Don't say it's okay
Don't say it's fine
I drag
the heart
you tore apart
into a straight line

Take my money
Take my keys
And if you could
**** me, please.

You'll learn to love too much
when smiles turn to distant glances;
as distant as the galaxies
she'd used to point to and say
'that means you and me':
speckled and splattered
across your milky way of
coordinated highs and byes.

You'll learn to love too much
when the words you seep
are dulled to a different sleep;
one that used to put your
fleshed-whole-soul to bed,
but now keeps you up
regretting what was never said.

And when you hallucinate,
to escape the bronze lonerism,
you may will yourself to
a golden-childlike-aura,
believing you are brand new
and are never blue, because
the love you splurged
can never hurt you or
never be enough.

Sunset orange spilling onto
the grass-splattered grotto;
where silicon body lay, wading,
and the ******* float up,
hovering bone-white ****,
emerald eyes towards the
galactic-gutter ceiling.

I.

Their knuckles drag the dust,
kissing broken boulder.
She wraps ***** arms around,
as she rests on his shoulder.

Birds swing and spin like
fleshy, fluid tops.
If you study them
with your tired eyes,
their dancing never stops.

II.

The cactus juice helps them
see each-other, and they
sing of spontaneous Gods
that torment the desert floor
they swim upon, waiting for
her, whom wades amongst stone.

Movies and shows, albums and
singles splinter their psyches;
what could you remind
that sneaks from behind,
and nibbles their Nikes.

III.

I remember the ways
she lied, his face cracked,
but I forgive her. I forgive
the other men she loved
instead of me, I forgive
her for accepting me,
I forgive myself for
believing that the
greater I hurt,
the deeper I loved.

Little girl scratched at the sand,
looking at him, her hair as dry
as the plants scampering by.
I have always loved you,
she croaked, I have always
been more than a child
in the dreams I share
with you. I feel as coarse
as this wasteland, existing
only to us, her, and a thread
hanging suspended from time.

IV.

Their bodies plopped onto
the moist, coffee soil.
They drank the ground,
their blood pushing faster,
racing the rushing tide.
And in the distance, a shine
before the eternity, a hope
beyond the shore.

A skeletal fist wrapped his wrist,
at the end, she asked him to forget.
But he dove and swam towards
the rock cave tomb, breaking
through the electric waves.

Little girl fell, knees swallowed
by the baptismal sand,
she wept and asked him
to come back, please
come back.


V.

His face brushed the stone wall,
he kissed and called until
wine-red smeared his face,
until he tasted copper
swarm his mouth.

A brief moment, he felt himself,
he felt the world photographed.
Rays spit out between the cracks,
rocks explode, vomitting over.

Shard of slate speared his stomach,
and he remembered October:
Santa Fe, where they fought,
she shoved, he begged,
battered lips brushing past,
leaving photo albums and a
note, in blue ballpoint,
stating that it would
never last.

VI.

Dying moments consisted
of anxious pulls at the shard,
cutting his hands open,
adrift towards her lifeless
pearl, pure exposed rib body,
begging, kissing, shoving,
proclamations of forgiveness.

Bleeding out, he shook her,
asking to be loved as the wall
closed, capturing their bodies,
preserving the desperation
of his broken nature.

My shelf holds worlds;
  bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
  Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
  This is why I normally take it black.
  
Something Steven Spielberg presented
  is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
  my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
  There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
  I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.

This room is hermetically sealing
  3 AM insomnia and daydreams.

I gave my car insurance
but myself none
Living in a bed sprung by money
and covered with a loaded gun
If you want to ****
then ask to be mine
We can be smoke breathers,
tossing our leftovers in
eachother's freezers.

I've got America's chewing gum
stuck to my vintage tread.
Viva la sell me myself
before I'm dead.
But my hair is knock-off foaming cream,
and you have to ignore it in my
wanna-go-far movie star dream.

My nails are splintered with dirt
from twisting the skirt
of my reflection
and I feel so deranged
because my whole life is staged
and I don't have enough
money to watch it.

I remember God on the family tree.

Here I lay,
powerless.
Why reveal
who I am
when
who I am
is not
acceptable.

To be ostracized; To be sealed in
       the Hell Fire I raise for raze.  
I can't candidly express my thoughts;
for I am different - and what is different
is not able to be understood - and what is not understood
starts wars; gathers men in poison rooms; rips apart bodies
like rag-abortions, grasping at the surrounding cracked Earth.

Here I lay,
powerless.

She is attached to the couch
  like a swollen tomatoe;
glued to the TV, supine and subservient.
  Texting while while writing a generic fantasy novel, with the
  televison serving as an audio fireplace,
  she believes she'll be famous despite
lacking concentration, respect, and will.

  O, call to the daycares; a baby is loose --
neck fastened by an electronic noose.
  America come and receive thy child;
harbor a body sheltered from the wild;
  And how could you expect such
sofa fungus to survive? Well,
  first, to save someone else, they
must be alive.

