My hair collects all
The earth's artifacts and I
Refuse to shower

Without rest
Words whither
Sizzle on a cellular level
Choking on daydream sands
Of a temporary mere mirage

Life shuffles on unlocked knees
Cramped back cracks
And spells of checked out self

A little voice cries in grief
Longing for your dive into
The dark lush dreaming tide
And to drown to life
In the sleep-struck rush
A floodgate of relief
So sleep.

This twisted sandman
strangles the sleep
of the guilty mind.
The over-exposed cycle
the why conjoined with I.

Persists, persistant, perspire.

He self-develops in your spine.
In black shadows, as he
dredges through memories
and dredges through memories
and dredges through memories.
All recalled, and in pain
sorted, distorted, and wrought anew.

But never quite to
a wholly dissonant cognition.
For these prints
These prints hold images
impossible to crush
or cast aside.

For there he stands
in his and your own dark room
in screaming defiance of the false.

The light thrown on
He smashes your funhouse mirror
and chemical-burns your closed eyes.

Would that my life
carried the pomp and confidence
of a bombastic poem
an overwrought daytime drama

that bad action movie with the guy
who’s too cool for this world

Would that my rhymed greetings
always trumpet a joyful salute
blasting awake the tired and sad
rendering all introversion moot

Would that an invitation
for a beer a my place
be a more coveted prize
than a free trip to space

Would that every whipped up snack
be a culinary masterpiece
gasping in ecstasy my houseguests
cling to their seats

Would that the very tone of my voice
render women to squirm and swoon
render babies to giggle
and songbirds to croon

Would that any awkward silences
be scrupulously sifted out
cold cut conversations segued from hours
to clipped and cleverly crafted banter

Would that I’d compose the songs
that bring young lovers close
that wrench tears from the eyes
of those more cynical than most

Would that the clip of my canter
be the cadence of the soundtrack
of enlightenment

Would that my goodbyes be
an epic flood of emotion
my friends and colleagues
all so grieved to see me going

Would that in life
I be bigger than death
and in death I be
bigger than life.

...

But what would all that be
would that even be me?

Shaded canopy,
Shaded canopy of green.
Moistly dripping, umbrella
of living, quivering,
sun sipping leaves.

so it was once
when you did each explore
in the crevices burned deep beneath
the blacksmith's pitcher,
and of kindling an unfamiliar taste
left to ravish haste
into statue-like disposition.

sometimes your fingers sting,
for it is you against dark
and cold does whistle
when your lips cannot part,
for they are chapped--
once ridden by an ancient kiss

where you once viewed the metropolitan
shadows against michigan's waters
though you were nestled
against sage weeping quilts,
resting at the sky
whom bids you no more

with stars the fury so soft
you smile,
because there is nothing else
worthy to do.

you'd like to think she does
the same; counting her toes
when they pad on linoleum ground,

and her being able to hear
against the streetcars rumbling below.

You hastily slid my pink thong past my ankles
half an hour ago,
but only now,
when I can feel a stickiness
drip down the insides of my thighs,
am I finally naked.
It dawns on me that I want to tell you something–
something important–
I want to tell you
"I love you,"
before I can pause to wonder if I mean it–
but leftover ***
dribbles out of me
faster than any words can, and suddenly
I am empty again
and have nothing
to say.

Have you ever noticed
how you don't have anything?
Not that girl
you pretend to put
in your glove compartment
when she's in your gloves?
Or a car?
Or a job?
Or real, feasible hope?
Or **** all?

Put yourself in my position,
I can't stand looking at you,
your head caves in at the middle
like dough with a thumb print,
and you could fit
two *******
or two *******'
in that nose of yours.

All you think about is ***, companionship and pancakes.

A lack of hope,
that's what's missing,
I'm talking
feasible hope,
that's the one you really need.

If you could feel it
like yesterday's bile
still on your tongue,
maybe it'd be easier for me
to work with that head.

Or
those gloves,
if you actually put them on
instead of pretending to put them on,
instead of playing with that girl.

Tell her what's really going on,
even though she'll laugh
and laugh
and laugh.

Tell her you're actually going insane
every second.

A shish-KABOOM
that slows down faster
than accelerated Swiss particles speed up.

Tell her about your heart,
that underneath the ink across your chest
there's something else tattooed.

Or maybe she won't say anything
and you'll be talking to
fingers in a ***** glove.

A car would be good too,
you could go places,
use those free passes to Puregold
your friend gave you.

Then again,
you'd want to save every woman alive after going there;
you'd think you could do it,
some hero,
some fake,
some male with a complex.

And finally
the job.

You have over $10,000 in outstanding loans,
either you get a job
or I do the right thing for the both of us.

So do you really want all this?
Want to be young?

Want to know what it's like
to have this ******* heart
and keep it forever?

A heart that doesn't shut the **** up
and goes off calling angry everybody's
at four in the morning
because it's drunk?

Want to know about fear?
I'm not talking wise fear,
I'm talking fear-of-death;
tiger-in-a-bunny-suit fear.

Once you turn those lights off
and can't handle yourself in the dark
then you'll know my fear.