Earth's lower mantle
is composed of magnesium iron silicate.
The lower mantle is 2000 kilometers thick,
so magnesium iron silicate makes up 38 percent
of the Earth's entire volume
leaving it the most common of our minerals

but You,
You are not magnesium iron silicate.
You are painite, our rarest kind of mineral.
You are painite reflecting all that is good and bright in the world.

this is a fine morning and the man in the bathroom mirror smiles
though he admittedly isn't the friendliest person but honestly
he seemed genuinely glad to be awake and alive on such an Autumn day
with the birds chirping and the window near the kitchen slightly ajar
allowing safe passage to a nice chill breeze. he finds the cat up as well
meowing "Good morning!" cheerfully and innocently in its tiny cat voice
and he chuckles and meows back in the most accurate manner available.
on the kitchen table there's a mug of coffee, the newspaper rolled like a cigar,
a plate of waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs and powdered happiness which
the man gobbles wholeheartedly while reading the day's fresh headlines:
President Declares Peace on Earth, Local Man Defeats Dog - Gives Too Many Treats,
Cop Buys Medical Lemonade From Child's Lemonade Stand, World Hunger Exterminated...
permitting the felines to rule our existence was truly the best of ideas!

the other day i sat alone having lunch in a McDonalds.
i found the Big Mac enjoyable and the wedge fries good enough
but what i truly loved was the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry.
actually, that's a half-lie because the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry
wasn't the only thing i truly loved from that McDonalds lunch.
when i was McSpooning the creamy goodness using my left hand,
the hand that should be reserved for ice cream related endeavors,
this girl wearing a polka-dot dress and a beret came in, stood in line,
and i heard her order: Big Mac, wedge fries and an Oreo McFlurry.
she anxiously tapped her right foot, the foot that should be reserved for tapping,
and i felt love for the first time in months. i didn't know her but i was in love.
it was the kind of momentary love developed for strangers that makes you think:
"****. I wish we could sit together in silence at a McDonalds, mouths full,
eating Big Macs, wedge fries and McFlurries being the envy of McDonalds residents."
and then the stranger asks for her order to go and the universe collapses.
the momentary love begins fading slowly and the fantasy is enveloped by greasy fast food smells.
reality is a *****, girl in the polka-dot dress and beret.
it's been 5 minutes since you left. i miss you.
it's been 10 minutes since you left. i've tried forgetting you.

From the cabin near the stream I'll witness the atom bomb fall.
I'll wave a hand: "goodbye, trout neighbors." Flip off the bears.
The Cubs are **** and so is deep dish pizza but the trouts,
the neighbors, they've never hurt me, and now we'll flop on
the mushroom cloud grill, and so why shouldn't we say so long?

on this october night, while i ponder on the crisp toilet seat
and feel my body shiver from the awful lack of heat,
one single ****, compact and long, from my ******* falls,
and into then rank toilet water it splooshes and splashes.
on the porcelain i clench my feet and moan, it echoes through the halls,
my *******, it burns! (lo, how it burns!) as if a ***** went in full with scratches.
how i pray to God Almighty, "forgive me Lord for I have sinned",
in this ****** place i sit aroused and weary, The light is dimmed,
from the corner of my eye, my end nigh: i sigh, Lord. i sigh!
the toilet paper is gone, i cannot handle the vapor (nor my **** gaper).

Mercilessly attacking the wall
forehead front bashing back and forth

What does this mean
this open ravine into nowhere
nowhere where the darkness lives
here i am knocking against my skull
opening windows of my skull
asking screaming and asking
what does this mean
and the voice out in the void
it answers and calls me a fraud
what does this mean

Mercilessly attacking the wall
forehead front bashing back and forth

The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.

Stranger things have come and passed
than dreams of you and I amassed
huddled above a rainy moon, umbrella,
waltzing to an angel's choir sung a cappella,
but there we were **** and arm in arm
protected by love from any and all harm,
so when our lips did touch a silence crept,
even God's help knowing our coming end wept.

It is.
Out the back door
into the woods.
Running
free to live with
its own cold kind.
Love it?
Then let it go.
I love you but
I wouldn't
let you go. Oh
absolutely,
I couldn't.

There's a million surprises
hidden in a magician's hat.

Million and one:
we hid her body inside.

I will soon devour the sun
on my quest to become
the brightest thing
this side of the galaxy.

I never did trust this goldfish
while typing.

Its bulging eyes scream spy,
and I won't have it escape,
tell people from wrong crowds
about these secret writing projects.

Circling its crystal bowl,
this goldfish is mine.

A political prisoner
with no chance at pardon.
Call Amnesty International
or protest, I don't care.

