I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?

I float outside of my body,
a dermal prison dented into the ground,
doomed to never fly and never float
and never travel beyond the sound.
My brain moves faster than a
high speed train,
cars in the fast lane,
the pounding of the rain,
sane,
sane--
I've gone insane.
It's infuriating
this
plastic mind,
soul,
body,
all disposable and
all utterly insignificant.
I know the fate of history
and the destiny of humanity--
we are temporary,
a dream stuck on a floating grain
in the misty seas of the cosmos,
swirling towards a black death
darker than any night or
any universe could be.
We are a fleeting thought
caught within the arms and tendrils of the galaxy,
draining into an immense
super massive
black hole--
the drain at the bottom.
We are accidents,
sad ones, at that.
The stars formed randomly from
the collisions and crashes of
millions of atoms,
perhaps themselves
the containers of still sadder
and more pathetic universes.
From this early crib
Sol and his brothers drifted throughout the blackness of space,
most dying and
the mediocre remaining.
This is the fate of humans
and indeed all of existence:
that the interesting
the beautiful
the bizarre and
the intense shall all perish
while the average shall
survive, stuck on their tracks
and predetermined paths,
lines laid out by the random assortment
of atoms, of particles
of the refuse of the universe.
We formed from the cosmos' ****;
an explosion erupted from
the backend of existence
and out flowed reds and greens
helium and hydrogen
and burning water.
As the planets formed
from the wake of the exhaust
and the stars migrated to their final resting places,
the elements continued bumping
and colliding and crashing
until green ran the continents of countless and
insignificant planets, residents sticking roots down
and extending towards the mediocre light
of a wholly average Sun.
From this green and blue sea sprang forth
a multitude of parasites,
feeding off the grasses and the ferns,
the flowers and the moss,
warring and ******* and
laying their own universes down out of
their backends.
We are the **** of **** that ***** out **** to
power our **** and allow us to ****
which in turns ***** the ****
to ****.
It's all ****.
Existence is ****.
Existence is ****.
I am a dream in the mind of one
floating off into my dimension,
moving faster than sound,
light,
actions and existence
to cross the cosmic walls and
climb the galactic ivy
to reach out and say,
"I was here. I mattered."
I wish I could comfort them in my arms
to pet them and tell them it's all okay,
that they matter, but I know the fate of history
and the destiny of humanity--
existence is the most interesting thing we can do,
and even that is based on mediocre ****.

I grew from this earth,
green as a sprout,
to grow and grow and
touch the sky with
my puny shoulders.
I do as the Sun above
commands of me,
to keep stretching and
bending my spine,
arching my back to
its plans for
my overarching canopy.
They wish for me to
lie beneath them,
absorb their every
ray and word,
to believe fully and totally
in only them.
However,
these Suns do not shine
quite bright enough
and my nourishment
supplements itself.
I help myself to grow,
to bear the responsibility above
that I can never handle;
far too much to handle.
They don't know that
I am so tired,
so sick and weak
deep, deep, deep
down in my roots.
I haven't slept
in years,
years and years of
open eyed nights,
empty thoughts and
alternative music
to fuel and feed my
roots and trunk.
This could never suffice,
as only the Sun may
lift up the heavens,
may hold the sky aloft and
force the clouds to dance,
sending glittery raindrops
down towards me,
sweat running wet from
the pores of the wild
storm fronts.
I am too weak to handle
their high heeled kicking,
heavy foot stomping,
black cloud romping around;
I'm too far down,
down, down on the ground,
covered by dirt and
having only grown
a quarterway up.
It won't work,
honestly;
I can't be who you
wanted.
After all,
such small shoulders
could never hold
such large sky.