Sludge black driveways
holding hazardous mindsets.

Back of his head is made of
white canvas; red strap; yum-yum.

You can see body in the window.
Cut like a Valley Girl diamond.

Brown ***** hair, faint.
Narrow shoulders, pointed.

Brows arch like arrowhead;  
floating above callous constellations.

Snarls of smoke from his cig;
dragging filter like a conscience.

He studies her while she studies
how life looks around her neck.

Closer to midnight, says Darling.
Gotta let her live in a dream-mo.

Inside the piggy bank, gold looks
like memories 'round her nape.

Peeking into the mirror's reflect,
mouthing her name, twirling hips.

What a time to be a star; stable
inside the crown of debris.

Completely secure in nakedness,
a streak of light swims closer.

Black bear fur, harboring glittery
fleas; her eyes look out and up.

It is as close as anyone ever tried.
Non-stop destruction, seductive.

Darling says, look at her look.
He takes a picture with his phone.

**** beauty, ******* to
the assertiveness of annihilation.

Looking at the picture, he curses
himself for not upgrading.

A fire overflows, as she has
one hand on her stomach and
another on her purse.

I once was a kind of smart man;
pretentious to the bone --
I took a pill for the thrill
of masking a part
I thought was gone.

Something, Something
College Dropout
Something, Something
No Good Son
I took a drive to stay alive
because I swore I
was once someone.

I once was a good American;
dollar bills on my bones --
I fell in love with the glove
that covered the debt  
that made me feel alone.

Something, Something
Godless Monster
Something, Something
First Born Waste
I bought a gun to
have some fun and
thought I'd have a taste.

I hope I'm a loving father
and don't vanish in the dust.
There aren't many thoughts
that bounce in this head
I find I can trust.

Something, Something
Standard Loner
Something, Something
Find Me When I'm Gone

Something, Something
Where Am I
Something, Something
Am I Someone

It's emergence so brief and shattering,
you'd have to question it's existence.
****** from the swamp by the sky,
it is devoid of morality; it is the terror
that does not forgive what it hasn't
given permission to.

Abrupt hum of an Indian motorcycle,
streaking across the starving freeway,
leaving ribbons of red, in the long,
uncomfortably volcanic-black night.

The body on the machine is wrapped
in cheap, crimson leather, and topped
by a navy helmet, stamped by a
visor reflecting rushed stars.

Migraine-inducing headlights hit
it's prop-store-green body, as it
drips and steps towards a vintage
orange van. Through the videotape
windshield, it can see two still figures;
two figures with aviators and bandannas.

Road signs swing by; the air zipping
in and out of the helmet. The body,
effortlessly, weaves through and
past the few vehicles lost in the dark.

Decelerating, the Indian penetrates
an exit stained: 567-TX-155.

Inside the carpet lined cave,
the figures stare at the monster,
indifferent to it's existence -- well,
not entirely one reminds the other.
It's arms dance in front of it's eyes,
blinded by the freshly clicked
high-beams; unaware that they
are, slowly, stepping closer.

Approaching a skeletal forearm,
emulating a tree, the Indian gradually
becomes silent. The body walks it
behind the rooted elbow, laying it
on a web of wooded earth; pulling
up a sleeve, removing and resting
a watch on the hot, metallic carcass.

It removes it's scattering fingers,
green and twitching, from it's
shrub framed eyes. Looking
forward, two bottles of blackness
grow near. It is a miracle only
surpassed by the instability of
life, that I look upon you, one
bellows. Consider this not
personal, but a preemptive
admonishment. Simply: I
cannot allow you to live,
for I have heard what I
cannot understand. Please
know that I admire,
thus I destroy.

The leather-clad foot-claps
eat and spit the sleeping gravel.
Pace becomes quicker; frenzied,
even. Like a comet, exact in its
imprecision, the navy helmet
falls to the ground, capturing
a night-sky goodbye; casting
the moon, briefly, into her eye.
So brief you'd have to
question its existence.

It's body, pulpy and beet red,
lodges itself between their
pale, freckled fingers. They
consume, pause, then continue
to gnash on the foreign meat.

Yellow, like an ancient bone,
the moon curves and bends
with ever chomp. It can feel
it all. The insides, pulled and
wrapped around wrists; soon
yanking; soon gritty removal.
The light begins to blend
with the surrounding dark.
Last breath, ruined by the
brief choking it's flesh caused.
So brief you'd have to
question it's existence.  

Sweat rips down from her
hair, onto her eyelids. A
dead sprint is broken into,
before she throws herself
into woods, avoiding the
approaching beams of a
vehicle. Forty-three
seconds imitate the
vehicle and go by. She
lifts her eyes to the brim
of a bush; pupils sliding
side-to-side.

