know you see me

semper dreamy

slip-ping on - and - off

in the spacey place

almost convinced , (was it?)

“empire free me ,

soldiers see me   ,

envious armies are after me

because broken me is all they see

i patch my self invisibly --”

so in retreat i lay my self,

an icon to vanity and decay-

soon enough i know the soldiers may

hunt, may find, may trap, may bind

never right - NEVER WRITE ,

always blind

inside my rotten mind ,

(oh it was) it was not -

naught but tongue twists and brain rot

easy enough to force, forget

the pleasantness of title : Pet -

was it, will it, could I  build it ?

it never will -

it never was -

a different thought ,

for beggars sought

to free them from their cups and coins -

to seek release from their ***** -

along the railroad tracks out back

we find the air is acrid, black

and children polish stones for sale

for some enormous, bloated whale

that cracks the whip but bears a treat --

I have Orders I must meet .

empty buses rolled on down
the busy downtown street--
faceless figures flying by
that have no time to meet.
shifting, swerving, shapeless shadows
and a muffled shuffling of feet.
I wonder if they ever wonder
about intimacy with me.
I keep on tracking every bus
that passes through the sleet,
but angry beeping, noxious fumes
and that harsh thumping beat
keeps me still and keeps me silent--
motionless in my seat.
nervous glances, twitchy fingers
and a tippy tap of feet
makes me asks myself in silence
if I should get something to eat.
jagged cracks sound through the air
as verbal tacks pin here and there
and spoken word and shouting, too
all the noises the humans like to do.
The high-pitched whining;
the deep, low rattling;
the stark, empty sighing;
the unguided battling
all of these condensed into one
with more added in for added fun.
Disconnect--
the neural wires unlock and retract
as vine-like growths along the spine
come undone across the back;
cure it with wine,
cure it with liquor,
a tonic make it quicker.
smoke a little grass and ****
chew a little on a seed,
take the stem between your lips
and snap it right in two--
Let it stand,
a monument to the experiences
wrongly cut before completion.

a crook in the neck and
a creek out back,
behind the lines of grass
and stately shapes of trees
with blades of wild oats and wheat
stretching all the way up the knee.
the pretty kind of loveliness
across the flower's face,
the dull, ignored cruelty
of symmetry and grace
all coalesce in me tonight
all pile up bit by bit inside my bones
all collect in gasps and sighs and tiny moans
all create in me a tiny pile waiting to be set alight
give me panic give me terror give me dread and fright and
might
it might come alive and on fire
burning the backs of my soles
making me restlessly wired.
plugging me in and powering me up
they wanted a show so i had to grow
they wanted to see my cute little pout
and so they sought and shook me out
from my voided, unknown cave
to have me put upon the collective
a hidden ornament on the human race--
I need to leave, to flee, to run
and never wonder why
if leaving were so important then
why didn't I simply fly?
fly?
fly?
no flight for birds of plastic wings
and a body made of artificial things:

concrete, plaster, bits of brick, glass
and the darkest, densest mass
rise into the air above
as gas clouds they float on up
into the darkening sky
covered by cowardly clouds
too afraid to fly
Disconnect--
dial tone sounds and it becomes clear
there was never anything to connect

red you’re flowing red

your words came out like an overdose

dark gray bags and rags for clothes

black and gray and tones morose

red you’re flowing red

a ravenous cavern has eaten all our time

it felt so unkind

I lost my mind

horrible expectations—

lower them

everything drains away to the riverbed

lower then

everything remains hidden until said

lower then

everything flows out to the oceanic carpet

stomach somersault sea green

red you’re flowing red

gushing down to the gulley

you-you sound in a hurry

and complexion unsullied

wait, please wait for me

love isn’t a spectacle

feelings cannot be seen

looking over the shoulder, eyes narrowed,

hips locked in place

you call to me with a look of amusement and I can’t help but cringe

my spirit jumps out of my skin

I hope you like my body

I hope you remember my mind

I hope you know that I flattened on the floor

when you flicked me off your shoulder

and looked menacingly at the door

here I am

a cosmic ant

scurrying about with my feelers hanging low

shake it all off

pretend you aren’t a demon disguised as a simple ****

pretend you aren’t a newspaper clipping in the wind

a single-day story

filler on the news

speech in a bottle

drifting on the sea

a lonely dance hall made for people

to shake off empty flesh

in flakes of gold and steel and lead

what a waste

as it falls onto the floor,

flowing into the drain directly in the center

inch long nails digging in

just like we see on TV

I have to agree

it’s disgusting

but we all have to do it sometimes

****** in the car, whorechild

three years later and I’m ****** on the floor

I’m ****** on the sofa

I’m ****** on the futon

I’m ****** in a stranger’s bed every night

****** by nameless, faceless specters

of masculinity mixed with contempt

users and abusers who love to dissect

but only when *****.

well **** me I’m so tired of being ****** by everyone else

I’m ****** on the street

I’m ****** on the stairs

I’m ****** in the bathroom

I’m ****** in the air

I hang there

a modest bauble on the Christmas tree

no fancy lights lingering on my surface

only the darkness and me

build a house in the middle of the desert and fill it with water

open the door and it all gushes out

draining in tiny valleys and pathways carved from the silent sand

used-up little fool

empty vessel for a ghost

empty vases filled with dead tulips

and a sink filled with ***** water

sunlight has long since left

it’s so simple to see—

only the darkness and me.

this is socialization,

running to work

running to the store

running straight home

running out of places to run

distrust before you disguise the beggar

lying in a pavement grave meant

to be a home

slimy fingers sticking up there—

disassociate—

break—

imagine a world without any *******

imagine a world that is free;

I am only filled more with hate

each time you penetrate

I lose a little more gold

a little more water

a little more spirit

a little more soul

each time you **** me

all I can see is red,

flowing red

draining in the stagnant pools of the narrow bed

sitting in my seat

all I do is think

saving every breath

counting every blink

thinking fashionably about death

I watch their eyes begin to wander

up and down each others’ bodies

I close

stick a hand into my thoracic cavity

and pretend it’s a clock to wind

backward through time

like they do in magazines

and in front of well lighted storefronts

and downtown mini malls across America.

any beauty column will tell you the tricks

and what you have to trade,

every weight has a balance

and every product has a price.

