You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.

We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.

Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—

into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.

Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—

the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—

and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.

I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.

An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.

I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--

And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.

The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room

onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.

I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)

The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.

(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)

Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--

Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.

I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.

These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.

History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.

I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.

Sometimes, before bed,
I try on the outfit
I have laid out
for the next day
in front of the mirror.

It’s like
peeking through the
wrapping paper
before Christmas Day.

Sometimes
that outfit neatly tucked
in the corner of my room
by the closet
is the only thing
that will get me out of bed.

After already hitting snooze
for three hours,
first class skipped,
lunch date cancelled,
self-loathing amassing
at an alarming rate—

those neatly folded clothes
look like a savior atop a
carpeted Sea of Galilee.

To mistake it for vanity
is to be the one who
has never feared
once their feet left the bed
they would drown.

Dragged out of warm sheets
Cold floor reaches out to bare feet
Amble shuffle through routine
Eyes closed, still no need to see
Arms reach up to the morning sky
Bones crack and stiff muscles sigh
Yawn escapes mouth open wide
Fight the urge to flee from the light
Get dressed, comb unruly hair
Put on worn shoes, with time to spare
Consult the mirror, if you dare
A glance at the face you choose to wear
Into the kitchen, find the tea ***
Fill with water, and your mind with thought
Turn on the stove, it’s getting hot
Boiling water, a bubbling lot
Pour into cup, greet bag of tea
Milk and sugar, whatever you please
Lean over the cup, confront the steam
That greets your face like warm hands on a cheek
Inhale deeply, take it in
The mark for your day to begin
Your mind awakens, you spring up within
The spice kisses your eyes to finally open
Wrap the cup in icy hands
Warmth tingles cold fingers like a giddy dance
Bring the cup to lips in a spell bounded trance
Eyes close, lips part, cup tilts back in advance
Liquid ecstasy colors red lips
Like the efflorescent rose when sunlight hits
Like the indelible taste of a lover’s kiss
It graces over teeth and tongue, passing bliss
How it colors the body and colors the mind
Leaving traces of weariness behind
Giving life and hope to this new light
To greet today as a gift in life
Start today with a cup of tea
Make it your own, whether bitter or sweet
I hope it means much to you as it does to me
Greet today with a cup of tea.

It's seemingly not enough
to curtly say what I've done
and truth be truly told,
there honestly hasn't been much

so thank you kindly
for craftily making it seem
like apparently there's so much more
than what's inherently me.

Whitewashed walls
Spotless sinks
Air is still like a fear to speak.
Faultless floors
Gleaming glass
Shoes off at the door so to pass.
Absent animals
Dazzling decor
Thought begs "What is this place used for?"
Immaculate interior
Luminous light
But to where will my humanity hide?

All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.

All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.

At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.

His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.

Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.

All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.

The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.

HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--

We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?

The endless night.

All hail the Lizard King.

no more.

****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****.

(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)

Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.

Ascent

The narrow passage arched over the gaping river
like a gymnast vaulting backwards,
gracing the ground with open palms.

I began to climb--
beleaguered on both sides
by insecure concrete obstructions;
I diverted my attention to the ascending road ahead.

I continued to climb,
like a slowly chugging roller coaster,
meekly scaling up the track
with subdued anticipation.

I sunk into the road;
the sky merged with my pseudo-perpetual path, forming the offing--
where it seemed the road ran eternally into the heavens.
I saw blue reach into black in the late afternoon's
fading visage.

Summit

Gliding over the mountainous ****,
I stared over the horizon
where the sun was neatly tucked
under the trees--
silhouetted against the dusky sky,
looking like fingers reaching up into the void,
accumulating like earthly pillows to a heavenly face glowing brightly.

I watched a murky blue dip into a wet grass'd green,
then a traffic cone orange,
followed by the passionate (infra)red of two lovers' entwined,
climaxing in a jaundiced yellow--
tucked neatly like a layer of film
atop the silhouetted landscape.