It knows too much
to swim in freedom.

(Eventually)
Death will be its liberator:
Its body glistening in the sundown
during the proposed viking funeral;

secrets kept secret.

Coke holiday commercials got me drinkin',
New Years day, expect to pass a kidney stone.

Santa got us workin' in the cold,
not a single fireplace in that **** factory.

He don't even feed us:
we eats polar bear leftovers,
penguin flesh and such.

Ask for a break and get stomped
by reindeers and such.
not a day of vacation, not a one.

The houses be made o' candy
but we ain't got no dental either,
so eatin' that would **** us.

This fat white ape is a bad bad man,
lord ain't that the truth,
ol' Saint Nick is a total ****.

There's a mouse in my room,
she's silver and white,
mom's chased it with a broom
and the fella's put on a fight.

From the kitchen KABOOM
did shout one cold Christmas night,
dad was the bringer of doom,
he and his shotgun's great might.

Turns out our little mouse
slept in our house

with her husband and kid
but hungry they came unhid

by father's twitchy right eye
so they met his gun and goodbye,

our mouse friend is forever now
a lonely Christmas night widow.

Another bowl of chili!
Another!
Hit me!
Oh.

Tongue burnin' belly shriekin'!
Don't stop now.
Hit me.
Oh.

........what happened, doll face? Chili?
I fainted?
Spicy?
Oh.

There's very little to do
on a morning like this
except perhaps complain
about everything around.

How:

The sun is too bright,
the sky is too blue.

Newspaper says Congress
isn't doing much for the country
but it's the President's fault.

How:

the clouds are so bloated,
the birds are so loud.

And where are those **** glasses?
And where are those papers?
And where is the pen?

The pen is out of ink.

Step on a Lego.
Yell at the wife.

80 killed in bombings across
far away desert land but no worry,
they were most likely terrorists.
Most likely.

Mail's here and the dog is barking
at a guy earning minimum wage.
Why care? He brought bills.

Who will save the world?
No one. Not this morning.

Son is graduating high school soon.
University costs more than a Ferrari.
Costs rising. More bills. More debt.

Breakfast is ready.

How:

the eggs are bland,
the toasts are cold.

The bacon is greasy,
the hashbrown is burnt.

How:
How:
How:

Maybe in the evening a bomb will drop.

"Did you hear about the neighbors?"
"No, hon."
"It's bad. They -"

How:

the tree is bending,
the wind is howling,

somewhere else.

...Because if somehow, somewhen,
magic pixie dust fell,
covering you from head to toe,
and you began rising up up up,
off to Neverland,
the first thing I'd grab onto,
is the ****.
And you'd be saved.
We'd be happy forever and ever,
or until our love grows cold,
we stop:
sleeping together, kissing, hugging, touching,
and the signature curves all over
on divorce papers at a balding lawyer's office.

Never did I trust goldfish when I was typing away.
Those bulging eyes say spy and I will not have this
animal escape when I'm not looking and tell someone
in the wrong crowd about my secret writing projects.
This goldfish,
circling this crystal bowl,
he is mine,
a political prisoner.
Call Amnesty International if you want but
there's no existing manner to free him.
Except death.
Then he will be given a proper viking funeral
and his body burnt in the glistening sundown.
Secrets kept secret.

there once was a nerd, in his pastime he led a pony herd and drank mountain dew while his patchy mustache grew, he fingered a bag or three of Cheetos and studied tuxedoes, but the point i try to point is the point that this nerd was a sir, true and fair, and how dare you put him, leave him, in the grim grim world of the friend zone?! now pick up your phone and call that mountain dew can armor wearing amour back into your life and be his wife because *** is only for the married.

Autobiographical fact:
The CIA trained me in covert Martian Martial Arts.

I am better than you.
My fists are weapons of mass destruction.
Boom. Bite the towel, I'm going in dry
like US planes all over Iraq.
Sadam ain't got nothing on me.
(I mean...
He had no weapons to begin with
but I'll **** Cheney his *** and yours too.)
UN Security Council say whut?!
That's what I thought.
-Mic drop-

I've discovered a new wonder,
one that from now on should become
part of a daily routine that's yet to be
prepared and laid out.
I've discovered the music the keyboard
plays while my Ritalin brain (all are one)
bullets through space and the
imaginary library up there with the floor
shelves. That's where I'll take the ambien
and loose control of what is happening
and slow slow slow
into the stopping stop stop
the train stops.
A whole scene to add every morning
These things are magnificent
and who cares losing a friend or two
over random fits of rage when
when you get to add this
to the morning afternoon night routine.
I Am A God. The only lesson this has taught me
and 3666 words an hour is too good a devilish thing
to pass by. I will continue and spiral.
Then the sleepy haze and the tripping morning
salutes.

it's necrophilia
but come on, professor! you
know that stuff is hot.

