it was over. finished and requiring further complicity for another onslaught of banal narrative to be revealed before my to half opened windows when i sought a habit that, as a friend warns me, is most deadly.
12:15 AM
me
**** it im out. but wait everyone is asleep. so take a flashlight with you dummy. no. the click makes too much noise. a lighter? NO! even worse. grab a phone in the remote chance that while im alone, aside the ever-greening pool, she might call.
12:17 AM
me
that stupid ******* glow-in-the-dark rosary! it ruins me every time and so does the 14th 16th, and 9th step from the bottom with their relentless creak. i should have learned by now their pattern but, then again, i only need it when nefarious action is in play. shame on me. my phone served as an appropriate guide (as long as it shone away from my parents door, of course). tip-toeing over the debris that still remains from a "successful" marriage i arrived at the back door.
it has a trick though.
12:21 AM
me
it depends on which way you are going, but to eek out of it properly you have to pull in and then turn the handle. NO SCRATCH THAT REVERSE IT and vice versa. the out of doors is only slightly more liberating than being cloistered in a room bound by roddenberry. on this night, however, the night provided what might be considered, by people in towns whose greatest income centers around cattle feeding and slaughter, as breezy and cool.
12:24 AM
me
where ARE those cigarettes?? **** it. a **** will do. clip clop around the green until you realize you know where ever piece of debris is. you are stepping over the things that you cannot see. surreal. ****. look up to ascertain your spatial coordinates.
earth.
figures.
12:26 AM
me
**** it. again. some more. if you keep looking up looking at the flaming ***** of helium trillions of light years away and someone comes out they will probably think that you are just contemplating your own existence as opposed to the other...thing. something that really has no name. the place between dream and reality. this place, though, has a certain specificity. a clarity. so i consider what i am privy to.
12:30 AM
me
small dots above me. white dots in a globular dispersion above me. what im told is that they are steadily--NO--rapidly retreating from me. i am told that all of these dots have more dots, that i cant see, that move around them. on /those/ dots sentient things might exist. might. what i know for myself is that I DO. as well as i am able to ascertain, other people like myself exist too. and, if they are anything like me they must experience something similar to my experiences.
12:33 AM
me
well ****. these dots. these ******* white dots, as they flee with their potential other lives, make realize [yet again mind you[ that i have things that might be unique to me and only a handful of other things like me on this sphere.
12:35 AM
me
if i were to ignore those statistically remote similarities here, near me, i would be as foolish as the pin ball that thinks it belongs among the bumpers. i belong in a hole.at least one that fits my shape.
i am no pinball.
but i live amongst those things that tell me what i know. what i have known. what continues to reveal to me the nature of nature.
12:38 AM
me
startled i ***** my cigarette on the bench my father and i once made for an easter get-together with my family and withdraw my phone again to return to roddenberrys lair. over the pile of old coats near the back door. beyond the 52" plasma still playing a re-run of diners, drive-ins and whatever the **** and, shining the light away from my parents door i climbed the stairs. making sure to hit 9, 14, and 16 on the way up, cursing myself at the top."you mind if i pseudo-rant for a bit while," i smashed on the remote keys.

this is a right and true story.
nothing is embellished.
each moment
each movement
documented
no slight of hand
only straight-forward speach
minorly misinterpreted

it looks likes sorcerery
but falls flat like a ****** on a plank
walks crooked
back and forth
going nowhere

it IS a story
but it holds water
like a sieve

this sidewalk is doing nothing for me
until your blue pools drowned me
but you caught me
in ill hold you like my champion
im in love.

understanding cant be amused
hate
drives ever bit of me away
but id love to stay
war
poverty
me

what is meant to be
will
sera
sera

a child like thing that i plunged
was shot off the red clay
and grass
directly into the river
that creeped
as if on stilts

my heart swelled
as i was immersed
and ever single fiber in me
sang
smiling son hard i forgot
not to breathe under water

it was her black eyes
the angel
that drew me to the slender arms
of my savior

only to leave me on the shore
alive.

taken under by the swell
dragged and punched by
a wave

[too] high
to climb so far above
to the crest

who needs sea-foam
anyway
its mostly ******* air

hot to drop
to the coolest depths
and be covered over

ill be turned on
over
to reveal the barnacles and moss

taking lichens for a walk now
mon-tue
only twenty clams

its not midnight
someone just turned out the lights
on my party
of one

its not bright out
its the fire blazing without a coal
in a hearth
with no screen

thats not a flower
its a **** with a smelly bloom
in a pasture
with no fence

im not a comedian
im only a guy with pratt falls pocketed
with a pun
and a play on words in hand

there is no love
there is only a trust between two
there is a kiss
a late night call

and sanity
there is no sanity
there is only a belief
a trust
in what cant be robbed
in what cant be...
what was i saying

what time is it?

