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.

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.

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 forgot to tell you goodnight

I was too tired to open my mouth

too exhausted to form a thought
but many thoughts came on later
that evening; I was worried
you might get angry with my
silence

secretly harbor resentment;

retire to your dreamland
and keep me outside
the pearly white fences;

I'd whimper to come back in;

and I'm sure

you'd hesitate
(like you always do)

before unlocking the gate

and welcoming me
into your garden of good graces.

20 minutes before midnight
strikes, the heart is racing
for it's dear life

you're standing on the side
of the road
watching me
run away from my
problems

The rats cling to the
streets, their bellies
full of spite
for the uprights

A shadow takes in
all the detail
from outside
the light

Holy, as it were

Holy, as it shall be
forevermore

My head
rests on the desk;

I pretend it's the *****
of my lover;

and I weep,
and weep,
and weep,

until the
scar riddled wolf

is ready to eat.

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.

...Fix your problems? Mother,
I can barely fix mine. Your daughter,
your favorite daughter, the one you've looked
after with all of your heart, brushing
the others aside; others, who like me
longed for your love, and only wanted
your care; nothing more; it was all we wanted.

Couldn't you see it in the way
we wanted you to play games with us?
And when we grew older
we sat with you on the bed
the day Papa left. K had his head
between your legs, whimpering
as you were sobbing;

sobbing there, always sobbing,
and look, you're doing it now;
nothing has changed; nothing
will change, will it?

Fix your problems? Me?
I've got enough of my problems
but the tears of your own sorrow
drown out the crises of others. Sometimes.
Sometimes.

Sometimes someone you love,
has to tell you what you don't
want to hear; what you aren't
able to handle;

and if you're lucky,
that someone, who truly loves you back,
will be there after you have
sobbed yourself to near-death.

Either you can sit there,
remain a limp, tired corpse,
and ****, moan and plead for others
to fix what you
refuse to fix yourself;

or you can do something about it;

something that isn't so *******

selfish;

something that is akin
to giving the abyss
a *******;

Just look at religion,
God, the church, the entire
lunacy of it's overbearing
presence!,--

That, mother,
is giving the *******
to the nothingness
that surrounds us all.

Can I be honest witchu 'ere?

I don't trust ya boy, Jakoby. He's been sniffin' around places that don't need no sniffin'. Roy's been tellin' me he's been doing the same thing there too. Coincidence? I think not, my friend. I'm just doing youse a favor and relaying this concern of mines. Did you know he slept with Tom's sister? The one with the wheelchair and weird teeth? I don't think she can even see straight. Her eyes are all cross eyed. I also heard he put his dilly in Holly, Greg's old cousin that's been livin' with his family for years. And she's not right in the head either. He's got something for them 'tards. Maybe his parents aint raised him right. They's was never around for him, poor guy.

Ditch the punk if you know what's good for ya. I'd hate to see something happen to your girl, or, you know, you.

Just sayin' is all.*

- ****

He leaves the store
and sits on the curb.

There is a sandwich in
his hand; most likely
past it's due date.

People pass, some say
hi, others avoid him with ease.

He doesn't bother to look up;
his sandwich is almost done.

Too bad there aren't any chips.

He brushes the crumbs off his shirt,
gets up and goes back into the store;

then comes out with another sandwich,
and also a bottle of water.

He chugs the water, throws the bottle
in the nearby trash can, and huffs.

He decided whether or not he
wants to start on the second sandwich;
but before a decision is finally made
he sees the bus coming down the street.

He gets up, puts the sandwich in his pocket
and goes to the bus stop.

He gets on the bus.

You're at your desk, sitting
on your favorite wooden
stool; the one with
the diamond shaped
chip on it's side

The sound of your
fingers dancing
across squared
platforms of symbols

and digits

A woman's voice can be
heard in the background;
as well as the clanking
of porcelain against
aluminum (all doused
in what seems
to be water)

You're a woman yourself,

But this doesn't bother you
in the least; because outside
the skin, inside the marrow,
flows an everlasting glow

the kind that gets you up
morning after morning;
gives you permission to
go, love, cherish

and hold

And as you get up from the desk,
the sun shining through the windowpane,
your blouse is lifted, revealing
a diamond shaped scar;

the only one you used to
despise having as a
child

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...