hands in your pockets

chin in the air

eyes on the pavement—

almost there,

almost there

button your buttons

string your shoes

"I think I can,

I think I can”

you can’t, of course,

but the emptiness of cleared out commercial blocks

and brown brick buildings

and wide streets that are empty in the night

they all call out

antagonizing you with imposing angles

narrowing density

constricting construction

walk away from it all

hide your naked figure alone and cold in the crippling dark

ya want some love but not for keeps,
ya play us well and make the sweeps,
we swept right up off the floor,
we hurried and broomed on out the door.
so take it or go,
make it real slow,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
"Daddy,
baby, my fine **** man,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
'When is he gonna trip onto that
fat ****** face?
Pale, ignorant race?'
Not even a trace,
no, no, no."
No, no, no,
not even a single ****** trace
of warmth or love or kindness
or recognition of my humanity,
the sole thing that makes me
a likewise piece of the Earth.
I'm gonna sweep away those ships,
******, doggoned grisly wrecks,
sweep 'em right over the passing waves
and right off the edge of the Earth.
Cuz I don't call NOBODY "Daddy,"
though I call one person "dad,"
"father," "pops" and it pops
I stick my needle through the
pulsing air and it pops
your **** heart pops.
and ya had your fun,
your day in the Sun,
our little run and now,
and now, and now,
oh, now, it's done,
don't make me get a gun.
I know nothin' exists in singularities,
nothin' exists on its own,
vacuums only are in theory,
we are living to our bones
and the living state rests
right into our **** bones,
however,
I can hate you for what you have done.
I can hate you and I will hate you
for every single thing that you have done,
"Daddy,"
"Mommy," too,
the systems of patronizing pater familias
and all working gears of institutional
injustice,
hurt,
pain,
wreck,
my ships may be wrecks, now, too,
but the wind and the breeze are quick to blow
and the direction of the currents are fast and strong.
So just sit there ya ****,
sit and **** into your ***** being
just sit there and ya think,
"Why ya fingerin' that doorknob
when I thought I played ya for keeps?"

and I gotta tell you all now
when your skin isn't
pure like satin
clean like silk
it ain't so easy walkin
on that street
of yours
or to go and greet
on those
feet of yours
I don't wanna go out, today, mama
I don't want to deal with the world today,
mama,
mama,
where you been,
mama,
I only feel raindrops, anger, teardrops and irony
I am made of needles and sticks and chopped up bits
I am a demon made to destroy from within
I am a half breed **** who don't have no wits--
no use, old thing,
better give it up
and let them hit
and hit
how they hit
but
it's the bit that gets
when you're layin in your bed
and your mama ain't here no more
and there ain't no baby baby baby ******
CRYBABY
CRYBABY
YOU'RE A GOD ****** SHITSMACKIN CRYBABY
YOU GET KICKED BY TWO MEN ON THE STREET
YOU THINK YOU TOO DARK TO GET BEAT?
you think you too dark to get beat?

we meet

they hit

i fall

the concrete ain't white neither

my grandmother washed her skin in olive oil

and ate whole cloves of garlic

and let me play with her good china

and had Rodgers and Hammerstein

fill the room with music

for play time every day

as my tiny lungs filled with her air

and my tiny heart filled with my blood

there ain’t no ground for me to play on

and there ain’t no music to play,

anyway,

just another day

another life

another scythe

ringing in the distant fields

and that little thing you thought so fine

she was just some cheap cherry wine

and I thought myself fine sauvignon

though I did fail French a few times

but at least I didn’t get left in the distant field

to be harvested by the farmer

to be sold at the market

to be broken apart and maimed beyond measure.

those lips eating though,

they sure feel nice against ya,

they sure do someone justice when

they’re kissing all over

and massaging your broken body

but there’s no music down in the gullet

there ain’t no sound

but the deep and soulful murmurings

of the stomach,

the intestine,

the **** that will birth me once more

and again I’ll be in the water

and mix with the ocean

and become the rain and

rise

oh la la la la la la la la

rise

I’ll rise above it all

and rain down your body and my body

and all these broken, mutilated grain-bodies

and pour it all down on you

and the fields

and that little thing you left

lying in the middle of seas of wheat

she’s screaming to the sky

roaring to the rain that falls

telling me all she knew

all she loved

none about you

all of it runs

all of it resounds

making music on the ground

and singing all in the air

'Like' this though
you don't actually
"like" what you see before your eyes,
much too clear and
much too crystal
far too sharp
far too cutting.
the scent of blood
as it scrapes into your flesh
intoxicates you in its iron enriched headiness,
'how ironic,'
truly
'how ******* ironic'
as it all goes hazy
and you numbly click
'Like' on a screen
made up of tiny little images
of tiny little people
feeling just as big of emotions as you.
'Like' this poem if you've ever been betrayed by yourself.

the bird lay helplessly on the soft cement,
its eye sockets were empty
and its feathers were torn up.
dreaming a little dream
that consisted of empty space,
the contents of its mind
both literal and figurative.
the rot had set on swiftly,
the skin was putrid smelling,
the pustules were brimming
with the **** of death made swelling.
framed on the ground by
ants crawling all around its flesh,
they slid in and out
they played within the body's ruins.
the bones were now made of rope,
the feathers petrified,
the bird lay so still,
dreaming a sleep about a sky full of nothing
speckled red and brown and green and blue and
somehow reminding me of myself
in relation to you
and you
and you
and all of you
to all of me
to every last ****** bit of you,
I give you a dead, departed, decaying corpse
who will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
just let me lay and rot upon the cement,
*I will never fly again.

you place me on your shelf
right next to all the rest,
a commodity priced according
to which and whom are best.
you shove me to the back
so others may not see
the person who would sit
and reclaim you piece by piece.
I am a bitterness unwavered by the winds
I am an ice storm unstoppable in its onslaught
I am a tornado festering on the countryside
You are a man made up of
turned shoulders and lowered eyes,
a man who would much rather store things
than to see them in use.
Your fingers may peruse
the cylinders of my being,
it may be graced by
the loveliness of your cold touch.
However it is fleeting,
and I grow cold from disuse.
I am the item on your shelf
I am the mirror casually ignored
I am the gramophone screaming its discordant hymn
I am the void rearing its sickening maw,
waiting and watching for my prey
to wander helplessly into my gaping esophagus
I am the bat wing, leathery and clinging
to the cartilage of the world.
I am the item on the shelf,
high above the world,
looking down onto the ants
who scurry and shimmy to try to ascend.
They will not ascend
because God didn't make ants in order to fly.