Van tires make the transition
from gravel to asphalt, as the
two figures are now, indifferently,
drenched in a red-bronze, becoming
crust around their lips. The driver
says, My father told me about him --
that. He said, if given life, it would
learn to take it. You cannot change
the nature of a monster. If we
remove it, we remove death.
We control the consent.

Her heels transform her sprint
into a statue's posture. The rocks
hurt her knees, as her hands soon
follow, crashing to the ground.
Scattering fingers reach towards
her, soon met by her petite grasp.
The same fingers grow still.

She reaches towards her side,
cradling the nickle handle of
The Last Killer
looking behind her, anger and
a plan, running down her face.

Bottle of Tums on the end-table
surrounded by an imprisoned fan;
a lava lamp of antacids, cornered by dead precious-metal presidents.
Some greying ceramic **** matriarch
has a bulb sprouting out of her head,
radiating fat yellow on the olive corner, also onto the loveseat.

I say, I should read.
I say, People don't like
  one another, anymore.
She says, I want to be a doctor.
Work with animals, she said,
Help pets and people.

Days go by like the shush
following blurs of traffic.
Am I aging too soon;
Am I important enough
  to care.

Try to sell me some
Pyramid Scheme ****,
the man my age does--
the kid--
He wants sixty-five for
off-brand perfume. No way.
How about, he looks around,
the manager's discount: twenty.
I say no. I'm sorry. I can't help you.
He says no. He's sorry. He can't help himself.

An American filmography:

A Thief in Brooklyn, 1997,
Dirk Diggler Productions,
A 20 y/o man breaks into
apartments, stealing pills
from the elder renters.

Ghost Before Sundown, 2003,
Marythrone Image,
A woman suspects she is
a ghost and tries to come to
terms with never succeeding
in life.

I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
                     the turn of the century.

The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
                  less destruction.

Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.

When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.

Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.

Dragging a baseball bat through the alley,
old-fashioned stain, auto-signed by some
body that used to inspire, you know how it goes

And, of course, it's raining a type of
slippery sludge that gets on and under
regenerating skin, born today, dead today
forever and ever a boulder pushing life

It all stings, oh god, it will accurately burn
the way that a forgotten face trips into smoke
before the mind's wandering, hazardous dare
Then, before it was ever known, you break
into the breeze, a tryst of truth, floating

Where he stands is so close to where the
bat meets the flesh, bursting under babble
Swinging with the explosion of repressed
rage, stolen memories summoned into a
frenzy of freedom and self-imprisonment

Violent before the new world,
breathing into a rumored hollow carcass

Your pretty face,
all scattered in black,
back to the steel --
that's how they
disappeared you.

My emptiness is
measured in rust;
drenched in the rain
that'll soak your dust.

I've wrapped you in
the red wind-breaker
I've never owned,
hoping it'll change some--
--thing, anything at all.

That'll soak your dust.
Please, Please, tell me
you won't leave me be.

There's your voice
an ear-worm in my --
I wish you'd come back,
my little guy.
I'm such a degenerate
with you off of that
tight-rope I've found my--
--self on. Why'd you gone,
Where'd you gone, my son.
Where'd you gone, my sun.
Where'd you gone, my son.
Where'd, Why'd you gone.

That'll soak your dust.
Please, Please, tell me
you won't leave me be.

When our bones rub softly,
I can take my teeth out and
shine them like skin cutters.
A yellow-bird dress you wear;
the same matchbox socks
that you wouldn't bother.

Sometimes, all the time, I
shiver in the gelatin lake
and what a faux-shake
it would only take
to make you care.

Baby, maybe, you
could love your child
like the sultry sandman;
place them on pinkish pillows,
and pretend your stories are
as real as your lashes.

And what a lamb,
kneeling in the Irish grass,
drinking all that is in her glass,
before breaking it over a wet stone,
and holding it to her throat, singing,
"I've always been surrounded, but
have always felt alone."

I dislike my body, much
like how a mother disapproves
of her son's girlfriend.

I'm half-naked in a bed
that isn't mine -- but I'm
used to being adopted by
beds; fostered by
temporary situations.

The sun passed, long ago,
and I know that tomorrow
might vanish, emulating
melting moments aboard
brittle rib cages, slack jaws.

Nothing days like the
yesterday and the one
before that; fragments
not meant to be placed
back together, only to
be cut on, leaving wounds
to be wished upon.

I know, one day, I'll be
as tattered as this flag
I call my master. I will
die, for the thousandth
time, as I talk to an idea
about how I was in love;
how she believed in me;
how my brother was a
man I wish I could have
back; how my littlest
brother was always in
trouble and how I didn't
help enough. I was a
writer, I'll say; I was a
son, I'll whisper that
they were imperfect but
their wish, that's what I was;
their hope, that's what I was.
I was their's.  

I'll be sunken into a seat,
staring out a window,
during a night like this.
Hiccuping thoughts
that should be tossed.

