There was a black child
stumbling along the deserted road,
heading in my direction,
although I doubt he even knew.

It was the first person I’d seen
in well over a week, at least;
even if he was not the soul
I forever seek, I gladly accepted
his withered embrace.

He looked into my eyes,
and I looked into his.

There was something lost in them.

“Help me,” the boy croaked,
and passed out in my arms.
I cradled him like he was my own,
and in my mind, he was.

I built a fire and laid him on a blanket
that I previously found
in a destroyed supermarket,
inspecting the affecting effects
of total annihilation.

He was more bones than skin;
most of his teeth missing
from tar bled gums,
and his stomach was bruised
from God knows what.

I wondered where his parents were,
and if he even knew himself.

Suddenly my mind
was filled with a flash of flesh
grilling against more flesh,
where anxious fingers dug in.

Tears met as unwanted
satisfaction struck
with remorse,
and thoughts
of a better time.

These visions are something
I will never get used to.

In the morning the boy was dead.

I never even knew his name,
but it didn’t stop me
from telling him mine,
all the same.

I find myself under God’s magnifying glass,
sitting on a log that belongs to the dead,
scribbling words in endangered trees
just to grasp my own spiraling sanity.

Beard so thick I cannot help but scratch,
and hair so long it’s edited my shadow.
You wouldn’t recognize me unless
you were looking in my eyes.

I wonder if I will recognize you
whenever we finally meet again.
I used to study each corpse I passed,
making sure it wasn’t you,
but then stopped when I realized
if you were dead, then I would be too.
So instead I think about the ways
you must have changed
over time, in this world of ours,
this land of the unplanned.

I imagine your skin is brown,
hair going passed your waist,
lips chapped and awaiting my own
to get them wet again.

I move my feet in the dirt
under this log;
a daydream of a distant cloud
that we share our sight on,
sky splotches slowly
guiding us back together.

Have you changed like the rest?
Have you killed for survival?
Have you cried until your stomach
started to hurt?

What do you eat?

What do you think about
to sooth you into sleep at night?

Do you think these same thoughts
when you think of me?

Do you think of me?

I think of you.

I think of the credits
at the end of a movie,
from when movies existed,
and how sometimes
there would be extra scenes
once the words were finished
rolling up that silver screen,
and it gave you a sense of relief
that just because something’s implied,
it doesn’t mean it is the end.

Sometimes things are just given
extra film time.

Another day’s sun
weighing us down;
an exquisite appeal,
sleepy and more real
than the days spent
doing anything but.

A dusk we trust,
tuning common love rust;
a reversal of iron and alloys
corroding,
as such things are wont to do,
from time to time,
through rhyme and rhyme.

Hard hours bled on the clock
for the payoff at the end;
a check stub spun as a rerun,
adding to numbers
we can no longer count to.

Fingers bled and rough
as our nerves are tough;
beaten yet not defeated;

a massage of purposed hands
can cure even a dead man.

A reminder at the bottom
of the porch steps,
where hair rests against
a perspired chest;

caresses restless
within autumn whispers;

it’s the good life.

Reliance on silence;
our day went just fine,
now that the sun is down,
and you are around,
and everything is in
its right place
again—
and evermore.

It’s the good life,
the one on porch steps
painted by imprints
of time;

a scrapbook full
of memories
yet to occur;

the only life
that doesn’t seem forced
to call a life.

Euphoria is a drug we know well
A short lasting high
But the greatest of them all
A quick fix here and there
Will never suffice
Nor will the whole supply
But it gets us through the day

Euphoria in our veins
Heated from the inside
Weak and stronger than ever
Grips tighten as souls enlighten
For the fifth or sixth time
Or some other number
We've lost count
We can't count
What are numbers?
Mathematics are of no concern
To a couple addicts

My euphoria
Stay with me
Bring me home
Sail me away
Euphoria

Fog in my head
Swimming like clouds
Nothing is wrong
When we're this high

So stay close
For a little while longer
Sweet euphoria

You'll ruin us all

Eyes were like the difference
that makes the surface and bottom
of an ocean without ships.
The fog too immense
for normal aquatic life,
but I still sank
all the same.