i would have been barefoot
with cuffs not hemmed
and rolled
but its not fashion
my jeans are aged
but not from design

i wear my life
into a one roomed class
it dons a bell tower
and, post-toll
no one prays
one instructor for all
each led in divergent direction
according to our abilities

and while the greater lot
learns an appealing cursive script
i curse at the blank pages before me
in my simple way
passing them as notes
but they fall on ears
as barren of hearing
as the recipients feet are
of the callous and sediment
that make mine
breathe life into my narrative

but here no lessons are taught
however gleaned from discord
interpreted through grime
grime and rebuke
filtered through shallow waters
through embattled plains
rife with mole hills and ant piles
scattered with patches of knee high grass
spotted with blooming indigenous flora

its not like i traded up
or for that matter down
every cog still turned to the left
each lever, still up and down

it started like an episode
of ricky lake
and ended abruptly
on springer

im in the sound proof booth
judging those who stand encased
aside me
i should leave before this gets ugly

indiscretion led me here
fortitude kept me
embarrassment fed me words
and loss encapsulates all

every stitch
the joy and glee
lost to ants in a wildflower patch
it stings now

verbosity rivaled only by impetus
but quickness
if only counted in months
falls short with words

im sure there's a happy ending
a call in the black of midnight
in a letter carefully opened
through a kiss tentatively given

i crafted an exquisite note
to be sent along
to the exquisite woman that no longer deserved it.

i sat down in a wildflower patch
with an empty bottle
which gave me the courage
to roll the parchment

the ants in all their fury
held no charge against me
and the strategically buried daggers
left nothing more than an impression
on my bare feet

nor did the canals
formed by tears' errosion on the cheek
the largest tree now long dead
a landmark lost to time
a love
a partner

Zombie love becomes a thing when
You shake off zombie dust
From writing utensils and shoes
To find another groaning
Aimlessly careening
Toward a blow to the skull

Let's eat someone together
You share

go ahead
put your feet up
make sure that everything is clean
because youre going to be sitting for a while

maybe rocking
but that just depends on your style
some people get out the stress like weirdos
personally, i just like to stare in the void vacantly

this isnt going to be some run of the ******* mill tussle
what this is
THIS?
this is a marathon pit fight
this is
blood and
teeth
and
flesh ripped
and left hanging

but you still stare into the void

because youve trained your whole life for this
and ill be ****** if anyone can take it from me

so on

and even the reprieves offer no consolation
when you get to sit in your corner
focused on the set across from you
plotting the next flurry

this transcends battle to the death
this is battle-to-the-death-and-then-the-guy-keeps-punching-the-other-til­l-he-dies
yes the visceral image of an incredibly old boxer
beating a corpse
and finally passing away from exhaustion

settle in

A candle lit
In a lone new room
Flutters with my breath
As it's whispered upon a flame

And with it
With the wicks whisper
All things are transmogrified
It bends to the will of my breath

but these prayers
aren't ones to bless
you or me or the new place
they are for my own utter annihilation

or that of my ego
so that the rift it creates
between you and i and everything
is lifted, narrowed, guided away, carried upon a breeze
away
away

i was blind before i wrote this
pitch black
behind the keys i found sight
finish

not the land where we
as people
loose ourself
its finished
the arguments
the loose ends
its over
my way and yours have inexorably been enter-twined  
chuckles mean no more

and i write
and you clean
and worship moments when you lose it
and chuckle
and clean

save me
you have the coins
to place on my eyes
and you clean
and i chuckle
and it is solved

and then it isnt
and then it is
and then WE are
and then it never was

and you talk back
and i win
and you lose
and it stinks
to high heaven

my heart beats at your pace
everything around me throbs
with the patience of your rhythm
and you
like the drum major
stomp with the purpose
of creating the tone
for the crowd
playing your song
as boisterous as it is

its still a song though
sweeping and beautiful
revelatory
weep-worthy

its a song.

i never would write until the night fell
you laugh at me from the light
and every smear of honesty
betrays me
and you stand a thousand stories tall
but i have to leave my shoes
in the door way

the stars arent your eyes any more
they are only the fire
the flame that scorches my rib cage
its as though i payed a mask maker
if everything was in its right place
my reflection wouldnt seemed so skewed
remember
a lemon is a fruit

with every car parked aside the avenue
all lanes free
you can run
lumber
in the turn lane
beneath the big sign
that changes colors
that blinds you with its fascism
with its charges against you
that youre given ninety to life for