Sleep has been restless,
lately.
Rest
Less.
It is neither conscious nor unconscious,
and the undreaming is an issue.
My dreams have become
dimly lit hallways
through which I walk,
unsure of myself or
of my surroundings.
It is a dream because
my body is not quite there,
it is caught between the waking
and the sleeping.
I feel the sheets of my bed
and their maternal embrace
clinging warmly to my summer shade
of dark brown and olive,
yet I see the hallway,
dimly lit.
It is a dream because
the people I knew
are other people as well,
are ideas and thoughts--
passions I hardly knew
both good and bad
that dangle on the tip of my tongue,
waiting to dance off into my body below,
down the passageway of my throat,
dark and
dimly lit.
My mind has blurred out their faces,
though I know there is only visual blackness
behind my eyelids,
has littered their words or meanings
with the trash of reality,
the inferred paranoia that
masks the truth,
dimly lit.
These ghastly haunts come
to greet me by my bed
each and every night,
blank silhouettes desperately trying
to tell me something,
something not very important,
anyway.
They mouth the words
and I go with the actions,
but my understanding is vague and doubtful
and my comprehension none.
Maybe I should care more
about what they have to say;
where is this hallway,
why my vision is blocked.
But, I'm far too tired,
in these dreams,
too exhausted and
rest
less
to care.
I am never replenished,
never renewed,
only further fatigued
by the dark and
hazy ideas the ghasts leave behind
to wander
neither conscious
nor unconscious
in the corners and passages
of my brain,
dimly lit.

I left the table feeling gross,
nauseous and swollen
and altogether overwhelmed.
My ring finger traced the curves
of my arms, twisted into the
light hairs running over like
infinite eddies of shallow streams.
The world reeled around me,
nightmarish carousels careening
through the dark,
spinning around and throughout
my head, my mind,
every single sentient thought.
Life had gotten too much
for me to handle, though,
suicide never quite worked.
Feet dragged across the ground,
rubbing the wooden surfaces
and creating friction,
creating heat.
I felt hot and
restrained there,
like too much of me-
far too much of me to hold in-
was cramped into that tiny corner.
I needed a way out,
an escape route
from the fire burning all around me,
carousel on fire and
carnival flaming
to the ground.
There was no panic in
the destruction, though
it lacked the methodical touch.
There was no reason to
panic or to worry about it
as all had come to go
as it pleased and had planned
without any great
forethought of my own.
I wanted to burn down my temple,
turn the offerings to ash
and destroy all my gods and idols
that I had collected.
I itched and scratched
at a sensation unable to be traced,
of a small hovering
caught within the air
trapped within the hairs
upon my goose prickled arms.
I took my pillars in my hands
and smashed them to the ground,
satisfied at the crumbled
limestone and pretense
that lay scattered around me.
"This is what I need,"
I told myself calmly,
"total destruction.
Revolution."
And so as I had
revolted myself at the table
my mind revolted against
my body as my soul
revolted against my mind,
making the itch to scratch
a greater prickling feeling
than before.
Needles, hot and heavy,
traced the outlines of my arms,
felt the ridged contours
of my spine.
There were eyes on me
as materiality caused my body
to revolt against my soul,
making me disgusted
and fat in my indulgence.
I was bloated and needed
to be punctured,
to release the pressure.
I felt stabs all across me,
causing screams to erupt
from my mouth in almost-pleasure
and surely pain.
Pricking against me
were knives and daggers
where needles had been.
I felt the pressure recede,
the great angry mass
of rotting fluids within
spilling out of the holes poked
within my body,
mind,
and soul.
They had broken through,
broken me down,
revealed the decomposed
and near-dead individual within.
Suicide hadn't worked
and neither had ignoring it.
"Total desctruction,"
I repeated,
"total destruction."
And so I jumped
on his back, clawing at his face,
his chest,
kicking his stomach
as he punched my top.
My finger bent
in a happy sort of violence,
and I was all too pleased
with my feigned surprise.
He fled, retreated
to his cave of
lonely, musky isolation
and delusional regret
as I ran,
up the stairs and past the curves,
flying into what
was once my bedroom
and grabbing for my coat,
the one without my last name.
Putting it on,
I walked slowly to
the back door,
unlocking it gingerly,
as though the key might ignite
into millions of different colored fireworks
at any second wasted.
I descended the steps
in the way a monarch does
in his last hours,
the way a priest might as he
watches his house-
no,
his whole religion
crash to his feet.
Calm.
Demure
with the knowledge that
this world was not meant
to support it this long.
And so
the spirits of frustration,
the roasted spine and
too-afraid shadow flew out of
the debris before me,
to be caught in the
forever kinking and
knotting curls upon my head,
an infinite mess of
paradoxical equations
to be fully examined
by no one but themselves.
These ghosts of myself
hastened my flight,
spirited me off
on a mad run down the street,
ring finger throbbing from the scars of war,
I soon discarded this itch as I had
the last one,
as my ring finger was meant to be ****,
unadorned and
free of any promises
that it knew it could never keep.
A car stopped and picked me up,
drove off to a familiar place
full of smoke and magic,
friends that felt
about as sick as I had.
We partook in the
mystic rituals, knowing
they meant very little,
anymore.
We drove around,
watching the steam before the headlights
dance in the dark like
overjoyed spirits making love.
The road seemed endless
as the lines rolled into
then out of view,
forever reeling in
infinite streams of shallow
yellow on black.
Finally, our priestess departed
and I was given a new place to sleep
and not made to sit at
a table like before.
My ring finger smiled in agreement
as we figured our new place
in a world without religion,
bodies,
minds,
or souls,
carousels to mock us,
or flames to ******.
No threat of anger and destruction
boiling over within myself
to erupt on everyone around.
Just
stark sheets,
clean walls,
the drumming
in my legs,
and the throbbing
freedom held within
my ring finger
as it traced the curves
of my arms.
I left consciousness feeling clean,
refreshed and renewed
and altogether reborn.