Descent**

I wished I had
descended the adret
of my ascension's perceived perpetual offing,
rather than this gritty one--
to dip into the horizon,
where I would metamorphose
into a dazzling array of colors;

feeling myself slowly fade away
into the impending night sky.

Tucked away for another day,
sleeping under the stars,
in the fingertipped forests
now obliquely reaching into their absent luminescence
but relishing the cool night air--
silently waiting for light
to soon again
breach their gloomy shells.

[Enlightenment lingered within the visions of my ascension--
I danced with its transient spirit at the summit--
to be decimated as the car lurched downward into mortality.

I saw what could be as I moaned into the
fading afternoon's dipping colors.

Who knew the descent was the hardest part of humanity?]

The left wing and the right
Well you need both to fly
This bird of black and white
Tearfully looks up to the sky
And you know why.

Baby Teeth

I pulled the prayers from my raw gums like baby teeth. With the
          blood spat into my palm, there lay the tools with which I
          chewed up everything I ever put into my mouth. And yet even
          then I had felt the hands working my jaw for me.

Every day I tongue the empty space before meals and again at
          bedtime. There’s this moment when I feel like I should be
          saying something, but the void leaves my tongue aimless in the
          newfound space. I’ve grown accustomed to it.

I wasn’t so fond of it when they wiggled in my mouth when I talked
          or ate, acting like a broken saloon door for my roving tongue. I
          didn’t like to brag about it with my friends. It didn’t quite feel
          like a rite of passage as it did a loose Band-Aid.

They dangled on those last few roots that desperately clung on to that
          childlike innocence, which looked like Awana badges, Sunday
          school, father reading to me bedtime stories of David, the
          girlfriends in church that were always repentant after we
          touched;

I began to believe I could sew it back in if I only believed hard
          enough. It was in those last few efforts that I was at my lowest,
          when my gums started to become infected as bacteria got
          beneath the bone and festered in the flesh. I grew sorer and
          sorer.

At some point I ripped every last one of them out. The therapist had
          cancelled my last three appointments. The bible study couldn’t
          progress since it refused to answer my first three questions. I
          stopped believing an artist had to first and foremost be
          miserable.

I still keep them in a little plastic treasure chest in a cardboard box in
          the garage, along with my plastic baseball trophies and other
          sentiments unworthy of the bedroom shelves. I recycled all the
          extra bibles I previously felt guilty enough to never say no to.

Sometimes a meal looks so good I feel the need to thank someone for
          it. Sometimes I wake up so happy I need to give someone credit.
          Sometimes that’s not the case. I’m happy I don’t have the voices
          telling me through my own teeth how sinful I am.

I’m also happy they’re not telling you how sinful you are.

I tongue the space before meals and before I drift to sleep. I feel
          something growing there. My parents are looking into an
          operation that will put the teeth back in. I still fear one day I’ll
          be the one to grab the sewing kit.

I don’t fear cavities anymore. I think they took them all with them. I
          brush my teeth now and believe in modern medicine, and
          climate change. Needless to say, I didn’t put them under my
          pillow that night.

Splints are beginning to break,
wounds are seeping through the bandage,
sores have become infected,
scabs picked and pulsating--

Aspirin won't take away the throbbing pain,
nor will morphine numb the brain--
the leg below the ****** turniquet
grows gangrenous.

Maggots inching closer,
flies eagerly buzzing overhead,
divebombing into ruptured flesh
oozing blood and pus--

the body bag lingers menacingly
sporting its gaping maw,
hungry for mangled flesh
and broken bones.

Bloodshot eyes pleading,
crooked mouth on a broken jaw begging,
a sick contortion of a once beautiful body
****** forlornly on busy streets--
writhing in the weak mortal vessel that damns them.

---

How long?

How long has it been lying there?

Trying hopelessly to stand stumbling like an old dog
in its final moments of consciousness
before the impending ejection--
how many have passed it by
with a blind salute
and a knowing fake smile?