***** and beanie weenies
a cats purr
pecans
the writings of a mystic
purrs
and the mask maker
and a sneeze
then love

to stretch out
to cuddle up
to fail at cartwheels
we cant loose

i hear you cheese over the phone
every single hormone
cresting and waining
here i am
the mind of the eye
or vica verse
if you cant
then i will

i pace the long way
all the way in the wrong direction
all the way away from them.
everyone i love.
only to walk all the way back

past every hurt feeling
apologizing for every wrong turn
spending time with the people i hate
until i find the one that makes me remember
exactly who i am
expects it of me.
yells.

a long pace.
one thousand miles up and then two back
nothing changed
i still pace
i still worry
and escape from a revisit
the hurt

i used to write
the ink that dripped from my quill
formed paisley and damask on the page
syllables rose from parchment and became tangible

now its just chicken scratch
illegible drivel
carved into chalkboards with dull knives
footnotes to a glorious view

i use to draw, paint, tag
whimsical illustrations or swirly oils
on objects both dedicated and found
a distinct style all my own

but now it's all devolved
mediumless and barren attempts
glaring at a skill long left me
clutching and shivering with a brush

i used to hike
i would traverse a plane or a thicket
at altitude with all teeth showing
looking for a place to set up camp

but now i just pace
wearing a rut between the front and back door
studying a tired environment
peering out the windows

there is no better shoe
breezed and open
leather soles
reeking from my trips
to here
and there
when i go to wash them
on sunday afternoon
i always find a stinging lizard
but i know its mostly my environment
if i could move
should i relocate
there should be far less pain
nothing to ***** about
a new space means
the denial of spiders of the mouth
denial of room temp pasta salad
denial of eat hate pray
please
let me wash your feet

the only thing that i care for
i ran it off
like a tabby in a window begging for a plate of fish
like a beautiful bloom i adored
and never watered
like an open door
steaming in rays from a cresting dawn
thats slammed shut

i keep the plate out now
waiting for a menacing meow
i pour water into the ***
hoping a sprig would spring again
all the doors are open now
even the cabinets
all in vain

god.
now im living begging to be annoyed
wasting potting soil
blinded by golden pain

its now apparent
there is in my midst
one who seeks to usurp
a throne built with my own two hands

not to rest comfortably between
inlaid and intricately carved clawed feet
but to see it empty
for nothing more than the sake of watered down bloodline

yet calmly i tap toe
half impatient and watching
as a small axe hacks away a mighty oak
but not the roots

of the next growth
boughs spring forth more mighty
than the last
from which to fashion not one more but two replacements,
imperial palisades and a porch for a palace,
rocking chairs with armrests,
a mantel and mirror frame

so that we
my queen and i
can be seen together
as we should be
with no hovering specters

i opened my eyes
again
and there existed a black spot
between the north star
and the rolling clouds

i stared into it
deeply
and i followed myself in
to our bed upstairs
and the feathers roll over

i went deeper even
home
and i found me weeping
near the keys that make me
and we rested together again

i knelt yet again
flawless
and you grinned again
fatter than you ever have
and we held hands

i pulled back the curtains
******
and shone in the light
illuminating the dust on the shelf
and we read together

i pulled you through customs
dragged
and we skipped to the gate
shouting over an intercom
and we tugged each the other

we crossed the seas
oceans
and we got lost
wandering and without list
and through this we bonded

we unpacked our bags
furniture
and we certainly shopped
finding a place to call home
and we called a bungalow home

we died together
coughing
and we fixed kosher eggs
making way for the others spirit
and we slept a year through

in the ground

to a dusty shelf I aspire
collected among your beloved works
my spine illegible and creased
pages molded and dog eared
i rest eye level
in your drawing room

i was yours originally
as much as i was my own
no
i was written by a three greats something
a man and a woman
far removed from me now
and was lent to your three greats something
passed down to you
now found cloistered
three shelves down

as per the sensibility
of three greats aunt percy
you would expect the syllables
bound within me
to be replete with ratiocinative reminders
but my binding betrays me not
bloviative bacchanalian blabberings
are the texts contained beyond my cover
but you wouldnt know
the dust proves it

but i dont mind
purely delighted
to be covered in dander
and the skin that used to make you up
that i might be found when you need me
or that i might remain in your family
for at least one more generation
but
if you need a quick ten spot
if youre really hard up for cash
if. you. need. money.
i know a really cute used bookstore

I said I would zig
And right then I zagged
I tip toes into the vault
Found the cold box
Numbered 5545
And slid it out
The treasure trove
Of what you never wanted me to see

Oh but I'm coy
Confounding
Slippery and seruptitous
Admonished and allay
Of any blame

Cause you left the key
On my ring
And the doormen know my name
Who needs a Nixon mask
When you can walk right in
With fling flongs and a parrot hat

