To my kind and loving mother:
I never sought to be the other.
Fighting for an explanation,
consolation, you postulated traumas
caused a misfire
in the wires of me–
but the truth, chromatically,
static factors (masked by
willful ignorance and bliss)
wrought the otherness you see.

1. Elementary

Back as a child of nine,
fine and dapper in khakis and
a tucked-in button-up,
with parted hair and running shoes,
I began to fantasize
guys
and atonement girls.
Attempts to hide this from the world
were all in vain
yet vicious, as children are.

2. Middle School

***




******

gay-***

Did you hear that Brokeback Mountain is Victor’s favorite movie Victor is gay Have you been crying Where’s your boyfriend Victor has *** with children You’re going to hell ****** Do you know what packing fudge is Gay Do you like what you see Your garden is cute Quit looking at me *** Change in the stall we don't have to watch you ******* I brought you some glitter *** Gay **** ****** ****** *** Gay-*** **** Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay That’s gay Gay


I’d skip lunch to lock myself in a closet and cry.
Oh, my kind and loving mother,
I never sought to be the other.
I didn’t even know I was.

3. High School (Part 1)

Saving grace, Anne Folderol.
Last chance, Anne Folderol.
Only one, Anne Folderol.
Truly folderol.

I’d rather die than be the other
to please my kind and loving mother.

No more, Anne Folderol.
Last chance, Anne Folderol.
No hope, Anne Folderol.

You have the teeth of a crack addict You’re such a ***** Fat-*** I heard he was going to **** himself I heard he had *** with an eleven-year-old I heard he has AIDS Why does he hate god Hey pizza-face If anyone shoots up the school, it’d be him him him him him him him him him

State of madness, state of pain,
the state from which all killers spring.
Darkness, loathing, spite, and shame.

If the Father up above
was looking down in true love,
he would have answered my prayers
for death.

4. High School (Part 2)

Love and pain, Mom;
yin and yang.
We sang in church
until I left the brethren bereft,
and we’ll sing again soon.

But first know that I’m a spiritual seeker,
and that God loves me if he exists
and I truly don’t know– because I feel Him
at times, and sometimes I feel just everything.

And also know that I’m not the other,
that my love and yours are the same.
Know that if God made me, there is a reason why.

That reason is to open minds and hearts to the love of God, which is all true love. But I must love myself first. And when I live in such a way that does not hide my true self, I demonstrate that love. Love me, not in spite of who I am but for who I am.

I put little stock in counseling, simply because it doesn’t work for
me. That’s reasonable. right?
That’s why I’m not
going back.
Because contrary to the initial irrational paranoid belief held by
not me, I was not
***** by anyone this last July, I am not
an altered boy.

Repression? Obsessions? Depressions?
You’re right, in a sense. I was not
***** by one man this last July, I was
***** by the whole church for the past 18 years.
I learned, or perhaps deduced, from Sunday School
that all *** is sin
that inanimate objects had a goodness or badness about them
that Satan was in my head (by this I was terrified)
that all my friends were going to Hell (by this I rebuked them and was never forgiven)
that its true: my parents would have gotten me ****** to death in biblical times
because they love me
that I could choose who I was attracted to (apparently by watching straight ****)
that God needs money
that the Internet is of the devil >mfw intellectual open market
that I could only achieve ****** once in a lifetime >mfw I came
that God’s love is conditional
that electronics are a sin if they make noise and are inside a specific building
that all Muslims are terrorists
that I’m worthless because I’m a sinner
that I’m inherently evil.

And I still miss it sometimes.
I miss the taste of Christ’s ****.

Deny it; it makes no difference:
the American government pitches its deceitful realtor-reality to the world:
flaunting our flag as the banner of the free, but avoiding
our faults and failures as a country.
“Oh yes! We’re rollin’ in the (borrowed) bucks!
We’re a proud superpower capable of chaos; calamity!”
Well, kudos on your catastrophes: we all know it’s a hollow show.

See, we’re slaves to China, bound by China’s chains
to billions of dollars, the deficit deepening daily.
And who’s to blame?
“Not I!” says the Democrat.
“Not I!” says the Republican.
“Not I” say I, but we
weaved our financial woes together.
It’s not stupidity; if we could see into the future, we’d be shakin’ our money makers.
But have you seen the current fiscal guillotine
whose blade looms low and approaching our throats?
Oh, irony of ironies: the American government isn’t free.
Oh mah gee.
Freak out!
Calm down...
Forbes informs me that federal spending spurs private sector growth.
But when fifty-four thousand buckaroos from you
and you
and you
and me too is just enough
to cover Congress’ **** until the dimwits there do another... (insert something dumb),
it’s time to draw the line.