Her hair is buckwheat, straight,
hanging with the ease of
an assisted suicide.
And the smear, red and from
ear to ear, shows what she cannot:
that beauty is fluid and that we've forgot.

Sun-freckled and speckled
with cheap, off-brand gloss --
she is the monologue of
an anxious man across
the girl in the catalog, who
wore the Fall before the fall.

We're twenty-one and we shouldn't be.
We make love like there's jealousy-
We hide in reflections because we
assume we'll live forever.
There's a hotel inside of our eyes,
where we live in a disintegrating atmosphere-
people are seasons,
as the cars gather in front of what used to be here.
I didn't know we were old,
until I watched the skin fall
off your bones
and onto my body.

We can tell them to *******,
and to believe in you and me.
Tell them we're twenty-one,
and I loved you
despite every time you'd cheat.
Can I tell them that you're not a hotel
and that my stay can be more fleeting-
Why do they say that
I'm terrified of what you'd hide
and that you're the one that's leaving?

Fringe-love superstar,
I loved you so much that it left a scar.
Elephant memories,
get away from me.
The Hotel Lauren is for making love
out of jealousy-
Tell them to *******
and to believe in you and me.
I want to tell them that I'm different.
I want to tell them that my love is pure.
I want to tell them that I'm different.
I want to tell them that I'm more.

The bloodied marble is
where the youth was sold.
I sit and wobble on
a mind of gold.

Burn the end
and pass me a thought.
Pale smoke differs
from state to state.
Top forty hits;
songs or cigarettes.
What was your dream
but an isle of regret.

Your tears were insects
burrowing into your cheeks.
Red painted hands
and yellow stained teeth.
I could've remembered
that I had sworn.
I never found your death
a place to mourn.

She painted her nails
some shade she hoped
reflected her personality,
and she thought it wasn't
  honest that they weren't
chipped yet.

Her parents sat on a couch
that slumped around the
  middle, gathering the mass
of her parents,
  maybe the mass of her world.

And they yelled at this
boxed television; a t.v. so
******* strange you had to
  swear, swear, swear
you were stuck in 1997.

1997, our year of Jordan:
a unisex name that bled
'I am the same and name of
some place I'll never go;
so place I'll never be big as.'

And our Jordan looked
  at her nails; and she
looked at them again, walking
to her campus, thinking,
"It's not honest that these
are not chipped."

But she had dreams, or
something close to what
a dream used to be.
She didn't want to admit
she had the American Dream;
a dream that millions had,
because the odds of compet-
-ition didn't intimidate her;
she was bothered by the thought
  of sharing something with
millions of people she would
pass on by, asking for nothing,
not even the acknowledgement
  that, yes, we are all in this
together, and to **** each other.

You see, this isn't a normal thing,
Jordan Racer-Cameron would
throw-up all over the waves
bouncing towards the ears of
those girls -- you know -- who
sat around the edge of standard
  cafeteria tables; those girls with
perfect nail polish; those guys that
would write **** like this.

"You see, this isn't a normal thing,"
she vomited out, holding her phone,
"It's cracked but I am not. Every one
will think I am damaged -- but I am
so, so, so not ******* damaged.
I am not broken. There is no way
I can be broken. Ah, no; I wanna
live in Los Angeles. I don't want
to be some broken, fake wolf."

When she flopped home,
passing perfect green squares
surrounded by perfect white teeth,
she tripped, kinda fell, and kinda
  caught herself.   Raising her hand,
on her knees, under a coal dust sky,
she rose her hand before the burning fire,
smiling at the blood splitting her finger;
smiling at the middle nail's fragmented being.

She ****** the blood off,
feeling free of the prose,
found her home,  
and greeted her
   potatoes of parents.

There's a God --
he is near; he will
corner you with
your fear.

It's enough.
Don't say too much.
Your differences
are seen as a crutch.

You are my...
American Truth.

Don't put it in...
Please, spit first.

There's a flag --
it is real; it will
wrap around and
claim to heal.

It can't be burnt.
Won't be buried.
The colors are
three and they
are married to
something green;
something strong;
something that
will control you
all life long.

And they will tell
you that it isn't wrong.

And they will tell
you that you aren't
American, you free-thinker.

I feel like dying
a death they'll count in likes.
Always second. Next best
  option -- may he rest in peace.

So many people other than me.
Having to apologize for bleeding
  on the knife in my back.
You cheated on me -- please still love me.
There are so many other men -- please
  let  me  be  your  eternal.

I'm a side *****, worth my weight
  in wallet and ****. My head of
hair is curly. Tangles of fun;
  all connected to ordinary brain.

Tell me your proud, father.
Tell me I'm worth something, mom.
Am I contributing to the economy, America?
May I crumble so that my pieces fill
the cracks that I could never fill.