I came for what's in the back
And when the sword was unsheathed
The container cracked open
The glow of your hidden life
Shone upon
What is now my bug bitten face

But the the glow of horror
A man can stand only so long
And the chest
And it's keepsakes
Crashed onto the tile dropped
But just before I faint
I loose my liquid lunch

i leave your name
floating in the ethers
unless i see you
then its shouted

you couldnt imagine the life of my muse
her hair whips me
atop levels of down
cherished interminglings
clasped hands
SHE is the one that inspires me
not you

it wasnt about you
this time or ever
your delirium must be setting in again
if it was about you
... though it never would be
if it WAS about you

i would paint your picture
just as it should
caricature style
with sunglasses you dont need
and a bow-tie for a hair pin
something that screams
"HEY ...
are those more lighters..."

if i was writing about you
this would be differently titled
something more
....
just different

im done with that website
im done
im just done

dont send me any more links
im deleting my account
FOR REAL THIS TIME

im done
i dont need to be
in any more of your ******* poems

ill pretend like i dont know you
you pretend like i dont like it
yeah
wriggle like you do

hold your hands over your face
cringe and pluck your ****** hairs
grind your teeth
and keep your fancy
however many ******* hundered
reads
likes
*******

its not just me
NO ONE needs
a stalker with a fountain pen
an olympia typwriter
or home row

get a job ***
cause im not going to keep doing it like this
cause im NOT going to keep seeing myself like i used to
cause i REFUSE to suffer something like what youre giving me
cause you stay there while i kick cans and cat **** waiting for you here

im done
im throwing up my hands
if my fingernails were longer
i would mean it all just the same
i would wave my hands on stilts ******
im done

but oh yeah
i see you down there
that ****** with the ******* dollar
that kid with suspenders and a premature comb-over
asking for an autograph
i see you

but im ******* done
here kid
hullo ******
you can have this leg
and you
the other one
take the other
ill sign both
but im really in a rush

i have some cabbage boiling in the trailer

Under your door
     While you crept
          Toward the edge
               Of consciousness
I hand delivered a message

Finely creased
Highest quality pulp
Atop which I wrote
"I love you."

I never signed it
It fact
It took me ten years
To climb the stairs

I hope it finds you grumpy
As you always are
When the sun is breaching
Our horizon

And you think
"what is this
Wonderful paper on my
GO AWAY mat?"

Coffee in hand
You unfold oragami love
Smile
Go back to bed

You'll find me though
Fingerprints
Bloodhounds
Private ****

Only to reply
With a knife
to my bare chest
"I hate your guts."

I don’t need it
The red string
Tied around my ring or index

I don’t need it
An “x” or heart
On the calendar

I don’t need it
A programmed number
Within any device at all

I don’t need it
Any fashioned reminder
Of you and your worth

You live with me
Constantly
On the tip of my tongue

I utter your nom de plum
In sleep
And I call after my mother with your name

As if in a canyon
Reverberating your whisper
This echoes in all the places

You are my favorite song
On repeat
And I soak in the melody that is your mouth

I don’t need a string
An “x”
Or a series of ten numbers
To remind me
Because you’re here
Holding my hand

And refilling my ink

That tree
The oak out front
The one indelibly tattooed on me
In full moon light
When everyone is quiet
Above all imposed virtue
Moreys
Those vanish
Comfortably in their dreamscapes
Meeting their lives love
Committing Crimes
They would never imagine 
Appropriate 
Necessary 
Fair
Or in some cases
Riding on the back 
Of an ice cream donkey
Into the sunset

In that quiet
I can see
With all certainty
Who that tree really is

Im looking into the eye of  a scowling Bowser
Two eight-limbed horns

This is the tree 
That triple dog dares me
To stop squatting
Not this front porch
Unfiltered and French inhaling
Sighing because this tree
Is shaming me with its boughs 

Leave!
It dares me
And I will
I should
So I can find 
Like the dreamers above
my life's love

So bright
And yet so cold
I unscrew you
So that a neon flora
Could shine
Above and empty room

Purple and green petals
Glowing in tubes
In the peripherals
Blue eyes shining
And flickering
Alongside the
Bolts striking the rod on the roof
Emblazoning momentarily with
Sharp and blinding
Flashing
Strobe like for
A split second
Followed by the thirty-two  inch sub
Fluttering
Making you quiver
And clutch the fuzz on the side

Please let me have several weeks
So that my anxiety can decompress
Several weeks
That I might feel comfort again
With you
Give me several weeks
So the furniture is gone
And we can properly pretend
That there is no history
Past or future
Only the present

Cause you don't need this
And this is just practice
For your epic
If you don't
Stop for a month of Sundays
And really think about
What it is you're writing
Who you're antagonizing
I guarantee that you'll never
Ever
Have time to formulate it all
Type for a month
And you'll never get far enough
To encourage bindings

NO more
Fix that
All that *******
That makes you RAMBLE
Yeah I said it
You run on at the mouth

Just kiss me
Tell me how you feel
With the mustached upper lip
And your fat bottom lip
Leave me mouth insides
That I have to wipe off

Several weeks before you leave me a poem like this
Don't do it.
I'll leave something that like this
Raucous. On blast. Larger than life.