We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.

There's a monster
in my book bag,
stomach growling
and eyes alert.

It grows pleased
with each hour that
ticks by,
running away with
the delicious taste
of wasted time.

It feeds on my time,
consuming my entire
night, my life,
taking up all aspects of my being.

To take a pen
to its heart
would be more effective than
the sword,
but altogether
more challenging.

Its vanquish happens
in intermittent streams,
bursts of valiance and
productivity, then
the silent tapping of
impatient feet
in armor made of
vain and thoughtless dreams.

We create our monsters,
in essence,
our lives not quite
challenging enough
with a literal foe to defeat.

We shape our monsters,
give them life
and soul in structure
with new patterns to always confuse ourselves.

We are our own monsters
in the classes we cram,
the responsibilities we pile,
the layers of duties
pulverizing air to thin sheets.

It's hard to breath,
hard to think,
over the growling from
our tapping feet,
our chattery fingers,
our smacking lips,
those wandering eyes.

It's hard to plan
and hard to realize
the ultimate goal
with a wandering brain that,
fearing the eventual,
allows the book bag
to remain closed
for another hour.

A notice to a person:
Get out of me;
I can feel your
Jarring fire in my bones,
Rattling wind hiding
Between each of my ribs.
You're a ghost in my thoughts,
Sleeping between each word and
Disassociated idea,
Waiting for the opportune time
To connect it all
And force me to look.
I won't look.
Force me to look.
I won't look.
Force me to look.
I won't look.
Writhing around in the pits
Of my nethers,
Feeling the claw marks,
Exasperating the
Prickling sore
Of social inexperience.
It's your fault,
In the end,
Though you may
Warp it otherwise.
I doubt you have such tact
To trick me,
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I.
Won't.
Look.
Distort it otherwise but
I doubt you have such grace
To undermine me,
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I WON'T look!
To force me to look.
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
A PLEA,
A DESPERATE,
LAST DITCH PLEA
TO SOMEONE-
SOMETHING:
GET THE **** OUT OF ME.
I CAN FEEL YOUR STINGING COLD-
I WON'T LOOK-
THE PRYING ANTENNAE-
I WON'T LOOK-
THOSE HAIRLESS CLAWS-
I WON'T LOOK-
THIN, LITTLE EYES-
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
A THREAT TO MYSELF
I WON'T LOOK
COMING FROM WITHIN
I WON'T LOOK
THOUGH COOKED WITHIN THE PIT
OF MY BODY
I WON'T LOOK
AND ENACTED WITHOUT
I WON'T LOOK
MY PERMISSION
I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOO-
I looked.

