i live to watch the words spill from you,
hot and sticky as your fingers work
their magic. slick from sweat,
frantically flicking, thrumming
out another string
of syllables,
eclipsing me with ellipses
blinking in the bottom
left corner of the screen
keying me in:
you’re still typing.

i am a ******,
afforded
a first-class seat
addicted to the way
you tease me
with your words:
gently.
slowly.
and also all at once.
i could hang
myself from the precipice
of your fingertips—
plying secret messages,
peep shows
for my eyes only.
you’re showing off,
and i can’t get enough.

swallowed the bait
hook line and sinker
choked by the weight of
too many mistakes until
i'm strung up by
microfilament
like an unwanted catfish
a nuisance a pest
bash me to death
with a metal baseball bat
shatter flimsy bones
until nothing's left but dust
and toss my bleeding carcass
back into the murky lagoon
that i used to call a home
and i will float atop
the sea foam green surface
easy prey for
ambivalent carrion

there's something serene
about waking up
at the beach.
the heady drone
of the waves' ebb and flow
induces a gentle hypnosis.
the Atlantic
pulled back
and forth
by the moon
flirting with the Earth,
two lovers
who never quite touch.

saturated cumulus clouds cling
to the ocean's surface
as far as the eye can see,
a downy duvet
laid across the planet
for warmth and comfort.
as the salt breeze butterfly-kisses
sunburnt skin, a hazy lethargy
invites you to sink
beneath, an anchor
lost at sea, and forget,
if only for a moment,
the world's weariness.

close as
two molecules
inhabiting the
same cell

distant as the
chasm of
space-time
stretched out
from the Big
Bang to the
Modern Day and
beyond

it is meaningless circumstance
that's stranded us
in tandem
aloft on this rock
adrift in aimless

emptiness

no god presided
over your eternal fate
no endless author
provided the tragedies of
this less than perfect
existence but

all things considered
coincidence consistently lacks
the necessary evidence and
i'm practically convinced
at least
for the moment

that some semblance of
divinity lingers in both
you and i and in
this infinitesimally gargantuan
space between

us

i saw a dead dog on the median today
its entrails scattered
across sun-baked cement
gore crows perched on
suburban rooftops
cursing the cars
that drove past aimless
separating them
from breakfast

                                                               i've
                                                      been
                             s t r e t c h e d
                       like
            string
theory

an object
e l o n g a t e d
by the pressure
of gravity
gobbling light
black holes
f r a c t u r i n g
time and space

i am jaded
bitter
restless
weary

i snapped today
broke a picture frame
the glass shattered
shards splayed
the photograph remained
temporarily unscathed
i burnt the black and white image
with a lighter that smelled
faintly of old cigarettes

it was not an accident

i wanted to
hurt
break
maim
****
something other than
myself
for once

a fury fills every fiber of my being
infernal ire boiling internally
controlling contorting consuming
i bore my cross this far
it'd be a shame to leave it
unoccupied

a phone call
from area code 772.
Jensen Beach, FL.
a retreat beside the waves.
a refuge built
so far away
to keep you safe
and help you
recuperate.

i slide my thumb across the screen,
busting the chains of my purgatory.
you pause briefly,
right before you say, "Hello, Pearson."
your inflection hangs
on my name,
as if to hold me
in your mouth.
i linger in your lungs
like the smoke
from your favorite
cigarettes.
when you breathe
me out, i hear the sigh
of relief, signaling how much
you'd hoped i'd pick up.

you say, "so,
tell me something new."
a detail i neglected to include
in one of the daily letters
i'd sent to you. absently,
i search for a subject.
anything. but all
that comes to mind
is, "god, you've no idea
how much i've missed you.
it's so good to hear you speak."

five minutes. that's all.
i wish i'd had more time.
i would've used my tongue
to gently ply
your contours
and tantalize your mind.
i once built a home
inside your psyche.
a dragon usurped my throne,
but only temporarily.
i returned with an army
of those who'd die
to liberate you.
so permit me to feed
your creativity,
enabling your addiction
to my free-verse.

don't mind me
as i continually use
my poetry to clean
up the place.
i'll weave you a tapestry
of multicolor. you've kicked
the habit, but you still fancy
the way my lyrics get
your knees knocking,
your body quaking.
you couldn't quit me
even if you wanted to.

so, i'll remain
in the secret places
of your brain, building bridges
across rivers of synaptic gaps
until, one day,
you'll find me spray-painting graffiti
in your dopamine cathedral.
you'll ask, "after all this time?"

and i'll say, "always."
i'll plant new seeds
until i run out of letters
to string together. with each
polyrhythmic twirl,
a dexterous melody
will exacerbate your ecstasy,
each stanza a slick finger
slipping beneath
your skin, leaving you
calling out my name again.