And time to erase lines previously drawn:
George Washington warned us once before:
“...the common and continual mischiefs of [political] parties are sufficient to make it the... duty of a wise people to discourage... it.”
Yet here we are: the media’s reporting majority wars
that serve only to sail us further offshore from Pristine America
and a time when things really seemed to matter, especially when they did.
Deny it; it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change
our chances of escaping another Cuban
Missile
Crisis. If we waged World
                               War
                                            Three, what would we
                                                       do?
                                                               One
thing: debate, procrastinate, our fate
a fragile plaything fought over
by infantile, full-grown fanatics who never quite phased out of high school debate.
They never learned to lose, and so they play the inane blame game,
I say quite frankly: gurl. Dat cray-cray.

Dear Democracy, when will my words hold water?
When will the weight of a rainbow OREO or a
monogamous monotone monotheistic chicken sandwich
on my guilty conscience be lifted?
Must I muster a hungry lackluster life in the land of opportunity
to oppose tyranny
and uphold justice? I turned eighteen last December,
but for as long as I can remember
I’ve been voting with the dollar bill, my ballot
traveling through the bloodstream, fueling the body of big business, who fuel the daring charities, who fuel their bills in congress.

Democracy, do you know me?

For this faux-democratic nation where the population waits for the government to lay itself to waste, the Founding Fathers sob, disgraced.
                                                       Oh, God Bless America!
the nation where when faced with any
[man, woman, child, intersex, genderqueer, etc.] who dares defile the status quo,
accept the stigma like a crown of thorns, on top of all the scorn
                                                                    We The People
donate millions to “charities” who dare to speak for
Jesus,
the meek and mild. John chapter eight, verses one through eight:
he drew a
fine line in the
sand, man:
it’s where your rights end and mine begin. Irony, irony: they are as good as
mine.
For this faux-democratic nation where the population waits for the government to lay itself to waste, the Founding Fathers sob, disgraced.

Hey, you got your
freedom of religion
in my
freedom of speech!

1– Most people try to avoid eye contact at all costs.
2– Most people either do not say "thank you" or mumble it as if it doesn't mean anything.
3– Most people act out of either self-interest or custom.
4– In most people, the maternal instinct is dead or at least deadened.
5– Most people don’t know how to control their child without using impact to the head or behind.
6– Children outnumber adults, and 20+ year-old children exist.
7– Most people will look for a scapegoat in even a mildly adverse situation, even if one doesn’t exist.
8– Most people have no sense of respect and are therefore not deserving of respect.
9– Most people do not recognize the humanity of others. (See Nos. 1-5, 8)
10– Most people have lost their humanity, also known as their soul.

i'll admit it

i'm just trying to score some prozac;
something to supplement the steroids
that never seemed to ease the pain.
my body never
tolerated
anything they gave me:
all their alcohol distraction,
all their **** carelessness,
all their acid lifestyle,
none of it.

as for ecstasy,
i never got the dosage right:

i've been offered ersatz masterpieces
and turned them all down,
so they sacrificed their snatches to other gods,
who happily and hungrily partook in the
appetizing, dangerous bounty for which there is no cure.

i was once appeased for my lust
and committed love crimes,
so i learned not take ecstasy
until i tried the steroids.

i'll admit it

i'm just a pair of eyes
in a white ocean

when you gave me my heart back,
it was cold in my chest.

when i gave you your heart back,
it was warmer than before.

i cherished it and kept it warm.

you threw mine on ice
so it wouldn't spoil.

1.**

A horizontal fall
from the high-up slide
made for big kids was not
what I expected as I screamed
“Push me down, Haley!”

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of your wounded butterfly days later–
revenge is sweet, yet unsatisfying.
And then you left for six years,
turning up again as hormones
were in full swing
in our freshman year of high school.