The water felt like solids;
green murky depths
that seemed to be
leaking from my own ears,
creating this vast sea
single-handedly.

Dragged down by chains,
hooks inserted into flesh,
like a fish without hope,
a limbo lacking doubt,
taking me along despair’s
graphic scenery route,

phantasmagorically correct
and fantastically imperfect
was the chimerical activity
that surrounded me,
as I refused to hold my breath;
and in its thickest cloud,
I fulfilled a destiny
bound for death.

another one died
over the weekend,
this one a black
who dressed like
he was going
places;

he did not go any place,
except the only place
that we all wish
to go,

some day.

they found him
in his house;
he was already gone.

what had happened
was not revealed,
although that did not
prevent others
from playing
detective;

whether they earned
their paycheck
has yet to be
determined.

I hope they don’t
get a dime.

the details may have changed
as the rumors continued
to spread,

but it did not change
the fact
that he was still
dead,

and always would be.

the kid with purple shoes
died last year,
over the weekend.

they announced it
the following morning
at school,
where everyone
was dreading
the day
ahead,

and dreaming
about the days
after.

he’d parked his car
on the tracks
at a crossing
of life and death,
and waited.

tears drugged his mind;
vision gone blurry,
peripherals
narrowing
toward the lights
ahead,
until they were
too close
for him
to drive
away.

there was a moment of
silence
in the room,
and then soon
talking resumed,
and no one
mentioned him
again.

that night I saw him
in a dream,
still wearing
those purple shoes;
he told me to tell
his mother
he loved her,
then turned around
and walked down
the train tracks
until consumed
by the darkness
that consumes
us all.

I didn’t need to tell her,
because she already
knew,

and so did he.

I don’t enjoy the TV
as much as others seem;
rather say goodbye to reality
and hello to a new dream.

Never have felt the sea,
yet it means more to me
than it does to you.

The moon is my getaway
while the sun is your only way;
a day without light
has never been so bright
from where I stand,
and from where you can’t,
for in your point of view
it’s just another
inconvenience
to get through;

like a coffee stain
at the crotch
of your pants,

you continue to scrub.

The man was not a man,
but a listener of music;

the melodies told him when to sleep,
the angst gave him his anger,
the happiness blessed him with love,

the guitar beat gave him movement,
the lyrics were his thoughts,
and the end of the song
was the only closure
in a world

where music
was the only thing
that made any **** sense.

The ocean washed it all away
before we’d even awoken
from our dreams.

Towns washed away
like a hose cleans
a sidewalk
of its chalk.

Creations no more,
erased from existence
as easily as
a man blinks
an eye.

It was gone.

Now was the time
for hands to come
together,

rather than to drift
apart

and accuse those who
did not control
our origins
of sadness.

In our moments of weakness,
we preferred to shed
death

rather than to shed
light.

The writer never strayed
from the same line
in his notebook,
yet the tip grew dull
and the page grew a hole
as deep as his desire
for satisfaction.

The lead bled red,
as did his tears
in his fit
of utter

madness;

he’d lost it.

Apologies changed with the weather,
and trees split in half;

this would never get better,
there would be no change,

despite how much
the movies promised.

Our “one day” mantra
had started running dry,

like an alcoholic bruising flesh
in his foreseen relapse,

and a ******’s inevitable conclusion
of a vein collapsed;

and still the leaves flew,
all because of you,

because you just lose,
and because I just use,

and because we never grew;
we just flew.

Someone threw a Molotov cocktail
in the car lot last night;
a flame kissed treetops
and rained glass
upon the street.

A homeless man held his arms out,
eyes closed and mouth open wide,
head tilted back in the ecstasy
of it all, savoring
the raindrops of anarchy.

No one questioned their motives;
no one questioned anything,
anymore;

just went off in search
for a broom.

The next day everything
went back to normal,
and all was good.