I as in *******;
year's worth of body coursework;
four seasons
of education

Mind wandering;
frustration of the Inguina

Liquids expanding,
collapsing, rising,
falling

action upon action
between two bodies

I as in wake up
tomorrow, alone
in an empty room

filled with tiny silences;
an open space mass;
atoms the size
of wet noodles

Inhale this lust,

mate, breed,

open mouth surgery

I as in can't take much more
death is calling;

carry on this legacy,
a past riddled with scars,

bequeathed upon your innocence

this agony.

another tuesday morning*

i wake up with
a dry mouth, i turn
to my left and
stretch my arm out

i reach for her
but she's hardly there,
what's left of her
slips through my
brittle fingers

it's been a week
and now
she's finally
said goodbye;

filling the desert
valleys from day
to night

hardly anything
dare swims in the
trenches of my heart

i cry out from the
hollowness of my being,--

where the light
looks and feels
no different than
the dark

and all that remains
is an echo; like the
smallest stone that
forms ripples

on a lonely pond

at the end of
world

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.

After work
I come home from a
half hour bike ride;
I don't count
the miles,

why bother?

As I place my bike
against the bookshelf
I have yet to organize

I overhear people
in the kitchen;
loud like the engines
of trains on a sunny
day in Arkansas

They're talking
about *****,
the tips
of *****

nuts;

blurry waves
of cosmic notes
against the sheets
of empty space

This is what we do
with noise when
our brains
fill to the brim
with symbols,
concepts, ideas
and worries

Do we have
real control over
our tongues?

How they click
and cluck; lash
like bullwhips
against the back
our teeth

As though
they are in a hurry
to get our mouths
to turn the
thoughts into

daggers;

sling them wherever
and hope they
hit a target;

any target will do

I promised I'd tell
no one about our
little secret. I keep
my hands clasped firmly
on my lap and breathe
in the air like it's
my last day on earth.
We signed a blood pact.
It was ten years ago this day.
My hair is much longer
than it was when you first met me.
And your legs are much
thicker than they were when you
bought me Usher's first album.
I still sing along to it;
do my best to dance like
he does in the music videos.
It used to hurt me, keeping
this secret you forced
me to keep. Said if I told
anyone I would go back to that
dark place; where claws
are attached to moving shadows;
they'll pull me in, you whispered
as you sat on top of me, and never
let me go. I trembled under your
weight. But held you tighter
that Sunday night.

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.

the bed doesn't
feel like a place
to rest, but rather
like a flu
you can't shake
off, or
an inevitable
sore chest

the mattress
is soggy with the
past resentments;
all those regrets
piled up next
to overdue tests

do I have
to wake
up and do
everything backwards
over again?

return to
the state
of normality

the fingers
retract, the keyboard
never taps,
and the silence
welcomes the space
back

as though
it were capsulized,

ready to be swallowed

I got a wonderful pal
and don't think I mention
him enough;

he's a tiny creature
with a big,
******, beating
heart.

We hardly,
if ever,
see eye to eye
on things;

but it's never too long
before we kiss and make up
(and for the record
they are the best
kisses,
bar none)

If I wasn't so
caught up in the
wild throes
of the brain;

I'd live like he does,

present and care-free.

I got a wonderful pal,

and I love him so.

i thought we could do this
but i was wrong
at the edge of my seat
in nothing but a thong

i rubbed my *******
hard till they broke off
and fell

i rested my feet
on the desk, then
my *** went to sleep

all these numbers
in front of the camera

for your donations;
for money to spend
unwisely

who said
intelligence
couldn't co-opt
beauty?

for the sake of
the lord's embrace

my body relies
on the path
it chooses but
in the end
doesn't take

so here i remain
yours, on my knees
wet;

your torch
sets me ablaze

and i was wrong
at the start, the middle,

the last few drops
of tears offering no
solace

what do you do with a
knife covered in blood
that you found under
the fridge?

you just wanted a
leftover piece of
your birthday cake;

you turned 30
and didn't want to celebrate

but the parents surprised
you with an old family
favorite;

double chocolate,
double vanilla,
double sprinkles,
double everything

the blood looks fresh,
there are drops of it
that lead to your
roommates room

let's not go in there
just yet,

let's have another piece
before calling the cops,

before saying goodbye
to Charles

before we muster
up the courage
to go catch that ******.

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.

here, let me buy
you a Mexican coke

don't worry, i got
a bottle opener
somewhere in my bag

found it

see,
there you go

don't worry,--

tastes good doesn't it?

welcome, my friend

to America

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.