"Eee Eee" says the pink plastic rhino
melting onto the pavement
and so goes your childhood but
you must wonder who bought
that pink plastic rhino that shrieks
"Eee Eee" so loudly that nobody
hears it and why?

Boom.
There goes the neighborhood.
The trees, the house, the swings
and the pink plastic rhino
that so lively once "Eee Eee"d.

I'm sobbing into an empty cereal bowl of broken dreams

i don't know what it is about this airport,
maybe it's the fact that i've a plane waiting
to deport me back home for who knows how long
and this is something i don't want; home is a prison.
this airport is making me think,
what awaits after four hours is a return to bad things,
and maybe i should **** myself.
i've thought that an option for years,
it's there and most likely it'll happen in the future
but maybe i should speed up the process.

this isn't a poem.
this is me thinking out loud
into the ear of a paper.
this is me gathering
my thoughts
attempting
to make sense of this
overwhelming sadness
and desire to give up.

the three or five people that seem to care about me
live hundreds of miles away so for them, no matter
how much i want to do it, i can't **** myself because
they wouldn't hear of my death,
they wouldn't come to my funeral,
and it'd be like i'd disappeared without saying goodbye
which is the biggest crime and betrayal i could pull.
if i told them before hand they'd say anything to stop me
and i don't have the heart to listen to that.

i'm tired and i'm crumbling.
i'm not sure this is a life i want to pursue.
what's the point of it?
fighting with yourself
morning after morning for control.
that's no way to live.
and living for other people's sake
isn't quality either.

this isn't a poem and this isn't a suicide note
or anything of the kind. this is me letting it out
inside a ***** airport restroom stall crying once again
for the first time in what'll be many nights to come.

the paper is getting soggy and a thousand people
heading in every direction of every corner of the globe
stroll unaware outside. i suppose it's time to put the pen down
and leave.

good bye for now.
maybe next time we can write a poem together.

she was there the first time I tried hanging myself
from the ceiling fan in the comfort of my own room,
looking down at the red faced mess that wept on
the floor, daddy's leather belt tied around his neck,
a choking silence, a quiet wheezing, frustrating tears,
anger at another failure, head pounding, head screaming:
"You're not good enough! You're not good enough...!"
over and over again like a scratched record, needle on,
a ghostly hand, tattooed poems from pale shoulder to pale fingers,
reaching out at a limp hand, a gentle squeeze by winter's touch,
a crooked toothed understanding smile, paper eyes into tv static eyes,
rivers cascading down a rocky pimpled face, this was a surrender,
she knew, she'd so long ago surrendered herself, raised a white flag
on her own fortress of solitude, the life cooked out in a gas oven,
I was always a sinner though in no gods I've believed, and hell
I don't fear because hell is manmade, hell is here, hell is smirks,
hell is being mocked, hell is disappointing grades, hell is ripping the hairs
from my head in an attempt to replace pain, hell is grand, I felt it, she felt it,
and there is nothing after death and nothing is better than this nothingness,
seconds away from experiencing the soothing blandness of infinite zero
the belt collapsed on my weight and here I was and here she was, peering,
and though becoming a corpse didn't worry me, the following days did,
she comprehended, but for whatever reason she comforted me,
until dissipating back into her own tiny place on the bookshelf,
to live her lifelessness between the leafs of a book, leaving the broken me
to see another night, another sunrise, hiding the belt in father's dresser.

the moment I met you I ripped a hole through my chest 
looking for a beating heart to hand but the cavity was empty.

the wound didn’t seal and turned ghoulish with time,
rotting, spreading, like an obsidian cancer.

Sometimes you feel like a flower in a glass vase
decorating the center of a booth in a rundown diner
surrounded by coffee cup stains and burger grease
and accompanied by a hundred wearied faces
that come and pass, blurs in the middle of the night,
the fluorescent light of a single bulb that slowly burns out
the only shining source, mucky water your one food supply,
alone, carefully shriveling away forgotten, but other times
you're the diner, the trusty booth, a shimmering light
on a otherwise cavernous, empty road
in the middle of nowhere, a guardian,
always there waiting to help the exhausted
on their journey, wherever that may be.

If I were a tree,
I'd be a good tree.