How long must this poor soul drudge through time
slowly draining its insides
and flesh feasted by the flies,
dragged along by marionette strings--

when will we see this creature,
in need of its good samaritan--
when will we stop the transient fix,
peel off the blood-soaked bandages,
and ultimately stare into the fissures
for a final, effective prognosis?

Look this ******* in the eye,
peruse its peeling sallow skin
hanging loose off cadaverous limbs--

lying,
gasping cries rendered soft moans,
lying in a cesspool of ****** fluids--
**** and **** and blood and pus
drowning within itself--

trace your fingers along the scars and wounds,
inhale the stink of death,
accept your incapacity to understand the weight of its history--
a great anguish heralded by generations afore.

Do not, then,
think it wise to abandon the poor wretch,
as your forefathers had done--
The Poison lies within you.

To heal, then--

is not a matter of medicine,
is not a matter of science,
is not a matter of faith--
it is a matter of action.

It is sick.
It is dying.
And it will take us all with it.

Would you die for its sins?

Be a regular somewhere.
Ask for the usual.
Turn head up from the facade
of reading the by now memorized menu
to the smell of peppermint chewing gum
and a voice like old rubber treading gravel.
Notice that she did something different with her hair,
asking about how her kid's soccer game was
over the weekend.
Blonde curls--as opposed to waves--streaked with white dangle and bounce restlessly
encroached on an oval face
movement synchronized with fast and tight lips dark wrinkles formed around a bad habit swore to quit after her second child
but conversations and routine keep her body
and mind moving
their weakness frozen in place.
Nod to the chef, a dark-mustached thick-skinned and coarsely-coated fellow;
he tips his hat in greeting, smiling mostly
to himself as he looks down half consciously to chop the tomatoes.
You catch in the air the familiar scent
of coffee brewing, your ears perk up
to the sizzle of bacon as it
slaps into the pan.
The chatter of dishes and silverware
clinking together as they're
scrubbed scrupulously by an oily ambulant adolescent in the kitchen.
You look around, spotting the elderly man
enshrouded in the brown overcoat
patches at the elbows
on the stool, hunched over
the counter, orders coffee black
and graces hot sauce on meals like an elixir.
The lines on his face
seemingly not from the assumed winces
one would have from eating such a spicy meal
in the waking hours.
Wiry fingers coated in aging spots
reach out shakily to the coffee
like a saving grace
thin lipped breaks formation
solely for the formulaic
meal to be consumed.
You watch him now
as you're prone to do
His eyes look forward
and beyond
the kitchen's outer walls
where to in time
you wonder,
and think better of it all.
There's an atmosphere of peace,
not so much the calm before the storm
but the walk before a trot
to a jog and then a sprint.
This is the moment
before the preparation
for the moment,
frozen in time before
the blink of an eye
or the exhale of breath,
before the stretching of muscles
or the cracking of stiff bones,
as the eyes open from sleep
still carrying a few seconds
of the dream
before awakening to reality.
To have this moment all to yourself,
in the presence of others.
To share an atmosphere,
dense with the allusion of dreams
faith
metaphor
axiom
illusion.
It's in the appreciation
of the mundane
as a sign of life,
in the shared atmosphere as a
sign of community.
To see less blurry faces,
and maybe just a few good ones.
To see the imperfections
of others patiently,
or in awe,
perhaps at the work of a creator,
or of nature,
or to wander between
fact and fiction
unlike two sides of a coin,
but more alike two bodies of water
on opposite sides of an endless isle;
currents break onto the shore
with crashes full of yearning,
as if a call to the other side.
You walk amidst the cacophony
interpreted as a symphony
the sizzle of pig meat
the clinking of dishes
the monotonous yet
harmonious chatter of
ritualized conversations
with nuances you've interpreted
and analyzed, memorized;
you could sing it like the refrain
of an old folk tune.
This is your song
this is your orchestra
clinking dishes
sizzling bacon
chewing gum between yellowing teeth
you write this symphony
and rehearse it everyday
before it fades into the world
of chaos and conundrum.
But for now
you are on the shore,
with the coffee wind
carrying the sizzling and clinking
breaks awash white foam like milk
with a peppermint gum-
flavored saltwater mist that
kisses your face as it asks
about a refill.
Of course you say yes,
sitting upon worn leather upholstery
on the beach side,
feeling yourself settle
into a familiar crease
you sigh with relief.
Tucking away the urge
to anxiously wait
for the moment to cease.

