resurrection



animal vegetation, visitation rights and eight days of blue sunshine

on a red.
window.


bird feeder world washes yellow sparrow birds sundial weather watch the water get so warm

all the lines drawn down your arms-
the skin on your lips
desperate and parted for pine-needles and paper-dolls,
tear me around you
pass up opportunities in favor of numbness
shuffle around me like the wet stones under your feet,
you barefoot rain catcher-
moody making idols from chewing gum and string-
we've got you.
you've showed me the flesh under your fingernails
and we've got you pinned.
you scrape out paint from cracks in your hands under a two-skinned sun
and you're burning.
burning like a furnace full of hand-made nails-
like a black-tar roof-
like a ***** wrapt up in hot white sheets
what of it then,
your head, your hands, your hair in your face-
what of it for the fire that
need not, know not, will not what you want,
we will not
we.
rain in the shame of me
she ran after me
she drilled small pilot holes in my rib-cage and left me to fall asleep on the floor

howling loveless yelps into the corner of her eye while she's away,
some ghost of a neck-thin pulse.runs a chill down to her toes-
fingernails scraping good red lines down her arms

we stay up all night just to read you
you wear down your whetstones.
we stay up all night to hurt our eyes with bright bedside-

i wish i had a better word for you

a finger for a dead piece of glass
heads drifting side to side for insects caring down the sheets.
and on the wall there's light

but
these tongues you've had taste like old neighborhoods,
stolen shopping-carts sent through puddles that fill up the side streets,

dressing down to the sound of rain.

the sensation of the wires hanging loose from your headphones gently brushing up with the blonde hairs on your neck like little hairthin whispers- spiders crawling on you throat

leaflets
blankets


fleece summercamp sweatshirt

the a/c rumbling

crisp fallings
hatchlings
seeds
wax paper tracings-rubbings of leaves

downstairs
  pageling

with my left hand resting forcibly on the soft-spot of my temple. daring myself to push all the way through.  thistime.
the heat darting down from the gutless open

searing my body from the hot.
i never tan, its either sunburn or skin cancer
and
if i could
i would
reach over and pluck out your lunatic thoughts and stick them in a mason jar on top of my
bureau. by my heap of things.
alongside the fat, waxy tallow of mellow-dramatic candles that i never did manage to get.

stepping soft by the pads of my feet
***** water pools around the ***** of my heels. as i dig into the moist earth
as i leave holes in the mud as i step away.
and
a bitter gurgling sound crept out of your mouth
your lips burnt open and split apart from the things bubbling there-
from the back of your throat

tin cup flowers
and cars slurring by
a broken man touch the earth,
sad bandana wrapt around his hand,
God gives him road.
the dirt believes in what his hand reminds
i feel the moon,
and taste the sky.
you're wind in the washboard,
swallows dipped in silver and *** sweep in and out of-
sparrows sparkling and-
kicking stones to the side.
******* pockets.
i fell off the whole universe   just for a moment.

