This is the illusion
of flowered wallpaper
and flowerless vases,

the masked truth
behind luxurious lampshades
and towering bookcases;

Do not be fooled
by the furniture,
this house is as empty
as they come.

we never put lampshades
on all the lights in this house
I'm never sure if we meant
to stay or if we we're always
looking for a way out

Let's see..
well,

..there's the writer who never gave a **** about anybody but himself

..and the writer who had a fetish for pouring melted candlewax onto her own toes, while being watched by her cat

..and the writer who owned a chimpanzee named Tom, one afternoon when the writer wasn't home, Tom frenzied around the house chasing down a moth, this caused obvious concern to the neighbors, who heard the commotion last for an hour or maybe more, ah well..

..and the writer who began experimenting with a dream machine, but stopped upon feeling his brain's physical presence within his own skull, weighty, and terrifyingly colorful!

..and the writer who did the same thing, except kept going and found herself bored with it after a while anyways

..and the writer who broke down out front of a Walgreens in reaction to a phone call detailing a nearby tragedy involving two cars + a logging truck (and a tad of ******* but shhhhh) grief was part of that performance, but also in knowing he may have been directly responsible for the crash (coke was given by him, to the driver)

..and the writer who experienced the best ****** of his life without even a single poke of physical contact to his ****!

..and the writer who became addicted to biting her knuckles, to the point she needed to see someone about it

..and the writer who filed for divorce after finding out that his lover had caught numerous ****** infections/diseases (and only having been told by their cousin, too! probably from two recent trips to South America unbeknownst to their partner)

..and the writer who had a hobby of taking photographs of lampshades of varying textures, ages, sizes, and which emitted sometimes very exotic colors from the bulb inside.

..and the writer who never left his city, due to a paralyzing fear of travel

..and the writer who fell in love with another writer who was in love with someone else (as is usually the case)

..and the writer who passed away yesterday
..and the writer who will pass away tomorrow

..and the writer who admired the work of Charles Bukowski and tried too hard to be like Charles Bukowski, at the peril of those around him

..and the writer who's family hasn't messaged her in a few months now, and continues to wonder why

..and the writer who's favorite song was "I'm So Happy (Tra La La)" by Lewis Lymon & The Teen Chords, though in reality she was never happy (let alone SO happy) and often played the song as a front to convince herself that everything would be just fine
"JUST AS HAPPY AS CAN BE"

..and the writer who never knew they were a writer and never wrote anything in their life but **** it if they did!

..and the writer who's favorite month was July, favorite day Saturday, and time of day at around 2pm

..and the writer who's last words were never written down or heard by anyone outside their secluded office to which he screamed "HELP!!!" and then died from heart attack

..and the writer who actually lived only three blocks away and was good friends with the guy, and found his door unlocked and the smell came first

..and the writer who found it funny to imagine getting involved in certain scenarios inappropriately contrasted with specific songs, settings, or themes. An example: funerals where everyone shows up in clown costumes, sunbathing in the Arctic, being invited to a nice dinner and the restaurant is playing loud shoegaze music, closely befriending the person you hate the most in the world just to see if you can, and bringing a large cage of parrots to see a movie with you

..and the writer who really DID some of those things mentioned above (I won't say which)

..and the writer who wrote about all these other writers (me)

..and the writer who may be reading about all these other writers (you)

Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.

My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —

“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”

Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.

Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.

They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 1, 2015)

To search for, interpret, focus on, or remember only information that confirms your preconceptions.

The solipsismal cataract, a knotted bog of shelter,
sortings of the world floating in translucent drops,
validations dissolving through your skin like
evangelical fumes: what you remember is the red flag,
the red vase, the ironic rose—because red is the mast and mascot
of your soul. Your own blushing village of Versailles—
built to suit your towering, powdered wigs. The brain works
if the ego allows. Go to the Grotto, Marie,

and listen to the flaxen minstrel,  speaker for the wise
old catfish. She is sitting to catch her breath, strumming
her catgut and similes as you stand inhaling the darkness,
remembering each side of a cloud and lampshades
on the heads of beautiful things. She brings you visions
of Wurlitzers  and coffee percolators,  things you wouldn’t know
how to look for if you’re looking too hard.  Remember your reds
until they fade away into the black of the grotto.

Come back out and try again.

Expensive handbags,
Pensive listening,
Nothing I say is ever worth
Mentioning.
Swing on this
Hinge-- a see-saw of
Heartache
Bruised on the *** by
The frozen snake--
Never to thaw
And never to break.
Exquisite lampshades
Hide the luminous
Color,
Now a dingy
Dim of disrepair
Order.
Visit a fairytale
Where honey flows in
Waterfalls,
The smooth will soothe the
Heartless work and
Falls.
Tangled cloth again today,
Moth eaten and angled,
We ride in the dark
Convinced our little playground could save
A heart.

mercy
you're rising now
tempting the lines
of personal decadence
uneducated
with numbers
just feeling
and wonders
unearthed and exhumed
by treacherous admittance
four years of commitment
composed of sinful self sacrifice
caused us unrest
left us unchanged
corrupted and pleading
for lampshades and cradles
nesting in suffered sheets
why are you alone?
beginnings break free
when you battle the best part
mercy
you're alive yet unwell
in your dreams for fair weather

Our lampshades at midnight shine like amber moonlight,
like late august and amethyst; brief pulses of electric-cotton bliss.

They brand our bodies like ***** poppies
in the newest blue before the sunrise.

Dear, lay still as we shelter inside this warmth
Stay silent through the night, lest you need to speak.

If so, then whisper with your palms cupped 'round my skull
So i may feel your syllable kisses dance past the hair of my ear

To feel and know that this not be a dream