Your name came like a ghost
in that frosted windowpane
I stood in front of;

our hands connected
with ice on our fingers,
skeletons in the winter;
cursive’s not bitter
when crafted from
our own breath,
no longer distracted with
our own death,

until the glass shattered
and pierced our faces;
created art we couldn’t
possibly start,
nonetheless end—

yet we did,

again and again
and again.

Neon signs came to replace the sun
last night, as the cars drove nowhere
and our minds drove somewhere;

the streetwalkers did not fail to appear
at the sound of change
splashing in a moving pocket;
***** like flowers in bloom,
we unearthed a dumpster rocket
and aimed for the moon,
prayed to land soon;

all the while aspiring with fire,
head tucked between thighs
as outside horns blared
to drown out practiced lies;

familiar smells like a gas cloud,
sensations of electric currents
sizzled fried brains on expired warrants;

so strong I could feel my nose hairs burn
while in revolt my stomach turned,

looking for someone, anyone
to blame,

while a million mourners yearned
for the same:

there was no one.

It seems like some
distant dream
fading away from me
into a bottle
floating at sea.

Maybe it was all
in my head;
although that doesn’t
make it fiction.

A part of me says
it never happened.
Just a hallucination,

a bad dream
fabricated
to haunt me
forever.

But when I sit here
and focus,
visualize myself
melting
into the seat,
face exploded
and spine snapped,

I remember everything.







Especially the nothing.

sinking in
an ocean of …
of everything

dark
gray, pixilated smudge
cigarette burns
on the movie screen

130 beats per minute
banging with fists
fists clenched
grasping
gasping

for
anything
other
than
this

but it’s
too
far
away

and I’m …
who the
hell knows

not here

and
maybe never
again.

Left without reason,
caught in the breeze
penetrating me;
a season for treason
discussing
the inevitable concussion
of creative repercussion.

Big bad pig man,
same sad **** plan;
it's for the audience
(we like you!)
hence the distorted sense
of a reported defense
impaled and left stale
atop a graying fence.

Trash the artistry,
erase the registry;
no active hard drive necessary.

The creeps are a lie:
it's not fine to color
outside the lines.
Remain sane in that little brain
with that structured page
to sterilize natural rage;

copy and paste with haste
until the end,
because approval of a friend
and the applause
of a predetermined cause
is all that's needed
to feel like we've succeeded.

"Safety in warmth
above the floor indoors,
where outside the cold's too bold."

Forget this united mantra,
shred your clothes and dip your toes,
and join me as a contra.

Because obscure is the cure,
while ease has always been the disease.

disrupt
the quiet tune,
erupt
yonder bloom.

I wonder
how long
we’ll wander.

It’s not a game,
but we’re winning
anyway;

must be insane
to consider us sane,

but who does?

the look in your eyes
constellates what we create,

in the valley
of star dust
and car rust,

we fell in bed
in a house
without a roof,
and hoped for rain;

oh, how we prayed.

Roses are red,


                                                violets are blue,


                                                                                                 ******* *****.

White dwarf in a garden of eden
strolls along multicolored streetlights,
nodding at the spectrum manifesto
as lullabies meet and senses heed
henceforth the eve of madrugada.

Expansion was to blame,
as was the thesis I forgot to write
but mailed anyway.

The stamp failed to stick,
as did our hate,
despite our tries.

We abandoned ourselves,
left to roam alone hand-in-hand,
rolling around our own private land;

regarding the brilliance
of the unwritten plan.

The sky held no surprise
as the other galaxies evolved;
imagined no second thoughts
when we chose to dissolve.

You in the snow
The one nobody knows
Hot blood boiling at 20 below

You in the white
The one who owns the night
Numb limbs never felt so right

You of the undead
The one forever in my head
Resonant moons have long bled

You of the blissfully cold
The one yet to be correctly told
Snow imprints together growing old

You of the evermore
The one destiny washed ashore
Lost souls could not ask for more

I used to fantasize
about moving into
a small studio
apartment
in the city,
working odd jobs
to pay the rent
and support my
imaginary
alcoholism,
while writing
my fiction
and watching
the strangers
be strange.

I still do
sometimes.

There’s a quarter in your pocket,
a place to mourn her lost locket,
the silver heart chain over rusted,
fallen to that sea we once trusted.