she held me close and cooed and preened me
and held me safe from the night
from the large and troubling world
that my tiny brain could not comprehend.
those ancient hands
had seen many decades,
the raging waters sought the
liverspotted skin like a flame
seeks a moth to burn
by shining so **** bright.
She gave me dinosaurs
and quarters and
nickels and dimes,
she told me stories
and memories and
the dusty images of long abandoned time.
I sat and sat and listened and sat and
retreated into the shelter of
those far too weathered hands.
though the world was
largely storm clouds
and the incessant shouting of the thunder,
she held me closer,
covered me in her mass and
held me quickly against the oncoming storm of time.
those ancient
weathered hands

I don't like this skin of vulnerability,
to show my softened underbelly
and to take off the masks of all my lies.
I don't like to let people get so close,
to reveal my inner temple to them
and to show them the chants of my priests.
I am a person
who hides within riddles
metaphors
puns and jokes,
I am a person
who would rather be a bad joke book
than be a real person,
full of every emotion
and even allowed to cry a little, sometimes.
Maybe
sometimes it doesn't have to be the downpour of rain
or a temple constructed in my veins
or the man who pounds me until pain
or the city lost in spires of smoke and bane
sometimes it can just be the tears
of a 19 year old thing
sick and heavy hearted and
so very, very confused
and
so very, very in need of warmth

So sweet and so unsteady,
the aroma was so heady,
our backs sticky
and
sweaty.
It's all very stupid, shallow and trite.
I don't want to write another *** poem.
I want to start a ******* fight.

it makes its entrance in flashy fogs,
the selfish hog of
undesired credibility,
the crushing weight of "cool."
it's so like
the fragile strength of the rain,
burning on your skin,
yearning to slip in
to something a little more casual,
a little more
******
hexual
textual
we flirt in codes
we glance in nods
we feel in rhythms
we speak in silence,
we dance together with the thrusts and sways of our bony little hips,
feeling and inspecting one another
though never looking upon either face.
it was so real yet so fake,
plastic kisses and the taste of regret,
the sterile defilement of a hotel bed,
your **** in my mouth,
your ***** on my chin,
your hand on my head and
my insecurity's egging me on,
whispering the truths that often try to hide
within the narrow little alleyways of my tiny little head,
"it is too late to save yourself,"
"you were never clean anyway,"
"heaven is a lie,"
"you have no say."
I choke on your ****,
you tell me to shut up,
you slap both my cheeks and
you tell me to grow up.
it all pushes me down so hard,
so strong,
so discouragingly,
so relentless in its intent
like the gentle power of the rain,
the bursting burning on my skin,
the heaviness of unnecessaries.
I make my exits in flashy fogs,
I am a magician,
a wizard,
a ghost and
a demon.
I am a legend,
a fable,
a story with no end,
lost to the cities full
of ancient histories and ruined worlds
and patterns of the Earth forgotten;
I am woven into the rich and tangled workings of the world forgotten.

21,
21,
21,
we're playing a lucky game so
pick your sides.
21,
21,
21,
you're the lucky boy today so
enjoy the ride.
But tonic is so toxic
so tasteless
so bitter-trivial-faceless
when you have to swallow your pill
everyday at 8:30 PM,
sharp.
My liver ain't in the best of shape
my body ain't in the best of weights
my soul sure is dying fast
though nothing ever lasts.
21,
21,
21 more times--
just a number,
though nothing is just a number.
My blood is running poison,
a cut a running toxic tap.
My body is a chemical,
a bitter, vindictive compound.
21,
21,
21,
it all tastes so **** bitter,
all I can taste is bitter.

Ripples on the surface,
light shined through
though
always too black to see beneath.
I've felt this way, before;
I've seen the haze and
walked within the maze and
been buried beneath the sand and
and
and
and
this isn't a dream we weave, though, it's all too much to ignore;
And all my friends, they always seem to leave;
perhaps I seem a bore.
I tried to open that
amazing door
and be within the beautiful mind
that beautiful time
which some have called "Memory,"
others "Past," "Happiness," "Solace,"
"Escape,"
though,
all I may call it now is
"What Was Once But Now Is Dead."
I see red
streaming before my eyes,
screaming into my frontal lobe
just a dream to the wise
but to a fool a deadly probe;
a seedling foully planted
within the loamy soil of the mind,
it had been granted passage
as each root unwinds.
I know I've felt this way, before,
though I can't know what's in store,
I haven't read the yore nor
that most evil, ancient lore
so all I want is more.
I must be ignored.
I must be killed.
Burn me.
Light me on fire.
Stack my rusty bones upon the pyre.
Give to me the power of the Sun,
you my planet that slowly drifts away.
I see red
I see fire
I see great flames a-dancing
I see the Sun
I see life
I see redemption and
I see it shut right in my miserable face.
I see you continue to float on off
into the empty darkness of unreachable
space
those unimaginable distances like
the passages between Memory,
Past, Happiness, Solace,
Escape.
I see you wind on off through
the narrow hallways of my frontal lobe
finally turning back before my face.
I see the terrible, pregnant eclipse
of your body before my body,
rocky to red-hot Sun,
take to my heart like an ellipse
.
.
.
I've been naughty
I am on the run
.
.
.
No light shines through here,
no ripples on inky landscapes
.
.
.
It is dark.
                 .
                  .
                   I have no light,
                   I have no Sun,
                I have no planets,
                 I have no dream,
              I have no memories.
                                                  .
   ­                                                .
                                                    I lose it all
                                          and yet I keep losing.
                                                         ­                       .
                                                                                  .
                                                    ­                                I still feel like a dream inside, though
                                                                                                    I know it's merely
                                                                                      What Was Once But Now Is Dead.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                    .
                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  .
                             ­                                                                 ­                                                  .
             ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­     .
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               .
                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­ .
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                               .
                                                               ­                            .     .     .                                                    .
          ­                                                                 ­                  death                       .
                                                               ­    .
.

Public Correspondence to A Man Called Death:

I have watched you from my window
every ****** day
for the past 3,
and I must have to ask
just why you seem to always
just be doing a tiny bit of
fiddling
beneath your long, blackened robes?
Could it be
that you watch me change,
slip from one post-industrial
piece of industrial garbage
to another,
fat bottom shaking and
curly hair quaking all about?
If so,
feel free to give me a yell,
for I am so very lonely,
Mr. Death.
So,
when is it, exactly,
that you're planning to come in
and stay with me?

