Libera me, Domine,
de morte aeterna
in die illa tremenda
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra

dum veneris judicare
saeculum per ignem.
Tremens factus sum
ego et timeo,
dum discussion venerit atque venture ira:
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.

November 21, 1976. 11:00 P.M.

With nothing
he packs his suitcase, turns
to his own personal prophet
and watches and waits
and waits, he will wait
for an hour.

And finally
the prophet speaks
in monotone, three short syllables.

He opens the door, careful
not to wake dad.
Turning the corner,
the suitcase jars the door ajar.

A stirring from upstairs.

Remembering the face of madness
behind the pulpit
behind the door,
he races out, fearful
of footsteps drawing louder
and with them, promises
of pain.

You are a virus absorbed through the eyes and ears
that attacks the soul. You are nothing more
than your own vaccine
and antibodies are rushing up to exterminate you.

Kyler– you are my favorite **** actor
because you look like its your first time,
and you look like my first time. It's disgusting, really.

When I began to feel like what is normal these days,
I groaned and I moaned
and I spoke to a doctor
who believed in homeopathy
and a hypnotist who believed my lies
until it all lost focus and I cut myself
in the worst of places–
where no one would see it
because they were private parts and nobody wanted them.
And the Reason came along and tried to kiss it all better
but infected me instead with this insatiable lust.
And now he’s fine; probably has a boyfriend
while I’m stuck wondering if I am even capable of
loving.
And its having said that that I offer a request–
find a studio that will suspend you from the ceiling
and whip you.
You look exactly like him.

The human race will evolve
elastic flesh with
chameleon characteristics,

but we’ll need daily testosterone injections
to be truly beautiful.

Dedicated to the ones who mock us
saying that they haven’t lost anything.

We flaunt flypaper photos,
hoping for horsefly quick fixes,
but I’m no longer
the person in my pictures,
but a spider.
Now, my red eyes burn–
boiling tears whose salt
cannot sustain me.
It’s also evident that
I’m gracelessly aging
as time flies faster;
I’m not having fun.

I’m not having fun.

He– external introspection:
embodiment of possibilities just out of reach.
He– the very visage of perfection,
anonymous, at least to me.
And here but an hour ago we were we.

Garrett let him in through the front door.
“I’m here to see Victor.”
“Sure, let me take you to his room.”
I’ll get questions tomorrow
for which I’ll have no answers or lies,
so I’ll tell the truth:
I poured my heart
into seven heavenly minutes,
only to find it unscathed.
Love is blind lust until
it suffers.

He leaves and I wait for confirmation
that we’ll never speak again.
And it comes.
And I think:
He might have been a pre-med student.
His favorite color might have been yellow.
He might have been able to sing.
He might have been living poetry.
He might have loved Jesus.
His faith in Jesus might have been unshakable.
His name might have been Bradley.
His best friend might have been his mother.

Focus, raise awareness,
sing sing sing! Breathe deeply
RELAX, Get excited.
James Heaton, make more
lists, Run, ferret?
stretch every day, stay calm
laundry, be grateful,
call granddaddy, make things
w/ Pam, love love love love

To fill my glass
necessitates I drink it.
When I turn the heater on,
I must wait to feel its warmth.
If I begin to write a poem,
I must continue to its completion.
If I load a gun and **** it
and **** on the barrel,
then I must follow through and pu