been thinkin' of Albert
and all things bitterly angelic,
wonderin' how many others
like me
hurt like our Mother
hurt like the Other
aching without knowing where.
Avalanched landscape riptides,
our chemicals surge and freeze
behind our ears,
making us dizzy, despondent.
So we swallow, snort, smoke, or slam-
are born again
genocide,
philanthropize,
or miser-ize.
The only time you get to steer
is when it's your turn
and you are THAT HIGH,
where each word out loud is so booming,
so brimming with meaning,
so endless it's heavy.
The only time you feel alive
you're not. You're God.

I called my mom once and asked how she was.
It was the only morning she'd ever woken up
without wishing she hadn't.
I'm still hoping for
one of those mornings.

Each generation

technologically swallows

the one before.

Until we are one with

The computer.

Sitting at court like Solomon,

sliding pieces,

square pixels.

In One place,

All the Time.

Sweet lines dancing on the floor’s jolly face,

He feels the great crackle, bitter the air.

Supple fingers gnaw long and luscious hair.

Every horse drawn free, the Saturday race.

Agéd windows see climb from threadbare grace.

Gnarléd dragons sleep lonely in their lair.

The world’s salty aim’d numbers never stare,

Peace-filled are days in such a gentle place.



When famished, the poor wait at gracious door,

Never do they maliciously bash; those

Sweet denizens furnish thoughts serenely,

Taking the most, chilled hearts are proffered for

Silent, invisible, a knight here goes.

Silent are comments ears hear most keenly.

The words

continue erupting,

though I would prefer

the solace

of a clouded mind—



Hazy, smoggy, pounding

with beats of

someone else’s drum—



the comfort of artificial sweetener,

unreal, like a dream

never hurt anyone—



unlike, unwelcome, unwanted clarity.



But then, what’s the point of writing

words

made temporary

by the rot of artificial sweetener?

Douce
Cette plume de feu

Gorging upon my heart prematurely.
Après le massacre, mon tête est effrayé.
Yet the chemistry lab, mon corps,
Is addicted to love.

It is all so deceptive.

Un question-
What is love?

Hormones-
It must be more.

Our souls two rivulets
Se mélanger sur le chemin vers la mer.

Bolted digits, rootbound to acrid heavens,

ostrichly I swallow sand, begging the heaviness

to parch my flaming veins and ceaselessly flowing sorrows.



Sparrow’s fleeting raison d'être, sipping eyes of iceberg hue,

quenching mine own of verdant leaf; long-awaited view

to fill my soul’s windows’ empty absinthe pools.



No somber adieus, simply one smile of lightning.

His passing thunder will resound beneath my ribs

from the arrows of his glacial spheres

forevermore.

Writhing and twitching, stiff for long hours,

my bones have decayed like flowers gone sour.

Seventy-two inches below, I seize and throe,

my neck slick and split by Red’s murdering slit.



Wish I dare not to be removed from this spot,

despite all the strength St. Peter hath gave.



Midnights to middays, even I have so prayed,

for redemption from causing the cantankerous tumors,

cancer taking Our Mother, yet she holds me still.

I smell in her hair sweet songs from the air,

of small birds in great trees, wings aloft on the breeze.



The Emperor’s staff, swiftly swung in behalf

of my old lonely soul. Cinch my heart gripping tight,

oh how want I the bite, of love on my ear to soothe ancient fear.

What have I done with that fruit which I won?

I do not feel deserving of Her loving and serving,

the whim and the will of the young one who still

she calls Her Beautiful Child.