Screaming,
though all is under cover
and my whole is still all wrapped.
Can you see it, too,
the myriad mirrors casting my form
my shape across dimensions
worlds
universes of possibilities unknown and
unreachable.
Screaming,
though nothing shall be reached
and the thought is not what counts.
Can you feel it, too;
the trembling and tremors
in the fault lines of the air
causing nightmare images of
a reality that none may know.
He stares at me,
the many pronged deer
a demon in my own right
but never his own.
I mustn't look--
no, avert your gaze--
keep looking forward
keep screaming shrilly
uselessly
against the all encompassing cracks
of a reality already bent out of shape.
I am still screaming
and I say,
"--"

the feeling runs deep;
certain, sunken sentiment
that's been felt before

I need to escape
but there is nowhere to run
so I sink in me

I try to escape
and give a hand at flying
with wings of cement

but the sky's a sea
and it doesn't have a place
for a rock like me

I sink to the depths
and let its gentle blueness
devour me fully

an average meal
for a world that couldn't find
a snug place for me

The strangers sat
before the king,
their lips were flat
and eyes were ringed.
It was smoky in that
enormous room,
the vapors and gases
being ornaments hanging in the air.
"For what purpose were you there?"
asked the savage king,
whose eyes were darkly burning
in a face deeply sinking
in on itself.
With feathers in his hair
and paint dried on his skin,
he floated in the air
far above his kin.
Cortes knew the power
hidden deep within this man,
though alien in the hour
of this,
a continent's last stand.
With hands as white as snow
so deft so quick so sly
the contract was unknown
to that great man in the sky.
"To see and meet and greet you,
O' great man of this
strange
and foreign land."
Their eyes had locked in place,
two triggers pulled back taut,
waiting to erase
what the other sought.
Be it gold or riches or
love or power or fame or
ivory coated witches
that were taught no shame,
the two titans did not know
the immensity of the moment,
the branching of the seed
from the future calmly planted.
The trees now grow so far
they cover up the room
where two great conquerors once sparred
while destruction darkly loomed.
A storm gathered on the horizon,
thundering like drums,
winds strong like poison
greed as fast as guns.
They say the smoke still lingers
in all the old, pervasive places,
and that the forest still has fingers
in all the empty spaces.

isolated
i am an island unto myself
freely floating in
a sea of my own self doubt.
i drift along the
water's rim,
stuck between the very high
and the impossibly deep.
tides roll in
casting about the shards of sand
like die in a lucky game.
they scatter about
my forgettable face,
isolated inputs
on an ignored mind.

Sitting all alone
at a table meant for six
I think of molecules
I think of chemical bonds
I think of the vastness of space.
I feel every atom in my body
spread out to cover
the empty table
the empty chair
the stillness and emptiness
of the trembling air.
A dull and lifeless chatter
vibrates all around
pulls me into a runaway rocking
like an ocean made of sound.
Most are unaware of
the fragility of the Universe
most cannot feel the
cosmos pull apart.
I grow anxious as the seats stay empty;
despite all my thinking
all my spreading
I still seem to sit alone.

Spheres floating in the chilly dark,
white and fluffy,
vain and uncorrupted.
They act as the air
being both here and never
there;
they act as the heavens,
little shining points floating
in a sea of black.
Islands so pure
floating in a nightmare sea--
how I abhorr their isolation,
their pure and careless
floating
though I, too, am alone.
Adrift in a sea of
introspective mutterings and
the utterings of a mind entrapped,
I sail the dark and simpering seas
of the Universe.
My vessel is a snowflake,
a crystalline craft carrying me
through the synapses and
nervous connections
of the thinking brain.
How infinite is the mind,
how wondrous is the world,
an immensity unto itself and
yet so tiny and contained.
I have never seen the ruins of China,
the fallen columns of the Romans nor
the ancient halls of the Al-Hambra.
I shall never see the samurai in bloom,
arranging flowers and painting
pictures of naked women
haunting their snowflake mind.
I shall never construct the
anonymous clockwork of Archimedes
but rather be trapped in the mechanisms
of the modern machine.
Adrift,
my confusion,
my blind anger and hatred of fate and
the gravity that pulls the snowflake ever closer to the ground
is pure vanity and self illusion.
Do the archways of Troy or
the mathematics of India
make us any larger in size
when compared to the Universe?
How can a snowflake
measure infinity?
What Universes exist
within the frozen ice of a snowflake,
what wars and great romances have played out
within the crystals;
what gods have been erected,
what nations have coalesced from the ashes
within the molecules and atoms
crafted by the cold
and the senseless flow of water?
The myriad explorers,
philosophers,
inventors,
geniuses lost to the ages
have mapped out the physical
while still being blind to the
finite world around them.
They sailed the Universe's
inky oceans of unknown,
their mind's sails billowing white,
puffy and hopeful
as they drifted off the edge of the known.
How they wriggled and rolled
so miraculously through the dark,
snowflakes floating carelessly
creating the world out of necessity
and pure ingenuity.
What white specters might exist
in the libraries of old,
in the halls of Alexandria or
the melting *** of Baghdad?
Do they wish to leave me a message,
the snow that saunters down,
to build a city in my mind
and a home in my soul.
What thoughts were caught
by the ancient genius
floating carelessly
like snow falling
in the anonymous black
of night?
Like islands they stood
for the men sailing the unknown waters
to rest and read and
contemplate
for just a few moments longer.
Swallowed by the darkness,
layered on the ground,
the knowledge is lost
among the infinitely white expanse
and the all-consuming darkness
of the night.
I am lost
like a snowflake falling too fast
I am buried beneath
layers of snow.

passages and pathways proliferate the minds
of young men and women wondering too big.
it is strange how there are hidden rooms within the fabric of a brain,
how the web weaves itself wondrously among all the fibers and frequencies
of thought.
though subtle might the message be,
brave in thought and clear in word,
harder it might be to see
with vision that always blurs.
it is certainly strange how
the brain builds itself over time
and becomes the face and
the object pantomimed.
act well,
act loudly,
act brilliantly brash,
even though we all will perish
and we all will turn to
ash.
it is just so very strange how
some words are far too similar
even though the meaning may not be so.
and I wonder how it is to wander
in the wonderings of a wandering mind;
we are wondering far too big
for such small,
squishy minds.
don't be frightened, but,
we might be out of time.

