The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,

or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,

or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******  

as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.

Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.

or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments

from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.

Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.

“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.

I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.

I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
we survived
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.

Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;

For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.

The unorthodox are the true prophets
for their ways are those of the future,
so in the now, most kings get their head cut off.

But as death is the greatest prophet,
for it never fails to come true,
their martyrdom proves their ways truer than the footsteps of their fathers,
so in the face of adversities;
never be afraid to be a lonely Jesus on the Cross.

It doesn’t come on a horse-drawn carriage.
It doesn’t come as tall, dark, and handsome.
It doesn’t come with a prince’s crown.
It doesn’t come with magic fairy dust.

Forget the chick flicks.
Forget the old school fairy tales.
Forget the Nicholas Sparks novels.
Forget playing M.A.S.H. when you were six years old.

I’m not sure how it works
(Because, trust me, I wish I did).
But this culture has brainwashed our intelligent minds
To writhing pulps obsessed with “love.”
You do not love.
You love to love. And there is a great difference, my dears.
For when you truly love, you don’t feel it.
You do it.

And whoever told you that:
“Immature love says, ‘I love you because I need you.”
Mature love says 'I need you because I love you.’”
…
Well, they have foolishly blundered.
For you don’t “need” to be in love.
Mature love should say, “I love you because I love you,
And I have no explanation for why that is,
But I will always choose to do right by you.”

I don’t have the answer,
So I don’t ask the question.
But I’m not silly enough to believe what the world screams at me.

You are every word I meant to say.
You are the daisy chain from my youthful reminiscence that I never had a chance to wear.
You are the place in the darkness where I'd like to hide that I never quite found.
You are the breath on the back of my neck in the middle of a sleepless night that I swear I can truly feel.
You are my almost.

I can't take this city much longer,
It's wrong here; I feel it watching and
See it in your misty eyes when
You lie and say it's nothing,
You're great.


There's a haunting, a menace.
Something we've disturbed or offended
Is taking an extended vengeance,
Trapping us in a poetic wilderness
Lacking invention or vision. Days
pass like weeks and I make ropes out
of bedsheets, marking runaway routes
on maps before they even halfway
Reach the golden delicious dead grass.

I was alone, yesterday,
     When I began to dissolve.
It didn't hurt at all,
     Except in an abstract sort of way.


The mirror showed cold bone-
     Clean white where skin should be.
A crimson static filled our home,
     And an achy resonance filled me.


In my ocean of dissolution,
     Breaking down for absolution,
I cry not for me,
     but you;
For the burden of carrying not one heart,
     but two.


I felt so vivid as I bled to the sky.
          Scattered to brilliant blue stars, never to die,
I'll be the leaves that fall, the birds that fly by.
              In the next life, when we meet, we'll retry,
          And I'll be better, I promise,
     Because I love you,
          More than anything.
Nothing was your fault.





*Critiques are very much appreciated.

These are still the early days.

And I wonder what it takes to turn early days to shades of gray.

The first exchange of a cherished, sweet sentiment
Followed by a second, third, seventh and tenth.
Fingers discovering unexplored skin
Moments of passion catch again and again.
The voyages fresh, never traveled before
Hold deep potential for a lifetime of more.
The distance of inches feels miles apart
And the distance of time has still yet to start.

Moments and milestones will accompany us
To a place of lackluster feelings and rust.
So I cherish my early days, sparkling bright
And pray that the motions of love treat us right.