This is my side of
the bed. I have
lain here my whole
life. I daren’t
cross the threshold
to the other
side, which remains

spotless, impressionless,
free of wrinkles
and other signs
of life.

I lie like the lifeguard
tells you to lie in
the waterslide:

feet crossed at the ankles,
arms across
the chest.

I lie in perfect
coffin etiquette,
shaping myself within
intangible confines,
cozy and secure.

I have lain here my whole life,
and in my dreams
you are next to me—

I have prepared this space
for you
my whole
life

and I am waiting
patiently
for a sign
of
life.

I am waiting
for the sheets
to wrinkle,
and a mass
to take shape,
and the mattress
to indent,
and the pillow
to sigh—

I am waiting
for cold feet
to shock mine,

I am waiting
for strong legs
to ensconce mine,

I am waiting
for a torso
to touch mine,

I am waiting
for an arm
beneath my neck,
a hand on my
cheek,

I am waiting for warm breath
on my face,
and the silhouette of a face
to taunt me in
the shadows—

I am patiently waiting
for the day
I cross
the threshold

into occupied
space.

Mother pulled the beat to hell diluted blood red minivan containing my brother and I into the darkened parking lot. The car couldn't park fast enough as my brother and I tore the creaky side door open and leapt onto the awaiting pavement. We stepped from darkness into light as we hopped onto a curb to be greeted by the brilliance of neon lights erected atop a single story rectangular building squatting at the top of the rectangular lot like a full measure rest. Glass windows as whole walls teased the treasures that lay before my eyes window-shopping like madmen I felt the objects of my covetry leap from their white shelves into my sweaty youthful grasp. Mother breezed forward, stepping across the tier confidant and disengaged; the front door rang announcing our presence. Two bells sounded: ring ring. The Rhines were here. Like a pistol shot signifying the start of a race, my brother and I scampered and scattered and scuttled like wild animals, scouring the shelves that sat dispersed through the gleaming room consuming with our eyes words that told stories with pictures that danced and sang. Clusters of shelves huddled together under several flat signs hung by frail strings dangling from the ceiling displaying themes that told me where to avoid "Romance" and where to find my beloved "Science Fiction." I halted, realizing almost as if there were indentations within the itchy carpet that had alerted me to the place where I had cemented by ruddy feet countless times before. I took my roving eyes from the stalling ground to peer up into the shelves that loomed over me like giants, arching over my head like holy stones erected atop holy celebratory sites of yore. My fingers traced along the shelves trailing over the innumerate plastic spines that encased my bountiful riches; I mouthed the vibrant words imprinted like cattle on each of them and sang to myself stories that spawned off of each one before finding the paragon that most expertly weaved JR the Raconteur into its fabrications. I bore into its dazzling shell hungrily, gobbling up faces and places and names and dates I spun it over to its backside to read plots to read histories to read legacies to read memories I read and read and saw and saw my mind was never more alive with the astounding conception of limitless potentialities my night was just getting started and with my final selection--and mother's blessing--I would march home victoriously wielding my fortune, my medium for which the pictures in my mind would transpose and dance before me like luminous sprites on the brilliant splendor of a luminescent two dimensional stage that is the television screen. It was the weekend getaway I waited for with anticipation every Saturday; I was an unversed monk relishing in the ancient libraries of History.

How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades—
smoke furls and curls among the glass—
before a man belies his fame?

The corner of the room pervades—
imbued with smoke if so to pass—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades?

Visage so cool but starts to jade;
will eyes see through and to surpass,
before a man belies his fame?