I stitch myself into your solar plexus,
red stringed within the
overlapping archways and
runaway buttresses of the body.
It runs white and gray
along the plain of the corporeal,
spires and towers reaching out to form
the webbing of white.
Wandering through the ruins
of the body collapsed,
could you hold me down and
could I make it last?
As a speck I pass
beneath the gates
of aggressive,
bony spears--
fangs ready for the ****.
The teeth frame the horror
that hearts often belie,
the nervous flutterings and out of chest poundings
that grab the floor out from under you and
plummet you into a beatless abyss.
The heart is a special kind of stomach,
a power plant ready for digestion
of rolled eyes and recycled emotions
to power the city of the body
and the spires of the soul.
If we carved into that untouched ivory,
that still-hidden treasure
that cowers beneath the flesh
would it be as satisfying
to sew myself to you
and create one of two?
A frosted, glassy figure
encased in a glassy shell,
suspended in its prison,
its home,
its island and
its Hell.
Are they questions only when
pronounced without the period?
Its the subtlety of language
that always tricks me up.
It always starts with
hurried statements and
broken glances
but ends up being
up to chances.
How well do we stack up
when there were never any odds to pile?

and were the ears so pleased when:

the iciclic needles dug into our skins,
fleshy cloths that, sewn together,
made the mask to hide the whole.
we wore them like the cheapest of trophies,
the basest of glories and the simplest of stories.
we wore them to contrast to the whiteness of space,
the empty black white gray of life's living littleness
with the reddened hardwork of claymade shells.
they glowed with the rusty red of millions of faces
free to make their mark as they see best fit.
we had found these skins
forgotten on the floor,
and so we picked them up
with our biglittle hands
and opened the door
to newmade makings and
brand new beings.
it was empty within us--
the beings of old
and the yearnings of yore
had retreated far beneath the surface,
burrowed deep below mountains and meadows and
hills pushed up like sand in a box,
crushed against the sides of our enclosure.
it was silent within us--
the screech-making moon
sang in time to chest-beatings
and the barking of stray dogs;

the melody of moments lost in time.

the rain beat down
each drop a tiny life
falling
falling
forever falling
down to the mortals and the
surface below
plopped and dropped and plinked
out of existence
to become the moisture
the nip and
the annoyance
on our faces.
how we take their lives for granted
how we ignore their cries for help;
were it you that was falling
so freakishly fast
from the furrowed clouds and
the oceans' past
would you dare to wipe
that wetness away
or would you let it sit
and let it
stay?

a wind blew
from within my body
and tried to blow out
the Sun.
it huffed
and it puffed
but it could not blow
that immense house
down;
that great,
vast,
fiery idol
which stands as a monument to
the immensity of the Universe.
I have no idea why
it wanted the Sun
to go out,
I just know
it is the only way
to save myself
for we all have
our own idols within
ourselves,
bright and brilliantly
conceited flames
that just need to be
blown out
every so often.
this flame burns upon
the chest of the devil,
that evil and most vain lake of desire.
tongues of fire form
islands of
delusional self worth
convince themselves of
their large and grand importance
isolated and
surrounded by a sea
of themselves.
it burns within
the bitter bottle,
releasing its stinging vapors
upon the breaking of the seal.
these humors drift up
and into my nostrils,
coalesce in my lungs and
concentrate
into a fiery wind.
it burns within
my naive soul,
desperately needing a new-grateful
wind
to blow it
out
and quench its thirst
for immensity.
despite the irritation
I needn't have water,
wandering in the desert of myself.
to deny myself
all the comforts of a good life
and to reward myself
all the glories of an elevated mind
is what is most important;
I pinch my fingers
to blot out the Sun,
hiding that horrible light
behind my clasped together
fingers.
I replace it with a new monument,
an idol to
the things that have
shaped me,
given me this
gift of
silent reflection,
to wander in the sands
of introspective madness
until I come out
a prophet
or
a walking death.

and they are always going on
telling me about the stars
the moons
the distant points in space
with beings greater and wider and vaster
and emotions that are millions of times more complex
tragedies thousands of degrees more heartbreaking
creatures that see countless colors that we shall never even discover
and then they say to me
you are ugly
you are worthless
you are so ugly
look
see how they will never click you
lick you
see how they will never
like you
you are ugly
you are worthless
you are so stupid
and you don't even realize
trap yourself in your world of delusion
it always works out in the end
do you know the depths of your tininess
do you comprehend the meaninglessness of your being
can you realize the unrealness of your very existence
sometimes
I truly doubt you can
and I take it all in
I let them shove their hatred
their dark and putrid thoughts
into my head
let them defeat me and wring me out
drying out my insecurities
and reminding me of my minusculeness
my utter worthless wonder
my stupid
sorry self

He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.

I dreamed my own death,
last night:

dug down deep through
dirges and dingy old dirt
my bed and my tomb are
one and the same.
like a blanket the dirt piles above
and like a mattress the
dirt layers below.
it gets so tiring,
sometimes;
sleep is a cousin to death.
there are loved ones
sobbing far away and
others laid around me,
lost and caught among
the endless eddies and streams
of neverending loneliness
that we all have felt,
some time.
it is a common experience,
a collective, conscious thought--
we float up and out of our bodies,
our gases and our atoms mixing with the
dirt,
the mud,
the worms and
the bodies
and the
ever-lost matter
of countless others come before
and countless more come
after.
we are all living in order to die as
after our death there will be nothing added
and nothing left;
the base materials,
the elements and bits of star stuff
have always been
and always will be
even when they are not
us.
really,
it is the
accepting of our own
demise--
our ashes to ashes and
the plastering of the
dustiest of dusts
that shall settle
and lay on thick
in layers and levels of
lost and loopy illuminations
of a mind that is filled with holes and rot.

