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.

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

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 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.

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."

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'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.

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

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

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)

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 .

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

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.

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,
"--"

"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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.