I, suspended
briefly in a deep crevice
of the grooves of time
bow my head in worship
to the drowning static,
gently slanted minor chords
lingering then subtly slipping
from frequency
to frequency, brush
strokes of blue, violet.
I, breathless
until the world again
turns, ending another
tiny eternity.

Back home, the snowflakes    flitter
                                                         down 
                                                               languidly
as if avoiding the sameness of the blanket below.
 
The fragrance of black coffee,
a conversation in subtle tones, and
Miles Davis’s smoothest meanderings
waft in from the study.
 
Bruise-blue flames give the room
a soft glow, lending a gentle luster to the cat’s
matte black fur, spine arched in luxurious mid-stretch.
 
Back flush to the ground, I take it all in with
young eyes, young ears, hungry for those
sensory delights. Soon, the flames
 
fade into simmering, lightless embers,
as the final barely-blown note dwindles.
She whispers “goodnight” in that familiar, hushed
voice, ending a vivid memory with a sweet refrain.

Some people never return
their parents’ haggard and beaten
voicemails – it’s been months – while
some drive drunk (and brag.) Some
forfeit to lust and sleep with a friend’s girlfriend
while some swerve toward the oblivious possum.
 
I do none of these things – well, maybe
one – but we all have ***** laundry.
Those little specters of intention
and actions not taken that eat at us
– some of us – like a consuming flame
blinding to its unfortunate kindling
while invisible to others.
 
And yet we worry.
 
That on judgment day he won’t
skim over the ****-stained briefs
that our secrets are scribbled on
our foreheads, or that other people
are actually people with lives
complex as ours and it’s wrong
******* them over like that.

Nic fits, the little fluctuations
in my otherwise flat emotional
geography. Twenty fatal hour
glasses daily, dividing the time
    filling empty space
with their swirling whisps.
 
Brown-stained fingers fish
out another from a limp
soft-pack. Another disposable
morsel, tip kissed with another
disposable BIC, torched down
to the filter by another disposable
“I,” then cast into the gutter—
with the rest.
 
(Then a fit of hacking like steel striking
 birch quashes any implicit poetry.)

he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
         full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace

when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
                       fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty

youre bringing me down

not to the tank floor
where your image above seems distorted and oscillates
between grim and precious
but where you deflate me

below where my ego floats me
feet parallel
third eye perpendicular
like you and yours

bringing me way down

not below the bed (unless you like that kind of thing)
where only the darkened image of your lowest extremities are in view
only your most base visible
but you enfeeble me

beneath where my height normally is measured
knees grinding
clutching my claws
into the ground

down down down (man)

not still, submerged within the earth
where thistle and clover block my view of you
your tears watering my marble marker
but you pacify me

buried beyond my anxieties
placidity settling
astride my bone
to envelop my quintessence

I tore it down
All of it
Everything that resembled Mr. Brown

His clothes are in trash bags
The decor in pieces
Desecrated all of his flags

"Mr. Brown, don't ever show your face around,
or I'll put you in a coffin." I said
He looked confused as I pronounced Bob Marley lyrics in a way profound

" I do not blame you, but myself,
for the day you came in
I put my soul on a shelf"

"You are contorted and misconstrued
there is nothing but darkness
in the life around you"

He seethed with fury.
The kind I had when I was a child
He spoke shortly, yet with a dramatic flurry.

" You may send me away," he spat
I tried to contain my fear
"But you know as well as I do, I'll return and it won't be for a chat"

A sudden calm washed over me.
And I said with a devious smile
"Last time I let you. The next time I won't let be"

His coal black eyes perfectly matched his mouth; agape
as he stood stunned. A painting of disbelief.
I escorted him to the exit and sealed it with duct tape

*because duct tape fixes everything