no apologies

the front door open.
the dogs not barking,
slapping some wet skinned faces in front of everyone,
wishing i was a broken bottle
or something.
there's want of a forest in my yard
-the whole world softing out:
action dust; to the girl that screams:
there's no such thing as sinners, there's no such thing as love, there's just people and what people do,
whole forests of paper feel your words.
           sincerely,
                            we're all just crazy.
sweet dharma dewdrops fell off the tongue of the clean-cut kid.
he had soapy teeth and no shame to speak of
and when he spoke to us, his fingers glowed
because.
did you think that words could do more than arms-
and that anything else alone could do more for you than a full bodied embrace.
and
i looked at the rose you had buttoned on your blouse and i tore it off and dashed it upon the ground
because of
the mist
and the yellow billboard
lit up softly like a wheatfield
and frost was setting onto the long blades of crisply dying vegetation.
and there is the matter of those ghosts in the parkinglot
unaware of the cars that skid by full of people, all with capacities to know and be known-
sometimes i wish i could tell them
that it's okay to reach out with soft red fingers, wet from running water, warm from hot running water rinsed
over our hands to bleed out the chill that leaches into our too-thin fingers on cold nights such as this.
meanwhile-whole forests of bright white paper
i think that if i ever found you,
it would be walking on a road next to blueberry blossoms-and close, dry
thicket branches that crunch swiftly sometimes-and slowly, others- behind our heels
and hands shaped like mantras gesturing towards us from trees- telling us to go this way, and that,
welcoming us with their imperfect notions of morality and telling us that everything was going to be.
light a match on the bathroom window,
take one step closer to breathe in the bad-handwriting of the graceless morning. put one foot forward on the floor-
one hand on your temple.
only time will tell
if this is hell or just a special hell for me and you
choke me in the white-noise drone
of the shower.
push against the vitalities of my neck-
offer your hands around my faltering voice.
tell me about the pharaoh.
and the legless learners of passion.
tell me that you need to fall forward onto your face just to remind yourself that you're alive.
drum against my chest imperfectly with your
fingertips.
the unskillfully applied paint on your nails already chipping off- (you do this thing with your thumb and
forefinger as a nervous habit and always ruin them.)

the sun come

i trace over my neck with cartridge-blade razors
-rip away the stubble like peeling off snakeskin shadows.
snow falls
dusting my eyes with the harpsichord sounds of porcelain.

there is no longer bitterness nor sorrow.

nothing is created nor destroyed, 
energy to mater, only changed.how many forms are there that are being changed between-
the good and the bad in the world,
is that the purpose?. get the most out of a net zero game-at what point does there become so much something that it becomes the nothing and  the nothing: the something. what is the difference between a blank white and a blank black sheet of paper. at which point do the negative and the positive space switch definitions? does it need to be perceived to be real? and if in the end, when there is all of one thing, and none of the other left anymore, does the other start to grow and become the new something?
the behaviors of subatomic particles and the units which compose what we think of: change when observed, what else changes when observed. electrons become particles, electrons become waves. in one place. now another. both never and always here and there.
and
i often wonder if i'm crazy
of if everyone else is crazy and i'm among the sane. few and far between.
of if we are all crazy together,
and the craziest thing of all is that we never let each other know just how crazy we are.

that would truly be the most tragic.

for each and every individually to believe so much. feel so much. break apart so much in every instant as to doubt the sanity of their each and every moment.
and
never be able to tell you exactly how it feels, or even to hardly
try
while all along, i know. and you know. and they know. exactly what they could mean.
if only they could ever decide to talk about it.

or if words and impressions were enough to know someone by

i wonder if you've sat in the bath tub as a child- while the water was running out all around you
pensive about the whirlpool twisting everything small and fluid around it down the drain.
i wonder if you've wondered what it would feel like to be really small in the water as it got ****** down- not an object, just a view-point.maybe like a disembodied perceiver that can see and touch and feel. and what would it feel like. and be like to be washed down and plunged into swirling sensory overload.

almost like something that would happen on the magic school bus.

what if at every instant we could be everywhere in a way like that. every possible place the magic school bus could go. or explore. or know. we could be. all at once.

but at the same time we would be big too, so we could put it all into perspective  make sense of all things things and live by them. live in a way where we knew how to be right to each other because that was true.

what is we could magicschoolbus into things that were not physical- like feelings. and love. and comfort. and personalities

that would be pretty cool.

what if everyone i meet, knew instantly that i was the first born of the many cousins on my dad's side. and that my grandma lived downstairs and  my aunts and uncles were always there. and i was babied. and all the time i was was young, there were babies and children and people who loved them there. and i was always around that and that i have never left that place. and that i am young.
and i am very sweet. and very sincere if i can get the chance but i cant; get the chance anymore because its hard. and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. for my casual insincerity and defenses because all of my stoicism is me so full of feeling but i'm not supposed to show it anymore.  and all the people i can't run up to and hug anymore would know. and that at any given moment- i'd give anything just to make a blanket fort and fill it with stuffed animals. but i'd look pretty foolish. and everyone would probably say i was mentally handicapped. even the ones who used to baby me. and the babies i built them with.

