I think often. It's a habit I can't seem to break like a gambler with his gambling and a priest with boys' knees or what brands red A's on our chest. I think we're a bit too trusting and I know we're a tad naive. I think it's best we love each other from the safety of three feet. This finite planet and our infinite greed pair up wondrously said the axeman to the tree.

The world that has made us has gone from a fine fitting coat to an ugly old shoe. We say we've outgrown, but what of the sea? Let's poison it. What of the the ice caps? Let 'em melt like a bowl of forgotten ice cream on my coffee table. I have more important things to devour. Gotta run, culture's waiting.

So I follow the rabbit down the hole wait I stop! Curiosity killed the cat I bought with a two dollar bill my grandmother gave me as payment the first time I cleaned that labyrinth of a cellar beneath her house: musty, dark, repressive I thought I was inside of my ten year old self then through the dark I can hear a rustling, "God?" I plead, my hands clutching the windex. No answer, there never is so I head into the shadows when I see the rabbit and this time I bolt for the hole but my head hits a wall. I concluded that life was a cruel joke as cynicism ensued.

I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't dance, couldn't sing because boys like girls, and girls like boys and boys don't cry, but I cry. As does the gambler and the priest and the woman on the horizon. I could have bet it was an angel and the gambler, he did. She steps into the reef and we hear her song and I know that she's me and I'm him and he’s all of us and the reef is that cruel joke I learned in the basement chasing rabbits but it's awful pretty from here is a warning to you when you think God is dead and death is synonymous to halt:

I'll swim inside this reef 'til the day I die. Water slipping through my fists and I'm yelling no I'm whispering no one's got a verb for trying to help. Water's to my neck but I'm not stopping. The coral ends here where I can finally sink sink sink my body in the trenches, spread a dustier me across the oceans, fill Earths' blood, a mass of veins and rocks and steel blemishes with my own maze of veins and thoughts and inauthenticity…


♐ ♐ ♐


Bury me naked cause where they say we're all headed headed it's gonna be hot hot hot like a medics sweat dripping down his nose as he beat beat beats on her chest but she's too big to get through. Too big, too fat Lady Liberty's choking on fries we're the world's laughing stock, the UN's singing jest for me, jest for me, jest at Mother Nature's giving way to political pressure same as Gods giving way to backwater pleasure and curses, a moment of weakness but 14 billion years? He’s old.

It's 2011 and more people hate hate hate from pin ****** in the ocean spewing bile in the deep, now whose fault is that, really? We're all shallow like my lagoon, my tropical retreat where there's no oil. No God. No smiles or tears. Can't sing, can't dance...can only be me. Who's gonna say that they're one in the same? Heaven's not a cloud and Hell's nicer than you think and I do. I think often.

I've heard that wakefulness is life.

That hearin' and seein'
and feelin' a'tastin' and touchin'
are living all the same.

I've heard that to bear one's heart is above all deeds.

He said,
"The world's built for cynics, don't say such things. I'd spit on an ant just to sit and watch it drown before I'd share a picnic crumb with an ant who can't swim."

I'm not a heavy sleeper,
I don't spend much time shot puttin' a'careenin'
through nighttime and midday naps.

I think it's hard to bear one's heart.

I hope that someday my son has a branch outside his window.
And that at night it will whip o' wind
and scratch a'scrapin' at his window
and his call will bring me in to bear my heart.

And that the person I first love will walk out the door,
intent to leave me forever, just so I can run after them.
In a sprint to hailing cab to feet on airport linoleum I won't dare say,

"Come back."

No, I'll be a'whisperin' sayin',

"I don't care where that plane's going as long as I'm going there with you."

In the terminal I'll run in to bear my heart.
I guess at the bottom of it all I just want to bear my heart.

I've heard that wakefulness is life
and that the sleeping are not living.

Nor a'dying buyin' time in nonexistent shot putt courts
where they aim for dreams within their dream.
The sleeping are surely always dreaming. But wakefulness is life.

I would love to learn how to waltz before I die
because that will make my dance into the ocean
that much more unbelievable, remarkable, dramatic.

I'll be most endearing as I move against the tide twirling with oxygen
as my beautiful partner; she acts with finesse and is unbending in the moonlight,
predicting my next moves and graces into the ice cold dark of the sea.

The water is soft and encouraging at first, supporting my moves without question.
As it deepens to my legs then chest then chin it fights my gentle rhythms with ferocity
Oxygen keeps dancing on the surface. Why won't she keep dancing with me?

