You have become like the specter of my youth
A knothole seeping deadly fumes
Surrounding me, embracing me
Leaving me intoxicated and defeated
In a pile of filthy belongings
Tethered to this pole of existence
Wrapped in disregard
Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla
Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers
And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers
You are my memory and the end of all complacency
The beginning of a new chapter
In a volume to be published
Bound in leather
Taken from cows raised in pastures
Decapitated and sawed open
Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies
Supported by a hook
From which brain chemicals drip
And neurons fire
Through a convict with his blindfold on
Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips
Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim
Rattlesnake’s discarded skin
You take from me coconut’s milk
Fuel for foddering the future
And willingness to triumph in battle
I leave your kingdom
Hopeful for patronage
Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms
Floating on what seems a sliver
In your filthy sea’s apathy
I bide my time, until delivered
Until my tawny encasings unravel

We’re
Red
                                Gree
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen


Yellow; dot. dot. -- lines:

Unendless; Beginningful.
Every evening sunrise awash in morning
                            rush-tide
sea-gates creaming
              streams flew into
                                            serenades remorse
what of every beaten vessel on the concrete highway ribbon
That crashed down beneath the overpass
That splashes
                       That ebbing
Of sirocco heart valves and
attitude.---------------------------------------Whoa!
       ­         snap through
                ****** palms, exit ramps
like reigns.

I’m sick.
I have a fever and flu-like symptoms.
I am alone, and have been for hours,
lying on my bed
with a lavender candle pulsating
to the sound of classical music,
dancing on the darkness of my
ceiling.

I am not aroused
but, playfully,
I slide my palm
over the underside
of my hairy
behind
and begin
to gently stimulate
each hair
with near-static
force.

I occasionally push
my fingertips
into the crevice—
my crevice—
my end.

How good this feels
to be sick
and allow oneself to
feel
the emptiness too
dark
and bold
and powerful
to be contained within us.

The comforting,
soft touch
we can give ourselves
is like a loved one
holding our hand;
it almost tickles, and this sensation
although distinct
reminds me
of the pretend animals
my grandma would parade
across my back.

Beyond our view
the guillotine,
existence,
slowly begins to descend
as we lie,
holding hands with ourself
on top of the covers,
sweat pants around the ankles,
grabbing our own ***
as the steady rain
trickles from the roof
of tenement housing
and beats
on the aluminum gutter
for hours
until it’s over.

The night has fallen
like a punishment
for finding no one
and it occludes my sight;
I shiver, and cannot *******.

Existence is too dark
to allow dancing candlelight
or baroque masters
to tickle its space.


It is filled with falling heads
and clutching grasps.

Everyone has an idea
what music is
to them.
Still, with knobs tuning in
to different concerts within
variegated steel vehicles
that drive toward chagrining
clock radios on Sunday's dresser inside
disavowed hotel rooms with flashing, red
lights and sound
reminding us all
where we are—what for
a time we hold to be real.
But all concepts from shaking heads
forming to join a choir that sings
a hymn to 'here' and flashes,
in the face of fear
a light from stars beginning with one
collision, across time then
claps its hands in unison
with 'now'

Every last breath
Noted on a bemusing script of flesh
Like a disease
Like an infectious—
Tell me.
If I could do it over
And kiss you whilst your lips quaked
Then grin alongside shy tears
That life you were pulling up,
With my eyes as your sheave to a dim-lit tapestry,
Would it be there yet?
Behind the curtain of magnanimity
Pit orchestra abashed
Forlorn and begotten
Words of heraldry ring through this kingdom
Existing only in my mind
A land beneath the stage
Worlds inside headspace
Turn the critic’s shadowy eye
Backward from this date on newsprint
Soaked in angry, puddled water soot

Anne drew in a drag of thick, suede cigarette smoke
she turned to her lover on the pillow,
pivoting her jaw to face him
and muttered:
“I miss the way you used to
spank me, loudly proclaiming your passion
for my inner thigh and rubbing my ****
with your tongue.
I haven’t been happy
in a very long while. I sit here, each night,
waiting for you to tell me that I love you
but you hold it in, like a drag of thick, suede
cigarette smoke.”