So,
It looks like
I'm the one
Left,
Once again,
In the dust.
I see you,
Grains of sand and
Dirt
Whipping out from behind you,
An illusory tail
Mockingly calling
For me to catch it.
Your radar,
Your computers
And your perfect
Technology
Have mapped me out
Wondrously.
I am charted on a graph,
Lesser than
Or equal to
A blip on the radar.
I am a point,
A single starting point
From which
You may blast off,
Whether it be
Positive
Or negative.
I am the white noise
In the background,
The faint
Crashing of imaginary waves
Hiding just behind
The glass surface of
Your favorite pop song.
I am the lone bird call
In a choir of many.
I am the faint idea
Hidden at the back of your mind,
Waiting,
Watching,
Hoping to all powers
Here and below
That you will
Remember I'm there.

Love is stupid,
love is blind,
it is selfish,
jealous
and unkind.
Love is abusive,
love can hurt
it will scratch,
and pound
into the dirt.
Love will snub you,
call you dumb,
and alienate you
from everyone.

A sneer,
A snide
remark
graces your skin,
Tingling despite
the smile.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm alive and
burning with rage.
I'm storming.
Clouds gather
At my fingertips,
Clouds gather at my
Lips.
The lower
Are troubled,
Churning and spurning
The gentle hand
That often lies.
The upper are
Sweet, soft,
Cotton candy
Falsities,
Covering up any memory
Of personal taste,
Of individuality.
I exist to please.
I'm a saucy
Sort of servant.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm alive and
Burning with rage.
I'm forming.
Forming infinitesimally
Tiny shapes,
Bits of broken
Anger and slander
Printed fresh like
A book.
Smaller and smaller
The pieces will shrink,
Pushed away
Into
The farthest
Corner of my cortex.
Flash,
Bam,
And with a puff of smoke
It's almost gone.
I'm a magician.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm whatever
You please.
I'm cotton candy
****-sticking,
White and pliable;
Olive will give away
If you just keep hitting.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm barely hanging on.
I'm burning
With rage.
But,
I'm alive.
Yes,
I'm alive.

1.
Black lace strangulates,
Pushes powder-white skin
Into itself,
Condensing and leaving red marks
On snowy ground.

2.
The girl was plain,
An apple shape and no curl
To her hair;
With a kink to the mare,
Femininity is tamed and perfection reached.

3.
Smiling men in big top hats,
Grinning clowns who look like rats
Peer down at women,
Squeezed and twisted
Into shapes that please the mice and men.

4.
Like putty pulled too many times,
Stretched and cracked with graying lines,
These women snap,
These women break,
There is little more to take.

5.
"Liberation!" they scream into the day,
Light streams down like tears
Onto each face;
Only the Sun shall lament
For their years of repression.

Enlivened right with boughs of rage,
Through ****** thoughts and untouched page,
These eyes glare on with secret fire
Of anger, hindsight and dark desire.
I see how my cards often lie,
The same as poor and cast-off die;
A triple fit of numbers unbalanced
(They never quite
Fit in
To their slots.)
Perhaps I've gone a-raving mad,
Perhaps my mind's just gone a tad
Too in-depth into mundane things,
Making all the mole hills into kings.
Perhaps these worries are overdone,
In thin and fragile worry spun
To exotic, antiquated feelings
Of anger, envy, and revenge reeling.
Perhaps we spin these fates too hard
(They never meant
To hurt
My self image).
But still, I feel my mind a-flame
With hidden anger hard to tame
To society's cold, repressing style
Of crinkled eyes and facsimile smile.
Try to hold it back but fail;
It lands on them like a beached whale,
Stinking, rotting, putrefying,
Slowly, surely, swiftly dying.
This rage I had has bubbled down
Into nothing more than a thin frown,
For held back, harsh, with iron words
(Your secret dreams
Are just
Boiling curds.)