isn't that something.

there is passion and there is numbness
and there is something inbetween.
something that's alotabit a both-
that's all mixed up and frantic.its quiet on the outside
but unpredictable

there's the meanness in this world
and there's the not

and there the winter time

and an old LP of houses of the holy jammed up at the cardboard corners and worn down to the white  along the spine

even if things get better
           -even
       if
             they
      get good,
we can never be the same.

even if i can reach a point when i can say "i love you" again, (which by the way i still do- even though mostly i wish i could stop.)

it can never be the same.

even though no mater what happens, i'll still care about you for some reason- and i'd never wish you ill,
it will never be the same.

your name upon my lips will never be quite as special.


don't take comfort in any kindness i extend.
that's just who i am.
how i'll always be.
i'm still taking everything in slowly.

i never yelled.
or called you names.

not yet.

though i don't think i would- don't think i could-
that's not who i am.


i've tried so hard.

i wish that you had tried just a little bit harder
- a lot harder.
it turns out you really didn't try very hard at all.

it shouldn't have been that easy to bury 4 years of me giving you everything i ever could and more.
-for the love of god, you were the first girl i ever kissed.

that was in highschool.
that seems like a long time ago.

i feel old.

i can never be the same.

"do you believe in madness?"
i whispered in the dark, half afraid of a reply.
"yes,"
trembled from her lips,
"but this it not it."
i say her lips trembled but in truth i could not see her face. perhaps it was i who was trembling, but if only in my imagination i could of sworn, she was trembling too.
the walls pushed forcibly on my chest and spine each time i inhaled

each mouthful of still air pressed me to the sides as a harsh reminder that the passage was only barely wide enough for us to walk through sideways, shoulder to shoulder, scraping our skin as we went.
i'm not sure how much time had passed
not much had changed
since the last word had been spoken out-loud

i had begun again to forget what words felt like,
both on the lips and upon softing the delicate hairs of the inner ear
all i could know was the dark, and my breathing, and her breathing.  and i begun to wonder if she was breathing at all,
of if the fainter, more distant breaths-  were not just echoes of my own.
had i gone mad. was i truly alone. no companion. no accomplice. just an invention of my lonely silence.
was it days that had been passing. or were they weeks.

perhaps just a few hours, and my sense of brooding, too dark.

each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets.
onto the pristine snow.

teardrop stone
arrowhead mother
copper-red veins flecked with crystalline dust
[iridescent]
[irrelevant]
you are just some fat piece of flagstone-
broke off corner of some stone paver-
seated in an empty flowerpot beside 30+lbs. of rusted chain in an old screwtop pretzel jar

be awoken
from your cot by the silence of dry lightning.and the promise of
windviolent in the treetops.bendingthethinnerbranches.shaking the
leaves fromtheir:hotandhumid slumber.and then the sirens:from the
centerof camp.runninglikemad: as the rain. as the mildew munches.figure\itoutquick just howcoldthewaterinthe atmo is.hitinthe
face.thedirtpath.wetcanvassflaps. slapping.rivers wrenchingthe soilfrom the earth.tearing sand.huddletogetherinthe mess-hall.sittingon benches.lying ontables.outside:striking the flagpoleand
thebuildingandthetrees.losing power, losing radio. no
morewalkietalkies.some one

when i saw the plastic
solar light on the fencepost, i knew i was flickering.

and if someone were to ask me how i feel
i would say that i am flickering.

and then i realized that i was from the future.
and then i realized that we are all from the future.
and we all know whats about to happen next. but we think we are the only ones

so we keep it a secret from each other
and play along




-
and on the busride, an entire lifetimes worth of existence-  the rain hitting the window and actively listening to the screech of rubber against highway. dissecting the beautiful low rumble of different hums. falling asleep in the carpet covered seat with my hat puled down over my eyes. waiting to reach destination. waiting to be halfway home,

.

its amazing what bodies can be

from one moment to the next






























.