Don't **** this up.
I JUST got you a job.

Im digging through the log
looking for where it started
at least the clean stuff that i didnt delete

im about 200 taps in
"load earlier messages"
is going to haunt me
my dreams
i hope they have a sound track
sugar ray, perhaps

i need to lay my eyes on
the first thing you said to me
with that fancy new number of yours

seriously
ive been doing this for an hour
ive only gotten back to march
MID-MARCH mind you

but if i had to be honest
the suspense IS NOT killing me
with every tap
of that god forsaken roll-over
i get a different glimpse
of how we used to be
and how we are irrefutably now

there are times where you
dont even show up in my dreams
all i find
a black tank top
comfy black ******
a copy of atlas shrugged
and a signed cannibal corpse ticket

and NO
i dont put them in
my dream ***** pack
OR smell them
OR pass them out to strangers

i leave them there
i leave them there because
i know that your coming back for them
you left them under the street light
to let me know that you
are just popping in for a pint
just around the corner

though my first instinct
jealousy of course
might take shape
before i had the chance to
rub my eyes
sober up
and actually have a constructive thought
i have to admit
a creature as perfectly sculpted as yourself
walking clad in nothing more
than an original colored landing strip
into ANY public house
would get a better pour
than the next ten thousand

so i fold your clothes
stack them neatly
where you can find them
find a respectable framing shop in the area
that would still be open this late
frame that ticket
dead center
on black matte of course
and pick up your book
until my eyes are too heavy to wait
and my mouth too dry
to turn the pages
and i lay down
head atop a tank
toes inspecting the texture
of the sidewalk
until i awake

again
alone
and as ardent as ever

I'd love to be
Instead I swat every bug
Attracted by the illumination
Of my face by this phone

A cold blooded killer me
Reflexes like a sloth
And the wit to match

A thunder clap rouses and reminds me
That these lines aren't going to finish themselves
And half wake
I bang out a few more
Syllables
Consonantes and vowels
In order to fill
In order to feel
The place between
Rolling thunder

That's nice
Something she meant
And I laughed at the thought
No matter how trite the word
Of never living up to it

Callous
Unforgiving
I exhaust the welled ink
Grind down the tipped lead
Make mockery of sidewalk chalk

And yet you read on
Nice
To " like" this or that
And later compliment my
Change of attire

Nice

Timing?
nope
Coincidence?
no ma'am
Destiny,
Fate?
Prolly

Im smoking cigarettes pool side.
Naked.
In a thunderstorm.


It's 30 minutes in and I'm soaked, shriveled.
All my smokes are wet.
Tess dog keeps looking at me funny.
The grip tape on the diving board is scratching the hell out of my ***.
My burn pile is sopping.
My girlfriend is sulking (hyperbole here).
I'm grinning, cursing the thought of not being near you.
As if there was a voice over my shoulder saying, "it's not going to happen."
oh ****.
If the milky way is our home, then we're together.
Though, come to think of it, I'm not really a candy kind of guy.
I prefer pickles.
Take it how you will.
I love you.
And if I have to shake off the rain from my phone to hit send
I will.

i was in a terrible accident
one of those classic floor waxing accidents
scarred my face
FOR LIFE
i cant fill out my mustache anymore
my right side
near the corner of my mouth
BARREN

then there was that other one
terrible accident
folding clothes this time
SCARRED FOR LIFE
standing over a table
repetitive motions
each and every arch absent
DEFLATED

oh god remember that one
scarred for life
accident etched in
ORGANIZING RECORDS
the shelf collapsed
the knick knacks from the top shelf
cracked Funkadelic
NO MORE FUNK

and while i lament
****** stache
flat feet
broken record
real things happen

like that zit between my eyes
overgrown shrubs
1080p overheated

i mean things REAL people care about

i watched today
my childhood unfold as a 30 year old
but today it was different
strangely tempered
but some things never change
my dad still takes his aggression out
in THE most hilarious ways
my mom is still sneaky
and pokes fires
and im giving myself a heart attack
waiting for a high five

i love it
watching the waves roll in
and sweating like a monster
where else do you get that
better yet
how else are you going to cleanse
from the night before
how else can you get your dad
to bite his tongue clean off
or your mom to say "psssst!"