I walk among the
too-tall pines,
lonely sentinels who
alone still bare their green.
They are
unashamed
in the colors they show,
natural exhibitionists
in a world of barren arms
and almost-snow.
I squeeze around their
stuck-out branches,
sometimes stabbed
and sometimes poked.
That’s the thing with trees—
there is no tenderness,
there is no intimacy because
it's all a joke.
Their pines and their needles
stick to your warmth,
cling to the heat that
rolls off your body in
thick
moist
heavy puffs.
How I hate them
and their everlastingness,
how I despise their
infinity.
One by one
I have cut down their branches,
have snipped off the green
in thick, poky batches.
Carefully and
quietly I
arrange them
in the slush,
build them into
a body that I can
slip into when
there is green abound
and the Earth
is lush.

there are cars in the street
and music fills the night;
Les Trois Gymnopedies
are vibrating in the air
and I just don't have a care;
I'm going to melt away
even though I was never there;
my thoughts cannot quite finish
I think I might be sick
I'm going to **** myself tonight
at least, I hope,
I wish

I am a pup in the springtime,
newborn and
overflowing with joy.
I romp in the grasses,
roll in the dirt,
delight in the other babes
that
pop
their apprehensive heads above the ground.
planet Earth itself has
missed this time,
has yearned for the
white-hot love of the Sun
kissing its rocky skin.
it moves itself closer
to its age-old lover
and so summer begins
as a romance.
the heady,
sweaty,
hot and
sticky
love of summertime
pervades the air,
the fresh-hot smells of
reds,
pinks,
purples,
and blues
flies and
flits among us,
dancing on the breezes and
loitering in my nostrils.
I am a strong, fit dog,
in the summertime,
made for running
made for hunting
made for climbing and
like the Earth
made for loving.
the planet explodes in an
**** of life,
as the creatures marring
the Earth's stony face
rub and run
into each other.
it is a maddening display which
browns my flesh and
wrinkles my face,
burns holes into my skin and
scratches the superficiality
of myself.
the leaves,
encouraged by the heated lovemake,
begin their downward dance,
leaping from the tree branches and
twirling with romance,
colliding in the air and then beginning to
drift
apart--
it becomes apparent to me that
my warm weather skin
must be shed.
it is old and
quite worn down,
littered with burn marks and
the desperate clawings of a
bitter, old cat.
as fall arrives,
that is all I can be;
a bitter,
old cat.
for I had scratched at myself
through my lovedrunken stupor,
had tried to cease the onslaught
of the Sun's romance.
for the Sun had tired
of that old, rough Earth,
and so it
drifted
off.
the planet was filled with
a dancing ennui,
leaves twirling in the crisp,
autumn air.
there was no rolling
no romping
in these leaves;
no,
we let them bury us
up to the eyeballs
as we picked and scratched
off our scabby, old skin.
breathing out,
my breath begins its own
sad,
little dance,
twirls as a white-cold wraith.
it suspends in the air
for just a moment,
spins in a most beautiful way
and then it
disappears
into the atmosphere.
I feel the chill approach,
the stark whiteness of winter
settling into my bones.
has my skin been fully removed,
has my matted clumps of fur and my
dry-****** nails finally
fallen off?
there is no one left to ask,
mouths buried among
****,
brown leaves,
minds lost among
the cold abandonment
of the Earth.
perhaps
with the first snow
I shall renew;
I shall gain a fresh,
icy skin,
settled above the crisp,
brown leaves in a
fine,
white layer.
I shall rise from below
these levels of living,
first being pale and
weak in form.
the winter will
eventually subside and
I shall green,
shall grow and grow and
reach out to my
newfound Sun,
shall kiss it with my leaves and
hold it in my branches.
shall he,
that newborn king,
kiss me with his warmth,
shower me with sunshine
and rays and
newfound
newborn
life?
as for now
the snow thickly settles,
surrounds me in layers and
levels of
chilly isolation;
winter is still upon us.

they have sought me out
when others would not--
could not
find the world that I had
gone off to fall into
and off the edge
into the terrible abyss
where I have made my home.
I
can't find the words to describe
what this is I'm
feeling.
depression
doesn't exist,
a single word cannot describe
the vast and neverending icy oceans
that gently freeze your flesh,
petting and washing your soul
while hoping for its prize.
that cruel and dark mistress
I have many times known,
it has taken me to its darkest depths,
yet
always floats me back up to the top.
that's my problem,
it is
gravity
that always finds me--
gravity
that is on the hunt,
that chases me through the ocean
deep,
the dark-touched caverns and the
crevices full of nothing.
it is
gravity
which always finds me and
surrounds me,
entangles me in its
gentle pressure,
slowly pressing me into
a single point,
a dot on the grid.
I have truly fallen off the map,
untracked and
untouched,
though
they have hunted me in my loneliness,
have sought the scents of my sweet,
bitter tears
to taste and touch and
bottle in their dark and
sinister workshops
where the devil does the disco and
Satan serves his smile.
that
horrible
smile.
it is a wildfire
burning in his mouth,
a burning,
white-hot inferno
which burns me alive
and also
burns me when I'm dead.
I have lived
many lives,
before,
I have died and
come back from the flames
hundreds of times,
before.
I have scattered my ashes in the
chilly ocean of
night's black face,
have lost myself in the rippled edges
of the cold and uncaring cosmos.
these bits of me,
pieces and parts that are gone beyond recognition
coalesce in the waters
and
come together to re-form--
they
shine like stars,
bright and burning
white-hot
distant
points
on the silent grid
of depression's endless oceans
and night's eternal smile.

Destinations.

empty roads filled with

the empty gazes of

hollowed out eyes,

framed by the bags and

the black circles

burrowed deep into their skins.

"Where

are we

going?"

you ask the chillness of the night,

the stillness of the bright,

blue cars rushing past--

dazed,

you swim in this world as

a goldfish with no memory and

no vision

of what's to come.

"Where,

oh,

where

are we going?"

you ask,

feet out the window as

the lustful wind runs its chilly fingers

through your hair.

"Nowhere."

he answers,

hands gripping the steering wheel,

knowing someday you shall float off,

up,

up,

and away

to a distant land

and a distant time--

we're on a road to

nowhere.