the last time i feared dying
i was a twenty-year-old man
who'd just found out that
his best friend
was already dead

when i realized
god was a fraud
and this world was all
any of us
will ever have and
heaven is nothing
but a shadow of a sham
i promised myself i'd
never fear death again

i'd settled on the conclusion to
no longer live in
self-righteous delusion
rejecting collusion with the fork-tongues
whispering easy lies
fingers crossed

i traded my soul for a critical mind
and the Good Book for literature
art and science

and for the better part of
three years i lived by my own code
and apologized for nothing

but now i'm afraid to die again

it first happened on a moonlit night
we were both sweaty from days spent in lively theme parks and seedy concert halls
craft beer bars and quiet stardust cafés

a spirit of compassion
stretched
between you and i
like so many sinews
lashing ligaments
inseparable insufferable invaluable

and then it happened
beneath a careless canopy
sandpaper roof
grating tiles
pink flesh
soft insistent
fingers roaming
in out
hair
over under
clothes

common sense has been usurped by
human connection
emotional frailty

i do not want to die
i will fight against that
cold goodnight
i want to live in moments
like this
death can wait to attend me

i am weak i
can't loose the noose that ties
this millstone to the ***** in my chest
it drags my heart downwards
deeper into the abyss
which stares back at me with eyes
as vivid and intense
as a newborn galaxy
spewing clouds of hydrogen gas
in some endless
alternate universe

Dostoevsky espoused
the eloquent adage
to live without hope
is to cease to live
and it rings true
i've been a shell
of my former self
ever since we kissed
on that frigid rooftop

leave my carcass for the vultures
i'll give up the ghost
relinquish the illusion of control
once and for all

hang me from a rope until i'm dead
the visions of a fraud lying
in your bed are  
a noose i'll loop
over my head

i am a slave
my enmity
masks a
melancholy reality

i'd part the seas
just to see you
walk on water
if i could only believe
that you'd reach out for me
but these concrete limbs
leave me sinking
interminably

the sun raises its weary head
above the distant horizon
i'll daydream of growing old with you
attending protests and fighting injustice
making love on a beach beneath a new moon

but when our star
tucks itself to sleep
each night
i can't erase the reminder
that you choose
to lie with a different lover
and deny the flame of this
never-ending romance
while i toss and turn
misery my only company

hope is a hoax

most days i daydream of
traipsing past New Zealand streams
hopping from stones as the rivers
rush past beneath our feet
walking on water like deities

in my mind we play tag like children
in the streets of Venice
criss-crossing over a myriad of
bridges interwoven like fabric
threads in an awning tapestry

and i take your photograph as
you extend your index and middle
fingers in the universal sign of
everlasting peace and smirk out of
the corner of your mouth the way you do
when you know i'm looking

the sun-kissed snow would fall in drifts
in the Swiss Alps as a chill wind numbed our skin
and the mid-morning breeze played with our hair
and we sang songs that echoed
through canyons carved by Father Time
and Mother Nature's scandalous romance

or maybe we'd just stand within the Guggenheim
sheltered from the elements
our fingers interlocked as we wordlessly  
studied the museum's latest exhibition
and you'd rest your head on my shoulder
as you traced the Deathly Hallows
etched into my wrist with
your fingertips and you'd
be the first to break the silence

i wonder what the artist was thinking
when he shot this black and white image
do you think the shadow in the lower left
means something significant or is it
just a trick of the light

and we would stand
statuesque at the foot
of sepia photographs
two additional installations
of artwork

bludgeon our minds
addled by apathy.
cudgel us into comatose.
the sixth extinction
we couldn't be bothered
to prevent.
blind submission
to the tradition
of the truncheon.

throw our bodies
in the trenches,
the mass grave
we dug
with our own hands.
dirt still clinging
beneath the nails
of fingers raking
our psyches.
buried beneath ennui.

cover our corpses,
naked and exposed,
with ten tons of soot
and ash. strike
from the pages
of history
the utter depravity
of the world's
cruelest creature:
humanity.

on the drive home i
spotted an absurd billboard broadcasting
a benign worldview an asinine
sign espousing a single word meant
to inspire endless iterations of hope and
worship in one bisyllabic phrase

believe.

it had a period
at the conclusion
as if this was
the end all and be all
a sycophantic
intonation that insinuated
pseudo-religious proclamations
independent of rational
thought and evidence
a foregone preclusion
to excluding others
on the condition that
they didn't share the
exact same faith

ironically
the billboard advertised a
multi-million dollar company  
Morgan & Morgan
a law firm masquerading
beneath the pretentious
pretense of their slogan
For The People
as if they were god's gift
to the city of Orlando
but if they were truly devoted
to the precepts of Jesus i dare say
they'd spend less time gloating
and more time defending the poor

'cause when you're making thousands
of dollars an hour on someone else's
pain and misfortune i somehow wager
the radical rabbi who entered Jerusalem on a
donkey would have a thing or two to say

what would the world
look like if the people
who call themselves Christ-followers
quit spewing sermons on billboards
and focused instead
on their savior's
greatest commandment

the globe is warming
it's sickly sweet beneath
these thin sheets we share
as water levels rise
with every breath spit
into the atmosphere
by planes trains
and automobiles

maybe it's an inevitability
all i know
is that we've passed
the point of no return
it is irreversible
no denying a shifting climate
elevating seas and oceans
as seasons slip haphazardly
sending blood rushing
to our heads

let's live for today
since we could very well
be dead and buried
by the week's end
we won't go meekly
into the black holes
awaiting our solar system

apathy an enemy we'll transcend
hand-in-hand as champions
vanquishing impotent ideologies
steadfast sentinels
ancient as trees
guarding sacred mysteries
of this infinite cosmos

i miss you like a thunderstorm
raging over an empty sea.
i miss you like morning dew
hiding in the shade of flower petals.
i miss you like old photographs
stored in dusty boxes
in forgotten corners of the attic.