but theyve had 30 years
shes barely even scratched the surface
and im trying to write my will before i die
and ****
this pen is out of ink
ill write it in blood if i have to
and ill leave it all to the allusionist
or is it allusion-ee
all im thinking about is her
trimming
cutting
suffering the yelp of a dog in a ******* dress
raking
yelp
plumbing
yelp

all the while
the image spinning
like a weather-vein in a thunderstorm
pressing me on
into a place
where red hair
in my iced tea
is commonplace

i carefully cut branches from a cherry tree
its blooms in all stages
first vibrant red
buds aching to erupt
and then pinked
full, open with petals that flutter in a warm breeze
until the white comes
with age in wisdom and prepared to relinquish all
these three sprigs I weave  together
graft and plant
until none could tell one from the other


when it grew
with posture that could catch
the exhales of all the men taller than me
i clipped another branch
bigger than my thumb
and began to whittle
an instrument
strong enough to grace
with charming melody
the sweet aroma
the shade
the blossom pressings that now adorn my wall
and with each stroke
and shaving peeled
i realized that i was reaching your core
and that soon you would splinter
break even
so i got to the heart of you
and stayed there
shaving a finer point
until i could poke myself
and draw blood

dont get weirded out
this is safe for work
you see im entertaining tomorrow
a thorough cleaning is in order
through and through
first things first
a proper dusting
right after the coveted sharpie box
shelf comes "first"
books records bric-a-brac and all
****
ive been meaning to listen to this album
signed and everything
lets put that on for some dusting music
table turns
check
the needles effective
i can hear the shallow resonance
hmm no audio
lets unplug all the cables
check the power supply
and the pre-amp
turn it all off then on again
****
let me take this apart real quick
****
i need some parts
i need to call stanton
OPERATOR! OPERATOR!
30 minutes later im told they dont have it
WHELP
back to dusting
stepping over stanton parts
I THOUGHT I LOST THIS MOVIE
i can play it in the background
whilst im cleaning
THE PROJECTORS BROKEN
let me take that apart real quick
hope i dont get the parts
of the two aberrations crossed
that mustnt happen
wink
and then the re-framing project
and then organizing my music collection
and then just one poem
color code my closet
rewrite my resume
clip my toenails
and my nose hair
four more poems
annnnnnnnnnd
mess

"oh hey welcome, drinks are over there
just dont step on my record player"

and heres where it gets crazy smart
i tear EVERYTHING off the walls
draw all over all the stuffs
with those ****** sharpies that started it all
turn the whole ******* place
into a performance art piece
i call it
"fix it: I DARE YOU!"

i never pledge
i take that back
i stopped a check once
to a radio station that i really love
a breaking-all-the-molds station
i listen to NPR
like that **** is going out of style
like im going to break this milli vanilli tape
after one more blame it on the rain
im dating myself
but truth be told
i would rather buy another carton
you showed me the most life changing radio
songs that made me weep for humanity
retreat deep within myself with universal contemplation
and yet a cottonless dromedary takes the cake

around others i curse these lapses in reporting
this evening news wrap-up banter
and i fake laugh at you
or should i say with you

but i feel your pain
i tried to sell time shares
rich with fake laughter
every time i hear it
you begging for money that is
im taken back to a place
where
i was foolhardy
and manipulative
knowledgeable
anxious
and vibrant

i use those moments of nostalgia
to think of her
you know who im talking about
im looking at you RADIOLAB
IRA GLASS you arent getting away with this either
you know her
i dream about what could have been
when i was foolhardy, manipulative, knowledgeable, anxious and vibrant
and how it would be like today
if i had the guts then
or time travel now
AND
if i wasnt even any of the above

but i have her now
and we listen together
we just talk over the drive
and the sponsorship ads
oh yeah
and the international news
its just depressing
OH and the bbc stuff
i dont "get" their accent

i rode a bike straight up the side of a mountain
no motorcycle
im talking ONE SPEED
im talkin straight up the side
65, 70 degree grade
i mean, i was defying the laws
physics medicine the constitution man
because im the only person
that knew what was waiting
****
she was sitting full lotus
reading leaves of grass
an orchid behind her ear
smiling
whistling when it struck her

and she knew my ******* name
and i hers
we would take a leisurely stroll
floating above craggy cliffs
spiraling downward from the pinnacle
slowly toward the lake at the bottom
where we would pick wildflowers
and then pass them out to strangers

heaving with breath and anticipation
i arrived
to hear her
"youre adlan, right?"
just then my bike chain broke
and with no grace whatsoever
i tumbled down
end over end
occasionally battered
by a handle bar
a tire actually rolled directly up my back
and in my arched position
the wheel took flight as if off a ramp
at the base of the looming edifice
i was plunged into the chilled lake
clothes shredded
i covered my self
much like adam or eve would have
with wildflowers