2.

you said



"i'll teach you to love,

just draw nearer to me.

draw nearer to me

and i'll make you mine."



as you



laced up your best heels

put on your best face

and applied another coat

of liquid vanity.



as i


made an effort to


concoct a new way to say

"no"


and


ignore the 
rotting

carcasses of

hearts

that strewed the floor.


i'd seen your kind before


"but losing you would be a chore

my darling detritivore"



i said

3.

focus of a new kind sheds a big difference BIG DIFFERENCE upon your face bright yet shadows consume both it and your body like a prophecy. since when did that happen? so what if it never did? so you came to your senses; perhaps that was it. perhaps the realization of “you sure do know how to pick ‘em” broke you and now you’re left with a twelve-and-one-half-inch phallus in your big box of board games. we hardly speak anymore. i am now your temptress, detritivore and you’ll never escape never escape the howls of agony and desire releasing themselves from your joints your muscles your heart aches for fresh meat and you get it, **** you. you get it daily for viewing pleasure. dear heavens speak of shabby apartments and televisions that don’t work. they never knew how to comfort me; so why should they now? falling down the stairs into the pitch black night irreversible womb child conceived on camera and carried to term on God’s watch. do you remember pushing me down that slide in the second grade? it’s your turn.

4.

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of my wounded memory
of an innocent girl from second grade
now in chains and leather,
used and watched and seen and lusted over and masturbated over,
but for a hefty sum.

And I still see second grade Haley
and we still talk
and we share the occasional cigarette
and we tell of our conquests.
But I am no savior–

5.

Feeling vibrations in my palm is finding decaying matter on the forest floor to eat–
the words they carry are a substitute for nutrition.
The nearest bounty of corn is a thousand miles away,
for God places us here and our placement is the source of life’s cruelty.
And second-grade Victor would happily take a beating
for gas money; desperate detritivore–
feast on decaying matter, get your fill
and one day substance of corn will fill your stomach
and you will hibernate indefinitely.

The human race will evolve
elastic flesh with
chameleon characteristics,

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

The following is a true story. Regular words are the teacher, the quoted, myself.

-----

Today we are going to play

a word association game.

I will say a word,

and then you do the same.

Yellow.

"Yellow."

Blue.

"Blue."

That's not what I want you to do!

Say something different than what I say:

Cup.

"Up-cay."

Plate.

"Late-pay."

Book.

"Ook-bay."

Pe­ncil.

"Encil-pay."

Okay...

you are a butterfly among the moths,
a honeybee amidst the wasps,
ms. unattainable.
you are a living,
breathing
undertaking.
so why try at all
if the envied one
has already
set his sights
on you?

I.

I used to be a crocodile.
I knew no risks, no tears, no joy
no excitement to lure me above water,
no work, for it was cut out for me
in the shallows with the small fish,
no heavens to make up for,
no hells to hope for,
no soul to shatter on mid-spring days
when all life is but a nightmare
and clouds are all but
******* on my head,
who granted to desired effect
that siren hoped for,
who sits upon the sandy shore
and whispers sweet songs to me, myself
evolved,
and repeats me back
the songs I taught her,
"Over and over again,"
she mocks.
How Neptune did churn his waters
to beach a loveless Odysseus here
shall ever be unbeknownst to me.
But
beeswax I have fixed in my ears,
but
now I cannot hear my other friends
in the trees.
but
once I make my flight from this island,
away from the crocodiles,
and starvation,
and sirens,
I will take it out, and
I will hear!
by God! I will hear
and be heard!

II.

No sound.

The siren's lips move;
the water recedes.
the sky grays.
the crocodiles come.
I am drawn near
by her lotus lips that bid me down this tree
but
I must not dismount.
but
a second siren in the trees
has been picking out my beeswax.
Two songs.
The reptiles draw ever nearer to
the siren, her song is the loudest.
The second siren sings a song
of warning                              and captivation.
              

I dismount the tree
to fight back the green menace, and save
the first siren.
I knew these fellows once.
They were my friends,
and now do I slay them.
I see only jaws and red blood now,
and now am I defeated.
The crocodile has taken her as prey,
so familiarly,
for I was a crocodile
once.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

Ms. Disappointment stares out her window,
aware she's crushed a heart today.
For the millionth time
she gets on the line;
tries to make up some excuse
but I know she's a good liar.

Ms. Disappointment "can't stand it anymore";
tries to make me turn my head.
"Just one last kiss?"
Can you kiss my fist?
Someones got an anger issue,
but it really comes in handy.

Ms. Disappointment doesn't know where she went wrong.
She thinks I was her "one last chance".
But the idea went sour
passing through my cell phone tower.
Tone does not reflect through words,
so love turned out to be the birth of hate.

"Oh, can't you just stay a little longer?"
My dear, why would you want me to?
"Because I love you!" Oh, don't feed me that ****.
My heart's done callused
and all's gone to hell.