i miss you like twilight
skipping quickly from dusk to evening.
i miss you like the swig of coffee
lingering, unloved, at the bottom of the mug.
i miss you like family movies,
glitchy home-videos Mom takes out
to soothe the passing tides of anxiety.

i miss you like lyrics
to a song i haven’t heard since i was fifteen.
i miss you like lemonade stands
in the midst of Florida summers, hot and sticky.
i miss you like the space suspended
between two seconds, trapped in a gap
to which i return infinitely.

i used to watch
the clock
tick-tock, rocking
me to sleep.
dreams these days
don’t come
so easily.
lay awake,
listen—
the fan hums
while i wait
for a song
that won’t slip free,
a treasure chest
opening just for me.
but i lost the melody
and can’t seem
to find the beat.
death is the promise
we cannot help
but keep.
loss is all
that’s permanent.

i. you are at once absent and present

mourning dew on tobacco leaves
transgressive pleasure simultaneously
deluding and eluding me
i remain an equation incapable
of comprehending infinity

tantalizing fantasies splashed
like water across a stovetop
simmering on contact before evaporating
with my unconscious thoughts
trapped within half-forgotten dreams
restless in unending nightmares

a cosmic drift of psychological
rifts in a psyche sundered by
the fault-line ruptures
of cognitive dissonance earthquakes

there's no stitching up
the severed seams
or recovering the effervescence
of innocence lost in our ascent to a rooftop
to treat with bliss in the midst
of the moon's ambivalence

ii. you are at once absent and present

i thought the stars danced for only us
that you put them in the sky
so i could study nebulae
with the same five senses
i'd use to explore you

the stars looked on
voyeurs surveying
the crush of our bodies
listening to the rush of lust
leaking past flesh flushed
with explicit elixirs

we found the philosopher's stone
became ageless in those moments
drunk on alchemical toxins
poisoning our blood-streams
souring the precious draught  
of friendship we'd cherished
for half a decade

the taste of your alcohol-breath
still taints my tongue
lungs billowing like corpses
pierced by carrion
a larynx choked with regret
while you smoke your cigarettes
incapable of going back
yet returning
ad infinitum

iii. you are at once absent and present

i think about dying every day

not suicide
per se
just
alleviation

for if existence is suffering
then sadness is unending and
my anger defines me

it takes a certain sort
of courage to endure
to persist in spite of
the inevitable abyss

i am caught in a
cycle of cynicism
that leaves me jaded
more often than
i'd care to admit

and i can't help but
feel guilty nursing
my enmity

i hate him
almost as
much as
i hate me

yet i find
strange comfort
knowing one day
everyone and everything
will meet its end

we are precious
precisely because
we are finite

i stare up at the same spot on the ceiling
desperate and restless beneath sweet sheets
the fan groans incessantly in my right ear
a drone that can't quite drown out the internal din
a cacophony simmering infernally within

gossamer strands shimmer in the moonlight
spider-webs interconnecting above my head
trapping my hope and retaining my dread
until naught is left but undead recollections
nascent nightmares and frightening images

a half-dozen dreamcatchers spin on twine
suspended intermittently throughout my mind
serpentine figures intertwined in the twilight
adamantine revelations of eternal return
dragons chasing their own tails ad infinitum

sleep is a tease that whispers gently like a breeze
death shares the coffin that doubles as my bed
she ***** everyone but she returns in the end
and when my time comes i'll meet her as a friend
relieved i need no longer pretend to be free

it's become something of a cliché but
like most trite adages
for all its faults
it is not necessarily
lacking in validity

the journey itself is the destination

a phrase that conjures images
in one's head of subconscious
sojourns across arctic tundras
and windswept plains
savannas and mountain ranges
or perhaps astral and ethereal
projections of the psyche into
some pseudo-spiritual metaphor
for overcoming corporeal suffering
and psychological anguish

but it holds true too
to the metaphysical revolt
explored by Camus in
chapter two of his opus
on the spirit of rebellion

it is not enough to merely **** god
acts of deicide are at once
reactionary and revolutionary
imposing subtle dictatorships as
we merely claim a despot's
stolen throne for our
own whims and fancies

no
to resist the urge to become the master
to destroy dominance and empower each
other is the greatest test humankind will face
a constant struggle to pursue the
better angels of our nature

the means don't
justify the ends
the means
are the end

i feel a phantom vibration
where my phone usually rests.
i hear the Mockingjay chime
each time, as if i've received
an imaginary text.

weeks have passed. still,
the moments creep past.
no word. i wonder
what you're up to.
are you feeling any better?
when can i expect
to see you next?
i miss you.

i'm afraid my last letter
might've been misconstrued,
so here's the truth:
no higher power exists
to protect you. the 12 steps
cannot save you from the ghost
of addiction. i'd resurrect god
just to **** him again if it meant
i could help you. but i, too,
am powerless.

you've got two hands
on the steering-wheel.
white knuckle vise-grip.
liberty or death,
this or the apocalypse.
only you can save yourself.

we slow-dance to Turnover in the living room
while cars roar past and ambulances wail.
backlit by the yellow glow of a dimmed lamp,
we whirl endlessly, choking back melancholy.