there are soft little pieces of forever shoved into the corners of your teeth
on the granite slabs of mountainous look-outs,
you sharpen
long walking sticks from boughs of fragrant juniper.
and forget to pass the small berries to the birds that like them

its been a long time

wicking out the passion from moments that will out live us.
and trying to understand the fine pulverized sand in the fissures:
spreading out like veins across boulders that support
the weight.
our bodies-
carefully outlining the places where silent embryos come apart,

dragging the backs of our fingernails across the green-grey stone with open palms
to catch the stardust we
think
tumbles out of the ether-

casting off all of my anger.  as i watch the tiny
flecks of destiny caught in the tips of your eyelashes as they close-
and the greatest tragedy of all,

as the blue becomes blue.
this (and only this)-
no one to share the view

you waded into me like aflame.
floating atop paper.

you flickered and danced as your sparks tickled the air above you

you sank into the river. as if there was nothing about you.

.wet as

long-sound
footsteps on the scuff of downturned sidewalks

estranging.
distance
.from us

as wrought iron bridges
meeken,

aching.
like a saxophone

.the
pin-patter

in time my dear,
the soft,whining sound of

hours
slipping
past your open palms and through your moist fingers

will cease to amaze.
or even feel the need to take in a breath for your presence-

.you look like rain and slow burning cigarettes
blank check. ink wash. arson-ette.

shutting the door on another night of angels-
and other fiery things

meant to complicate
us,  
here in this city of
children.

and its hot salmon glow, ripe as
swollen peaches ready to fall out of the sky
and into snarling haiku of roses

i am the water rising.
rushing over your body-
ready to
reanimate

and

you fell
and she sighed

and

he scarcely heard the turgid gasping
of his
muse

i dream
of

my hand pushed through your hair like a gasp of hot air- the chemical burns cradling your head upon impact-arms like a limp nylon belt to strangle out the painand your neckbrokenand twisted around the words you could never managetosay
-or even muster up the courage to believe
we collided
on the way to discover a new piece of beautiful

we collided.
you feel to your knees.

i swept you aside

and whimpered for
new religion

will you
place my face on shelf of trinkets meant to startle you.
paper momentos. and
pewter figurines.
think twice,
or look over your shoulder one more time before you turn to step away
from this

kami-caress-
soul siphoning
season.
or toss me with a
splash into a fountain. meant to splatter up droplets-
black as succulent stag bone bowels.
rinsed over
maidens.
wearing porcelain faces and bedtime.
-rising like a timid ghost from me

in
this
straitlaced summer.
spiced red water.
linseed lull.
easy,

tame hands
can strangle too

turning to indian summer,
turning to the crisp
cool
autumn.
turning
my body to

wet
sinewy
earth

and when you can't close the door hard enough
i am the sharp-ribbed man under the bed
that wants to touch you
and through all the sheets that wrap around you
i can still feel you
with my
fifteen fragile fingertips there's nothing to understand there is only to listen. or try to ignore
and you swear you can hear my shallow breathing
my slender arms bristle for sensation
your slender body
twisted into blankets
i must take away

i saw one little blip

on the  

sawtooth wave




it must be me

today i sliced my thumb open
doing something stupid

i

try to remember
to never

push against broken glass with bare hands

or slide my fingers into sharp places



but

today i sliced my face open

and

pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb
holding the flesh open

i felt the bony ridge browline, with the pads of my fingertips

were the contours were not smooth as they should have been but
mountainous and irregular from

old

injury

you wouldn't know it to look at me but my
skull is irregular

and asymmetrical.

and
just a little bit jagged.




feel it and you can tell.



i could tell. i





sliced.
my face


open.



to tell. i




opened up my
skin

just to catch a glimpse.

at my

crooked eyesockets
and


they were hideous.




and





but you wouldn't know it just by my face.




or by the small scar beside my left eye that falls directly in the valley made by a crow's foot talon

i wonder

if
the wrinkles
are
from the scars or
if
the scars are just
conveniently

placed- today i sliced my face open


and
pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb


with all the
viscera

of a madman

i've heard

the difference between medicine
and poison

is

in the dose.