I can't stop this
Jittering of the wrists,
Maniacal half-splat
Splutterings of the gist.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Up and down again,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and
Works 'til measure ten.
I cut down time,
And do it once more;
1 and, 2 and, now chime,
Notes shatter on floor.
I splitter,
I splutter,
While Mister
Just mutters
My horrible,
Dreadful mistakes;
One more take,
So try it again.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Jee jee, eff eff, eeh,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
See see, eff sharp, bee.
Ay, bee, ay-
F SHARP
SCREAMS THE OFT WRONG HARP
OF JITTERING FINGERS
AND PIANO FARTS ENRAGED
WHILE MOVING UP AND DOWN
WHITE AND BLACK KEYS
FURIOUSLY ENGAGED.
BUT CUT THE TIME
AND DO IT AGAIN.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Keep thumb under hand,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Though left hand's undermanned.
"More fingers, more,"
It sputters into the night,
While sore fingers, sore,
Start a whole new blight.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Now 4 and
Rest.
Everything is winding down,
Flushing away into soft,
Pianissimo serenades
Of sweet, sweet See-
BUT BEE FLAT
MAKES SEE RATS
EAT THEIR MOLDY FLESH,
BECAUSE BEE FLAT
TO SEE RAT
MAKES EVENING NOT SO FRESH.
Piano farts,
Just do it again.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Now 4 and
Rest;
Second time through
Makes it the best.

Notice me,
Turn your head and
Look at me.
I want your eyes to
Absorb my figure,
To engulf
My entire being;
I want my presence
On every iota of
Sentient thought
You may possess.
Notice me,
Say the words to
Mesmerize me.
I watch you while
You play your violin
Everyday,
Black-chaired,
Snide,
It ends at 10:55,
Sharp.
I can feel
My heart strings squeak
As resin can't even
Make it sing,
Telling you
Everything neatly,
Metered,
In time.
Notice me,
Open your ears and
Hear me.
I think of you
When nobody
Else is around,
When safety comes
To blanket me in
A shroud made from
My own shame.
I dream of you
When I'm not even here,
Lost in the darkest
Reaches of dreamy
Sleep,
Restless by your image.
I yearn for you
Even when I am spent,
Dried up
And exhausted,
Yet I still bow down
To the throne
Of your thought
And humbly worship
My feelings on fire,
Burnt as an offering
To your gods
Of affection.
All I ask in return
Is for you to
Turn your eyes
And tolerate me.

Maggots wiggle around
on the ground,
squirm,
shiver
despite the bright,
mid day rays
of amber penetrating
their coelomate bodies.
They are
Sectioned off,
Dissected according to
Volume,
Mass,
Amount,
Worth,
Originality,
Attraction.
We put them in pickling jars
High on a shelf.
Close the door,
Lock the lock
And send the key
To rot unremembered
In our stomachs.
These memories
Of maggots
Rest not in our minds
But rather
Our stomachs.
We digest them
After we ****** them,
As breakfast
Always comes before
Ravaging.
However,
the memory lives on
in nostalgic bubbles
of hydrochloric acid
and pH under 3
in walls of flesh
not quite dissolved;
each section
still tastes
the same as it felt
when it lived on the surface,
wiggling on the ground.

I have bad dandruff
And oh gosh my feet don't dance,
But Lord does my heart.
I can feel it fire-stepping away
On red-hot ants abound
In this anthill of a school.
Stacked molecule to molecule
In undeveloped hives and grottoes not financed,
Forgotten subterranean in the failing facilities
Of a school underbudget are the insects,
The maggot-child students who wriggle
And worm their way from pest to drone,
Caught up in fates not fully grown.
Queen comes down from throne up low,
Where creatures come and villains go,
Slow moving in their ridiculous pace
Of immense inhuman waste.
These people come and itch their heads
(For lice these make most perfect beds),
Made sick in clinic ***** and small
While countless others roam the halls.
I scratch my head and snow, fast, falls,
Though white are floors and bleached are walls.
Cacophonous laughter soon erupts
Volcano bursts from ant-like huts
Of dirt and cave and molecule
Which packs us austere ants in school.
To you poor slaves of Mother Queen,
Who hates to think and hates to dream,
I say, "Have faith, eyes down high,
Though Queen's abode may up low lie.
Look, I lie at the bottom of the chart,
Though way up high in place of heart.
You think these feeble strata last,
From age to age and pasts not cast?
You think when all will leave these halls
That anyone will remember the *****,
That white will be those same walls
That mockingly, to you, still call?
Youth does not ever stay,
No matter nay nor if you pray;
All kids become oppressive Queen
And forget their wild and childish dreams
Where ants go to school and snow comes from hair
And not a single ant can bear
How they recall this place they mark,
Lost in caverns winding and dark.
I may not dance but I still see
How things in future times will be."
These words exit with black contrast,
"Nothing here will last."