Andrew turned to Anne and smiled broadly, saying:
“I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes upon
you. I caught a glance of you gleaming in the moonlight
after we left the disco in separate cars, friends
surrounding everyone.
I told you then to call me, and you didn’t. But
I waited three days until I found you
at the coffee shop, alone, and said ‘hello’.”

Each sighed and dropped the pretense of knowing
what the other was seeing.
Then, they turned toward opposite directions and slowly fell
into themselves

Remnants of firecrackers litter parkgrass, splitting seams once encasing them;
exposed twine ribs attached, stretched out beneath shade like sunken reliquiae
dashed against the earth, as freedom is, withered paper husks abound.
What explosions in the sky were heard
above the quietus of patient submission?
Tracing the dotted white clouds to our horizon with thread and colored cloth,
held breath until nighttime, expelling then
-- as wind does each languishing puff of smoke--
from our lungs, sordid smells of Summer; vanquishing the past.
Isolating each other, like memories on kodak prints
we separately cling to that sleek filmy acquaintanceship of proximity and hue
-- disavowed pariahs and hearts lit anew.
Fused inside one sallow skull-box, which doubled once for holding shoes, we linger.
Ideas, impulses and infringements on the eye, until-- once--
bound, unbroken, encased and unspoken,
our ribs unwind with dew-- after,
unstitching seams outlined from heaven and inundating visions with brightness
we descend.
Violent fumes of childhood intercede amidst our shaking fuses lit.
--and BANG!

Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily

Why aren’t your eyes--- there?
In two places--- where water should be?
Moldy residue--- absence of vision, tears
From those bullet holes--- you ought to see--- your own ambivalence
Fall down my cheek
Terrifying--- Me, with nothing for both us
Automaton, my weakness
Intellect, disease
You’re my body
Cage
You're my spirit
Doubt
Justice and horror--- within, without

each beep an hour
as i stare at this screen
the watch i forgot to deprogram tells me
what the numbers in my eyes scream
i feel my ears to listen to
the stillness between
passing cars
as the tires jolt in circles and travel
for beeps
and beeps
and it beeps
but what do we do now?
myself and who i thought i was--
unfinished projects began
to be forgotten
beep
beep-beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
­beep
beep
because the tires jolt in circles
i become impervious to beeping
******* on the carpet
is my constant state of being

Someone’s white golf ball
lies, abandoned
between moist grass and
desolate wanderers through
municipal courses
during Evening on
Father’s Day. Holding my pin, my quill
Frantically stitching point de capitons
between myself and the calm, fair way
I walk with conviction
alone, among firing-
flies toward all fathers
tonight, as swathing sprinklers gush, displacing
***** in-utero, past fences protecting
femme fatales whose unknown aspects
hang off tree rows
protruding from shoulders
sand-like limbs, flexed, stringy biceps
connect to its plastic dimples
through sturdy, wooden
fingers burrowed under grass and
swaying, pink clouds within
my eyes. Beyond hole
nines, red markers markers and ladies’
tee boxes
unacknowledged from
the green.

Rippling blades cede to setting-
star’s sacrimony in
vacant son-rooms, the
porches left of center, gurgling
traffically enveloped by laughter,
disinterested.

For this sight I cut my hair
inside my cozy, beige apartment
complex with a blue shower
curtain-wearing green, graphic
tease
printed by gray palm trees
swoops a hunting eagle, into the ebbing
stencil-tide of late day
orchestrated by man, this occurrence is
vagueary and seductive machinery
programmed by man
producing all, we are.

Waving tufts and leaves fall from
oaks wafting time past my nose with
rhythms out ciccadas, harmonies out
couples pulsating the sky,
ease pressure on vestigial nerves under
their atmospheres, droning vibrations, hollowed-
out and upholding
like arms do, Earth’s giant didgeridoo
We hum beside propulsive kangaroo
Tendons—see!
we’re becoming
taut on
empty bones holding-
black
birds with wings thrown desperately
toward others, panic
aloft in velvety
blue oxygen.

Picturing our streets’ concrete
burst asunder by
metesticized pipes watering formulaic
grounds
unearthing rock
and shrub
I passed the mangled corpses of adults
their kind, sighing.

I know it is as lifeless as his faint,
decomposing golf ball my dad
may have allowed me to
see. Our drowning star swoops
into the ocean
as eagles stamped on chests do,
unknown to time,
and loving shadows
untouched by yellow,
translucent lamp-
glare avoids the fallow structures
built with cement
inside the boudoir
of this day.

Plebians
Gentry
Plebians
Slaves
And gentry?
Kapital.
A story
For the ages
Of enlightenment
At bedtime
It can’t be heard in darkness
It can’t be seen in peace
Enclosure farmers
Your ancestors, my fair, European scavengers
We’re victim to this system
Hundreds and hundreds of years
You all drink lattes
I smell the fat burn

you appear to be real
when you really appear
then I look in your eyes
but you’re not living there
I hold out my hand
and I cling to cool air
I grasp with my mind
a subtle despair
and I glance toward the sunset
at least once a year
to see where you're hiding
because it is you
whom I unfathomably
fear

The tuba player in a park walking, shouting through an amplified medium of open air.
You are the park, I am the tuba.
Who is the author?
I ask this not to pander or to interest you, but because I honestly do not know.
Why are there so many questions asked these days without the realization that the answer is unobtainable.
Why do we think that by putting a curved line over a period we’ll find the truth.
I am tired of asking and expecting a reply?
I am tired of telling others what I want to hear back “that’s what everybody wants.”
If that’s what you want so much, then stop going to malls.
Stop pumping fossilized plant life into your gas tank.
Stop buying new clothes and cell phones and computers.
Stop telling your parents you love them just because they’re the easy ones to love.
If god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, then who's our ******* father?

Hi
I hate you
Bye
I love you

I am an art of human
A seed unto the world cast loose
Holding what's unfurled
Beneath, a lonesome seeker of truth
It is undue to suffer
Through a seemly, caustic night
Unbidden, untoward, unwellitude
Unbeing
And unbright
But in the hull solemnitude
Unmeaning
And unkind
We find ourselves in solitude
Inside a well, unlit
Untied

Weeding out the critics and choosing only yes men

Using up the meantime, awaiting expiration

A coffee table, with no legs

Rotting fruit and cigarettes

Large window, yellow Curtain

Filling in a blue lounge chair with subtle desperation

It won’t work, it’s over

I’ve uttered it before

This final time it’s sincere

I will have no more

A vase, a plant, a canvas

A wall, a couch an attic

A suit made out of plaid

Brown shoes, mustache

White shirt, grey hat

Suitcase

However long ago the bluster shadows roll anew beyond my pale eyelids and out mornings aloud shouts ‘awaken’ the post—scribbled and crossed with meaning

There are words there are words there are words there…

But some remain obscured by others, however long ago the bluster shadows roll anew each bundled ***
of news we read one word: war.

There are words there are words there are words there…

War. Word. Word. Word, other word.

And we held hands in December of 2011, then said goodbye on the morning of January 2nd 2012, when the bluster shadows rolled anew beyond my pale eyelids the words there:

Love. Word. Word. Word, other word.

I blinked. Was on vacation with you, at your parents’ home. However long ago the bluster shadows roll anew, beyond my pale eyelids, and upstairs, outside, and gone was I. When there were words there, I blinked.

Word. Word. Word. Word, other word.

Nothing mattered anymore—not love, or war.

I’ll never try to read the future in the news again.

As few more days the bluster shadows of mind are rolled out on a bleak December of frigid interaction—another fifty years of human life—before I see you again in empty nothingness beneath my pale eyelids, without thought looming like a bomb plane, or chemical attack,

scribbled and crossed with meaning, shouts ‘Awaken’ the words of the past—

Laura. Laura. Laura. Laura. Laura, Laura.

There were --, there were --, there were --, there were -- there

Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!

Please don’t mind
my interpretation
of your fixation
on Others'
words to a
page.

Wires holding
limbs holding
folders holding
papers holding
words holding
contrived
meaning
tell me something
about the way
we see each other.
I need to know
if you want to hear
the tuition I paid
speak,
because I don’t
need to be tested
daily
for my ability
to read
when the message
you are sending me
has one real-world
application.

That application is submission.

We can't all be teachers
and you are mostly
spineless cowards
with no weapons
but breath
removed from heaving chests
of those who died
thinking
those thoughts
you systematically
rehearse.

I think,
what you should keep in mind
is the thrusting
pulsation, my
veiny
body parts
do.

My heart and
others'
stop
to feel
the coursing
flow.

You don't.

But you should.