but



i
never
stopped

breathing.

sometimes
breathing
­is all

you
can

do. and

i
sliced my

face




open
to
catch

a vision


i
guess

that
was
a pretty crazy thing
to do.





and
i wonder what

isn't it beautiful to know exactly where the bowls are in the pantry cabinet,
and the way she kisses each gummy bear promptly before biting off its head.

you browse through my being
with fluttering eyelash-
squinting at the unpleasantries and
tugging at your brows with nervous thumbs.
i wonder-
will you know me any better by it.
sipping from the warm marrow of old bath water and running our hands down eachothers' sides. i
watch you take another big gulp of nothing
-find your feet amidst the company of elongated creatures that walk idly on the flat- smoothed out places of the world
that stretch
far and wide like some never-ending ungodly plane. you
scallop out pieces of your knowing just to make sense out of this happening. you
forget to receive beauty in all your eyes devour-
and in all you can crave.
the stiletto legged spiders cross paths like stilted walkers, wishing they were smaller
and you
will know nothing of them but will speak as if you've known them. i
can tell
you've never known them. i
can tell
. you
extend your limbs, hands open
as wide as the sky before you, you fancy your fingers as feathers,
and your outstretched arms as wings. i
know your bones must be hollow because
i've never heard such terrible sounds from them knocking together-
drumming out strum-songs because no strings could be used to make noise
in this place
you are lonely-
feeling as empty as freshly blown glass
and with
pins sticking out of my fingertips
i cannot drum along to your sound,
the crackling scratch of a vinyl record as
a cat claws at the beige carpet and
catches like velcro loops. i
know i've
put less thought into greater things
and
you
hold me
for only one second and
you are the tear in my jeans at the knees,
the flecks of dried paint in my black eyebrows,
and

infinitesimally small particle-sized portions of us all
bouncing around in the dark parts of your irises
like over-exited electrons colliding in a
cloud
of everyday
dust,
exiled into the far corners of
heavens.

you grasp the air around you like a flightless bird i used to know and i
peel
back
everything i might of known about you before
that lash-fall instant
in which
you
smiled

i have put up facades
and feigned a greater confidence than i could ever possess,
i have touched the poverty in lines of poetry
and tasted the ******* of lame stanzas.

i have put less thought
into greater things.

absorbing the warmth of smiling
through ****** osmosis
and
keening away carbon in short- and shallow breaths


but
i have never seen again what transpired  
when i watched
the paper girl
fold herself into pieces of origami-like lovers as cold sheets of fragile fibers
carefully bent around
waxy parchment
she sailed around the room like a paper airplane,
thin, creased skymachine with wings bent back and nose weighted with all the promise
of an old penny she might have found in her pants pocket

i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little *****-
thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath,  not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood running over the ***-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-satanic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.

mouth to mouth-
crystalline tiny cubes of light
into tasting pieces of acid and spill them all over
your black spaghetti straps
tugging at the bottom of your machine washable
dungeons
you purr words of inconsolation and inconsequence  
stream-line savior
savour the swift
elongated tongues
of amateurs -
sky machines
sent to lick the blood right off my feet
and from the streets-
swimming into the soft-tailed waterfalls that spill over
cavernous eyes

the galleries of independent machines
are put onto display in the gilded halls of long corridors
bleached away by
anti-
bacterial soap.
and we say that we are the universe.
and we are the ones that tell you what to do.
preachers of mephistopheles,
creatures of indetermination.
and indeterminate
origin,
the goat-footed gargoyles treat us as play-things.
and the winged seraphs as day-things.
but we know that we are night-things.
and night-things fly away.
she wrote her number in red-lipstick, hit the high-notes like a whisper,
and whispered.
she got under my skin
and she crawled around while she was in.
she bat her lashes
and bit her lip,
she tasted her painted
fingernails
as if licking her claws clean
and threatened -
to swallow me whole.