The fog began to roll in,
twirling and twisting into the darkly shaded night.
The air smelled of young adulthood and
the lovehot and wild bucks and does
rolling and romping around in their
thick clouds of pheromones.
We ventured into this haze,
arms locked together and
hands intertwined.
Your warmth radiated off and
filled me with heat and
tingle-loveliness and sweet,
sweet music.
It scared me,
these new and bizarre things
that I had never felt, before.
I felt myself begin to swell up,
a bright red balloon in the dark, black night,
filled with the lighter-than-air molecules
of my newfound feelings.
Please, body,
don't you float away.
We walked in tandem--
already did we walk as one being,
one body.
It was 4 AM and
we were sauntering uptown,
stuck together like
the feathers on a bird
that had never before denied
its instinct to fly away.
I stared intently at your face,
trying to wish you away.
What about
my freedom,
my wild and untamed
boyish libido,
those future nights of painless,
faceless encounters to be blurred into
the fog of my young and wild buck-crazy
life?
Your thumb rubbed the back of my hand,
rubbed my mind and
rubbed my heart.
Your thumb rubbed
my very existence,
rubbed away the dirt and grime and
rubbed me to my very core.
I felt the ice of 47 different men
begin to melt away,
as the thing that I had sought to keep hidden
above all else
was being exposed.
That weak and
pulsing *****,
beating like a drum;
a tiny,
fragile,
little drum.
At any moment it could stop,
the tempo could change,
our arms would unlock and
our fingers drift apart.
At any moment this warmth could fade away,
could roll and sew itself into
the cold, harsh night
or lose itself in the
lonely company of the thick curtain of fog.
I looked up at the sky,
saw the light of stars I had never before noticed.
In that moment I realized,
The temporary is more beautiful
than the everlasting and the infinite.
In that moment I realized
that even though I was afraid of pain,
pain is natural,
it is inevitable.
Pain is like
the squeezing of my hand
inside the grip of another
or the heavy breathing on my neck
of a head resting on my shoulder.
It is a sign,
a message;
it says,
I am here,
I am alive.
In that moment I realized,
even if it has an end
at least it had a beginning.
Time does not exist;
the present is the only
real reality.
And really,
in that moment I realized
that taking a temporary risk
paid off,
as we never really forget someone
after we feel their hands,
their fingerprints,
after we have engrained their body heat
into our very body chemistry.
The fragility of it all,
the temporary glasshouse that
shielded these exchanges from
the harsh glares and gusts of
a world too large for itself,
made me want to cry;
the lightweight feelings and the
tippytoed carefulness
as we walked up the stairs and
into his house.
Three bears were asleep
and so we kept on walking,
laying ourselves down and
stringing our limbs together,
breathing our fallen-for-you and
forget-me-not breath
into the face of the other--
a young and inflated mirror image;
a doppelganger infatuation.
I turn my head above
and look around your room,
trying to fin the stars that
you have hidden away.
Your walls are covered in the
places you want to see,
your dreams filling up
each and every one of those
pieces of flimsy paper.
The world doesn't matter.
The roads and the streets,
the unknown and unseen locales,
they have all been mapped out by you,
seen by your heart's eye.
As we lay together,
lips interlocking and
tongues twisting together,
I present to you another place
to map out just as well.
It is a newly discovered land
full of hopes and dreams and loves and losses,
covered in pockmarks and scars and
a pale and fragile pallor.
I present it to you as a gift
and as a message,
I am here,
I am alive.
You accept it graciously,
gulp down my heart and
all of my feelings with it.


A week later and
I watch as the routes have been placed,
the forests uncovered and
the ruins and ghost towns brought
back from the haze of
historic obscurity.

He catches me in lovin--
liking
him
and it's always striking
how my body acts on whim.
He always looks the best
not wearing any clothes,
makes my ***** point west
with their ***** woes.
He makes me think in lovely
and dresses me in kisses:
purple,
black,
red and bruised up
kisses
(he never misses).
I have a necklace ringing
all around my skinny neck,
I wear his love
like a trophy,
do I look a-wreck?
I make him wreck my body
night after night after night
because I want his gaudy,
pale and beautiful might
to come down all at once
and bury me in flesh;
to fill my ears with grunts
and turn my soil threshed.
Thresh me, thresh me hard,
my beautiful man,
my body's prettier marred
with your harmattan
breezes blowing on my sands;
how I really,
really,
really
like
my
man
because he buries me in hugging
and hides me in his warmth;
he always has me shrugging
the yeses from up north
in the epicenter of all pleasure
rooted in my mind;
it's the greatest measure
of our loving time.
He spanks me 'til I moan,
I **** him 'til he's dry,
his touch turns me to stone and
his stroking makes me cry.
Though it may be sore
after a day or so
my heart is always hurting
from the constant flow
of his body's beautiful fluids,
white and clear and true;
who needs a beautiful blue
when I have my like,
my really,
really,
really
like;
it's better than number two.




(I really,
really,
really like you)

Here I was,
pheromones **** in the chilly fall air,
tumbling about among the atoms and molecules of
oxygen and nitrogen and methane and gas
for any to stop and smell and--
Please just grab my ***.
The truest of lights
streams into my eyes,
blinds me and unclothes me,
throws off all of my lies and false feelings
and turns me into the soppy mess I am.
I stumble down the street,
tears blurring my vision;
"I'm going for a walk,"
I tell them,
"I'm going to find my friends."
They've all left me behind,
I tell myself.
I'm alone and trailing them
on this road of
***** and
tears.
I had wrapped up my hair,
worn the shortest of shorts,
drank until I couldn't think
and still--
and still I walked alone.
The lights of Columbus and
the crisp air of an
old country route
haunt my heart,
play hopscotch and
dress it up all
nice and tidy.
Whether a **** and
pulsating body
were against me or not,
would I be happy?
My body is fighting to break free
but my drunken mind
can't even manage that.
Here I am,
world,
take me for all my
sloppy iniquities,
I think, stumbling back to the house
from an adventure poorly spent.
He had gone
and so had him,
boy was done with
my foolish whims.
True love is hard to find
and true like is even harder
but sometimes it helps to just
sit back and think and
ignore the thunder
of thousands of people pushing down
on your weary, little head--
platonic attraction
just doesn't cut it, sometimes.
The mounties rear up and back
and I walk around;
a girl pukes her heart out and
I crush it into the dirt.
The door slams open and
all eyes rest upon me,
those drunken
and
judgmental
eyes.
Their gaze burns me,
catches me alight
in the unwavering flames
of social curiosity.
"Are you all right?"
they ask me.
I fall down instantly,
sink into the old oak floorboard,
melt into the grain and
become a vague pattern among
millions and millions of black and brown circles and lines--
"Yes,"
I answer,
"I'm perfectly fine."
Here I was,
sloppy and seeping onto the cold, hardwood floor.