I try to be distant.
Detatched.
Drink a 50 cent Mountain Dew.
Dressed all in black
on a blistering day.
My back is a waterfall.
Pop two more quarters in the machine.
The mass gathering makes this funeral home
feel more like a sweat lodge.

"It's cooler in the chapel"
but that's where the body is.

I enter the mock church house,
close my eyes in passing the casket,
and sit in the back,
where everyone obstructs my view
of...
it?
him?

Eulogy delivered.
Songs sung.
Get up and take your last look.
My pores become geysers.
He's too still.
Too quiet.
Too peaceful.
Three observations
in a third of a second.

I remember his voice,
the way his palm felt on mine,
shaking hands.
Shake the preachers hand.
Remember.
Pull away.

Pop two more quarters into the machine.
Wash my hands.
Twice.
Go out to the car
to try my best to calm down.

"who brainwashed you?"

asks the man
                           who feeds himself
to the nation's most beloved narcissist,
casts himself down its gullet,
and takes a seat in its stomach
three times a week
                         who mindlessly
propagates the propaganda
he declares to be doctrine
he testifies like truth
                         who would deny
God's holocaust,
would gas truthful love
in his basement,
burn the bodies
and burn the ashes,
the free minded ****
                         who hates the situation
but does nothing to change it.

"oh, this used to be the land of the free!"

drunk on self-righteousness,
inebriated waste.

Alyssa moves like she’s being watched
and watching me,
but the white-walled room, despite her husband’s presence
is empty.
Everything echoes.

Alyssa and I have serenaded the dead and dying weekly.
Today is no exception.
She performs, I just sing–
are my songs really any emptier than hers?
We and the dying clasp hands in a circle
and mimic a psychic raising of the dead.

Alyssa and I have sat through the same
cut-and-dry
hour-long condemnations
all our lives,
but she bought in and now moves
like she’s being watched,
at which I scoff.

Alyssa is not allowed into Business Meetings
because of sexist Paul,
and I make this known to a friend
I trust now more than Alyssa,
now happily chatting with the guy I was eying.

Alyssa’s father takes me aside
for inquisition.
I confess of my sin, but I do not repent.

Alyssa found out, and now my existence is *******.

I took a walk down the road that marks
where the outskirts of town begins.
I don't know where it goes.
All I know is that it's a straight line
and I'll end up somewhere if I keep walking.
So, not wanting to end up like
one of those stupid kids in the scary movies,
I walked back home
a little faster than I had come.

There's an overcrowded pool in the center of town.
It's a wonder nobody's drowned yet.
I went to the dollar store and bought a Snickers,
the rest you can read about in the paper,
front page.
Most interesting thing that's happened here in years.

Flipped off the old ***** who thinks
people shouldn't be free to express love...
just for the hell of it.

I sneaked out at night just to see the town-
dead after 8:00-
and to pretend the world was mine
until the cops showed up.
I didn't know there was a curfew.
Who cares, that was a great feeling.

Time in the summer is like a kidney stone,
because it's hard as hell to pass.

i used to buy astronaut candy
when i was twelve.

in case you're wondering what astronaut candy is,
it's gelatinous goo that you squeeze from a tube.

the particular brand that we always bought
had a special tube.
it was dome shaped on top
with a hole in its concave center.

the point was,
you squeezed the tube,
out comes the goo,
and you lick it off;
most of us just ****** it out.

three varieties:
blue raspberry,
orange,
and everyones favorite,
white cherry.

in hindsight,
i guess that explains why so many of my friends
turned out to be so
"fabulous".

maybe we should've opted for the candy cigarettes.


nah.

****** pleasuring a plastic tube:
so much more fun.

Pink: the color they hid from me in the days of dewy youth.
But what I see as pink may be a yellow, green, or blue.
My eyes don't deceive me;
I think yours do: you have not the slightest clue.

Pink: the aid in love's elusion.
Pink the way and pink the means
by which I loved at last!
Still, they all insisted on my blueness
while emboldening dividing lines
dividing most of human kind.
Open minds will quickly find
that nothing and yet everything is pink.

And I loved him as a human,
not an object of desire.
His knees must be weary:
sore from bowing.
He found god between my thighs,
but I found Love between his lungs.
It's okay– at least I felt something.
And now he just abandons me
and -silence- ends my fantasy
and I can see reality.

