why preach,
when I can mourn

Obliterate, my own
sense of self

months of fantasies
in captivity,
now choked
and subdued

oh well,
how i will never be joe bolton,
kurt cobain,
celebrity: beloved.
truly unafraid to die

Packed bags,
the ones we took to rivers,
tears against flannel with every hug
on a Friday,
every single Friday.
And next week:
more of the same.

Are we smiling?
wherever it was:

Sonreí en Madrid or
on the pier in Seattle.
The effervescent smell of Clam Chowder -
warm and thick -
Like the last moments of your body.

But with only the absence of smile in the last moments:
Every smile forced and every chance at eye contact
avoided (from shame, probably).

That the guilt and rage has subsided,
and the true loneliness has only grown in you,
do you smile from within?

Or do you smile beside yourself?

The hard callouses
promised manhood
upon palms,
soft as rustling trees.

oh,
glory of the
green-painted grass and
cliffside strewn with pure ink
God, surely unreal

Prologue:

Don't let me grow up in a hurry.
Teardrop-marked fluster and confusion
and fear.
Fear that I won't be your son
anymore.
Fear that I don't have an option to run
anymore.
-
And so i must study and listen,
for four more years.
-
I'm still your son,
and I can assure you that,
and also the fact
that I have big dreams,
bogged down by that.
-
I don't want to be a son,
but I don't want to lose your love.
I don't want to be her love,
but I don't want to lose it-
For neither of you would handle the pain of my desires.

                                                    Epilogue:

Dreams of conquest and masochism seem quite paradoxical,
but also quite defining of my yearning.
To conquest my homeland,
like my ancestor's did my "homeland".
Ghosts of conquistadors,
who slaughtered to pave the way,
for the track marks
that I so oddly desire to tarnish my arms.
-
I never wanted tattoos,
but a sun and moon,
and a raging bulls head bound by stars
seem to be quite fitting
representations of myself at this moment.
-
I'm killing myself for my own desires,
and its a slow death
one that I hope will outlive you,
so your heart remains unbroken, and
protected by lies and denial.

I hope the guilt of being
a Liar, and Cheater -
of stabbing the backs of those who fell
Under your facade of Love -
Tears you apart every morning
when the dream finally ends,
and You are left
alone again.

With nothing, but the guilt
and sorrow and loneliness that you
brought upon yourself out of
selfishness.

To who is he a hypocrite?
The boy who wanted distance,
from love,
from expenditure.
A boy who thought of himself not
only as a man.
life's game seemingly
far too easy.
And with the lies for desire of
distance,
of love and expenditure,
comes obsession of
garments, and poison
and desperate lips.
Hypocrisy is the causation of his loneliness.

insufflation:
the result of desperate pleas
for departure
but also
camaraderie
for brothers who suffer
with me

Wow!
How far I've come in just ten days!
And if you do what I've done,
you can do it better!

Such is life

for a dreamer in misery.

and how simple it is
churning out words
like butter,
plucking strings,
loving and remembering.
Yearning for the past,
or just future solace

Perhaps
more is less, and
i should forget
Love, after all
like my many dreams and songs,
never meant.

forgetfulness, absent
how could you forget a name?
A love,
seemingly only maternal
but reciprocated pain
I can apologize for every time,
but have you ever?

part one:

everybody needs somebody to love;
to adorn with plastic ornaments;
to say they feel lost;
and mean it;
a real love:
feelings of assuredness.
believe me,
i am sure.

part two:

gasoline heaven lines nostrils-
and the brain-
and the hands and heart it controls.
the pockets, too.
is it sad to realize and not care?
that the pockets and the nostrils-
and the steel strings (and their haunting reverberation)-
and pencils to paper-
come before true, and honest love?

part three:

no bodies left behind,
or given away for the future.
no turpentine-
no poppies-
or silk.
no illegalities;
rule breaking;
infidelity-
a simple desire to be an artist
and the sacrifices an artist makes
only to fail and continue to yearn:
failure

How depressing...
My desires -
all for nought, but
still only for servile,
personal pleasure.
I surely acknowledge how
green depictions of
dead men are tools of my greed.
Greed of wanting more,
but in turn causes loss.