and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me

bitter but better is the sunshine of never
all over
her body
are dead things and dragons
spiders and stabbers and
ink thorny anklets
calf-twisting vine lines
and thigh wanting roses
fingers paint black tips and
lovers cross black lips a
body
lain naked
her lies of love broken
her eyes leak of lust rust
a bat on her breast
she rises from rest
she sits up
and pulls  
a black SG onto her lap
and whispers
"more"

some remember the debt-
others, the
intoxication of rubber bands breaking against their forearms
amidst
the long flat bodied spiders that make lonely homes
with picket fences and
lighting strung up on silk to rally us towards
celebration

i call you a crybaby because i never could understand.

her heart bursts open as it beats,
for one last act of pointless percussion,
she cries,      "you are part of my perfect prison."
this tender poison;
an anesthetic apathy,
I am here, don't you see me?
*******, I'm alive!

I am.
growing.

empty space
doesn't really mater
unless there is nothing
where something used to be

It seems we often find ourselves,
entering
into animated conversation
at inconvenient hours.

And this is best.

That
which compels things to happen.
which lets all of their motives and passions slip through.

There are subtle diamonds
woven into the patch-work mystery of the nighttime,
the stitches of which,
we unravel
and
let
drip
into our open mouths
in eager anticipation,            
of sedated


excitation.

I am Dogma.
I am Poison.

I am "Please, Someone, tell me what to do!"

I am Newly Turned Earth.

give me this and no other,
slender golden instants of splendid earth's living,

i shall return,
not to take the mystery out of loving,
nor the mastery of perfection,

but to bask in their
Unsubdued.

you're my solid sunshine,
you're my only pair of shoes,
you're my science-fair volcano,
my big, fold-out topographical map of the moon.

a quiet kind of clean soon followed
away in the crematorium
kings and cool lovers danced slowly
a quiet kind of clean came suddenly
we followed it closely
but it got away

she breaths right down the middle.
swings low to the ache of percussion,
and palpitation.
.
she said I should have been a painter.
maybe she was right.

And there it was-
I'll tell you all the truth you ask of me-
Let all of my hesitation- reservations- love-
Pass by unnoticed- unheeded- misheard-

Be it strange- or be it my aptitude towards the unholy,
Whether the soft touch of the willow-fed irises-
Or the half-life glare of nighthawks, posed aloof and aloft-
In full conscious awareness of their physicalities-
With willful composure- and heads turned just so.

the warmth of dusk,
cold science of night,
holding on to the promise of
changing,  with weary fingers
tracing shapes on
invisible seconds,
that came before:
-improbable.

I was entranced to begin with.
nothing you could have done would've changed that.

I spy with my little- I
Spy with my little eye

a sleep cutter
red sheet maker
wet pillowcases and
wet pillowcases and
blankets.

I saw a man once,
walking slowly.

and
once behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD
and the model was thin- and her skin was enhanced by zeros and ones-
and I was entranced by her.
and she was GOd
and she was made to be beautiful.
and she was made out of beautiful.
and then, on my way home I passed by the place again and her picture was gone
and instead was the image of a raven haired beauty-
***** and lustsome with bedroom eyes
and she looked at me and said,
I AM EVERYTHING
and smiled, adding bluntly,
BUY MY BODY AND DRINK MY BLOOD.
I gazed upon her airbrushed ******* and breathed,
No,
I refuse you,
BLONDE IS GOD
and bleach touch-up foam, Our Savior.
and *** is God
and the Natick Mall is my favorite place to be
and I love you.

and I am i
and barely . -
and
YOU ARE EVERYTHING
and I will always adore you.
and

everything i have ever done, becomes quantified in this, tell me how to be beautiful- tell me how to be worthless-  tell me-



once, behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD

i see you,
from flesh to your fantasies-
working towards muted cadence and clarity,
though choice and change-
dog-dare devilry and always the moon

and if i could stand to see you crying,
i would tell you
not to care at all

it doesn't mater
which of our fantasies fall.