Art is dead. Poor Art.
Poor Art's kids and wife.
Art, you will be missed.

you've left me breathless.
no, seriously,
you almost killed me once.

it happened about a year ago,
i was on my bed
and it was hot.
the kinda hot
that also makes it
difficult to breathe.
and i thought of you
and one thing led to another...
anyways,
i had tied a belt around my neck
to make it
as if you were really present
there in the hot hot room.
and the experience was A+
until i was almost there
at the finish line
and i couldn't get the belt off
and i rolled around on the bed
desperate for a way outta that mess.
i fell off the bed
onto those dusty floors i never sweep.
the belt buckle cracked.
so did my back but it was fine,
a bit sore though.
and then the race was finished
and the teammates
had shot outta the pen to celebrate.
and i'd run out of tissues.
i was crying.
it had been a terrifying thing
but for the second time in my short life
i'd felt like i loved someone.
of course
that wasn't true.
but it was a nice feeling.
one i'll never forget.
so thank you for all that.
(i bought a new belt later on
that week if you were wondering).

it rained for the first time in weeks today.
a much needed shower of cool water
that dropped on me coming outta class and
having left my umbrella at home and
requiring a washing due to P.E.
I ran through the crashing waterfalls with
tired legs, backpack bouncing on my spine. so
I got to the house in record time. like
Bolt speeding at the Olympic track I
won gold. But even though these shoes are ruined
let me tell you one thing:
I sure missed that ****** rain.

Alarm - 7:30AM
Gonna cook.
Eggs. Bacon.
Read the paper.
Jog in the park.
Be productive.
I'll... I'll...
***** it.
Alarm - Off.
Gonna sleep.

Soy milk and cereal in our underwear.
What a morning!

I still dream of you sometimes,
the same way I did before,
you choking me
and I turning
the color blue.
I dream it in 3rd person,
that hasn't changed at all either.
The cheap mattress,
dusty floor tiles,
and the belt grasped
tightly in your slightly small
hands, coiling it like a boa,
the fan spinning,
my head spinning,
all things spinning,
you strangling me, wickedly
smiling, laughing, you on me,
then I wake up,
no one is there,
but I'm still hard.

Normally this place is colder than a penguin's ****
But Holy Satan, it's steaming right now
And I'm sure it's not my cappuccino
Or the fact that i'm wearing a hoodie,
Must be (it is) the movement of your buttocks
Over there on the little wooden stage
That nobody uses except for sitting and
playing with those lame monster cards.
You and your friend, yeah, that one.
The girl that was on the table behind mine,
sneaking a peek at my iPad as it streamed
The Twilight Zone, the episode with the piano
That reveals what people hide in their souls
(****, lucky that isn't here or
They'd call the cops on me for
Like ****** assault or something),
Began twerking randomly when you called her
And are still going at it, as if you're telling her lessons,
And i'm sitting here pretending to be paying attention
To Rod Serling's monologue intro
When really i'm looking at that popping shake.
Holy Satan! "Control yourself" I think
"Oh what's that? I don't remember
Having a highlighter marker in my pants.
Oh ****, that's not it, ******* it."
And now you're showing your friend
How to seductively move that stomach,
This is bad (no, it's perfect),
You pulling your shirt up a bit
Above the belly button and doing that.
And how come i'm the only one here
Noticing this (besides your friends at the table).
I know the place is mostly empty but
It's a small space, it's easy to see this,
Yet these idiots are drooling over their
New Pokemon game; what the ******* hell?
When you've got the greatest show on campus
Going on right ******* there! I don't get it.
Am I like a perv or something? (Yes).
To the girl with the goddess body
Twerking all nerdishly and awesome
In the coffee shop:
Don't stop,
******* it.
Holy Satan,
Don't ever stop!

Fresh caught fish and chips
at the harbor side shop - fog.
Tourists' photograph.

i'm a loose hair on your diner scrambled eggs:
undesired.

I have eaten the last of the Corn Pops
and I feel like life no longer holds meaning .
Perhaps the calcium overdose from eating
a cereal box with a gallon of whole milk in 1 hour
will **** me and soon enough I'll never have
this empty lost feeling ever again.  
In other words... I'm still hungry.

our nearest Dennys
was shut down and we were drunk
so we crashed our car.

I'd finger you with
mozzarella sticks
any day or night.

such a greasy pan.
mornin' bacon sizzlin' - our
cholesterol high.

you're beautiful, delicious,
like a piece of freshly prepared bacon
on a cold rainy morning,
and your toothy smile
reminds me of the white eggs
dad would cook as a side dish,
and it was perfect, and i'd smile too,
but most of all you're like bacon
in that though your crisp
is highly appetizing, if eaten
in large amounts i would end up
mounted on a coroner's table
written out as a violent heart attack
after the autopsy finished,
so i'll take you in small quantities
instead of having my love for you **** me.