And how stupid...
To be aware of my own lacking generosity,
and yet I'm still parked, still
in my expensive clothes,
in my expensive car,
too afraid, to fill its empty tank-

to fill its emptiness.

for
A noticeable change in the moon,
You actually made me grieve.

You actually made me cry, for once
And feel the emotion that pervaded me for at least
Four moons and months.
How I cried thrice alone,
and twice with your friends,
Who so surprisingly took my side for once.

What was worse than the time I snuck off with your best friend?
And we did the ONETHING that still tarnishes my reputation.

It was worse when you ****** your ex,
who you said to not worry about,
"I just go to the gym with him"
all behind my back, with the knife you
gave me for my eighteenth, and said to protect you with.

I used the knife to distress my pants and cut tobacco leaves,
and to uncouple the filth,
the blacktar poppy from the filthy phone screen,
where after you uncoupled me, I
Looked for filth in my friends,
who still had boyfriends.





I thought I would be alone, still.
And after two months you'd accept a desperate plea of mine,
and it would all be back to normal,
except for the engraved back of my mind,
which I could patch up for you.

But you wouldn't do the same,
hold everything I ever do against myself against me.
I'm not a ****** or a thief anymore, contrary to your thoughts.
I'm as good as I ever was, and I love the friends you abandonded for temporary relief,
And they love me, because you abandonded me for,



temporary relief.

When you stop mourning over your biological family's absence
You'll come to mourn our collective absence.
Because only a few treated you like family, rather than friend.

And even if some forgive you,
you've made me forgive my shutout hate,
welcomed back, forever against you,

If I die first, I don't want you to see me
If you die, I won't come see you.

you,
talentless hacks,
crave more of the words (the same ones)
that make you feel as happy
now as they always did.
how bland and naive.

How I surely missed
glorious, bold
poison;
But sacrifice only
makes selfishness all the more
apparent

how a bite could create
yearning for soft
lips,
lavender-esque

Can you, The Sadist,
Feel love?

Who knows?
What is in store for me.
Unlike you-
Not looking for rubber lust
or *** in cowardice-
with the mannequins of my past.

And I'm Lovesick-
not evil, or loon.
Never desperate for the intent to
engender anguish.

I don't play the guitar anymore.
I don't write songs about you.
My door stays locked now,
and it is of my own vengeful hope that
en route to our planned visitation,
you crash this time.

How the warmest of smiles and embrace

sits, in a pool of loving charisma

to show me - for the first time -

what family is.

Nearly sixty years on me

and a liveliness more vibrant than mine

that can surely be attributed to the magic of this city.

For just six days we've become reunited,

your English as broke as my Spanish,

but like the defining scene of a classic film,

I remember the proud tears in your eyes,

and the resonance of your voice when you said "te quiero"

before dropping me and my mother off at our apartment,

just six hours after you showed us your childhood home.

Three white lines-

Not ******* anymore-

Just the adidas tracksuit

on the street corner, in St. Petersburg.

Or perhaps-

in the abstract works of Miro en la Reina Sofia...*

What wild fantasies I have.

Will they ever be realized?

Part One: (The Part With No Rhyme)

Do you remember
when I was to be expelled?
A life ruined (or so I thought)
because of my facade of stupidity,
of delinquency.

And do you remember,
after the weekly screaming and biting?
Which met with more biting, and more screaming,
and crying
And how my only solace for discomfort and failure,
were the stolen pills-

the ones with the moon imprint-


that made the heaviness of the impending crash,



weightless.



Part 2: (The Part With Rhyme)

Westbound, California bound.
Turned around, though-
to their little-big town.
Unkept and festering, with rats
Not quiet, nor sound.

Oh, how I hate this town,
and how, everything must be either white or brown-
and how, the only thing in common-
metals and jewels, robbed from their crowns.

can i buy your love?
will you follow me, unconditionally
and pretend it's for me?

and not my supply.