The forever-stench of hoboken
The most composed... undress
Loosened to a senseless smirk
Keep walking...
The prettiest eyes droop to a cool low
Posture is hard to keep with them shots!
Keep walking...
Messaging another senseful planet the boring absurdity of now
Watch your step!
Her fine italian dinner is inches away
Or is it fine thai...
It's vulgarity kills any sense of definition
Uh oh... now there are more puddles!
Keep away from those leaking lakes
Of sushi... sashimi... heineken... absolut!
Absolutely acceptable in this town!
Come on! We're almost out of it
Out of the town we were once so happy to visit just a couple of hours ago
When everyone was efficient, and not venturing *****
When communication wasn't fogged, but clear and easy
When men didn't dress like 14 year old boys trying to score at a house party
And women didn't give away their IQ so easily, heads slightly bent forward with a lack of direction
Maybe it was home, maybe it was danger, maybe it was fun
The zombie within arose with a wretched stench of alcohol
Yet this will never stop selling
People are sold this "treasure" of acceptance, rank, a strong sense of esotericism, all lies
Yet in reality, they are simple facades, regular people like you and me.
O Hoboken, you stink

a man stopped by today.

he worse sunglasses, shorts,
a loose, breathable button-up,
and open-toed shoes.

he asked to come in and
I let him. he complemented
the living room and the
kitchen.

“what a look. so different
from all those California
shacks back home.”

“California?” I said,
“you’re far away
from home.”

“oh, I’m closer than
you’d think.”

what he lacked in formality
he made up for in mystery.

he asked me where he was,
he seemed to be lost.

“Atlanta” I said.

“where you headed?”
I added, after a
pause.

“oh, nowhere.” he said,
“just thought I’d get my
bearings.”

he let himself out then,
leaving me with only
that.

at a fox mouth doe neck limp hangs broken
particularly distinct of living discernible
its red mouth slavors upon neat feminine
tidy meek destroyed foam and spittle flecked
in the deep of under trees a sliver of fast fur
'gainst darkest eaves protrudes its body sleek
again to amongst furtive gesture of motions
inclined to eating innocent girl things

*******,
hoes,
crazy,
*****.

Catch me on a friday night,
and I might
say them all.

But what I say
and what I feel
is a different
thing.

Because *******,
hoes,
womps,
don't have vocabularies
like boulders.

They can't destroy.

And with a new mindset,
I can say
a few things.

A ***** is a girl
without hope.

A ***
is a girl
that likes ****
and doesn't
like
love.

A crazy one
is a girl that gets by.

A ****
is a girl
that doesn't know the difference
between the three
and operates
on a thin line;
because *******
have treated her like ****
and no new ******
can make her think
any different.

But a girl,
alas
a
girl.

A girl
is full of love
and platitudes.

A girl
has her hands
on your heart
all the time.

She has a vocabulary
and says **** a Webster's
because she's got a new dictionary
that didn't even exist
before she let it out her mouth.

A girl
makes you re-define
the word
love,
with all its
futile resentment
and
disenchantment,
because she'll keep you coming
back
for more,
even as she says
"no,
you're talking crazy,
you gotta
go."

So trust me when I say this,
I could **** with a girl's head before,
but this girl
she's maneuvered me into thinking
about how ****** up
I
really
am.

And that's as smart
as
I've
ever
been.

.                                                                                            i
                                                                                               have stood in right fields
                                                                                                 looking thickly dark up
                                                                                                   at sky blue sun cloud and
                                                                                                      ***** steeply careening night
                                                                                                        digging little graves
                                                                                                           a 1000 1000 little graves
                                                                                                          burning tiny tombstones
                                                                                                         and keen with every hair
                                                                                                        on end lifting up my eyes
                                                                                                       to fornicate with the dainty
                                                                                                      fraction of frailing day's
                                                                                                     curving head
                                                                                                   i
                                                                                        drank
                                                                            of its corpse
                                                                         and was like
                                                            living and unliving
                                                flesh bone *** and magic
                                                  of dust and salt tasting
                                                     wind by the elbows
                                                     of incessantly skin
                                                   ocean stars spring
                                                    (and winter was
                                                   there but barely
                                             and it was almost
                                         warm and i pulled
                                       the loose leather of
                                         my jacket a little
                                        and
                                              





                                            )

that anyone could make me feel naked in
suspense, a need to curl my fingers? I'll remind myself
that I need my bed rest, that I need
the thing that heals, that I need
anything at all is too much, it's too
tedious to need, I won't admit to
it, most of the time I won't.

groaning grows from the throat,  trickling down,
my voice isn't sweet like honey,
but more harsh harsh harsh in ways like
dry swallowing big pill after pill after pill.

the ends of my fingers are beams, they are brightest
when I touch the space between me and
the space between you and the soft space
left after drinking what we
bottle
up,

every time
every time.

“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins