deeply
into the pond

only the crushing
of gravel can be
heard beneath the
bridge

her feet pacing
back and forth,
traveling
like light
between choice
and decision

i throw empty
plastic bottles into
the water, making a
wish as they descend
towards their hell

i empty my shell,
or what's left of it;
break each
bone in half,
let my breath
hang in the air
like the death
of the sun

'it's worth it'
she says,

drawing lines
in the sand,--

only boundaries

the half-shattered

can see

The beeping of a cement truck
can be heard outside our window

The sun peaks through the drapes;
boots covered in dirt dance
along the fevered pavement

You're in my arms, on your side;
your hair  is like fine layer of
mocha beans before my face

I catch a small whiff of it
before you turn around
and look me in the eyes

And it isn't long,
after I kiss you
and ask what you
would like to do today

before you interrupt
all movement
(outside and in)

with

'You smell like
old Chinese food
right now'.

she hasn't slept well these days,
beneath a brand new duvet
she lays on her side,
and then sighs;
tosses and turns
like holy wine
inside the glass
of night

the drip,
drop of glorious
sun arrives;

then ******,
prods, over her eyes

she'll wake up,
reach for the phone

and perhaps snooze
it for ten or twenty minutes

finally awake,
she tumbles like a load
of ***** laundry
(the aftermath
of bad habits)

in the sweet,
sickly aroma
of a day to day
existence;

another morning tucked
in the back pocket
as she makes her way
to the door,

locks it

and takes the
heaviness of dreams
for granted.

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.

Wonder who's
next

behind a steering wheel,
or in the 5th row
seat next to the window
looking down

or in front of
a gun, staring
into the barrel

at the mercy of
a stranger, or
on the knees
begging a jealous
lover

someone's
gotta go

here, now,
there

in the distant
future

it's got your number,--

but till then..

give meaninglessness
hell, kid

i walk down this street
keep to myself, head first
into shadows strewn across
the pavement; little images
for big brown eyes,

someone said you look
like the shy type, the kind
the runs away when the time's
right

and boy, were they wrong

if we are supposed
to be here, then why does
it feel like the opposite?

i ask the same questions
in class, stare at the clock
until it strikes six; the bell
signals for my grand entrance

i escape through the exit

only to find myself
knee deep in some kind
of crippling reverie;

leave finger prints
on the walls, the shells
of my limbs somewhere
on the floor

a walking oddity
given life by a
budding game designer

with the pose of an angel

i stand in your way.

I put his ***** in my mouth,
and he puts mine in his hand
and we laugh in unison
except my laugh sounds
like I'm gargling marbles
and his laced with
painful joy

We're on my mother's bed
and it's my fifteenth birthday;

The television is on,
and the sound of a
newsman fills the
evening air

60 dead and 5 others wounded
is all I can manage to hear

as he begins to make his way inside
of me, a silent joy consumes my
soul and I'm floating away to Heaven

I see God, and I feel him
fill me with contentment;
his hand is placed on my forehead
and I kiss his fingers
as they slowly leave my face

The front door shuts
loud with a bang and
my friend and I struggle to put
on our clothes;

It's father;

I've gotten
used to the loud,
calculated steps
he takes up the stairs

We both sit on the bed
and act as if we just finished
praying

The door opens
and he smiles,
and asks us
why we are
sweating;

but his eyes make his way
to the television;
he becomes distracted and tells
us with a grimace on his face
to go downstairs and
play a game

I grab my friend's
hand and rush
down the stairs

just to be alone with
him once more.