So many thin, druggy boys and
a crazy, ******-honey are trying
to stomp me like the ****** dream
that I am. Pure Side *****. Pure
Side *****. Graphic designers
and killers, oh my.

But wait!
  Me?
It couldn't be me
  that you're speaking to.
Die for the American Dream?
  You want me to write for
no one to read? You want me
  to **** until I can feel?
You want me to fall apart
  and be taken care of by someone
who isn't even born yet?
  You want my money.
  You want my ***.
  You want my violence.
  You want my soul.
  You want me on one side.
  You want me to **** my brother.
  You want me to be red or blue.
  You want me to pick a news channel.
  You want me to uncover my camera.
  You want to regulate me.
  I am your side *****. I am your
  side *****. You can destroy me
  and I will apologize for the
  mess my body made.

Stepping in front of a car has never struck me as w**reckless.

He bounced around
from town to town,
never becoming whole.
'Cause in his parents' eyes,
he was a parasite, hiding in
a hole.

And he let his friends down,
with promises and hopes
that deluded and destroyed
him.  Throwing his words a-
-round, never slowing down
to enjoy the beer and bodies.

He bounced around
from heart to heart,
gathering sympathy
like gold coins; hoping
that he could, if they
really would, stay and
cope a little.

And he let them down,
like his friends and his
parents. He thought a-
-bout dying and writing.
He thought about his
brother and every girl
he thought he loved,
trying to understand
if he could love if he
could not love himself.

He bounced around
from key to key,
writing about nonsense.
Or maybe it was important
and he minimized it, because
that's how he coped; or that's
how his father talked about
his son's accomplishments.
I guess his son would have
to ask himself if he ever
accomplished anything worth
making his dad proud.

And when he went to
the ward, Chestnut Ridge,
that was three years ago.
I guess he's still around,
working hard, New Yorker
something, something, something.
Dad is proud, likes Bojack Horseman
and The Walking Dead; all of this stuff
is so ******* irrelevant.

My dad is proud.

A weathered door of a face.
Her house, captured in a bubble,
on Anterograde Lane.
In the dark; in the corner,
her leg, scarred in cursive, propped,
like the whole of her frailty; on a
budget wheelchair, second hand.

A boy, brand new,
who will soon be old enough
to forget what happened.
What mother? On the road,
smeared with hot, gushing
jet-black highway blood;
encompassing the coagulated
being of what was, and, only
in hushed talks, a mother.
What daughter?

How old are you, this time?
These words slip out of a smile.
And she wishes she could hold him
-- but her frayed fingers fight back,
with every twitch trying to touch.
Delayed comfort becoming devastation
-- 4 years-old. She can hardly believe it.

Pain eats her grocery bag arms,
bulbous in her bones like
confused locusts, frenzied.  
The boy's eyes are a deep brown
nutrient-rich soil, perfectly fertile;
needing to be cared for and grown.

Forever, she could, protect him from
The Lurking that killed his mother.
At the very least, for however many
remaining years. Three. Five. Eight.
Becoming a lantern before his sight;
guiding him from dangerous design
drifting between trees, in the dark.

In a valley down by the danger,
surrounded by silver-naked-trees,
there is trust and there is dust
on plaid blanket, pressed by knees.

Where the orange orb floats through darkness
as midnight and finite as deathly intentions,
they surrender, known pretenders,
**** and pink, among green-glassed drinks,
living as common competition, in a silicon city;
living as voices-of-a-generation, in the pretty gritty.

It becomes silent
to where I can only hear
the ringing in my ears.

I am comfortable
to the point where
I feel no longer alive.

There's a burden on
my neck that causes
me to slouch.

And I eat and sleep
throughout the years.

And I add meaning
to the days but they
become contrived.

I try with all my
might to give life a good
fight, but all I do is
panic on my couch.
Over success.

The strands hanging from her Selsun Blue scalp
like pasty, jittery children's legs;
beyond buckwheat, before bottle-ship shoulders.
And she's so kind with her philosphy books and new diet,
I think back to when she was four and where she believed in me,
for the first time.

Her jawline is made up of alien angles,
she has tattooed forearms;
peach fuzz skin decorated with cheap, olive maps,
pointing towards a choreographed heart,
towards a neon mind.

And she has one thousand paper coffee cups
discarded across the urban earth,
spilling out onto the asphalt jungle,
much like every chance she gives.
Bloodied and twenty-four,
an abstract thought in a lonely existence.
I've never known.

The President will start a
nuclear war over twitter
  if he has to.

  White Nationalist is a way
of saying Neo-****. It's re-labeled
  to desensitize us.

  The President sympathizes with
the White Nationalists because
  he can't afford to lose their vote.
My president does not have my
  best interest in mind.
He is a power hungry tyrant--
  and half are too dumb to notice.

You don't worship God. You don't.
  You worship politics infused
with spirituality.
  You dehumanize those who
are different from you because
  you are a scared little *****.