She bids me àdieu rather harshly as my head finally goes under,
and the music blaring from my phonograph on the shore is drowned out.
I hear the rushing of a billion bubbles, yet my open eyes see only black.

What was once a dance is now a march without beat as I continue ahead
the iron shackles I wrapped my legs with seem to be the only glint of light
in the shades of blue that ought to be black that envelope all of my sight.

When the music died my will to ended as well.
I want nothing more than to drink tea on my patio
my record player off the shore and near to me.

I wretch and I turn, my eyes set direct on the surface
where I see the moon filled to brimming with jade milk.
I reach to the greened moon, but never come back up.

Stars a'spanglin' across them blue-dye skies,
them mid-night-summer-night none too bright
starred out janglin'– O' them blitzin' skies.

"Hey. Would ya look in that westward?
That western, he's too bored to breathe."

Fire's a'preyin' here nightly. Owl feathers and the soot.
I call crab-apples applied science. Red shone blue by the water.
I'm sayin' don't tread lightly when there's snow underfoot.

"You gotta breathe it if you ain't playin'.
Gotta be sure, be assuring you're right."

Feelin' some skin by the waterside! Them ditches all dug so deep–
Gonna feel it out, all clamorin' with a'drummin' hearts by the ditch.
Majesty, majesty, majesty. Aubergine, neigh. O' Sanguine, you keep.

"I'll mark you.
You mark me."

What a deed by the ditch– skin!
Yea to that red, hot and lit and all a'dangerin'.
O' burning, blood beating–
Embers a'glowin' now. Tobacco's back to bein' lit.
Skin singes and I'll scab up.
I cross'd them arms by that ditch. Waters be dark.
All them remedies be done.

It is windy.

"This whole day has been turbulent,"
I think as we make our way down the beach.
It is a day so warm you can feel the heat
burning dumbly off of the sand itself.

And yet the day was cold.

The wind whips my bangs into eyes,
an obvious strike of envy at their brilliant blue
or a strike of malice at my incredulous conceit.
I whine on about my needs, my hopes, myself.

And yet you never seemed cold.

The wind does not whip your marinara hair
rather yet the frame of your face floats, glides,
drifting in the colorless jealousy of the wind.
The tide is rising and we are being cut off.

Urgency, urgency. The wind is jealous.

We walk and talk and sing and hold hands
and all seems well for a few moments.
And in those precious seconds where our worries are lost
the dear ravaged wind dies down, then back, then down again.

Urgency, urgency. The wind is dying.

It's true,

I think you've forgotten
how to skip rocks
so as not to have them

sink

into that murky, swampy
artificial lake that crosses
beneath the railroad tracks.

down

beneath the tracks there is
nothing but muck and a few
corpses weighted with stones.

below

the corpses at the bottom,
their faces twisted with
decomposition, there is

earth's

body for miles and miles, and only
a little patch of Hell deep down.
The rest of it is has seeped onto the

surface.

Just look at the city and talk to the people.
If this is not Hell, and these are not demons
then did we ever really have anything to fear

after all?

You said you hated me.

We could have been the most beautiful pair in the whole town.
You could have had the moon.

Just be cautious: porcelain shatters with ease.

And when you were happy you would be very happy.
I would wrangle in each and every thing that you desired.

Every thing is not every one.

And when you were sad I would press your eyes into my shirt.
Please stain my sleeves with your tears, warm my arm with your sobbing.

I think your tears are painfully beautiful.

And when you were angry, I would never leave.
I would listen, empathize, and always care. But never leave.

Unless you asked me to.

And when you were sick I would mend you to health.
I would travel to the ends of the globe to find a cure.

To keep you alive.

And when you were tired I could carry you.
It would be an honest trip from the sofa to the bedroom.

I'd lift you like air, so you would never wake up.

And when you were high I would never let you come down
until every thought had been traced ten times.

Every inch had been touched twice.

And when you were drunk I would hold your hair
as you empty into the porcelain.

I would marvel at how the moon was not marred.

And when you said you hated me
I would leave to make you happy.

I left to make you happy.

And if you died,
I'd die too.

And that's all I have to say about that.

"I went back home when things got ugly."
O' things be a'gettin' uglier-ugly these days.
These days spent slipping into subtle sub-absurdities.
These days spent alone with the maimed voices of vocal minds.