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.

Cruel nature
plays the harshest games,
the fire-on-the-Cuyahoga,
****-splatter brain busters.
The city is cooled by her
harsh and horrifyingly
Maternal touch.
Snow falls attractively
on the dying city below,
picaresque and perfect
in this last-winter scene.
The two sky scrapers
pierce through winter's
frozen cocoon,
though envelop will be the
less threshed land.
Slums are ravished in snow,
spoiled by the cold
cold cold crying
of a maiden not warm.
I am buried beneath
layers of snow,
reddened when paled,
angered by my cooling.
Numbing comes with this
frenzied freeze,
like the kids down the street
who grow out their beards
even though they can't
grow their *****.
I am numbed
despite the fact that
Feeling is fruitful;
cruel nature does not wish
for such connections
to fall upon me.
Perhaps it is love,
and I would love to believe so,
that causes her to covet-
no, hoard me so.
Perhaps it is love,
and it so clearly is ringing in this numb numb numbness,
that causes her to bury me
in mountains of snow.
I am counting down the time
til my melt down,
as spring is not so long away.
Perhaps it is love,
and the rising flowers whisper it like jealous children oft do,
that she has always been
so deathly afraid of.
This is the spring of our love,
But we are not as springy as we should be.

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.

We scream and swoop
Down the stairs of
The parking garage.
It's winter out,
Chilly yet warm,
Altogether great.
I remember
The monkey-hops
We made, excited
By the prospect of
Fun.
I recollect
The dino-growls
We spoke in, enthralled
By the feeling of
Friends.
We are
Friends.
The arctic air
Goose-prickled my
Face, my legs, my
Mind and my soul.
Things were different, then,
Demons hid in the
White and pearly dust.
We wanted a race
But got a contest
Instead:
"How cold could you be?"
The snow was tumbling
While we were rumbling
With imagination restrained.
Let children be children
And always be children,
As adult comes so fast;
Too fast,
too fast,
You were gone too fast.

I am yours, always yours
For as long as I am useful
As long as you will have me.
I am a ****** idol,
A divine ***** who
May not be the classiest but
Certainly gets the job done.
You were unsophisticated,
Uneducated,
Crude.
Rude.
My mood may change but
My feelings never did.
You left me in the gutter,
Kind,
Knowing it to be my
Place of birth;
Cold,
Knowing it to be the
Place for my death.
I am yours, always yours
Until a more fit replacement may come.
It is more, is more,
Is more rain-spickle,
Spack-tackle, shoe-**** love-drunk easy
To miss my train.
You alighted onto the next platform,
Passing me by on the way
To being busy, to pretending to have a delay.
Don't carry your head so high
When everything you told me was an utter lie.
Why
Would you pretend your life could be shared with me?
Your sweet-warm friendship could
Slip through my fingers,
Keeping the arthritis of
Loneliness away.
So I tried to help you
Carry your back,
And I carried you out of
Immaturity,
But now
I'm ***-snubbed into your snow,
Snowy skin which smothers me
In spring feelings gone cold.

Stale,
Two lovers' hands do meet,
Though falter once they're there.
Chill was the air,
Though kind was their love,
Warming them down to their cores;
Their bones and twigs and stardust elements.
Soft,
Their love wilted in the nip,
Froze in the freezing gloom,
Though it was sweet as wintry rose.
Sound was their love-make,
Though two hands tried to mess,
Gripping til white went flesh.
Silky,
Two lovers' hands had met,
Tears flowing free
Onto those dreamy digits
Which had faltered in the winter air.
Love was here, love was there,
But wilts like wintry rose.