In comes the pale man with his stale plan,
his hand like a ghost deceived on the coast;
he has his guitar and you know he’s come far
to spend those coins protected within your *****.

Gladly take your silver linings,
along with all your other findings,
at the bottom of a red purse in your grip.

All a part of the lead curse in your lips.

Like magnets,
we were drawn
in our fragments,
while complex ***
held our best intents,

even if you lost your belief,
despite me being a thief.

The man was me;
a pity you couldn’t see,
although I think you could,
and if not I wish you would.

The powder on my fingers
from the times I lingered
watching your chest move
in your dream groove.

I had to smile
in spite of myself,
all the while spent
and lacking discontent,
as I prowled out the door
and pawned multicolored spawn.

You, my dear, a surrealist;
me, I’m afraid, a realist;
you saw wonder clouds
while I slipped under crowds.

Your quarter fell in the machine
and I dialed a familiar routine,
while you sat by the phone
and continued to be alone.

in   stores

  now,

also
           in
                 vanilla;

RC Glow.

I fell in love
when love was lost;
always the hand
that comforts,
the muse you use
to bathe distress;
and the insects I dissect
to impress the wrinkles sprinkled
along your favorite dress;
forever repressed
are those depressed,
in a coffin shell
nailed
in a satin hell.

Through your
persistent assistance,
we formed an
ethereal resistance
with the stories
that we made,
talked of self-
proclaimed renegades;
fiction more accurate
than the non-;
a panoramic view
from beyond,
just outside
the rising tide
that we love
to criticize
when together,
wielding doubled-
edged blades.

In the chameleon-
esque plains
that we became
one in
our skin, our eyes,
our lies.

Truth was
of no importance,
with invention
a reliance
to our home-
remedied alliance;

the
only
way to
acceptance
being
in[our]sanity.

Cigarette ashes
spilled on the bible,
while violet lashes
intensified my vitals.

I saw the ashes
fallen from the ember,
such an abysmal symbol
staining thy holy center

with familiar cancer dust,
while unanswered questions rust,
until I can’t believe them,
I can’t believe you,

I can’t believe …

but I do.

hear me again
as you did before;
granted naught.

you are the ear
I plead to
under covers
of salt water,
fists clenched
with the whole ***
on the table,
along with
my soul.

make it right.

just make it right.

please.

My mother’s killing my father,
and my mother’s killing herself,
while I rot from obvious unknown causes.

I like watching them with headphones on,
so I can’t hear the stupid things they say;
the words are always so predictable.

Don’t they look ridiculous?
Don’t we all?
Don’t you?

…

Don’t I?

was much like our first,
my arms reassuring
your every worry,
our lips locked,
welded and padlocked
with the steel
that heaven conceals
at the bottom of a pond
too perfect for those
lacking the Beyond.

My face pressed in your face,
it felt like an embrace
that’d fail to fade,
and years later we
find ourselves in
the same place,
on the last day on earth:
the finale of humanity;

and like our first day together,
we barely acknowledge
there are others around
anyway,

so when the sky comes
crashing down,
we won’t even notice
a difference
in temperature,

with our lips bound
to withstand the sound
of confinement,
and pulverize the lies
of denouement;

and when it is just us left
to waltz over the moon,
you’ll take my hand
and I’ll take yours,
and give those stars
infinite more
encores.

I don’t like this screen anymore;
can’t grasp words like the past,
definitions or lack thereof.

objectives reveling sonically
with objects of sold bronze.

wired tight
with fire’s might,
as squires fight
over who’s
the better squire,

despite there lacking
a knight, or even a lord.

I don’t know what I like anymore,
maybe it’s aversion,
my preferred adversary,
serving our *******.

there’s something itchy
about this place,
something hitherto
I could not scratch.

now I do,
and it just spreads
the rash,

as usual.

there’s come on my sweater
and a knife in my eye;

lid twitches over socket,
fallen out or it will soon;
cancer-infected vision,
come-stained point of view;

ugly and bleached,
rinse and repeat
until it joins trash;
****** laden crash;

it’s all the same,
ply my fingernail back
and feel the pain;

it’ll still be the same;
same smell, same sorrow,

same stain.