Caught in the great aesthetical wake,
the fans will bend and surge en masse—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades?

His words, his voice, depict a sage—
I wonder if the lore will last
before a man belies his fame.

But once the petals cease to sway
and blades blow back a pompous ***—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s shades,
before a man belies his fame?

I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.

There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted

I perused through the catacombs
gliding my fingers along your innumerate spines,
picked you up where you blossomed in my palm
and breathed archaic mysteries into my face.

I felt myself trembling
as I dared enter the hallowed corridors,
opening doors and peeking inside
in hopes to catch a semblance of your touch,
your taste,
your voice.

A fingerprint,
a coffee stain,
clues and the origins of bricolage
that left me breathless
and teary-eyed
as the weight of this sacred place
bore itself entirely upon me.

A part of your soul
encased within each one of your treasures:

I heard your stereo in a jazz history,
heard you ponder within Dostoyevsky,
saw your wry smile and charm within Fleming,
and your humor within Vaudeville--

and as I perused onward,
and the archetype bore itself naked in a holy privilege,
I closed myself within that impalpable bubble
and wept at the gates of Eden.

As I removed my hands from your ribcage,
and withdrew the breath from your nostrils,
walking away with your words and fragments of your soul
I soon realized--

You Are What You Read.

The lot of us strangers trying too hard to stay aloof in a narrow corridor plagued by awful trendy folk music blaring out of unseen speakers and I shrouded in silence wore it a pseudo-epidermal layer taut force field writing this poem so to be a little more pretentious than most by opting not to check social media and the selfie I posted this morning not sure how many likes it's gotten since an hour ago but I'm not going to check yet Everyone here looks so miserable and it's barely 8 AM the Kate Gosselins and Ben Afflecks grab their coffee like a servant grabs the King's goblet to test for poison there's this mumble of a thank you seeping out of frozen lips and half opened eyelids harnessing dull hazy eyes and they drudge back to their hybrid cars with their five dollar savior and amble down the gaping highway that consumes their soul and all the while shoulders never touch and eyes never meet and we stand idly in the waiting room watching the alchemists conjure up our poison thinking about our selfies and how much we hate ourselves and our lives but honestly I just wanted my first pumpkin spice latte of the season celebrating the first cool day of the year in my denim jacket I resurrected with glee out of the elated closet in the middle of September so I say Beware you miserable cretins you obligatory acolytes of the virulent elixir one day you'll wake up and no amount of coffee will purify this cesspool you've lain yourself into like a regretful baptism you didn't believe in.

Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.

Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.

Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.

Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.

I'm the forlorn cigarette
you once placed so fervently
between soft lips;

Now I lay cast between
the cracks of the sidewalks sidewalks sidewalks.

Anticipating a

Slow Death; growing claustrophobic--
ensconced in my callous/caustic confines.

Trampled into the concrete crevice by
hastened footsteps;

My desolation denotes the sad dictum
that is my denigration.  

A slow digestion of a stubborn body
created like the concrete to be trodden by wandering soles
stamping out their fleeting existence.

Dissolute, wishing to burn;  
I long for your taste again.

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.

I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.

He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!

His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.

But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!

For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,

as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.

I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.

And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!

For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.

I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--

I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,

I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky

like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.

I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.

I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."

To the class of __,

I hear them call my name
as I briskly walk across the narrow stage.
Encumbered in my regalia
weighing me down like chains,
I peer up into the blurry faces
protruding a hand from ambiguous bodies.
I shake rigidly looking across the stage
to face a mass of opaque beings
accumulating into one lump of ambiguity.
I know not their names nor their lovers and dreams
I dreamt alone I sat alone I cried alone I ate alone I worked alone
I sighed alone.
Though in the company of many,
their ship had sailed and I sat in the lonely rowboat
moored to their rear listening from afar
to their ecstatic shrieks of glee
glimpsing the glow of fire in their eyes
flames like distant stars finally reaching me
a dead and gone ancient memory.
A diploma weighing in my hand,
I exit the stage and take my seat to wait patiently
then once we turn our tassels to the right we rocket
into the air blissfully triumphantly
bodies joining hats soaring I amidst it all
the aimless rowboat in a sea of smiling faces--
tossing and turning in their wake.