“would you come here and spin with me?”

visions of the past still haunt
our periphery, but we cling
to hope, enduring even at the end of a rope,
waiting for our chance to catch the next breath.

“i’ve been dying to get you dizzy.”

your tears collect, mourning dew,
slipping insistently down your cheeks.
i kiss the salt streams and sing quietly,
lips pressed like a seal against your ear.

“find my way up into your head...”

the needle scratches against the LP.
aimless, we twirl in unspoken rapture,
hearts thumping to the very beat
that sets our feet to turning.

“...so i can make you feel like new again.”

limbs taxed by atrophy, we collapse
once again into the bed, light-headed,
giddy. dazed with joyous, ephemeral bliss
to flit through another sensuous tryst.

last i heard you were
reading Oscar Wilde's
The Picture of Dorian Gray
have you mustered the  
courage since then to
exhibit authenticity when
you say
i love you

to the golden girl
staring back at you in the mirror
can you peel back the
veil obscuring your self-image
to see a little clearer

ten months
since we last
exchanged
circumstantial
pleasantries

funny

we used to converse every day
c'est la vie is what i imagine you'd
have to say for yourself after all
it always did sound like an excuse
constantly reclusive your
imaginary deity the
only refuge you've ever known

so wander despondently
refugee of refuse
pilfer from the gutters
of garbage some semblance
of purpose some pretense of
predestination to validate your
meaningless existence

**** it up like
the rest of us
there's no rhyme or
reason for the so-called
seasons of life

you're a fair-weather
friend and though i might've
crossed oceans for you then
i don't mind you
out of my life

you should’ve paid closer
attention when they
once told you
be careful if you
befriend a writer

they'll make you
immortal
even when you
just want to
die

i guess that's life

father time's wispy white beard
drifts like cumulus clouds over
his work desk. with a bony finger
he adjusts the half-moon glasses
on the bridge of his nose,
an absent-minded gesture—
this blind clockmaker
hasn't seen in years.

the gadget fidgets, plied
by his callous-tipped fingers.
over the radio, a jazz duo
croon a somber tune.
the old man wipes beads
of sweat from his brow
with the back of a hand,
then connects two wires.

sparks sizzle in the dim light
of the workshop, cascading
comet-tails in brilliant plumes,
filling the room with hues
of phosphorescent blue.
once more, he'll try in vain
to compartmentalize
spacetime.

the first time i said, “i love you”
we were lying in bed
at your apartment.
your skin held the hue
of the afternoon sun,
but a frown
pulled at the corners of your mouth.

a chill that had nothing
to do with the Florida summer
came like a cold-snap
and, in an instant,
covered us in hoarfrost
smothering as a blanket
racked with smallpox.

the scars in the crook of your elbow
had all but healed, but an itch
crept across you—insistent
and incessant. for a while,
i read The Myth of Sisyphus
aloud, moved by Camus,
wrestling with the one
true and serious
philosophical question:
suicide.

i searched desperately
for the right string of words
to convince you
the razor isn’t a solution.  
i made “prayers of my hands
on your body” and sang hymns
like honey. i sampled
salted, caramel apple—
you hung precariously
on the tip of my tongue.

wishing i could wrest my eyes
from my skull so you could see
yourself from a new perspective.
Beloved, this may well be
your war to win,
but in every struggle,
we need comrades.
in solidarity, i remain.

i refuse to leave you alone
to fight the shadows
lurking in back-alley
neuroses. in a world
that is utterly absurd
only three words
make sense anymore.
three words. a song
that fills our lungs:
“i love you.” partner,
dance with me
to the beat
of a new drum.

i have no idea how many hours she toiled
in the community kitchen before i arrived,
but she’d made a *** of tofu stew, a bowl
of rice and beans, some spinach lasagna
soaked in marinara, hummus
and daiya cheese sandwiches.
diligent and dutiful,
without question,
without expectation.

an hour later, we stood in Lykes Gaslight Park,
doling out food to the houseless folks
who’d lined up for a vegan meal
when, out of the blue, a well-dressed
college student swaggered up to us,
his smile shimmering, and asked
what we were doing.

she brushed a loose strand
of hair behind one ear,
smearing a bit of sauce
across her cheek,
and said, “we are here to live
as if we are already free.”

they were sharing food too,
he explained, which was all well
and good. but we couldn’t help but notice
they’d never set foot here in the past,
that they only came out
when the season
passed into the holidays.