I caught a ratta-boar-ship sailin' across the mellow seas.
Its engine burned on days past and the trimmings of willow trees.
Oil pools and plumes. How all colors do break!
Tongue-in-cheek statements cross my illogical state.

I’m all a’breakin’ down on these dead-leaf mounds.
The rabbit breaks swiftly at the neck without sound.
I pledge fanfare to the reeds in the marshes between woods.
Aye, this confidence had been borne of harshness, all raked.

You line'd and fume'd– body and mind and breath.
Yea, my love burns long before fleeting into death.
Spin some honey in mud, them lies are laced with truths.
Honey hunted down from them hives all exhumed.

I exclaim, for I know.
Facts gathered from sea-salt snows
were read concisely and plain.
One must share what one knows:

This craft berates waves.
So intent on indexing all of those days.
Such absurdity. How vexing.
Confusion! Confusion! So bent and off-putting.
‘Twas Confusion who first sank in simple, mud-less footing.
Her clumsiness could not be stayed, nor postponed or ever-praised.
No, not by slipshod attempts at brewing a lightly-dark grey.
Spare drops a'dribblin' 'round the base of the water tower.
Shadows of clouds with night approaching by the hour.
Knocks a’rappin’ on a door hung without hinges.
Stomachs full of hunger. Hearts fearing blood.
Lungs on smoke-binges. Forest fires during floods.
My body's burnt-out on them rank soul-singes.
Confusion bating breath through chapped-lip fringes
whilst catching fish without string.
As the sun at dawn and the moon at dusk,
steam rises when eyes have been cast far from us.

Waters be a'ripplin' beneath your trudge-boots.
In the marshes makin' movements in the moonlight.
Only patience will bring the sunlight.
"I’m raking harshness in the morning."

We should be finished by next fall. Last autumn was a good time and I hear history repeats itself. Sleeping under trees, smoking Lucky Strikes and tending to our hobbies. Lackadaisically bent over antediluvian scrapbooks, I hear this winter's to melt into a flood. The ark is under way, we should be finished by next fall.

It was something in the calm drift of the clouds or the tick-tick of the water meter. There was us and then there was them. We were flushed, the world was bluffing. There was us:

Deep breath.

We were the lost children roaming 'round Cair Paravel; the boxed kit youth unboxing on a caravel watching hypnotic YouTube videos and firing fire out of firewood; that was when I fell. Beside the flames under cover of conversation of God and Hell and all the proper nouns that we fear so much. But fires burn out, so let's be civil. We should be finished by next fall.


But how can I be civil when I hope that your spit flies back in your face; that when you flick your wrist, your muscles tear because I've torn too. It's torn past the heart into my legs, immobile, and my arms, useless. These hands are cramped and shredded; scraps and pieces and bits, drill bits carving their way in. You carved your way in. They say an animal in a tailor-made niche is an animal in a found home. So carve away, carver, we should be finished by next fall.

This was the tree I first slept beneath.

It was summertime then, when
nights were warmed by hot breezes
and spritzing sodas were the drink of choice.

She could overthrow a king with the fall of her leaves.

These leaves fallin’ a’briskin’ the air
hung-hangin’ leaves in air cold and frozen—
iced off leaves hangin’ a’swayin’ like a gallow’d man.

Now she is gold and old and losing leaves.

These leaves crinkle like foil
snap, crunch, crinkle
Oh I do hope they are ok.

I pray that Winter will be good to her.

They say it will be a cold one,
I think to myself as I rest against her.
The air smells spiced and dry.

I hope she will be ok.

"I expected better from you..."

She has a way of making me feel like a real man,
as she plants her legs across my chest
and whispers into my ear,
her tongue inches from my face
inches from my mouth
feet from where I want her to be.

My eyes close as she drapes her tongue over mine
I feel into her cheek and a nausea rises.
You tasted like coconuts and your hands were rough as sand.
I love the beach.
She tastes like picnic sandwiches and her hands feel like cold rubber.
I love the beach.

And, "If only, if only!" the Red Rover would cry
we played all the day and I had fun with her.
But I could only have fun playing with you.
And how desperately, suddenly ******
the press of my teeth had become
as I realized we are picnicking still.

I let my mind wander.
Kissing is a sport for the focused and lonely.

"...they say you're the best."

I want to go for a walk at night.

We can listen for frogs near lakes
or
crickets in meadows
or
bears in the mountains.

Cars in the city.

Then we will come across a dock on the lake
or
a patch in the meadow
or
a tree in the mountains.