Could I, would I sacrifice
a stable mind
for one last night?
Would that I could sleep so fine as to
not rely on him beside me,
emboldening dividing lines
dividing most of human kind.
Open minds should quickly find
that nothing and yet everything is pink.

Everything is pink (and yet nothing).
Is it too revealing?

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.

there is pride in pain
pleasure in punishment
and dignity in degradation

so i'll be

in my own little self-torture chamber
wallowing in my own little passion pit
plastering a new persona on myself

and when i'm done

this internal itch for ill blood
will ease
but i myself will be stronger

pick a rose
next time you see one.

smell the flower.
then,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

keep that rose.
extend its life as long as you can.

when it dies,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

when the roses of early years
have lost their luster,
when they're given to drugs and liquor,
the thorns will still be there
who weren't afraid to ***** fingers
and be found as a nuisance.

thorns remain.
they leave their mark.

in life,
the victors will always be
thorns.

Victor Thorn.

jack casual was a hard workin' man,
put bread on the table,
kept the roof over our heads,
and kept that dog, nellie, from gettin' 'er sorry be-hind run over.
yep, ol' jack was worth his salt.
he used to play his acoustic for us
when we were tikes,
back when we had an air conditioner.

when it broke down,
ol' gran-pappy,
jack's dad,
had him run out to the store to buy a window unit
and a slurpie.
then pappy would stagnate all day
in the back room while we sweltered,
and he'd send me on errands on my bike,
and read week-old newspapers,
and yell at jack to
"pay the ******* bills"
at four in the morning.

jack wanted to send him to a "home",
but mama never did like them.
she said they were "unsafe",
"unsanitareh",
and "unhospitible".
so gran-pappy stayed.

yes sir-ee, gran-pappy stayed
for three long years
with his banjo
and the growin' pile of slurpie cups in the corner
of that back room where it was cool.
until that one night
when gran-pappy called mama
a name the dog had done learned to respond to,
and mama said,
"jack,
just put him in the home!
a lady shouldn't be treated upon
in this mannuh."

that was the last i ever did see
of ol' gran-pappy,
but i still remember the last words he said to us:

"...and bring me back a slurpie,
it's one hot ******* up in here
and i need somethin'
to cool me off a spell!"

70 mile per hour, one-way nighttime highway;
cars still **** past.
some with one headlight,
     but most with none,
          but all with horns, horns, horns
blaring, "Bryan! Your brights are blinding me!"

Old 50's culture pitches me his deceitful realtorality from the passenger's seat,
assuring me all is picturesque clean
when,
     in fact,
behind his plaster hair
and plastic smile
and porcelain eyes,
disaster lies- a land mine.

Bombs-BOOM-bombs explode coldly,
leaving none to not witness fulfilled prophecy
and say,
"He's dead.
He's really, really dead."

chalk candies
all printed thereon
different names for the same thing:
a cry for help.
all different colors,
different lies,
but all leave that
disgusting aftertaste you get from candy hearts,
which is precisely why they're not a staple of my diet.
they're good for throwing away in puddles.

there goes one for emily stein.
there goes one for denira queen.
there goes one for jilian quandison.
one by one, letting go of memories.
there goes one for spirit newberry.
there goes one for krystin bullard.
there goes one for tandra wood.
one by one, loosing old ties.

there goes lucy, and grace, and sarah,
long gone.
the box is almost empty.

here's one for kimberly rhodes,
the one i should have held on to.
here's a deformed one for nicole watson,
and a few for  the rest of my detritivores.
here's one for anne folderol,
truly folderol,
and a few for the others i could save from low grade lowlifes.
here's one for lisa noble,
two years older.
and at last, one for candice coyle,
out of reach.

i'll keep the box.

Jack could fly, had he wings,
and would die, had he not the mind.
The clouds above were his limit,
and no further would he rise.

There were cities in the clouds
made for those who could reach,
and Jack's new springboard
could launch him a hundred feet.
He could arrive just in time
to claim his prize of pride
if he jumped now.

Jack's dreams mocked him,
but with his springboard unassembled,
he told himself "In due time."

Then the day came.

His palms were sweating,
his heart leapt,
he shook with the raw ambition
he was famous for
to join himself to that city.

He ran, and worked up a great speed,
hit the springboard,
flew upward and hit the ceiling
and fell to the carpet.