“you know,” he told us,
“you might not realize,
but the Lord Jesus Christ
is using you for the gospel.”
which seemed rather strange,
given that he’d be back
in his sanctuary before the year
was out, raising his hands
and praising his dead god
instead of standing beside us
every Tuesday and Saturday,
sharing.

but we remember the legacy
of the radical Nazarene,
the anarchic revolutionary
who fed five thousand—
a conquest of bread
with nothing but a few loaves
and some fish.
if you listen closely,
you can still hear him whispering,
“take what you need,
give what you can.”

we carry a new world
in our hearts and heads.
we don’t feed the hungry
to win a one-way trip to heaven.  
so when you forget
about the poor you use as a prop,
we godless few will remain
in the streets until every belly’s full
and capitalism collapses—
risking arrest, fighting abuse,
addiction and empty stomachs.

it's like jumping
a short fall
at first
and then it ends
as quickly as it started

if only i knew
how they pieced me
back together again
stitched at the seams
until it seems like i
never died at all

then back to a building
a different skyscraper
crafted from durasteel
taller than the one that
came before

i don't even hesitate
one foot after the other
right over the ledge
only the fall eats up
more time and i
have a moment to think
of your eyes while the
meters flash by

splat

back to the lab again
to be reassembled from
the remnants of my
desiccated carcass

only there's less of me
bits of brain that could not
survive a second meeting
with the concrete
chipped finger-bones
missing teeth and
no heartbeat

up again
higher still
and again
and again
only to plummet
of my own volition

i fall further each
and every time
and they scrape
less of me off
the pavement

we plant white lies like seeds in the fertile soil of stories—
perfect as a magic bean, we’ll climb skyscraper-high
to a world of gods and giants.

when reality sets in, cold as a vise and just as tight,
it’s unsurprising we cling desperately to soothing fictions.
given enough hope and rope, we’ll tie our own noose.

we’ve memorized the plot-lines,
can trace the hero’s journey
as the veins in our hands.

in fairy tales and holy texts, they say,
“love will save the day.” but i have never met
someone who can take the pain away.

the Florida sun and i
baked your memory
into the bricks of Winter Park
i built a home for you
amidst the concrete and stucco
off Mills and Thornton Avenue
outside a crowded little tea-house

we'd read our poetry out front
to choruses of snapping fingers
well after dark
before driving aimlessly
through Orlando streets
with a melancholy soundtrack
keeping us fixed firmly apart

i'd lay my hand like a fallen palm frond
well within your reach
praying to a god i don't believe in
that you'd tease the ink staining my wrists
with your pinprick fingertips

i remember when we
sat beneath the pine trees
i tried to look into your eyes
but the windswept clouds
drifted listlessly
and for a moment
i was blinded

i could've sworn that there
were constellations
where your
irises ought to be
a nebulous Andromeda
hurtling eternally

so send me a sign
through earthquakes
and light-waves
that i don't belong here
pining

wind me up
like a VHS
tape. tap
play, flay
my skin,
expose the meat
beneath
these rotten limbs.

stop.

trapped in a spider's web
of microfilament
ruptured inside plastic
cassette fractures,
fault-lines
from the wear
and tear
of constant
replay.

rewind.

a favorite scene
that seems to scream
of bliss
but has become
the site of such
anguish.

play.

if only
i could excise
these moments,
tape the frayed
fragments back
together
with scotch-tape.
delete the scene
and set the film
ablaze.

there's a stranger sleeping on my shoulder
on this lonely overnight bus ride
to Atlanta

***** blond hair pulled back
into a loose and messy bun
cheeks obscured by the faux fur
of an oversized white-as-snow winter coat

i've given up on sleep

i can't help but wish you were here instead
that you drifted to sleep while we shared
earbuds and listened to rambling songs
as our fingers traced calligraphy tattoos
across each other's knuckles and we
huddled together for warmth

i'd glance over as you smiled in your sleep
and press my lips to the crest of your head
and as the sun rose and cast its gaze on our
little band of troubadours and
you gave out a warbling yawn i'd say
let me be the first to
cordially welcome you to Georgia

i can still smell
the fertile soil
beneath my nails.

breathe deep.

inhale the heavy crush
of nature, fragrant
and somber on a frigid
Florida morning.

pulling past-due produce
from the earth
only to cut it up
and return the harvest
once more to the ground
as compost.

i nicked my finger
on a pair of scissors
dicing mustard greens.
i laughed. i’d never
noticed just how red
blood was. today,
juxtaposed
with the Planet’s brown flesh,
i marveled at my own fragility.

for the first time
in what feels like forever
i didn’t ruin
what i touched.

she says she loves to
play with fire but i'm the one
always getting burned

pour some kerosene
at my feet and strike the match
such an exquisite

inferno of sweet
agony siphoning my
entropy if we're

all destined for dirt
sooner or later then let's
go out bright tonight

they say it's better
to have loved and lost than to
never love at all

and every single
poem i pen seems to start and
end with you hidden

between lines that lack
the proper punctuation
my love tell me true

just where am i to
go when my heart screams yes but
my head whispers *no

your lipstick stains the mug
sitting in my kitchen sink.
it still smells faintly
of cheap red wine.
i can’t quite
find the heart
to wash it off
just yet.