Feeling like the kidney transfer in a foreign body.

Your love rains down
                                       from the shower head.

Sharp needles of fire
                                                                ­                  dousing cold feet.

                                   It feels like daggers,

                                               and wouldn't be so,

if I hadn't lingered for so long,
                                                                           in my frigid hesitancy.

The Comeback snapped the ball
and looked desperately for somebody open--

I stood in the endzone
franticallywaving my
handsjumping
sporadicallyyy

HEY! I'M OPEN!!!

With an eye-roll hardly concealed
within a muddy helmet,
he begrudgingly tossed me the ball--

The buzzer sounded
and the fourth quarter ended
just as the ball was in my sweaty clutch--

But the visiting team had already clapped
each other on the backs and
my team waited for me in the
locker room
smelly and defeated.

Alas, I was the most distressed,
standing on the field alone
with the winning boon
a moment
                                 too late.

Words tumbled out of an aluminum commode
into a hungry mouth: naïveté.

Libations atop a tin altar
in a squalid temple rife with the stench
of lascivious youth
bemoaned battle cry
transcendent in the sound of forever.

Coming of Age
a cleverly disguised charade
kept in place
by a smile that never breaks
until dawn.

White noise
cryptic static
proselytize
vomiting mucus-draining corpses
a parade of mindless disciples
dancing to the beat
of the heart in a distant star
whose life perished in the forgotten past.

Fabricated promises of maturation
facetiae in the frozen teeth that
only part for the stubborn tongue to
lap up remaining consciousness on the floor
like a begging dog.

By himself he's weak
but among many he's a god.

A song bludgeons the eardrums
"Tonight, tonight, to-night": Repetitio est mater studiorum.

There's a voice in my head but
you put a hand o'er it's mouth
and pried mine open with
the monkey's paw
clutching a rose goblet
containing spiritual cleansing.

I've got a good idea
but bad intentions
and there's enough feculence wrapped in flesh and lies
to make this place feel like Heaven.

Stuffing my mouth with promises and
fallacies
that won't become clear until the
bottle is empty.

I'm washing away all the pain
and the hurt
right?
I'm a man now, risen from the
dirt
right?

I'll put my trust in the siren's call
reaching through the fog to grasp
her by the hair
I fall into the murky bog
beleaguered by strangulating tendrils
wrapping around my frail bones
I feel I'm being pulled under
and I'm all alone
I see their shimmering faces on the surface
distorted
in the reflection
peering into the soul as I
make my descent into the abyss.

Waking up a man with a
battered conscience
Compromise wraps a warm blanket around
me and places coffee between
crusty and brittle fingers
A gentle kiss on my forehead
is the finishing touch
leaving me alone with my baleful torment.

Coming of Age is a charade.

St. Mary's, I obligatorily board the biding vessel,
I drift from your shores in the midnight hour,
I sail home where I must lay my weary head;

but little do they know,
you are my bedfellow,
St. Mary's.

Flip flip slide slide
grind grind pop pop
concentration.

hours and hours
sweat pours
bruised ankles bruised kneecaps
scraped shinbones scraped elbows
scabs and scars.

shirts and jeans torn, worn;
shoes a tattered mess--
laces shredded to bits tied desperately
clinging on to lapping tongues.

hair matted to skull sweating within damp skullcaps,
whether be it helmets (by choice or restriction),
or fitted baseball hats turned backwards,
or cuffed beanies in the dead of winter.
(father says the latter choices work well to soak all the blood up, I always roll my eyes in naivete.)

The paved driveway, where on my eighth birthday
a shining basketball goal sat at its full height
towering in the mountain sky--

stood forlorn in place as wide eyes glued to the pavement--

where shoes stood atop the gritty surface of a wooden board
with wheels attached to gleaming metal axles
rolled smoothly excitedly across the pavement in perpetuity.

destiny.