Finally seeing his springboard
for what it truly was-
worthless,
with broken breaths and watering eyes
and a seemingly indifferent disposition,
he placed the springboard in his closet,
and jumped back into the hole he had crawled out of,
months before.

herman harding showed me his truck today
in the muggy high school parking lot
in the sweltering sun
that could easily set my still temperament ablaze.
"she calls it the **** wagon."
he told me.
"she calls mine the firestarter."
i told him; he gave me a look.
"surprised?" i asked.

"so what do you think?"

"it's a battered wife."

"what the hell does that mean?"

"all bruised and broken down,
probably only runs because
you give it gas."

"it's a hand-me-down, okay?
so am i giving you a ride home,
or what?"

i crawled in the **** wagon.
"i should be getting my license soon."

"that's nice."
herman seemed uneasy.

"yep, i'll be driving by next school year."

"that's nice."

the truck had green seats
and a yellow dashboard.
obviously replaced.

approaching the highway,
i opened the glove compartment-
insurance information.
"you're telling me you bought insurance
for this *******?"

"why should you care?"

"i'm just wondering,
seems like a waste of money."

almost home,
i flip down the sun visor-
down flutter a couple of pictures of her
that shouldn't have been taken.
i flip the sun visor back up,
take a look at the photos,
and deposit them in the glovebox.
"tell me, herman:
do you like getting hand-me-downs?"

"get out of the truck."

i love the way you
feel me up in public places,
****** to nameless faces,
tell my friends to ***** themselves:
"it makes me feel protected".

command the god of heaven down,
wear your flimsy clinquant crown,
weave tales of fictitious sounds
that i will "soon" be making.

i love the way you never bathe
i love the way you never shave
i love the way you never made
an effort just to please me.

-

and the rain fell backwards that night
and the fires restored houses
and we all took showers and got
dirtier
and
dirtier
and
dirtier.

oh, god bless america,
the nation of narcissistic narcoleptics,
and protect her from harm
while she takes her afternoon nap.

oh, god save the stagnant,
all living to die,
so their bellies may be crowded
and their hearts pounding
so fast,
so fast,
for you, heavenly father.

give us this day
our daily fourty-four ounce soft drink
and quarter pound burger...
and don't forget the fries.

and forgive us our intolerance,
just as we...
err...
nevermind.

forgive us,
for we know not what we do.

amen.

from bouts of false reality
to this state of new normalcy
were seconds in between,
but it gave you something else to be,
made you happy (finally),
it dried your tears and eased your sleep.
i think it's called maturity.

forget the doctrine of
loving,
leaving, and
losing.

but enjoy the triviality
hold fast the spontaneity
you're granted, free.
this is the realest peace
you'll feel,
this fleeting serenity.

this normalcy unique to you
will rest upon the others, soon.
they'll fall in line and follow suit
in time.

dedicated to the mirror of the shadow of my former self.

8:25 A.M.

step in late.
the eyes,
the eyes,
exceptional in eye shadow
find mine,
or perhaps i was looking for them,
and i realize
how distracted i’ve been
by my new summer coat,
but now
the eyes are relentless,
the eyes do not blink.
the eyes are omniscient,
the eyes will not sleep.
now that i’m
face to face with fate,
a captive to the eyes
that supposedly convinced me
that all
         faith
                       is
                        blind,
one half second suffices
to make hell
now something to be strived for,
and heaven twice the myth.

and near those eyes,
the face,
the face that infected a thousand consciences
stands by, silently
begging for a command,
its latest fix up on its favorite neurochemicals;
the face,
the face that screams satisfy
for the member that skull-****** a million subconscious desires!

or,
       perhaps,
         he’s a mirror.

9:05 A.M.

and i, the mind,
the only man wearing a collared shirt
in this barren company,
plead for recognition;
to make an impression;
to grab the attention,
scribbling in slang
for hate
            or,
        perhaps,

            triu­mph!

the eyes
beam blistering illegitimacy
into the mind,
unawares and
unintentional.
i make the silent error.
still, the face
chokes out a weak
“hey,”
where there was once cold callous.

definitely a mirror:
opportune moment,
easy catch
while the eyes still wonder:
“standards?!
what the *hell are those?”

of all faiths, his
                 is
                            blindest.