oh its not what it spouts
the obscenity
rancor
its the way that pearly(ish)
perfect parabolas
glean with the best
that almost-yellow can do

the swear and grin get more
mileage than could any "line" ever

nothing of this is intentional
i dont really need to be persuasive
but i could stand for a lesson in etiquette

shaking hands and dictating something direct
this is how it should happen
you say this and ill show you the pearly(ish)
but what are you
and  what could we be
im talking about a power team
if i drew you a picture
it would be on a sidewalk
in 32 colors
i would be *****
and you would be laughing

darling, admittedly i love you
let me turn this lamp on
how antithetical to creeping
it is always done in the dark
isnt it?
this is your domain
not mine
did you see that one where
i was butting heads with galactic?
wowwsers
you creep so hard darling
you inspire deja vu
it requires me sitting down
to regain the notion
we cant be separated
i mean
you will stop holding my hand
when you relieve yourself
and ill stop holding you
when youre too raw to even think about
this isnt even a poem
its a rant
i should re-title
this *******
BLUE *****: the story of....
[puke]
this has turned to ****.
i quit

I paused
On the road to pick those wildflowers
Yeah I stopped
ill indignantly pluck
roaming buds for you
without warning

here
hold these

I paused then too
When I tried to kiss you
And that show was playing
Stars and septette timelines
im sorry you were saying some-thin
but look
shhhh
grab my hand

I paused
before grinned
that round-toothed smile
you so love
or at least write about

i paused to look at you
to smell you one more time
before opening the window
and then again
when the window didnt matter

when "full on" was a demand
when you asked me more questions
when we fought about our limits

ill pause
because i have to
bring you back to
we imagine
careen and just not crash

somersaults and strobe lights

were pausing
for a moment
to change each other
who COULD like this

i wont lie about it
im begging
on two knees

it started as a mean joke
i pray that it ends as no suicide letter
i mean
this poem will self destruct

pause at JUST the right second

over the phone you might think me
a kindhearted metro-****** with a deep voice
that lilts and appropriately pitches
to accommodate your ear
and manipulate your conception of me
so that you wont put a frowney face
nested in the message that im leaving
for someone else
above any "i" that might appear

but this vocal spirit only disguises
the less-than-cheeerful demeanor
with which i walk around
when i deftly cut of all communication
with the people that need me to be
something that makes them feel better
not only about my person
but humanity as a whole too

i have a
love hate relationship with phone voice
it often feels like im acting
i wrote and approved a script
where a melancholy person pretends
to be the most pleasant thing
that you have ever known

"yes, HULLLOOO! im looking to leave a message for
....[puke in mouth] heather"
and when that dreadful experience
wains and vanishes
i light another cigarette
slam down a shot glass
and growl
ghrryeeeeaaaaah

me again
***** with tobacco stained fingers
happy [through ingestion]
but still not that person
never phone voice happy

i leaned to smoke
from film noir
the gritty grey frames
i first saw in cloudy rooms
completely antithetical to the vibrant blockbusters
from my childhood

if i can afford it
i still buy a non-filtered soft-pack
and puff them
three puffs just before
anything is inhaled
mostly for effect
drama

but when i cant
i just think of bogart
tear the filter off
and proceed

but it was never
so much about the act
drawing in a cloud
of overly-processed plant matter
but about the etiquette

if you have ever burned down
something without cotton
you know it is certainly a messy ordeal
but what hepburn and tracy taught
what grant and cagney spoke
with their actions of course
is that there is a reason to this madness

i practice
and i try to teach
that this is an elegant process

while taking in a deep breath
of something
you arent encouraged to love
without any health benefits
simply out of a base habit
some of that **** is going to get in your mouth

it may taste bitter too,
depending on how your buds are aligned,
but grow up
you cant keep just spitting where
other people will soon walk

they never did that
my heroes
instead
they stuck out
the tip of their tongue
pursed their lips
as the face made by
a baby on a commuter rail
staring at you
and you echo back
with a tiny poke
of your front 10000 buds
mostly for spectacle

and when that teensy bit emerges
within or without the train
you have to gently pick
with the forefinger and the thumb
the infinitesimal bits
resting at the tip
pluck them away
rub those two finger together
and pretend
that youre only smoking

and
if you arent looking closely enough
ill tell you
things are turning back into grey
and you turn RIGHT back into
the misogynist you hated
but emulated

youre still smoking though
handing out smokes in fact

holding up "the walls of jericho"
laughing at those
who dont know how
to fold a sheet