Traveling (with Frost) down the lightly trodden path,
with shoed soles sauntering over thawed earth,
twisting down the narrow trail,
away from the prying eyes of tour guides—

Encompassed by flowery heads who mirror the sun,
who burst forth with fluorescent green necks
craning from the dirt,
delineating our path in cascades of springing splendor.

Sensing the ostinato of ambulant waters crescendo,
we soon break from the budding foliage—
To be greeted by gentle winds
and the lapping of placid waves

who break onto the languid shore
onto shoed and socked feet,
who sense holy ground and immediately
kick off their bindings—

To sink into the earth,
and gritty sand reaching up between toes;
the water deceptively inviting,
is greeted with delightful shrieks in its refreshing chill.

Secluded in our cove,
we gaze over the waters where to our right
rests a breathing reconstruction of the Dove;
we stand awed before these waters
both the settler and the native.

What gods were praised on these lands,
and in these woods,
and in these skies,
and in these waters?

And on March 25, 1634,
in the promising onset of spring,
what had they to sing in the calm airs
as the settlers crossed the threshold of the Potomac?

She whispers,
“Funny how the water appears green on the shore,
and clear on the river.”

--St. Mary's City, March 10, 2016.

Can you smell the decaf
in coffee breath

or palpate the aesthetic in
clothes bought
secondhand

the former amidst
those groaning to work
praying to caffeine gods
to jolt nerves into existence

the latter walking through shopping malls
spying the guise on mannequins
without frays and tears
mocking the Dickensian reflection.

Is the placebo
the one without the caffeine rush
and the credit card debt

or is it the one
who believes it will all
make them happier in
the end.

The vultures swarmed above me,
and I wondered if it was I
who lay before their narrowing gaze.

If they were fallen angels,
Lucifer's harbingers,

they'd have harvested on the soul
I'd left to decay.

Twentysomething Emo
looks at teenage Emo
and laughs.

It was something purely aesthetic,
with brain chemicals churning
and wiry bodies yearning

under the guise of straightened bangs
and perched beanies,

skin tight black outfits
parading the dusty grounds of Warped Tour.

Twentysomething Emo is the real deal--
lamenting over high school salad days
because real life is so unsure,

college degrees and full-time jobs,
watching friends and lovers come and go in our lives.

After a long day of responsibility and groveling,
we drive home (or somewhere just as distant)
with our emo anthems blaring through the speakers.

We scream the songs back at them,
truly feeling the words for the first time.

I'm the same age as William Beckett, Adam Lazzara, and Pete Wentz
when they wrote these songs--
and though the bangs have receded
and the jeans have slackened,

I am perpetually Emo.

The unrequited love and the nearing distant future--
it's come too soon.

I hope thirtysomething Emo looks back
on my meandering twentysomething Emo
and laughs--

as he plays the melancholy tunes pouring out of the speakers
with some more of life fading away in his rearview mirror.

This town gets smaller every day.

I receive your native tongue
like a desperate missionary--

letting it run over my teeth,
stroking the roof of my mouth,
and dancing with my own foreign entity.

I come to you aching
to inhale your exhale,
place my lips to yours.

In the diaspora of spit
from your mouth to mine,
deliver unfathomed riches
of love and wisdom

into my trembling body.

Marching on thru our circuital seas:
A moat lurking beneath tremendous Facebook walls,
delineating our impalpable fortress of solitude (irony).

We slog through the trenches like Lee's troops,
drudging on a fatal course
to an awaiting Grant in Appomattox (destiny?).

Soldiers falling at the wayside,
from wounds, starvation, disease,
hashtags for dog tags draped around cadaverous necks--
Perhaps you can identify us by what's trending.

Had we the strength to shout,
and tear down the walls of Digital Jericho,
would we have been able to do it,
in 140 characters or less?