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.

the chaotic movement
behind the bushes
of my neighbor's front yard

the yelps of a dear
caught in the headlights,

she pleads
for the flesh
to sink down
to the depths

where no man
dares tread

the moon shines
upon bare backs
like the dead weight
inside the flask

two pour into
one

and the hush
comes quickly;

sweeps the night
off it's feet
and lays it to rest

by the curb

or bed;

much like the face
of a newly wed
into his or own
hands.

The pistol is on the desk;
the dog tilts her head;
someone is at the door
and it isn't her master

A car passes,
and the street lamps
light it up like
a torch;

it rumbles past
the house, and a
window is shut

The feet of darkness
press upon the floor;
dogs can be heard in the
distance; their masters
asleep, dreaming
the American dream;

their children
in love with
the children of others

A television hums
a late night lullaby;

and the fans
sway back and forth
hissing at the callous
feet of laborers

A loud noise cuts
the day in half

Now the moon peeks
above a cloud
to investigate the sound

Much like the animals,

it's indifferent to the violence
and virtues of others

but that doesn't stop anyone

from waking up;

be it from a headache,

or another

broken heart.

what's a minor
setback to a major
league failure?

wallow in despair,
a weeping willow
desperate on never
making things right

sinking further
into the bowls of the
earth, begging
every seed to bloom
and burst

but what of love
for the self? like
ancient books
buried deep
in the shelves

never to be read,

blue as the sky
when it bled;

the mind petrified and
dried out,
pregnant with dread

what is preparation
to the being desperate
for death?

you don't know,
but you speak like you do

and that, my friend

is the end.

...As we were slow dancing
to Nothing Compares 2 U
by Sinead O' Conner
I noticed the sky getting darker,
and your eyes getting dimmer;

You were falling asleep
in my arms and I had to steady
your limp body like
a peasant with a sack of
bath salts.

You started to drool
on my chest and I lifted
you at an awkward angle
and tried to close your
gaping mouth;

My finger slipped
past your lips
and ended up in your
left nostril but you didn't
stir;

Our bodies were
still stuck in
a hypnotic sway,

when I realized my
entire hand was inside
of your nose.

I laid you down
on the harvest rug
and used my other
hand to free
myself but it was
of no use; that hand,
against my will,
slipped in as well.

I had no other
choice but to climb in
(the song started skipping
at the worst possible time).

I was crawling
for what seemed
like weeks; in what
seemed like the abyss,
in what seemed like
any old tunnel,
in every typical
metropolitan city.

I found a light
and scurried toward
it's radiance like
a rat desperate
for a morsel of
Nutella.

But it wasn't a light
at all.

It was a bland
piece of paper;
it was a blank screen
of a computer,
it was a white
sheet of material;

But there was
a fountain pen
nearby.

So I took my time,
rattled the beehive,
managed to regain
my composure

and I decided
to write
this nonsense
to keep myself
from ever
losing my mind.

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.

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.

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

there are days
when you experience
a one, or two
second delay,

life is a little
on the laggy side;
the movements
follow alongside
sluggish, and
desperate for
rest;

days when you
tell your fellow
teammate to hold
back, but they continue
onward

determined
to attack

and when they're
dead from such
recklessness

aren't we allowed
to sigh off the
woes of the entire
universe?

am i,

your humble
speck

not given

at
least a say

in the matter?

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'.

The summer comes in the form of
a thousand fevers;  I am drenched
with loss; torn asunder,--

At the thought of
being alone forever;

Yet this torture
feels right;

As though the sun
and moon were
perfectly aligned,

and the light
burned a hole
through my flesh
exposing every
atomic function.

There is a spring
in my step, grace
in my fall;

I am one with
what most have
called earth,
and what most
have got wrong.

I wake,

as does my mouth;

Awe is what I speak.

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.

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

Oh gee,
me and this bad posture

I am the hunchback
of Not Enough Food
stuffing my face silly
with seasoned truffle fries;
the grease coats my lips,
and I lick each fingertip,
one by one,
like lighting matchsticks

It's been a while,--

When others are out,
swimming in the latest fashions,
drowning in the recent gossip,
singing the popular tunes;

I people watch and people
watch and people watch
until my belly is full

I over hear a man who
spent his vacation in Rome
hungover; 'two weeks,
I stared at my feet, and
for two weeks
I got no sleep!'