All Nazis must die.
Them dying is the
greater good.
Nazis are inferior.
Die ****. Die.

The old man sits in the dark,
fire by his radio, listening to
John Legend sing about his all,
which I guess is a lot since
he goes on about it for
four or five ******* minutes.
I sit here and think about all the reasons
I hate 13 Reasons Why. I sit here and
smell my candle, to my future.
I think about Miley Cyrus *******
and wonder if she feels pleasure
  like you or me.

I don't know what kind of creature
  is out there.  I don't know
how  to  feel  about  the  world.
My bedroom door may be paranoid
for me,   and I have anxiety over
  knocking that may never come.
Or maybe it will come and I'll
  be ordinarily unprepared for it.
Unprepared for it, as I normally am.

Visions of Japanese women
  dance on the ceiling, like silver
statues in garments of gore.
Or maybe they're not Japanese
and that I am a racist or under-
-educated -- which is most likely
the  same  ****  thing.
  They dance on my ceiling
and I stare, no longer wondering
if I'm rude, if they're real, if
the house I live in is current-
-ly losing value. These type
of things just happen, swear.

My candle is burning bright,
reaching towards the hugging
  blinds; smelling like sea salt
and an ocean I will never touch.

There isn't much to say;
the hot, bleached grid system
is no longer a map to my stars.
And I wouldn't say that
unless I meant it.

Your faces are too smooth -
like honey over burnt bread,
I can taste the sweetness over
your selfless stripped sky
and your blistered babies.

The sun belongs to the city;
boiling the bay water, until
your skin falls off and reveals
that you are as empty as I was
before I left. Your sun touches
you; molesting your flesh like
a surgeon preparing rib eyes.

Of course, I'll say it:
When I return, part of me will perish
with your evaporated esteem -
finding that piece of you that I took,
hoping that you will forgive me
like how I have forgiven you.

My spine is crooked.
I take off my shirt
and it looks like my
body is swollen on
one side.

There's a hole on
my chest; some
insect insertion,
living between
strands of hair.

A scab is on the
back of my head
and it hasn't healed
in years. I'm afraid
to fix it because I
may make it worse.
I'm terrified of what
wounds may breed.

Surgery is probably
the answer or something
like it. I hope they don't
miss and cut something
on my spine. God forbid,
I become as paralyzed as
I feel.

I’m not an art critic
So what I say may not matter
But I’ve seen it all
From oil to paint splatter
And I’m not a book critic
So others may argue
But there are no words I’ve found
That justify you

The roads spread throughout
  and past the city, like
the reaching veins of
  my body.

Scabbed trees, **** and
smashed by my
    high-beams,
remind me of the time   I
  sat on the riverbank,  my
cousin receiving oral ***  
  from this gypsy girl.

You don't know the moonlight
  until it's all that touches you.

I don't remember her name
but she posed on motorcycles
and had *** with her uncle.

She was nice
  and the product of
a sad environment.

The thick earth around me,
smothered by nightsong;
it's getting so dark;
the light is escaping.

****** almost killed
  my true love.
****** kills everyone
  around here,
around just about every-
-where. This long dark;
  this nightsong.

If I could shave
your burnt hair from my arms.
And hear the sirens blare
through cross-stitched alarms.
I would give until
the water leaves
the copper cuffed canyons
in my sleeves.
I want to want something
more than what I'd give.
Just to blend into the sky.
You and I.

The roaming rebels smoke their pipe-dreams
by the eroding wall.
Their pockets are as empty as their hearts
and they know it, and know
that you know it.

Her hairspray is a mist around her
beige-caked face --
and she swears she used to look good.
She swears that things used to matter;
that words once made sense;
that her boys won't forever stand by that wall;
that her boys won't forever stand still,
swept by the grains of time.

And you, in your desired attire,
in your calculated speak,
will never know that they know you don't know.
And you, well-adjusted and forever fluent in their inability to be temporary --
in their heartless self-awarness, with no ambition --
will sigh with sympathy
unneeded for the ******.

Thoughts provide internal expression in my external repression
Bring me your eyes, loved surprise, stay until sunrise, more honesty in lies
Violet past in the violent pass glances at me through the sky's glass
And it's hard to last, but worth it to show that I know, yes I know ever so sure
That you are mine, and I am yours

By the shore of the ocean of the golden crown of the sun
Do you remember when we were fun? Do you remember being new?
I was enthralled by myself, but more enthralled by you.
Now, in love so strong that God couldn't scoff if I were to slice wrist after wrist
If I had to stop you from all that is wrong in the suffocating mist
Of our parents, our friends, their lies, their ends
Influencing us because we're alone by ourselves
On a burning boat floating on a ocean containing whispers in seashells