i stutter, punch-drunk
and slurring syllables.
you left me
tongue-tied
in more ways than one.
i’d hoped to twist
disparate thoughts
like twine
to form a rope
to tether us
tightly together
but, instead,
i formed a noose
to fit over my head.

i knew
right from the start
that i could never
measure up,
but i brushed
the thought aside
when you quaked
with bliss
at the furtive slip
of my fingertips.
disbelief suspended,
if only temporarily.

somewhere
along the line
we lost touch.
infinitely returning
to snap-shot
memories—
reminding me
eternally
i will never
be enough.

i went through my mid-life crisis at twenty.
i dare say, that doesn't bode well for my longevity.
five years on and now i've done
twenty-five arbitrary circles
around the sun. a quarter century
spent spinning like a top
upon this pale blue dot.
one year older and i've only grown
colder at the thought of a life
stuck, stranded on this rock.

in the grand scheme of reality,
i am but a solitary blip in a lonely corner
of the Milky Way. the galaxy gasped
and, in the blink of an eye, i passed
once more into nothingness—finite.
with my last act, i'll whisper,
"it is finished" and breathe
a sigh of relief.

but a piece of me will last an eternity.
like the hammer of the gods, i was forged
in the core of a dying hyper-giant.
my bones are fashioned from star-stuff
and to that same dust i return, inexorably,
tugged apart in the fusion of the multiverse,
scattered to all corners of the cosmos.

when humanity is long extinct, molecules
that once belonged to our bodies will cling
to each other and build new bonds.
i'd like to think that i'll find you there, lovely,
rotating and waiting for me,
adrift in the fabric of space-time,
so we might embark on a new journey
and spend a moment or two entwined.

vultures feast on
carrion carcasses
gore crows gather in
black blotches overhead
clouds of soot
a conspiracy of ravens
happily gawking
flapping avidly
before diving down
to rip apart
putrid flesh
hanging sloppily
from bloodied beaks

the dead feed
on the dead

trapped inside
the same cyclical
fantasy
a veil of lace
obfuscates
the mystery i've
explored with
gentle fingers
and yearn to sample
with my tongue

tripping and spinning
endless iterations of
vertigo
elusively choking my
psyche which insistently
craves the taste of
flesh upon your neck

i long to fly with
avian flocks
charting a path
across your
collarbones
and make a home
for you curled close
inside my bed but

as of yet
you remain a
fiction
within my
head and a
friction
beneath my sheets

i tried to pray, but god left me to decay.
i watched your smile evaporate
with rain puddles on a sunny day.

wasting away, anxiety had its claws in me
and i dragged you underneath
depression’s crushing, tidal wave.

i think i finally realized:
this was all my mistake
but, by now, i’m afraid it’s far too late.

we are all knights errant
chipping at the gilded armor
of tyrants and overlords
with rusty swords
doing little more
than tilting at windmills
and howling at a world
with hands clamped
tight over its deafened ears
and lids clenched shut
to block out the fears
of insignificance
the years of feigned ignorance
when we knew all along
we've no one to blame
for the hand we've been dealt
we'll all get the hell that we've built

raging at the moon and stars
eternally pushing boulders
up the slopes of mountains
just to watch them roll back down

nothing we do will be remembered
our lives like the dying light
of seven billion supernovae
burning in unison

a universe without masters and slaves
awaits us all beyond the grave
when our bones disintegrate
and carry us away from this place
a globe we bathed in blood and toxins

no gods to welcome us into the fold
no shepherd searching for his lost flock
each of us a footnote to a fourteen billion
year old explosion that split the veil
of life asunder

salvation is flirting with death
knowing she still haunts
our every footstep
life is defying illusory deities
raising the bird
to an apathetic horizon

we will all be forgotten
dismantled and interned in disrepair
atoms fractured and drifting apart
distant as two motes of dust
in this ever-expanding cosmos

yet still we endure
for though none can contend
with the factions that rend our planet
we are all dying super-giants
refusing to go quietly
into the last goodnight
for if we are all made of star-stuff
what can we do but combust

few sensations
are as serene
as the warm kiss
of the sun’s lips
on a cold day.
a gentle reminder
that even amidst
the bitterness
and suffering
there remain
rare moments
of joy.

you recite the
lord's prayer
but i don't
hear a
messiah
whispering in
my skull

you read me
lines from the
Dhammapada
but i do not
care for the
Buddha's boorish
proverbs and
tired truisms

i can only
focus on the
inflection
in your voice
when you pause
in the space
between words

i can't see you smile
but i can hear you
catching your
breath as heat
spreads across
your cheeks and
you free slick fingers
from wet pink flesh

you're burning in
the poems you
read at a secluded
café on Thornton
silhouetted by light
like a beacon of hope
a lighthouse guiding
me back home

your words are
the  rope i
knot about
my throat
kick the chair
beneath my feet
and leave me
                       d
                       a
                       n
                       g
                       l
                       i
                       n
                       g

you're wrenching teeth out of
your own skull with the mangled claw
of a rusty hammer and drinking pints of
blood until you puke

in Sunday School they teach you
your body is a temple but neglect
to inform you that the temple is also
a prime spot to place a gun before
you give the walls a crimson paint-job

at point-blank
range it's
a target you
can't miss

it'll all be over soon

you drive splints beneath your fingernails
and pry off the keratin cell by cell
savoring the agonizing reminder

you are a human
you aren't dead
yet

the only thing
that got me
through the week
in one piece
was the thought
of who’d take my dog,
Albus,
for a walk
if i stopped
breathing.

