The KNIFE Feels right IN MY  Hand dear friend! I am a king IN a long forgotten land
Her hands left burns upon my arm
Collapsing veins
Like Blue Flower Petals
Nails digging Into flesh
Infest
I gaze a way
Under my breath
HER FINGERS FEEL LIKE RAZORS
HER WORDS BROKEN
POINTS SPLITTING THE
SUNLIGHT
HERE ON THE STREETCORNER
AS IF SHE DOES THIS
EVERY DAY
her pail skin
Cunning
In day light
as I fight
For a breath
Her jawline
soft geometric
Are you lost?
Doped on hash she
Tears into me
With sideways glances
Laughing knives in my back

I'm ready for the sea
I will dissolve in the blue
Waves tumble me apart
I laugh at the pain I
Once felt and the
Way I once tried to
Put everything I am on the head of a needle
They gawk at me and laugh
Scientist poke me with their
Sterile stainless steel Instruments asking
Each other "what's an existence?"
I try to explain with words but
A blue bird is caught in my throat
Its beak poking the roof of my mouth
It climbs out past my teeth
It jumps and ***** around the white room
Whistling out an ancient tune
Circling once above our heads
Then out the open window

As they tie the white blindfold
On my eyes They line up the
FIRING Line see if I do not stand brave
**** **** **** cocking of rifles
Are explosions in my ears
Fearless I hold
Your picture in hand and take the
Bullets Crainial Spatail gasps
Lungs collapsing
My last thoughts hinge on your
White ******* as my tounge finds
The gunmetal taste of skin
Your haunting laugh
Screaming in frequencies
Unheard mere mortals
I reach the throne room of the gods
With a knife hidden in my boot

Did you think I would forget?
Your scent still hangs on me
Electrical I squeeze out each last
Drop of Malice upon a silent hotel room
Even though the news on mute taunts me
With polite smiles reminiscent of your taut hello
A year I spend standing in the rain
Trying to wash the scent of you from my skin
Your taste on my lips
Leaving corpses
Hollow in your wake
The Forked Tongue she spills
Poison in my wine each time
I turn towards the candle  light
Until one night I caught her in my Bed
You have no Idea for what you ask
Until at once you understand
I take your hand
Like the moth I rip the wings from your back
You twitch and ****** on waves of pain as
I bring you ever closer to the flame
Your thorax structure spasms of ecstasy
Won't you light me up?
As the beast gives rise
Parting porcelain thighs divine

I find god's stash of
***** tapes in the closet
When I was searching for
A reason not to empty the
Entire clip into my chest
Each bullet carved
With your name in
Perfect Cursive

I break into your house while you are out with your new boyfriend
And I lie on your bed that we used to lie in
I cradle the pistol in my pocket
I keep reaching down to feel
As if I have forgotten it
Flicking the safety
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
*****
Ch­ambering the first
Nine millimeter
Hollowpoint  
As I hear your front door open
And you flick
The porch light on
Bathing the moonlit yard
In artificial light
The Roses red
I spent my last $12 dollars on
Wilt on the kitchen counter
While in the hall you kiss his neck and
Unzip his name-brand jeans
Leading him to your bedroom door

how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner       wherever You want
that the world is not assembling itself
atom by sticky atom
from the blueprints
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming, fluttering
together with the ebb of Your consciousness?
-
the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
(snappily)
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending pixilated reality smoothly
into an orchestrated Existence
-
the next time You      reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the waiting room
-
give
pause
listen            
carefully
-
can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           scraping
sliding
           shoving past each other?
-
they                jockey
       jumping into
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs
-
she wants to know
why we divide
Them              from Us
-
so clearly
so readily
-
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment
-
A dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.
-
how would You know?
people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space
                                                           ­         -
                                             the smell of burnt matches
                             -                                      -
                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death
                             -
               but in an ugly way
-                            -
the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)
-
until They speak or You look Them in the eye
-
until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk
-
They are afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-
where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
just this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him
                             -               -
                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through
                                      -
                              in the end
-                                     -
the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn
diamond
-
perfect           (silence)
-
broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed
-                                -
You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now
-
speak           look Yourself in the eye
-
see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk
-
don’t be afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-          -
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that laughing quietly to themselves
can (You) set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?
                              -
              yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                        to know
               that she likes him
                              -
                      in the end
-                             -
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
to keep Them      out
and Us       in
-                                   -
           this is Mine                  and that is Yours
-                                   -
You see
what You want to see (without)
-
(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past reads:
                           “jesus is coming,
                                  hide the ****”
-                                          -
in its green lettering
and its largely silent voice
-
if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear Them
-                  -
              giggling
                ­   -                       -
              please do not think about green elephants
-                                          -
(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)
-                                       -
             please do not feed the green elephants
-                                       -
I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles into
existence
on the very next          page
-                              -
             ­       You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                    except for death
                                 -
                   it is an ugly thing
                                    -
               yet still the chisel gouges
                  -               -
  “i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride”
      llac ot eltsihw i”
  “edis ym ot god ym
                  -        -
        through the crumbling protests
         of the reluctant stone
                               -    -
                     ­               each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death
-                                  -
You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live
                       -
You casually craft causality
         -             -
         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP
-        -
the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all things must come to end one day
-                                       -
You
Yourself

have tasted the                     hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 wealth
                       of Hatred
heard the                               stories
          ­             of Genocide
felt the                                    loss
                     ­  of War
and smelled the                    decay
                       of Truth
-                      -
                      this        ­     is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...

she's one of those Scandinavian girls all your friends at the barbecue would say,
"dude, how the **** did you manage to get with THAT?"
because they're all entranced in her painted and unintentional glow, she's a diamond,
and it's not the diamonds fault it's a diamond.

it's a mix of luck, probability, and perspectives on beauty derived from
thousands of years of embedded consciousness on what defines the aesthetics of a souls harmonic glances

I'm luckiest because she's not just a diamond on the outside.
the rest of her diamonds still reside underneath. speaking through her body yet still deep to discover
and I'll keep looking.

I'll keep looking and I'll discover how rich she is.

But she doesn't know it yet.
she may never know it.

diamonds are easy to see,
but hard to find.