Wait for breath;
catch it and,

yes,
use it
to pull out
every ounce
of air
that seeps
from lungs
and touches
on your hollow throat.

Let it vibrate
through your empty
self, into
the
sounds,
which form
my name.

"Wo es war,
da soll ICH
werden."
--
The self is manifest in the signifier.

Dying to come here from the opposite direction
Moving away from this place
They pushed their possessions in covered small wagons
With hands chafed and dry
No one ever thought they’d make it
When they started dying here
No one ever though they’d make it
But look they’re there
They have built their sanctuary
They have completed their mission
They’ve gone to the top of the mountain
And realized their vision
So many of them died
So many of them lived
So many born each day
So many

The dialectic is wisdom
Thesis
Synthesis
Nothing
And Believe
Every idea you’ve written
Until the pages are burnt
Because then you’ll know
It was false
It was isolated
Incomplete
The fire licking each morsel
Of knowledge
Makes up wisdom
As our bodies
Do
And time
Does
Hold this word on your tongue
And hear
Om

Dreams of boats and dinosaurs
eschewing everyone
without weapons and rafts;
green, tangled pieces of iron lie
dying
beside rickety picnic tables below.
We’ll likely die here, as well.
In Florida; the hot meridian sun
heating everything.
Our perpetual youth is embodied in
dilapidated buildings
and war memorials.

Past empty,
we walk. Gas stations and burning hotels
all blaring radios or alarm-clocks
set to Spanish polka.
No maids to listen to them here.
Or to turn the sheets and place
chocolates.
The sun laps up the flood now
exposing
rusty iron tools
or fossils.

Maybe blood is like oil or soda
removes wine stains.
Snapping open mortgages is brutal at first
-- like oysters halved and
emptied on a plate.
But they must
stop
hurting, eventually,
after we boil them.

Yes, I am closing your eyes for you.
It's good that way. What is wrong with not seeing?
Can't you still hear and touch or feel?
I would gladly describe for you what runs crookedly before my face:
Thousands of trumpets without whispers or meaning.

Yes, and it tastes so rich, like plaster-- white, average plaster.
Your songs, your opinions and meaning are, without vision,
pale, cool and evaporous, as April rainbows.
Therefore you all want to de-color them and call such rainbows
black-and-white compositions.

Well then, sweetheart, why are you sad? Have you not slept with your dreams of neutral rainbows?
Twice--
Eaten, your plaster-filled silence?
Four times--

And been drunk with the aroma of moist soil?           ONCE.
.Lewd.
"Ego cogito nihil"
Can you, after all, read?
Never, without the eyes--

You are such a nothing
a blank canvas
an etching
i squeezed onto my fantasy shelves
gutting the plans
to posses your Rorschach
ethereal squalor of meaning
and threw the world's paint
on top of you
absent,
transparent draw cloth
translucent and opaque at once
femme fatale, bejeweled betokened
breath
and plaything
i want to whack
a mole

Self-righteous being

I passed the homeless man again today
in the university library

He walked past me, and I
stood there, clutching myself

He wore a green striped shirt I wore the
other day, but it was wrinkled

I stared at the muted wall of foreign
television channels
you need headphones to feign comprehension
or imagine travel

I saw...
The Indians dance in brightly colored clothes
The South Americans advertise libido enhancers
and Europeans replay explosions in South-Western Asia
or watch soccer
Africa was just a dusty road with jeeps and pickups
and guns

I wore that wrinkled shirt I wore the other day
to the library

I walked past the 24 year old
watching the world go by
hugging himself
in this way that assures me
he, too,
knows loneliness

A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
The best way to reduce cuticles to bone
And forget what dances behind eyelids
Loosed teardrops and wavering dependability
Useless porch light, shameful gas tank
With shadows which count seconds
Stretching over regrowth
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time

Poems fill themselves
With images of fruit flies
Cunvulsed, dead--unloved?

the first girl i loved was tyranny (spelled:tierney)
for this reason, i hate women and i hate names.
if i have a child it will have no name-- it will have a number
and an eartag, so it knows what it is.
we are no longer people.

this is a draft--i can't edit now because my eyes hurt. i probably won't work on it again.

Youth’s bitter, tormented and forsaken moments
Linger on past their welcome
Freezing leaves with their wintrous foibles
Leaving nothing to the imagination
All is as it was back then
And pity is procrastination