And I remember you, the way I pushed my fingers through
Around and past your skin
Touching what was ours, but cascaded by the sin
Our parents decide to keep, and we try so hard to weep but we feel nothing more
The sugar in the sands of the seashore run so deep, and we lay and lose sleep
Missing out on dreams of us and money signs, on clothes and smiles, wherever
So I can love you forever

I get so scared in this place, so out of place, so many people that aren't people
Pretending to be doctors, lovers, gods, and human beings
Soft and free, could it be that we are drifting near any other home at all?
Shoes, pants, shirts, and skirts shaming our sweet shore. Is there any more?
Scandalizing scents scold sure souls soundly supplementing suffering sons
Profoundly, I look at you and search within myself to someone else
Because the words I say are stronger; lets stay out on the coast longer
Nothing could be wronger than living in a home on fire
So let me hold you close until I grow tired

On a body of moving life, is my heart ready for death?
I don't want to think of you dying at all
But someday you will die, and what have I
Some lonely nights and dreams we used to share
Until I watched that man drive into your passenger seat
And your head hit the dashboard
Your feet kicked underneath
As blood left your nose, I tried to be so close
To keep you from the hurt
To keep you close and safe
But the bone disagrees, and in forty five degrees
I watch your fingers grab at your face
Let me get closer as my heart will race
If I lose you I will fall, into a loveless call
That keeps me awake at night, and I'll scream into nothing
Asking for everything, now and please
Because my heart with you is at ease

Without you I would be left breathing through a tube
Eyes glazed with an 11:14 truth,
because I did remember you
In 2078, my heart will stay with you and break
As the nurse breaths my words, everything at stake
Her hand will clutch my shoulder, and my chest will crash into itself
Every book falling off the bookshelf at night
My rusted hands from left to right
That used to hold your hands up the street
So proud of you, I bragged to everyone we'd meet
I love her so, and if you don't know, with her everywhere I go
Love into another dimension or time, she is my heart, my reason, my rhyme
And I'll remember her, as the hurt digs ever so deep
Losing sleep until the time is gone, and I am done

Don't tell me it's okay
Don't tell me it's fine
I drag
the heart
that's torn apart
into a straight line

Pretentiousness drenches us like an insecure rain
Hiding our lack of intelligence, our dull wit, our bland ordinariness
That suggests we're nothing but grain
In a bronze field of millions of other strands, the same.
That try so hard to understand, but do not retain.
Moving back and forth in the wind from another field
Better than us, but we arrogantly refuse to see, let alone yield.

Reading Ulysses, Dylan Thomas, Catcher in the Rye
Used to be different and genius, but everyone made it so dry
With their 'brilliant' interpretations, or contrived relation
Claiming themselves as the people the pages always cried.
They degraded works that used to give those genuine elation.
There is nothing as sad as watching words disintegrate into a lie.
And there's nothing as disgusting than those who swallow the ink
Regurgitating the letters into what they try to believe is their natural drink

I've seen you disappear, before,
into the contents beneath my floor.
I've watched you undress
in the public's eye,
just to distort the
perception of a guy.
I've viewed you in
a thousand different ways,
in the span of a couple days.

We shared diseases
going sixty-five,
on a dirt road we
were too high to drive.
Listening to pop
of the present
and the past,
we smoked cigarettes
that never seemed to last.

I turn on the radio
to the station you
like the least
and turn my
balding tires
to the east.
I would have loved you
no matter how often
you were not there,
since you adored me
when I didn't care.

I drank in the steely woods, fragmented to all within;
a manger boy without his Godly toy, swallowed by the sin.
And without the gaze of the zombified masses,
scraping their plates, buying, then christening their glasses,
I realized that I was the fire that I had always feared;
a pretending son of something other than what I am;
a shimmer of a crystallized storm, smothered by shame
and tortured by the resent of recent rain....

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
A desert-dry painted scorned
Ripped to shreds by hell-gate thrown
Forever summoned to grated life

**** me senseless
**** me vicariously
**** me to feel good about yourself
And **** me so I can forget about me

**** me until I break
Until I forget what I should remember
About lies and tries
August, bathtub, September

Let your sweat cascade between my fingers
As my webs scoop the excess
Moan and move with me
And let's be a beautiful mess

Or we can be ugly

**** me until I hurt
**** me until you squirt
**** me like you want to stay
**** me like you never want to go away
You can **** me because you're sad
Or you can **** me because we're in love


/are you okay?/
//i'm fine. i'm always fine when i'm with you.//
/please stay/
//i wish i could stay forever but i'll be back as soon as i can//
/i wish things were easier/
//josh, i can't wait until we can be together every day, for the rest of our lives//
/...****, this hurts/
//i love you//
/and i love you, kori/
//josh, when did you know that you loved me?//
/when did i know?/
//yes//
/i guess i knew that i loved you whenever i thought about what my life would be like without you, and felt nothing but fear and emptiness/
//oh, baby... make sure you kiss me before i go, and the second i come back//
/of course/
//you can kiss me every other moment, if you wish//
/i intend to/


Laying in a bathtub, September slavery
Roses on my wrists, y'know
What you do to me
Silver streaks in your hair
Silver steaks everywhere
Coconut groves and stares,
Eyes spinning out of control

If there was God, then Adam and Eve
Essence before existence
Diamond smiles and river-bred humans
With cracked nails and cracked personas
Gravitas
Silver, Lime, Dead Cells
Have a rib
Clear water, but I don't drink
Clarity in thought, but I can't think
Tell, t-tell me what you did
Youngstown, Palo Alto, Rio De Janeiro
If I can't find you here, then where are you?
Are you
Here?
Or
There?