Disregard your playing cards,
leave them in the burning fields;
they were fixed from the make,
anyway.

Tear away at your Poetry,
and bury the remains beneath
your weeping willow tree
where the black orchids grow.

Turn back into the fog
to the only home you know;
as opaque as your prefer:
blindness lacking cost.

Abandon the appropriate apparatus;
never to be fit for this dead sea;
it’s all disproportioned,
anyway.

I refuse to wipe the tears from my eyes
after crying for fifteen minutes straight,

letting the salt dissolve into my cheeks
as a reminder for the snow outside.

I think I could cry like this forever
and never lose my balance again;

it’s the greatest feeling in the world,
crying your soul out like this.

I’m sure outside my frosted window
I must look like a crazy person,

but that isn’t going to stop me
from doing it some more.

*Thank you …

The rain’s coming down in hot snowflakes
as I stand in the center with my arms spread,
and my tongue sticks out catching the flames.

My eyes close and I am there in your head;
we run through fields under cotton candy clouds,
projecting tranquil shade wherever we roam.

And the rain outside is making my hair wet
as I take a breath for you and then another,
just like I had in those days of yesteryears.

I breathe in this breeze known to me
and send this fresh wind back to you,
so that now you can share mutual air.

*Breathe …

You taught us human beings to sing
over puddles so beautiful,
and showed us lost souls
how to be whole
while the world
fell apart.

You introduced a drug,
purple and chimerical;
intoxicated my way
and saved the stars
before the sun rose.

An escape so rare
and Poetically inclined,
deep in your zone
where even the mosquitoes
hold no annoyance;
you’ve given me the moon
and pointed out
why we love it.

Now I return
the gift of escape
from darkness so bleak;
flip on the switch
so that you will wake.

The first time we talked
you were already dead.

The last time we talked
you were more alive than ever.

Now we talk today
and you’re sound asleep.

So when we talk tomorrow
you’ll be wide awake.

I swear you just winked
in your hospital bed
up in the moon’s eye,
where Poetry is dreamt,
like you’re having us all on
as you are wont to do
from time to time,
and all those other times
in between.

I return the wink
with the doc’s back
facing toward us
and we try to suppress
our giggles,
lest our cover be blown.

And once we are alone,
I bring out the wheelchair
and bribe our way
to an early checkout.

No one notices
because no one can,
as I push you out the doors
and into the backseat
of our getaway car,
climbing in beside you
and closing the door;
the car tearing off to raise hell,
with Nod behind the wheel,
the Narrator riding shotgun,
Tiny Dancer on the dashboard,
and a little piece of heaven
blaring out the speakers:

we’ve escaped.

I came across this house
with all four walls still intact,
in a lost town, a forgotten state,
in a country without conversation;

and I went inside.

It’s kind of silly,
but at first I had knocked.
I almost expected someone to answer.

But of course no one did;
no one ever does.

There was no food inside,
or anything else of use;
all scavenged long ago
by those most likely dead.

There was this marker;
black, permanent …
Sharpie …
a reminder of life
before it had ended.

I went to the cleanest wall
and etched my soul;
I wrote you a message
in case you ever stumbled upon
the same house.

It said
             I LOVE YOU
and I signed it
                              YOURS

At least I know,
if you never come here
someone else might;
they’ll find this message
and rediscover just a single grain

of
hope

that’d previously blown away
with the rest of the world.

Today I found a phone
half-buried in ashes.
I casually picked it up
and dialed your cell.

You answered on the first ring;
a faint wink from lady luck.
Your voice caressed my ears
and I burst out into tears.

I inquired about your day
and you told me all about it,
that you were on your way home,
and asked me to lay out hamburger.

I told you of course I would,
and that I couldn’t wait until
you pulled up in the drive;
I would kiss you forever.

I begged you to please hurry
and you reassured my worries;
you were just around the corner,
and soon we would be together.

I sobbed and told you I loved you
and you told me you loved me, too.
And I believed your every word,
even if the phone had no battery.