My room in the city.

California isn't so far.

Kiss me.

The world isn't that big.

I say, status seems pychic– How! Za-zoo! And how!
O' that brain be electric as a buzz!

I'm all a'fixin' to be boxed.
These joints are a'sprainin–
Winter wind snakes done
constricted and strainèd.

Out of place. Almost out of time, I swear:
Never enough place, barely enough time.

Korean girl's all a'watchin' to see
how I sip hot tea... Out! Get out!
I got them delusions, deliriums–
All's done. I'm diluted, sayin':

“Medicine for my grievin'–
Aye, my confidence has been gone.
Never did speak of leavin'–
I met him at the ditch at dawn.”

And left unsaid was better yet,
coos all a'whisperin' by waters.
Water's runnin' thin now.
Creek's gone, ran dry.
He's a man of stature,
he can't just go!
Anthills and ant
burrows 'neath
sands gone mad–
O’ bore teeth! Yea!
Where's the meter
meeting the rhyme
when your bliss'd
metronomicist
loses pace
and dies?
Slows
and slows
and slower yet
his heart does beat
and the last of his words
do run across his teak frame:

“O' bore teeth!
Bearing ‘em all;
All is a'grinding!”

It’s but a machine to keep one’s rhythm,
to help one maintain the desired beat.

She kisses me on the forehead.
I return the gesture on her cheek.
He whispers to me through darkness:
“There are many worlds we’ve yet to see.”

It is thoughts like that which grant me focus.
Where all’s good and wishes, like prayers, be lent.

My thoughts lag behind, weighted by you.
I strain them through hot water for tea.
She watches as I drink. I waited for you–
Drank it by the ditch in the morning.

I fend off these demons in the courtyard.
Winter spells done summoned my greyest thoughts.

Here all's good! Yea, all be lent–
I tacked your name to the corkboard.
Alas, none was meant for you–
I fend off thoughts in the courtyard.

O’ that mind be broken, still-painted grey!
Not much I can do but keep the winter at bay.

There are some nights when I lay awake,

staring at the darkness of my room,
so dark that my eyes cannot adjust
and it is as black as the base of a stone labyrinth.

When I lay awake and pray and dream and hope
that there will be days in our future that we spend together.

Days when it is just you and me.
When we run barefoot in the sands of some faraway beach,
farenoughaway that all of our problems will be in the past.

In the distant memories of the mountains.

I promised myself. I met you and I did everything I could to bring you down, to break your obvious beliefs in your beauty. I worked and worked to get you to feel like ****, so that I saw you as nothing but a filthy little ****. An average adolescent marring the face of society. I assumed you knew you were flawless. I mean, how could you not? Look at you! Listen to you! Listen to me. I promised myself I would not let this happen.

But it happened. That’s what I keep telling myself: It. Just. Happened to be the right things you said to get me feeling this way. How you asked me simple questions and actually cared about the answer. Cared about me. But I just kept whispering, “He’s nothing, he’s nothing, he’s nothing but the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Brad, you can not **** this up.”

Yet here I am. Sitting in this archaic basement, listening to your words as they shift my views. Listening to my heart as it beats ever faster. The drugs in my veins urge me, they beg me to pull you in. To show you how much I care for you, how many questions I can ask and actually listen for the answer. Tell me it all. My hands glide behind your head and I lean in. Inches away, you whisper, “I’m in love with her.”

My head shifts to make this almost-kiss an always-hug. Her. The girl that makes you happy. That fair creature with her carcinogenic cheeks and strings of average hair. Her bountiful mind of average thoughts. Her average *******. I can’t be that, not for anyone. Not even for you.

You ask me what to say. How to tell someone you are in love with them. So I speak, your arms wrapped around me in the pale darkness of my eyelids. I tell you everything I have wanted to say. I give my speech that I have prepared in the lonely darkness of my room, or in the nights spent staring at you as you sleep beside me. I tell you I love you.

The saturated lights of reality bleed in as my eyes hesitantly open. “Well spoken, Brad,” you whisper in my ear, right in my ear. Your breath is warm, and I want it. Your pulse is slowed, I have to raise it. Your mind is made, and I can never change it. So I give you an always-hug, and imagine that never-kiss.

“Tell her that,” I say, “And there’s no way in hell she can turn you down.”

i am very very sad.

and when i am very very sad

all i want are flowers

because flowers are pretty

and dont care to know it