No, I'm wherever you want me to be but it's not so simple.

Fuchsia nights

Don't

I rejected the art crowd
like a hipster on parade.
I lied to a pale face
because I was too afraid
to be myself; oh, to be myself
is to be naked among the winds.

FADE IN.

Mama, come try to deliver me;
I've been a rubber baby
since nineteen-ninety-three.
Father, come try to educate me;
I've been your no-good
since I turned thirteen.

Please, Lord, find the redemption in me --
I've grown weary of the way worry
boils, brews, and eats me slow.
See, friend, I can feel, too;
I used to let you down because
that's all I thought I knew
what to do.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

Sister, angel, become bloodshot
at the way I hang; swaying
from the bedroom tree.
Sometimes I mistake my
bad brains for rotting fruit;
mushy peaches, doused in
fishbowl alcohol and
worries I can't shoo.

Good God, Lord,
what am I to do?
Good Lover,
what am I to say?
Good Brother,
I've failed you so.
Good Father,
I'm sorry I'm made this way.

I'm just a young boy unaware
of the stretcher
I think is a bed;
Bad brains make the
star-kid in my head.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

FADE OUT.

Neon lightning reaches around the room,
pink, leaf, and aqua -- 1. 2. 3.
But she kneels in the corner,
aware of herself, however myopic.

And the rain roars, vaguely,
asking to be found through gunmetal vents.

The floor; a cloth, having the
lint of light bear-trapped among the
blood black tiles, escaping to
faux-fur rugs of an alien beast.

Still in the inks of foster wolf disparity,
her eyeliner paints her pearl cheek,
asking whatever, whenever -- 1.2.3.

And beyond the Marlboro clouds,
a God so violent and true,
there is a shriveled, purple stare
prefacing the burnt orange fog.

Where felt-up boys and girls
go to play, a perfect Devil, watching,
boundless in carbonated memory,
drunkenly gazing at trauma, fire --
celebrating each skin-sticky melt
that happens in each razed brain.

Vanished on top of an green-spread hill,
******* in the damp Irish air,
a neutral party does emerge,
taking in the tumblr wave,
witnessing water-logged Amazombies,
bruised with ambition.

Leaving kind eyes for bright lights; a place to live without my shadow
Digging in the fiber of the streets and the passersby;
Penetrating a future with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes
Her ******* smother my scarred breaths
Her father didn't love her
Putting my finger in her; neither did mine
Scraping lips and she tastes like summer blood
It'll pass and I'll never be the same
Looking for people in a crowd
Empty stares and broken sons, used daughters
Tearing skin and watching my past decay in hours
Bathing in painted lips, just to be born in my own eyes
Flirting with the hurt I left in the beginning;
Staying away, leaving my parted loneliness in her mouth and I should be sorry.
I'm so sorry.  
******* that make my mother and father something I forget;
Nobody loves themselves, so how could they love me?
You weren't very good to me.
And I writhe in ‘comfort’ just to feel.
Provoking searing glares because the numbness is like dry blood jarred underneath my nails.
My life encapsulates a warm goodbye.
Running to nothing to find myself.

Chewed out in an empty restaurant,
Can I be all that you want-all that you want
More than you know
More than you show

Would you be blue in Hawaii
with or without me
Stay alive, hurricane

In your head, brains and stuff
*** and being good enough
In your bed, smiles and stuff
*** and being good enough

Calculated silvers flash across your face
And it's never enough
I can feel the guilt in my hands
The mistakes in my lungs
Tying knots and nots in my mind
Please, stay alive

For me green sorrow on the door
Falsified memory
Open the bronze, twist into a new angle
Deep in my heart-art

Show me hands upon hands
What keeps your parents together
Are we Gods in a perished land
Aren't we blue

Deep in my heart-art
I don't understand, at all
Deep in my heart-art
I don't understand, at all

I’ve grown with little—
primarily attention
until it withered.
An identity dependent
on trends and demographic—
trading vulnerabilities for
Hollywood escapism.

The brighter the light,
the longer the shadow.
Within circle aflame,
reaching towards memory.

Saint Fluoxetine,
deliver me forward.
Allow me happiness.
Reveal to me my foibles
so that I can admire.