Crunch, soft
like a child's toes
in my mouth

Crunch, hard
like my bones,
is the perfect sound

Oh, gosh
I don't think I
ever want to stop;

A chicken tender
is enough to surrender
my dear old aches away
for good

it's midnight
or close to it

the smell of freshly
blown out birthday
candles fills the
air;

i'm on foot, and
walking towards
the horizon;

there's a rhythm
somewhere, i can feel
tapping along,
like the tiny
feet of a dancer

i peer into
the houses
i pass by

they remind
me of ovens,
televisions burning
the precious logs of
our attention spans

some houses
are dark as the
space i breathe in;

doors unlocked,
windows open,
beds made,
rooms occupied,

the rest of their souls
stowed away in
basements and attics

i'm almost home,

there is no porch light
to welcome me, no open
arms to embrace what little
there is left of my wartorn
body

but i'm far from giving
up on planting roots;

this earth is a battleground,

nature is doing what it does best;

beating like a drum,
marching on like a fleet
of soldiers

towards it's only true destination

tonight i've come to learn,

there is no heaven

or hell

for what only comes natural.

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.

Kimberly answers the phone, but not
before polishing the last finger off.

The Christmas lights pierce her
window and reflect off the
bright pink nails; she blows on
them as she picks up the phone.

'Hello' she says.

There's dead silence.

'Hum'

She puts the phone back
on the receiver and
starts on her toes.

'My heart is weak'
he says to his loved ones;
his back turned, shoulders
heavy and neck
loosened

He hangs his head
in shame, and the
mouth follows
with one long drop

'This heart
is a jar filled
with pennies;
trinkets of days
gone by; no love,
no, not for any of you'

They listen as
carefully as they can;
while managing their
own disappointments
and failures; with
their hands tied
behind their backs,
they can only do so
much

'Son, we have
no gold to bequeath
upon you, no diamonds,
no silver, no fortune
to behold,

--forgive us'

No one stirs;
the earth rumbles,
it's belly starved
of bodies

'So it shall be done'
he says to himself;

and this, they all
quietly agree upon
with great regret

His father left the earth
the same way;
and now there
will be one less mouth to feed

$4 an hour
minimum

scouring
the nostrils
for golden
nuggets
takes a certain
skill

let's sing
along to
Lana Del Rey
songs

in our
best nasally
voices

we're impressions
of impressions
after all

so who
is really a legend?

the popstar
is just
a pop
without
her stars

and
we're all
in sync
with closed
lips

tonight

You've been discorded,

but you are no enemy of mine,

for we are one in this battle;

the violent dance of

harmony.

wake up
it's time for work
the arms are extended
labor calls, they tilt
like the antlers of a deer
an object,
no a thousand
pounds of nothing
awaits their arrival

as though they've been
waiting it out;

waiting for something
important to uproot
them from their dull,
but peaceful existence

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.

Ever since I moved in with
an old friend from High School
and his girlfriend I've got
nonstop texts from my grandmother
asking if I'm okay, if I need any fresh
water from the well, and am I
getting a full night's rest. As much
as I'd like to say no, because it's the truth,
instead I say yes, because the truth
would hurl me back into
a place where personal space
doesn't exist. A couple of years before leaving,
I went to a friend's house down the street.
I had left my laptop open; it was still on
website I frequent on the loneliest of nights.
I remember the blood curling screams; the howling
for me to come back and explain why there
were guys doing questionable things to dead girls.
Telling my grandmother those girls were just
playing dead didn't wipe that scowl off her face;
it only made things worse. She canceled our
internet service provider and made me give
my laptop to my older cousin Nick.
It isn't so bad here. My roommates smoke ***,
play video games and most importantly don't
ask where I am going or what I'm doing
on the weekend. I like it. I could get used to it.
My phone vibrates almost every hour. But I'm
getting used to not answering every text. Sometimes
I feel guilty for imagining my grandmother dead;
sometimes I let the thought delve further into darkness
and imagine terrible things being done to her. It isn't
that I don't love her. I think I love her too much.
When I'm tossing like a fish out of water
in cold sweats; I wake up and lie there, breathing,
trying not to swallow my tongue; and like clockwork
the AC comes on and hums a little tune, as though it
were only meant for me. I mumble along until
I fall back asleep. I dream the same dream.
I'm small again. And I'm chasing a thousand
dragonflies through a nameless field
somewhere in the Midwest.

Anywhere, really.