we fell like a swell of rising seas, swarming the capitol city:
D.C., a bastion of vitriol, bigotry, and inequality.
we were demonstrating in the streets when she kneeled on the concrete,
a bit of scarlet chalk treasured in the palm of her hand. all around,
people were dancing, singing, laughing. she smiled to herself and peered
over at me when she thought i wasn’t looking. a paisley red bandana hung
from her neck like some outlaw out of the wild, wild west,
challenging all authority. grim cops looked on, faces obscured
by matte-black helmets, guarding the twisted tower looming over our globe
like an ancient deity out of time and space, a leviathan effacing the world.
she etched a symbol of defiance and solidarity into the cement and, in that moment,
she embodied anarchy, the mother of order, a guiding north-star.

***

Turnover spills from the speakers. she hums along, her foot on the dashboard, tap-
tap-tapping along in-tune, attuned to the road, nose buried in an Angela y Davis book.
North Carolina interstates fly past us and i wonder absently
if the words hit home for her, too:
losing you was like cutting my fingers off.
you can catch a glimpse of grief
in her eyes if the morning light’s just right,
filtering like a double-shot of caffeine into your bloodstream
through the forest canopy flanking the highway.
you can feel the melancholic heart-ache lingering
like old wounds even time can’t seem to heal whenever she forces a smile
and pretends to be—if not happy—then at least “alright.”

***

authenticity is our only refuge against the creeping ennui,
the choking vise-grip of social hierarchy. how seldom do we rise
like lions from slumber? shake off these chains of misery.
empathy leaves us crippled constantly, wishing we were dead—
believe me, i share your burden. it’s been said that our integrity
is the very last inch of us, small and fragile. yet, within that inch,
we are free. so, braveheart, find your feet. this dying world so desperately
deserves a love as beautiful as yours, yearning to set the captives
against their masters. and when we shake the streets once again,
pirouetting beneath a banner slashed with black and red,
beloved, do not forget that you, too, are endlessly adored.

over six hundred thousand seconds
have passed since i heard from you
ten-thousand-some-odd minutes
have stretched between now and the moment  
your name last illuminated a digital screen
a hundred and sixty-eight hours
since we bid each other adieu
one bleak week weak-kneed
beneath the guillotine of agony

and though i'm still far from immune
i've started ******* poison from the wounds
siphoning the anguish you left in an absence
perforated with melancholy spells
and existential hells that leave me
writing poetry at 3:00 o'clock
in the ******* morning
mourning friends who became lovers
only to turn to strangers once again

am i expecting too much of you
does the blame fall squarely on yours truly
or do we share this guilty burden equally
if it takes two to tango then certainly
it must take two to kiss but
patriarchy has me questioning
everyone and everything
most of all me
wondering if i ruined our fragile unity

but if i know one thing
it's that your lips gushed when i brushed them
with my fingertips and i still hear the faint gasp
as you begged me to dip within
inviting me with your breathless panting catching
like sugared candy on the tip of your tongue
intermingling with the sticky-sweet scent
of sweat and ***
you whispered my name as you came
on a moonlit drive home and held my hand firm
like it belonged inside your contours

i'll set my phone back down on the pillow
where i wish your head laid beside me
and pray to a god i don't believe in
to break insomnia's grip so i might slip beneath
a comforter of dreamless sleep
only to wake and find your name
displayed prominently beneath
the time and date

i’ve written countless 

poems you won’t ever read. i'm
melancholia.

the worship service looks full this morning
though, admittedly, i haven't been
in attendance since Christmas.
families in their Sunday best
sit on wooden pews
in a patriarchal church
that spent its tithings
on a multi-million dollar
gymnasium rather than the poor
their savior told them to look out for.

men, women, and children
awkwardly pretend
to sing contemporary hymns
beneath their breath,
hoping no one will notice
as they pick their noses,
thinking absently of Easter dinner.

i write poems
while the pastor prattles,
his shallow words
an empty drone
filling my ears
with white noise.

i feel myself drifting.
i haven't been sleeping
lately. the news has got me thinking
each passing day might be our last
on planet Earth and i'll be incensed
if i waste one minute more
than necessary
in this cramped
and ugly church,
a sanctuary smelling faintly
of old ladies, cheap perfume,
and wilted flowers dying silently.

just one more week
and i'll have been
god-free for half a decade.
for now,
i grin and bear the tedium
and mourn the tarnished legacy
of the radical rabbi,
a Nazarene who took on an Empire
and died by his convictions.