We made love on the moon,
but we came too soon;
so I took your hand,
and went again.

The night did not end,
and there was no protest
from those watchful stars
off in the backdrop.

You told me your sign,
and I told you mine.
You lent me your mind
so that we could entwine.

Our veins did connect
as did our breaths;
above their concepts,
we shrugged it off.

The light fantastic,
I hoped you’d let it.
The night elastic,
I hoped you’d keep it.

And you did.
I forgot to think
about tomorrow’s color,
and focused on you instead.

You were my favorite shade,
the only one I could see.
Blinded from the rest;
cursed not, but blessed.

Galactic ruins kept us safe
for those that ruin,
hidden under sheets
on our perpetual moon.

We made a cocoon
and never left it.
We sprouted lips
and refused to evolve.

(but time still flew)

**** up

                                        Pathetic



*******,­
      
                 all
                              
                     *******


Reasons naught
pointless
counterpoints


**** up


Cosmic             *******

every
           last

detail

every
           last

derail

until the tracks
can

                       no longer


be wielded
back                                                
                          
                                     ­                        together

to

                 get

                                    her


Lost

like my mind
                  no longer mine
                                        so far behind


**** up


Flesh inflamed
eyes insane
slippery      
    
                                    dame


fallen

        ­                     from my        grasp


fire’s less oblivious


too much sweat, I bet


of a **** up


sweating out

                      the eyes

as I hear
                  
                        finalized
                                    cries


mine
        
                                       no more

nothing

                                       anymore

lone shadow

                                       forevermore

breathe

                                       nevermore




                                                  ­                 ******
                                                          ­             up

listen to the curtains in their dust;
could pull the strings anytime
and reveal that predictable sun,
but I’d rather bathe in darkness,
melting into your rare warmth,
in the silence of our knowledge
and the comfort of our skin,
with the finishing touches on our lips,
welcomed shadows deliver us to bliss.

Insects welcoming themselves
in and around her eyes,
rushing the universal act
known as decomposition,
but they will just have to wait,
for she is not yet ready
to experience the encore
of cruelty.

A veil to secure
her condemned health;
tho’ there is no use
when she sees
little strings of blood
in her *****.

Maggots drilling deep
into her wretched gut,
a pool of forsaken oil
pouring out between
ghost white fingers,
and staining feet
with its cancer.

Outcasted by those
still blessed by ignorance,
she continues to stumble
under these street lights,
forming puddles
in her death gaze.

Limbs stretched, vision ablaze;
home in the dust like a statue
idolized in the center of town
where all of the villagers
have turned to ash
on my behalf.

Leaving me to bathe
in the leftover turmoil
of yesteryear’s quarrel,
refusing to shut my eyes
and allowing their genocide
to penetrate any sanity
craven enough to flee.

Warrior scream in a world
where no one is around to hear,
climaxing until lungs explode,
discharging a cancerous mist
of the forlorn’s plague.

Pleading to the sun,
that ******* sun,
pleading to these spirits
******* with my head,
the ones surrounding me
like a city without tongues,
I can still hear their despair.

Pleading to God,
if He isn’t lost
like the rest;

pleading to whoever
still cares enough
to listen:

*Take me.

They were running out of water,
while we still possessed plenty,
stored in bottles, jugs, cups, toilets,
stored in the gutters and backyards;
a supply large enough to quench
billions of parched throats.

But before their claws could scratch,
we defeated them through sacrifice,
through patriotic self-destruction.

Now our supply is just as low,
desiccated by mushroom sighs;
wasted by hereditary wastelanders
cashing in on an apropos wasteland.

Like history predicted,
we destroyed it all.

Can’t recall the last night I slept
without awaking multiple times
under the serpent’s cataract eye,
mistaking a midnight whisper
caressing my defense systems
as the shiver-inducing slither
of a mercenary’s lucid blade.

Hours afterward, eyes stretched
in fear of invisible shadows,
as the sun rises to meet my gaze,
I can’t help but wonder
when the night will arrive
where imagination
isn’t the villain.