12:00 P.M.

away,
away,
away, away,
unto the scarlet heat of day,
with winter boots on sunbaked clay,
away,
away,
away, away,
away, away, away
from malady of present way:
the lonely path, too late to pray,
“erode your blessing’s granite sway
away!”
away,
away, away.

but affectation stays not long
as the face has just found out,
contorted, cried, and bellowed shouts
and in the mind’s eye, belted songs.
first contact in eighteen months;
he says:

“it’s you, weakling, you
first source of all my pain!
worthless, worthless,
perverted, scheming,
evil source that
ruined my life!”
definitely a triumph.
“or
perhaps
enhanced it,”
say i.
“herman,
i observe
you’re not so weak
as once i thought,
and half as meek
as last time i heard you speak.
away.”
away,
away, away
unto much cooler, peaceful days.
for now, i’ll put my summer coat
away.


1:57 P.M.

step in late.
no eyes,
no eyes
filled with hate.
no fears,
no fears,
no heavy weight.
no tears,
no tears,
for the day grows late.
today i committed sacrilege:
i tried to sanctify this date.
today i blasphemed against the
holy human mind.
i eschewed the natural anesthetic of time,
and repented of a baseless crime.
the eyes,
the eyes are in my sight,
yet out of mind,
and cannot last for long,
for the many hands,
the hands that rip and tear asunder
will render limb from limb
so desperately trying to
save her from
each other!

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

I.

If you don’t leave my house
I’ll ******* **** you.

II.

I’ll ******* **** you
if you don’t leave my house.

III.

I’ll bash your skull in
with this baseball bat
if you don’t leave now.

IV.

No, you don’t live here; please leave.
Don’t make me **** you.

V.

No, you don’t have ***.
Call the cops, Andrew.
You have until the count of ten
to leave, or else I’m going to use this
bat.

VI.

You don’t legally live here; you don’t
pay rent, nor is your name on the lease.
Quit telling me you’re ready to die.

VII.

Quit closing the door.
Get off of me! I want to **** you.

IX.

Quit screaming that I kidnapped you.
I found you here, hunched over
naked
in my closet. Stay right there,
put your clothes on.

X.

If you don’t stop struggling,
they’re going to **** you.

XI.

They’re going to **** you
if you don’t stop struggling.

playing snowball fight with myself as a child;
now i'm taking the lower ground
as he curiously rolls a snowball down
the hillside.

accumulating
**** and sticks
and grass and dirt–
for Oklahoma, the land of my youth,
never sees more than twelve inches of snow–
it overtakes me.

and from the nucleus of that humongous ball
i curse the child,
wishing death and hellfire upon him.

he only cries harder
as the black avalanche consumes reality.

so scream you
from rooftops and sidewalks
to barstools in dark rooms
the last pleas of a broken soul:

"i am me
and so i matter!
lift me up
on these clichés and gray hazes!
applaud me for dreaming,
and bow down to the dropout!"

so dig you
deep and wide
the void you're trying to fill,
and use it as your grave.

approximately forty forked tongues
made love to my ego yesterday
for envy,
and in this way they paid me
my overdue reparations.
i'm cool with that, bro.
what else you have for me?

exactly five tickling fingers
graced the nape of my neck today
for boredom,
for monogamy,
and in this way the human finds
that he's been human all this time.
fine with me, miss forbidden.
tell me, what's next on the agenda?
what conquests await me
just inside Freedom's gate?

two eyes for fifteen-odd-something teenage girls
gets to be confusing,
but
it's better than the day-after-day,
week-after-week,
month-after-month,
year-after-yea­r
quicksand whirlpool of
"oh, i wonder what's on the one-track telly today?"
and only getting some advertisement for
quote unquote
"******* miraculous" Axe body spray.

lilli, lilli, lilli,
now sacred and independent of mother,

all new
to be caught up in this cycle again?
the doors were many,
the keys were few,

and now you’re here in my arms,
the arms of an uncle’s friend
visiting objectively,
wondering
if some day you’ll wonder
why you’re here
and wondering
what might cause such thoughts to surface
in your pure, unadulterated mind.

let this be our answer.

mother of seventeen
to grow old and fat and unfulfilled
violated the pact she will soon teach you
and later repented and kept you.

father of seventeen
to grow desolate and disconsolate and cold
valued not himself
and will passively teach you to follow suit.
but you must not follow suit.

lilli, when you are of seventeen,
will life be worth living?
or will you hand your own infant to an older poet
who whispers in its ear,
“perhaps if you had never been born?”

I gave him eighteen years, thousands in gas money, and more music than he deserved, and all I got in return was a subscription to Fox News– which, by the way, is a complete ******* “thank you” gift because you can fool yourself into believing anything.