oh. but i pledge to quit
and you to change
and us to bond
and my smokes to wain

this isnt about the filter-less
that i had at 3am
its about what i commit
and what you
can respond with
how this can work
and the etiquette necessary

let me
let me
pick the fleck from the tip
of the teasing tongue
just for you
and you tell me
when i have something
in the place that
used to be my mustache

i curse myself
for the anxiety
i feel for those near
chomping
crystalline version of that
which makes us up
the cold that kills
or at least affirms death

for the stress
felt for the tears
shed
in times when i am away
or at least when
were apart
pulled in all directions
disoriented

for the swears
i murmur chilled
leaning
from the window
and the cold May breeze
blows back in
last weeks last smoke
two years ****** growth
can no more capture
the shameful smell

for the death
that arrives on my door
sandwiched
between what i need to leave
and what can open doors
door stop wedged firmly
needs to be withdrawn
call it what it is
ego

the curse
that lies between
choice observation and opportunity
im teaching myself
to ignore and adopt
curl up next to
failure finality
and future
without regret

regret?
to spit in its face
arms akimbo
nose neptunes way
grinning
and i pray
holding your hand

i cant write when im angry
it makes the meat melt
and the gristle grow
into something that i need
to spit out

these are always the shortest
because the causal cooings
shift ****
to a place where i understand

but that doesnt mean
i have to like it
nothing of the sort
nothing is more disgusting
nothing rings more true
than fury

i cant read
so i just write
i quickly become tired
with your work
i would much rather pace
wear down the blades of grass
in the familiar place

i cant read
because while the graces of poets
philosophers
and scholars
make pretty the page
syllables dancing
atop meticulously pressed parchment
while this happens
through their beauty
i only think of you

toss the tome aside
and imagine all the ways
i can express
the things that capture and drag
the fingertips to their home
back to the place where i feel full
loved and laughed at
where i carouse and cherish

this was never about the "reads"
never about the ratio
of lit to likes
it was only ever about me writing
you love letters every day
ten max though

fact is, half of these *******
scrawlings these
are returned to sender
but crying alone
is far better than pretending
pretending you were never upset
and begging for something you need
begging doesnt only work if there is a listener

i cant read
i cant read our future
i cant give you house keys
a front or back yard
a cat box
a leash

i cant read
i write.
all 106 of them
garbage some think
but its garbage
i sealed with tears
and stamped with a kiss
spritzed with cologne
(if i wore it)

i cant read
star charts
memos
concert bills
calendars
no parking signs
or the expressions of cats

but i can write
pour out every guttural spasm
scribble every inspiration
leer and laugh toward
a glowing screen
mute and accepting
of the drivel banged out below it

i cant read
i can write things though
some things
good things
things

see what i mean??
i cant even write.
"things
good
things"
hay-seuss x-mas!

lets stare upward
facing the new constellations
i splattered on the ceiling
glowing specks to fascinate us
while we are here
dark early and silent

playing footsies
i caress you
big toe to pinky
slow and sighing all the while
the deep
im so in love with you sigh

i meditate
and you meander
your fingers across you
and then me
raising every pore and follicle

its night but we arent dreaming
and no
not even really playing
just being mostly
nocturnal

i swear to god
swear it wasnt me
i was here the whole time
holding your hands
im innocent

well
now that you mention it
i might have something to tell you
**** more things than SOMEthing
i lied

ill try not to take that tone
should i whisper it
i mean i kind of need to
after all that yelling

forget i said anything
lets just act like adults about this
heres all the terrible things
puke on the page

you know,
if you ate better
you might not get so sick in the *future

not till the blinds shone brilliant light stripes
on the filth smudged walls
did i consider sleep an option

put down the bottle
its too bright for whiskey
here, i cant hit this again

ill just lay here and wrestle the covers
thinking but not dreaming
of nothing other than you

if you were here im sure
you could talk me down
sssssssshhhhh me till im gone

if you think that i cant hear you
youre probably right
im dreaming again
and youve lost your voice
for the fifteen-millionth time
youre acting like youre screaming
and i have my hands cupped around my ears

and when yelling turns you off
you walk away
and im the *** with his hands on his ears

chase after you
with a pad and a pen
write something down instead
but i lost my pen
and my pad is covered
in doodles of zombies

the curb is no better friend
no worse either
as cold and as hard
as my attempts with you
and your response

and THATS why people learn sign language
for dreams mostly
i have never even tried while sleeping
and if i did im sure that it would be offensive

the more that i think of it
i think that a hug would have sufficed
pluck one of your hairs
and tie it to my sleeve button hole
for it to wag alongside me
as i get back curb-side

ill be the guy wearing the...
nothing
reading poetry by street lamp light

i know
i know
black tank top
see you soon