Shaking the fur
off the holes in my skin,
microscopic, little dens
for every fox that comes my way.
They release,
instantly,
and I stand in the room,
bare and naked and bleeding and screaming
for the whole ******* world to
hear and hurt and hug and help and
love
me.
I'm crying and laughing and singing and dreaming
for the whole ******* school to
stop and see and sting and string
me
up
into the jewelry
wrapping their pretty,
little necks.
I am
inexpensive jewelry
to give to your
finest French *****.
Read me like
one of your nudey books,
I'm just a spreadshotted eagling on the
bareskin rug,
bearbottomed with the brutish blues
of the bruises and the bites.
And maybe I
want to hide,
to run and whisper myself
into the secret,
hidden spots behind every
shadowy curtain--
but when you're up and out
and over and through
and wrapped around their evil,
little eyes,
there's nowhere to go.
You're trapped in
every word they say,
the kind,
the cruel;
you're trapped like a rat
stuck inside a cat
stuck inside a dog
which was eaten by
a North Korean man last Kim Jong-il day.
You know,
they call that day
the
Day of the Shining Star--
and maybe the man
plastered on every poster,
draped carelessly on the street signs
and erotically fixating a nation
didn't want to be the Star, either;
maybe he never wanted to
be the constant, single thought
on each of their hateful,
dreadful little minds,
dredged into the
swamps and mires
of their moist
and
sweaty
dreams.
Maybe,
he, too,
didn't want to be the
*****,
drunken,
distasteful
STAR
of their hate.

I've been
worried
lately
every time
the wind begins to blow.
The force of
that invisible
force
pulls me up
in its strong embrace,
sweeps me off my feet
and into its
unseen hands.
I become a
strange warmth
to it
as it becomes my
bedrock,
my bottom and
my base.
I've been
wondering
lately
if I might be caught up
in the gentle breezes,
swayed and
shoved around in the
upper reaches
of the atmosphere,
chilled in the
highest heights.
I've been
welcomed
lately
in the breezes upon my back,
the feel of the cold
stinging the nape
of my neck,
nestling its
strength
into my own weakness.
Maybe I
might collapse into it
one of these days,
and my feet will stop
their walking
and my hands will stop
their tumbling
and maybe I
might just become
like the wind.
I've been
winking
lately
at the thought that
I might be a dandelion,
seeds sprouting up
from my skin,
escaping pores
filled with the toxins
of 300 cartons of cigarettes
and the esteem
of a crippled chimera.
Should the wind
ever blow so hard,
be belligerent,
shove me around,
I shall scatter and disperse,
blown off in different directions--
I shall plant myself in
foreign lands
and allow my legacy
to be carried by the wind.

I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
I didn't need nobody else.
I never needed nobody else.
I kept my thoughts
locked by key--
yes,
yes,
I could've kept it in myself.
I always kept it in myself.
They don't ever
need to know,
there's no reason;
and maybe my
moodiness is just the
season.
But we never keep on fighting
when everything just
throws us back down--
and it gets so rough
when one has to keep biting
just to keep you around.
I'll never say these words
outside of my head,
they'll never be caught
and spilled above your bed.
I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no, no, no, no,
no, there ain't no key.
Your heart is in your head
but your head is torn apart,
and maybe sadness is
really art.
I mean you see me
struttin down that street,
smoky,
smoky,
smoky me
with a body that
looks so beat.
And maybe I'm tired
and maybe I'm trapped,
but that don't mean
you can be up in me.
You can never
be inside me,
I will always
try to hide the key.
If unlocked
I will be
a firecracker
rising up in the night,
going up,
up,
up and away,
burning brilliantly on my
chariot of smoke,
sparks,
and stars.
I'm sorry,
I have to keep my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no--
not yet ready to fall.

I'm tired.
Some nights,
I don't even sleep, anymore.
Spending hours with eyes staring blank,
spacing out into my own empty spaces.
Sometimes, in the darkness
of the midnight,
I explore these places,
these hidden nooks and crannies
of the inner stores of my deepest selves,
spending hours upon single places;
my own empty spaces.
I've grown tired
of this waking stupor
and the life that surrounds it,
the reality that permeates everything
like the patterns in deja vu,
the trends in dreams.
I walk blindly,
aimlessly throughout
hallways boobytrapped with people,
emotions that lie in wait to jump out, to pounce.
They want to jump out and jump in
to all my nooks and crannies;
these same special places,
my empty spaces.
I don't recognize people,
anymore, don't connect, don't relate.
My brain has been fried from late nights and days
that asked too much of my fragile selves,
looked too hard for places to shove
their doubt; their special places,
my empty spaces.
I feel tired
of this mortality, this flesh
and blood and bones that only assemble
due to the random collections of particles,
the creation of bonds and repulsion,
electrical tugs with not pattern.
I shove my being into
these places,
my special places,
my vain spaces.
They don't know about their
lack of existence, so we can wait,
we can watch and resume this trend of
using and being used, of assuming
and guessing all the answers
to basic behaviors,
the layout
of people and words
meant to trap me within my
own mind, my own paranoid insomnia
and my gaps of humanity,
rushing to be filled
with imaginary
electricity.

I haven't slept
in far too long.

"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***,
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****,
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."**
No, you don't.

I need movement,
I need action.
I called you up
For a quick ****,
Wanted sweet fluids
To run over my skin,
To flow into my pores
And pass through my veins.
I wanted to bleed experience,
To think in sensory images.
So
I called you up
For a quick ****.
Wished for heavy pounding
To drown out my paranoia
And all my insecurity.
I realize that this bed
Can not hold
All of my being,
For I extend
Far past my
Dermal prison.
I am the mind's
****** aura,
Reaching out with
Many feathered tentacles
To tickle your chin,
your chest,
under your belly,
between the thighs.
So
I called you up
For a quick ****.
I hope you realize
That you need to use protection,
as **** can not hold
All of your being,
Extending far out
And into me,
To soak
Into my skin,
Sink through
My pores,
And run
Inside of my veins,
Your sanguine fluids
Like solid,
Salty tears
Pumping throughout
My body and
Coming back
To my heart.

I'm awake because
I can't sleep,
because
there's still so much buzzing,
stirring,
whispering inside of me,
burning my bones and
shivering my skin.
I want to touch,
feel,
be felt and
be touched,
to inhale and exhale,
to ruin and create.
I want to be dreaming while awake
and singing while silent,
though my song can never get through
with just a keyboard and
some clumsy fingers.
The air vibrates in
anticipation
as life continues its course;
ever-forward is
its mantra,
and ever-quickening is
its stride,
as I get caught up within
the fleeting nature of
time,
life,
and the sleepless nights
that have slowly become my existence.