Myths:

It's not dope, it's chronic so chill out
and I'll pass you that blunt.
Better off high on positivity.
Than down from negativity.
Sulking in all of my
strung out,
burnt out,
and miserable glory.
It's not dope, it's chronic so chill out
and I'll pass you that blunt.

If you can drive in reverse, you'll pass the test.
Just remember to keep one eye on the mirror
and the other one on your back.
The road is full of black holes
that only wish to break you down
in a dark, depressing ditch.

People keep calling me the anti-christ.
Today, I'm flattered.
Tomorrow, I could be flattened by their stones.
I'm trying to scare  away the stupid.
It's not working.
Cause I'm an idiot magnet.

The black sheep is always first to get
exiled from the flock.
You'll find more life in a cemetery than you will in my heart.
Cause magic isn't microwavable it has to cook the real way.

They say time is always working against us.
But what they really don't know is that time doesn't exist.
We will always be here.


Rapid cycling mood rings:

I used to control my mouth
until I cracked under the pressure
and bit my tongue off.
The world is out to **** me of everything they can take.
I got my dress shoes on and my wallets loaded with condoms.
I know what is inevitable and what is avoidable.
**** get's better.

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at me.

make them stars so I may not
lose them in the over-bearing light
of day at times and
make them burn like
third-degree burns so I'll
never forget the feeling of them
on my skin.

make them that sweet poetry you speak so that
my palpitating heart can know what it's like to
stop mid-sentence and


(quietly, now)

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at
me.

We were cavorting Orca
in a warm Baja sea,
while you dove,
then rose to breath,
I met you at the surface
in a tangle of sweaty sheets.

People still ask me about you as if you were a standard operating procedure.

People still don't get it.
People still say; it's better to have loved and lost
than to have--

What people don't seem to understand is that I don't dig epilogues,
I don't speak with punctuation, I don't end with period. and I don't capitalize.

Because tonight
I'll sleep with a pillow softer than your self-consciousness

and even though I don't speak in redundancies, allow me to repeat myself
'cause I know you're not takin' notes
'cause you're the type of person who likes to hang on a moment
and own it
but do me just one favor
in this minute minute, please
realize
that you've got too many easels
and not enough paint
and self-expression is moot if the canvas is blank.

Tonight!
I'll sleep on my good side

so that tomorrow when people ask me about you as if I have a degree in your ology
at least i'll look well-rested when I tell them
that I used to cry when i wrote you letters
and how I used to write for you
and how in my head I STILL paint renaissance paintings of you
and how they hang in this cranium like a sixteenth century mausoleum

because genius is driven by affection

and affection knows
that we were born with more voices than our mouths could house
and so some of them got swallowed.

But genius -- genius knows nothing.
Genius knows that we do things with our mouths sometimes,
like when we kiss or cough or collaborate.

Thus genius is driven by affection
and affection made you my muse.

So please listen to the words of a man who knows where his voice has been;

if you were made of construction paper
and a few shades red-er
I'd glue love to you
l-o-v-e, spelled out in pasta pieces,
sprinkled in the glitter of hugs and kisses,
I'd hold you lovingly in my hands and give you--

to somebody else.



xoxo

This is a conversation I had with God.
In which I told the silence of my room
that surrealism is the only ism in which God makes total sense.

I could see the chalk whites of his teeth trying to bite down on his words
but before they could be derailed his tongue caught wind and his words assailed
as he said, "I hate surrealism."

As if his words would never be caught dead in an urn
sometimes his mouth looked more like a jail in an Old Western
and his thoughts fought like criminals desperate to break out
until they finally found a way to use his tongue as an escape route.

"No, I don't hate surrealism," he says
"I just hate surrealism as a movement."

Upon hearing this my spine coils like a wine-corker-spiral-staircase
upward; where my brain plugs my cranium like a cork
and my eyes drip like blank canvas,
I am one hollow statue decaying in a melting structure
with wax in my ears I feed landscapes to winged insects
as I drown in pools of water/color.

Behind me is a sky so burlesque it actually looks like the clouds are crying.
Under me is a ground so vast it has nine horizons wrapped in a double helix.
Reconstructed beside me is a tree so old it could be the same wood as The Crucifix.
Nested inside me where my spine should be is a coat rack made crooked by the weight of all-nighters.
The texture of my skin makes it look like god paints with typewriters.

"No, no," he says, his voice turning melancholy, atomic, uranic, idyll,
"I don't hate surrealism as a movement,
because hate's such a strong word. Oh god, I guess I just don't get it."

Now I'm overcome with a sincere desire to light an entire herd of giraffes on fire
and sip wine beneath the light as if it were dinner by candlelight,

"Seriously?" I say. "Under giraffes, in this light
I can't tell if you're Lincoln or Jesus.
In fact, we all look like swans with elephant reflections.
Your trunk is a trumpet.
Don't even get me started on where we derive our visions of god
from where I stand everything casts a shadow in the shape of where it's heading
and the sky, vast and pale and open, the sky is the only all-seer
and the truth is far less surreal:
if your demons are ants then your god is an anteater."

I can see the chalk whites of his teeth stall door,
squeaky hinge, his mouth-
occupied with a realization he can't pronounce.
A pause as pregnant as a desert landscape,
ornamented with butterflies.

His head is an empty room with an evaporating skylight,
his ears, hang like clocks on a half-wall, melting.
The escalator to his brain is a spiral staircase moving in reverse.
His eyelids peel back like the last page of a two-dimensional book.
I can see with my Spellbound eyes, we are finally on the same page.

When his tongue curls back into his saloon jaw
like a bee sting rifle shot back into the mouth of a lunging tiger,
swallowed deep into the wells of a fish belly.

"I'm sorry" he says, "that's not what I meant."