The back up with
A crooked neck bent
   Towards Hell
While his lips tightened sternly
   as a Victorian urn.

His face barely recognizeable
   ever since the penny-doppler showered
A wandering click
   that skipped
      no birds on his fence.

In a glass paned massacre, forever fossilized
between childhood bullies and prom-night feel-ups,
there was a consciousness that feigned
once a week, cockled in creationism and the Eucharist.

His passions -- clam shells flanked by the ripping tide.
His intellect -- a solitary warble amid ***** blue notes.

When getting there is half the fun but nearly empty,
the wood nymphs cart-wheel halfway out their minds.
Their giggling gallops over pawn-shop rooftops
like a dogs' noses dipping to water.


We'll drink with grandeur gestures
poised in the warrior-ridden bell towers of sin and love
where we groaned like mules stomping
unnecessarily chipped, run-down steps.


Our cackled coughs ripened with jollied folk tales.
Our eyes starry in a tortoise-shelled puzzle of nostalgia.
Our whims were gently rocking swingsets under cloudy canopies
and no one skipped a beat on the journey.

The modern robots are all dead --
the metal ones rusted,
the human ones bled.


For courtesy's sake, we'll call it square --
A voicemail's ghost
in a tentative field.


Manner's are infants' wails hung out to dry --
a starving microphone
with tubes pinched shut.


A scared off circuit in surgical riptides --
Our favorite pastime
alive on the screen.

In the schisms of light changes,
Between the honking horns of crying babies
And angry mothers,
The cars hunched in anticipation
Like the smoker’s tongue rolling
Against the teeth for that nicotine speed.
A starry-eyed woman blinked with no destination
In her husband’s Bentley.
The rumbling is the crunching grind of helmets
In a pigskin scrimmage.
I can barely stand the
            Stop-Go
            Inch-Worming
Of brake-lights.
Car’s trembling is the twitching squirrel
Panic-caught in a lightsocket.
Even if the slim traffic-conductor
That burns like plastic on the fire
Yields us through like a coaxing father,
Hollow eyes don’t yield the lethargic feet.
Remnants of the second millenium’s gas-scorn,
Our can-do attitudes goad our chariots to
            Hack
And
            Spit
Dust-Sludge in gridlocked gossip.

Inside this plastic orifice pulsates the vibrations of flies
Around the frontal lobe of the brain,
A honking trumpet of confusion and
Fake self-confidence,
            With that fake eyebrow raise of condescending question.
A drunk woman’s loop just spilling insecurities.
I remember when I was 18 years old
and so much more sure of myself
than I am now.
Now, my questioning analysis turns to stammering cindersm
My voice to quivering gibberish,
My spine to a trembling cane.
This is the age we were worried about,
Shaking coats off to try on new ones.
To be fearless again, a ****-talking hardass
With no reason to five a ****, no reason
To be ashamed of words I spit, the norms
I shatter, the growing genuine demeanor
I cherish.
My words leak off the page and down
The spinal column of answers,
Stacked and jacked for another gear change.
Green lime crime in a gray lipsticked
Lip-lock torn asunder in cheap talk.
I’ll stop apologizing for nature’s wrongs.
I’ll forsake the jumbled up mumbled mess
            That drooled down the spider fingers of
            Those lonely, lost days.
And for a coin, I’ll stake my life
On the candle that refused to burn
Because now the reason crests the waves of
Pedantic experience.
Made past the overly-viewed statistics.
The curves now drip away the
            Remnants of fabricated wool
            Into a bed of once exhausted syllables
            And frequented sobs.
Without a known ending, I’ll know this much:
            The insecurities are a bottomless chalice
            Full of the Catholic’s guilt
And the people you see around you
            Are warriors bred without Fathers.
Streamlined sick in a wonderbread coffeehouse,
These are the hours worth reckoning.

Since the body carries ashes,
We can agree on a minute full of silence.
The nightmare that crosses over:
            Now one foot in, one foot out
            And the jealousy’s already set in.
Two foul swoops, one kiss alive
And arms already divide in surrender.

That was the first mistake,
A moment most secure in mind,
                                    In thought,
                                    In heart
Behind a barricade of trembling worlds,
            A shaking utterance of a misspoken exchange.

I mean, what do you say?

            What can you say
            without giving it away?


Into the Broken and Want.
Unto the thought between
            the Memory and the Hopeful.

I saved it all for this.
            When I turn from stars to lights
            and I want sights that behold
            a white light that the purest of
            innocence could not see.
I waited for all this.
And the rest could not stir before the stares could not blink.

The symmetry of a child’s song is the summer’s last fire.
And on this wire is a sorrow’s flaked choke.
Passion’s thread through a needle’s eye
where we sat on a rock beneath the
            olive branch to listen to
            the beard of wisdom.

The adrenaline like a hyper fly’s flight,
and those two birds crossed on the same powerline
            could feel the Earth tremble
            when our minds could not.
It was all in time, I know.

I rustled the trees
and the child did know it was time to leave.
This plundered sigh – a harvested verse ripped from the Truth.

Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
            Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
            He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
            To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
            And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
            Filled with red wallows of
            Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.

He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…

No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.

He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody.  He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.

Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.

You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.

He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
  throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.