I'm dreadfully afraid of silence,
so I play the music loud in my stereo--

falling asleep with the ringing in my ears,
like the distant echo of heaven.

Eccentricity
At a cost unknowingly
The love between us.

Show me your wounds
The blood at your feet
The fear in your eyes
The scars cut in deep.
Scream your pain at me
Tear your lungs in despair
Lose your voice in the world
Leaving you without at care.
Fall to your knees
Smash your fist to the ground
Gravels digs into your knuckles
A familiar taste you have found.
Rain pours from the sky
Eternal clouds of gray overhead
You feel no cleansing in its touch
You're simply washing away with the dead.
Look to your side
Turn your eyes so to see
You're not in this alone
You will always have me.
See the bloodstains on my clothes
The scars cut in deep
The tears in my eyes
The pain that I keep.
I'll wash away with you
I'll share in your pain
I'll carry your burdens
I'm here to stay.
Share with me your struggles
Share with me your suffering
I want the cross that you carry
I want you, entirely.

…the dream sequence
plays like vaudeville
in the peephole
of a kinetoscope

my drunken subconscious thoughts
undulate in murky waters
and slurin the visions of specters past

infrastructures and pylons
formed from childhood homes schools
skate parks friend’s houssand churches

faces familiar unfamiliar
mold and mend in wicked contortions
and diaphanous ambiguity
what obfuscates me from the truths
of my mind

I stumble through the chambers
haunted by childhood nightmares
and tickled by ancient fantasies

my arms
               and legs
                             are like
                                          rubber
           ­                              I
                                 feel
                  torpidity
overcome

and the words
are like alphabet soup
in the director’s commentary
splashing around aimlessly mingling
in the waves of broth

what will be revealed
in this phantasmagoric phenomena
wax figures coming to life
and panoramas dancing on the walls

my body somewhere in time
waits with pen and paper in hand
eager to counter the façade
with the utmost coherence

just you wait til I wake up
and reveal all your secrets
oh wondrous mind…

Privilege: written on my skin
I swear I'm on your side
Though I lock my doors when you pass by.
Try to ignore what's within
The enraged masses to whom I spoke
Though I'm guilty of what's battered down their throats.
Get me by the *****
The phallicist marvelously displayed in power
Squeeze out every drop of lust; watch me shrivel and cower.
Place me within these walls
Walking along your glass ceiling as I dream
Fondling your ******* on behalf of the company.
I'm no passerby
Though I weave you on the street like a fleeting ghost
I serve like you're a growth and I'm the lucky host.
It's a **** good lie
To myself; believe I'm not guilty too
Of all the hate and greed that's crippling you.

Every exhale lets out the past
And I've been known to hold my breath
And though its painful to the last
It seems it's all I have left.
My skin will crawl, my lungs will scream
Fingers twitch and grasp for air
My chest will ache, my eyes will bleed
I could stop it all, if I dare.
Every exhale lets out the past
And I've been known to hold my breath
And though its painful to the last
It seems it's all I have left.

You're the eyelash
                                                                    scraping against my eye.

One day I'll carve you out
              and blow you gently into the breeze.

                                            Or, with bloodshot eyes,
                               I'll well indifferent tears
                                                                   and stream you down a cheek.

               I'll make you the wish I swore you to be.

In my dreams, it makes sense.
                                                               It's axiomatic.
            Like flexing an impalpable muscle.
                             A curling of the toes,
                                 clenching of the sphincters,
      I feel my feet lift from the ground
                                                    
and I levitate.

Man wears Folly
slung low on his hip;
it spits its lunacy into an aching foot.

Spurred heels dig deep in the dirt
fingers twitching arms crooked at the side
sweat beaded across a furrowed brow.

Eyes squinting in the light of high noon
back hunched shoulders arched in the sun
barreling down its mighty gaze.

Cast upon two shade-less figures
twenty paces apart
in the rustic back alley of their ghost town.

A battle for eternity;
which man gets the last laugh?
Folly grins with a crooked smile.