        "You know what's going to happen tomorrow? Rain!" when in fact I'm certain its going to be a scorcher.

He sits bedside, making horrible jokes and bringing up remember-that-times. When will he ever pay the rent? Even though he doesn’t sleep here– he never sleeps– he should at least pay me in something other than beheading-dreams. And in the shower we review ****** flaws, and in the mirror we recount all the mean things I ever said or did to him for being such an insufferable *******.

“Stop it.”

He looks uncomfortable, not as sure of himself. He ponders what I meant for a while, opens his mouth to rebut and gets another stop it.

“Stop it. Get a job.” Because he contributes nothing.

“But you should…”

“Stop it. Get a job, because all I’m gaining from us right now is a bunch of lies. Quit watching Fox News.”

“Listen here, ******–“

“Stop it. Get a job. Quit watching Fox News.” And he leaves for a couple hours.





He knocks.

“Stop it.”

The knocking stops.

while the rain cleans the air
i cleanse my mind of the present,
future,
past:
should'ves, could'ves, would'ves
and time's tick-tock knocking
on death's door.

i shed my black shirt and blue jeans,
and put on a pair of white trunks,
and take a walk.

all the dirt drips off in droplets,
all your dirt on me is void,
all the sweat and memories
all washed away, and oh what joy
it is to see it gone!

oh what a joy it is to see it
finally gone!

the sky is gray
                      and i don't care.
you've run away
                      and i dont care.
i'm feeling free
                      and i don't care.
you love me
                      and i don't care.

Mindy takes a seat opposite me,
as if we're about to engage in some serious conversation.
Christmas carols would make the background stale
if there was no twist to them.
"Thanks for buying the ice cream," she reiterates for the fourth time,
her potential lover-girl Jaclyn repeating the sentiment half-heartedly.

"It's no problem."
I reply with my usual comeback.
"I'm sorry Daniel couldn't come.
He had excuses
akin to my last three boyfriends,
and you know how long those lasted.
It's enough to make me want to go straight."

"I can make you straight."

"What?"

"What?"

And we continue as if nothing happened.
Jaclyn eats her ice cream as Mindy shares hers with me.
It has a twang to it, a strange flavor she made herself
that you wouldn't expect to be so good until you tried it.

Deep in my core, that ice cream sent a chill through my body–
a chill of uncertainness.

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.

I was hungry
so I made myself a sandwich
with bread (from a bag)
and meat (from a bag)
and cheese (from a bag)
and in the sixth or seventh bite, found
a bit of bone crushed up inside.
I ate it
while why screen played out
my life
my friends
my ***
my dreams in front of me–
a portrait of Utopia.

I needed to move,
so I sat
in a car, cursing the wind.
I drove down Main Street
to see the park, Illuminated.
I needed expression
so I came back
to the place where I waste my life
to write a poem.

I require exercise
and so I will run
on a treadmill
and go nowhere for twenty minutes.

Oh, hell! Open your gates,
let your demons out!
Let new ones make Satan's company!
Drag sinful beauty in by the ankles,
hoist her high, broadcast her *******
screaming,
she pleads to return to the sweet plain of id.
Smelt her soul, and ornament your gate!
Oh, hell! Oh, my heart! Oh, hell!

Just a little makeup
and that way they won’t know–
some concealer on my cheeks
and my hair placed just so.



Perhaps a little more,
so I can feel who I am inside;
to distract myself from chest hair
and bruises to hide.

But everywhere,
on my neck: brown
on my body: purple
on the wall: red,
no makeup can hide.
God knows I’ve tried;
he just doesn’t listen.
I’ve longed to confide
in a word from his book
but the text suggests
his infallibility.
I know that’s a lie.
He is imperfection– just as I
am imperfection
on the outside.

this may be immature and boyish
but i'm breaking up with you
because you won't put out
or maybe i'm a pig,
an instant feminist,
just add guilt and water to the mix
I'll be fine;
no no i'll be fine
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.

i see you
distraught and disconsolate,
cold tears and hot breath,
the wooden desk beneath you
will swell and sweat
if those tears don't dry soon.
you saw your Gamorrah
burned alive;
something within you strives
to keep it,
but no.
i say, let it go.

i saw my ***** smoking,
cried cold tears
and breathed hot breath,
wailed to the heavens
"sweet redemption!
is this my reward?
a paranoid drop
and a sudden stop?"
i kept looking back
and my tears turned me
into this pillar of salt before you.
so no,
i say, let it go.