Bowing and strumming,
The notes came out a-humming,
Running with most frenzied pace;
Fine musical lace.
Taut strings tremolo,
How oft does sound recollect?
Said solo, "It comes
So oft that we feel neglect.
Our voluptuous curves and
Deep, dark swarthy shades
Are attention never paid,
Praise the other band."
And sang the lonely
Bassline, the cello and sax,
"They think our deep notes empty,
And our playing lax."

I bobbed on your crests,
I floated on your glades,
You drowned in loveliness,
I loved your ugliness.
Haze covered all and made it vague,
Like some dream flitting from heart to mind.
We walked on these shores,
We kissed under these stars;
The heavens were set up to shield us,
The moon was made to be compared.
Contrast to your black night face,
Pale white satellite never compared;
It pulls at our oceans,
Tugs on our sea-strings,
Plays my harp
And teases your zither.
Your voice melts into the pitch,
Your eyes shine through the gleam;
The streetlights vainly interrupt.
It happens once every so often,
Love like this,
This sort of kiss,
This kind of embrace,
This warmth on my face.
I am drowning in our boiling oceans of love.

(My lady in waiting
Was a cougar crouched in the brush.)
Brush it off, no big deal.
I'll console myself
By talking to strangers,
Fraternizing with friends
And enemies alike.

Maybe old men
Fornicating at my image
Is better than true friendship,
Tangible attachment or comfort.
Maybe I never needed it.
(The look and feel of
Printed words on a screen.)

(Maybe the chill was me,
Maybe I am a bit nippy.)
No time was spent
Trying to harvest this field,
Cold winter took all in bloom,
Fresh compassion plucked
Before ripeness came to play.

What was I to you?
We suspected a dream.
I comforted you in
The idea that I was there,
That I could listen.
(My lady in waiting
Was a cougar crouched in the brush.)

I cower in your shadow,
shivering despite any acuity of my own.

(your words are like loaded icicles,
beretta rounds fired through my false logic
and fake religion;
it scares me.)

The truth is I'm not fearless,
I'm pale and lily-livered and only so heathen as the other stars.

(maybe it's good you're in college,
it's closer than you were growing up.
when we were young,
you were short yet rough.
I was the younger,
and, my shepherd, you were faithful;
I only got lost 8 times.)

I don't think I ever really knew you
in any possible perception.

(I know I knew the talk of you,
the hustle and bustle at home and abroad
of your mighty intellect,
your crushing wit,
your driving polities
a war machine and
your gleaming smile
its patron god.)

How could I ever compare, though,
to the goddess of mind and body, brains and war?

(the truth is I am but a defiant priest,
crooked nose and
ashy eyes.
I think the reason,
even today,
for all my insecurities was due to you.)

Appeasement was a method used by the vain and weak
to protect against the humble yet brilliant.

(I feel your ******* take me over,
I feel it acid-wash into my skin,
de-porous my bones
and my imagination structure.
I feel it sink me up to the top,
drowning me in your air,
in your sky and your perfect chemistry.
your burning gold catches me,
smothers me in hands too big
for such a small person.)

How is it you are so tall
when you come up to my chin?
Why is it that I shiver and shake at your light foot falls?
Answer to the shadows
and my cowering will not respond.

Crossed arms
And shaking knees
Mark my mind this Valentine's day.
Throw me down,
Pushed back,
Hair mixes with salt--
Tears and ***** are flowing from my face.

I have two left feet--
I can't dance.
Someday they'll know
Everything about me, every detail.
They'll know how I'm
Smelly and old,
Fragile and useless,
How I've never been able to dance
As good as them.

Someday they'll get bored of me,
Someday they'll forget me
And I do get confused sometimes.
Yellowed up like pearly decay,
I'll be forgotten along the way
From love
To absolution--
Manumission from my blushing love.

Some people keep their love in their pockets,
Away from their mind--
Close to the groin.
Me, I keep my love somewhere safe--
Under my shirt and
Over my ribs,
Love stays warm in the place
That once housed my heart.

It pours out of me
Saline truth flushed red,
Even knowing it's not
As shiny as they would like--
Never me, never me, never me,
I'm too smelly,
Too salty,
Too useless;
I'd need a heart
To replace the hole of my love,
My blushing, rushing love.