i daresay,
he'd be rolling in his grave
if he could see
these rich, white
Presbyterians sullying
his good name—
provided, of course,
he'd not so famously
vacated the premises.

her shivers
have nothing to do
with the weather.

i hold her as we sit in the back of an SUV
headed northbound for Gainesville.
she sleeps restlessly, waking
intermittently. breaths short
and forced. her mother sings
pop hits that pour from the radio,
a melody that rings somewhat discordant.

i run my hand
through her hair. still damp.
i wonder,
for not the first time,
if this gesture means
as much to her
as it does to me.

from the driver's seat, a mother sings,
"stand by me when you're not strong,"
but her daughter is asleep and can't
hear the song. i lean over, lips
a hairsbreadth from her ear,
whisper, "i love you,
Lexi." she smiles subtly.

maybe i was wrong all along.

a piece of you
is in every
letter
a momentary
stutter of an
amorous stupor
produces a rhythm
for me to flow
back into you

scratch poems onto
parchment with
ink and pen
or with my
fingers flirting furtively
across your skin

i carve them in
like calligraphy tattoos
and lay them to rest with
gentle kisses that
give you gooseflesh
and make you curl
your spine as
your eyes roll back
and you invoke
the divine  
that's just fine
because in this
polysyllabic string
of words and images
i am god

a pleasure of elation
growing
somewhere deep inside
bursts with
not-so-quiet
ecstasy so
come
under my spell
beguiled by my charms

what am i to do
if you're susceptible
to flattery that flushes
your skin like cherry blossoms
burgeoning in fertile fragility
can i be forgiven for
following my bliss in
iterations of thought
that might serve as
temporary kisses
touching the *****
palpitating in your breast
as i imagine laying down
to rest with you pressed
tight against my chest to
fight off the emptiness

if this tongue's simple rhyming
makes you blush
imagine how you'd quake
if you let it touch your lust

so give in to sin
when i knock on your door
don't be hesitant
lay anxiety by the wayside
open up
let me in

let your fingers slip beneath
the lace obfuscating your
forbidden fruit and pluck along
the strings to this tune
thinking how i'd savor the sweet
juices leaking from enflamed flesh
turning from pink to red to
soaking wet and saturated

i think thou doth protest too much

let your mouth go dry
as your breath catches in your throat
peel back the gauzy veil  
enter the most holy of holies
the sole authentic steeple
use your fingers to speak
in sign language
languid gestures of affection
come inside now don't be shy

bite back your tongue
hold on to your objections
this isn't some conjecture
or feigned misdirection

breathe
sharp
quick
light
just
let
go
i

think it would be best if you
forget about the fears and
latent thoughts that flow
and in this instance just let
go so you can explore
yourself the way
i wish i could every night

with lips pressed
indiscriminately
i'd climb the
mountains of your vertebrae
and find a home in the buxom valley
between the twin hilltops
of your chest
howling like a wolf as
i admire your waning
crescent moon

it's not too late to
disrupt the peace
that leeches
all our joy

in case you didn't notice
i'm just making this up
as i go along
does that turn you on

can i watch you
spontaneously combust
panting shaking wet
i can see your face as
you clench down
on your jaw and
bite back a soft groan
and try to run from
what you're feeling

but
love
fear is your
adversary
not me

don't fight me on this
gorgeous
i don't aim to be
misunderstood
the cadence of your
****** is generating a
fragrance i can taste
on my tongue
even from here
go numb

succumb

why is time so much harder to ****
when a collection of moments are brought to a standstill?
lie in bed and study the popcorn ceiling.
perforations of personality
erasing all semblance of meaning.

rain runs her languid fingers over my windowsill
leaving lingering fingerprints that smudge the glass.
a ******
tapping intermittently
waiting to be invited in.

"open up your window,"
every droplet whispers, "let me slip
into something more comfortable."
the rain has grown sick of the endless cycles
exasperated by precipitation and evaporation.

the fan spins in rhythm overhead.
the blades drone like a time-bomb
ticking down the moments i wasted
stumbling through vertigo horizons
fleeing endlessly without taking a single step.

i curse the rain and pull the shades.
i wish i was dead
and that's perfectly okay.
maybe tomorrow
i won't feel this way.

you are a kaleidoscope
of oscillating multicolor.
a spectral spectrum,
at once
elusive and constant.
i couldn't decipher
your wavelength  
if i wanted to.
instead,
i lie awake
every night
and pretend
i'll be fine
without your fire.
i can't seem
to find the nerve
to douse the flame.
so i spin Jane Doe
and let Converge
sing me to sleep.
your name
is still my password.

the fire of your defiance burnt your name
into my tongue. a caffeinated elixir
scalding as coffee, smooth as milked almond.

a rebel amidst the fray, hair pink as bubble-gum.

i am as scorched as the earth left
in the wake of predator drones, but i yearn
to hold you beneath a moon of blood

and cover this city in red and black paint-bombs.

your eyes are the espresso at the beginning
of a long day, a pick-me-up, a reminder
that human beings are the works of art

wrought by the hydrogen of a hundred billion suns.