My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through...
-Emily Dickinson*

And I do smile, the white bright Colgate chiclets
stretch under my lips. The crooked thing, the
clever turn of my mouth,
we all pass a point in life when this is a means to an end.
Stop. Do not collect 200.
Again. Again, I thought "Send me straight to hell"
because it's not fair for me to feel this way any more.
I want to shoulder the brunt of it and throw it up and down,
white linens to the wind.
A dramatization of who I have come to be,
fueled and fired by alcohol and lack of sleep.

A stuck Lipton in the vending machine,
"I want to start a social movement of direct experience"
Sure. We'll do that. Let me get back. . .
let me get back to this blue screen for a bit. I want a change.
I want to see some change! Let's throw our
phones away and start over. Depression falicitates our  
efforts, but I had my pleasure. I had my kicks though.

The heavy dust from dry summers
selling Chiclets inside the rim of a sombrero

Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond

by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;

Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.

“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess

His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot  in Tijuana’s

Miserable, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried

There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or ***** his juvenile face has smeared;

A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,

have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;

Deep into this formidable fate in hell.
Here, he is not above the silence

But he must live in it, live to tell,
How wishes are often made without a well.

In the heavy dust
from dry summers
selling Chiclets from inside the rim of a sombrero,

Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond

by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;

Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.

“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess

His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot  in Tijuana’s

Les Miserables, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried

There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or dinghy his juvenile face has smeared;

A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,

have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;

Deep in this formidable of fates, of hell...
Here, he is not above the silences,
but he must live in it, live to tell.

How wishes are often made without a well.

Frost is longing.
I longed for the thaw as soon as I saw
Icy blue eyes and a navy Patagonia
Reflected up from a small square of light.

Longing to see you but settling for bantered texts and drunken facetimes
That only make me long to know you more.

Longing to clasp your neck and pull you to me,
Over a copper table in candlelight.

Longing to collapse twelve days into one
So we can take the next step down a path
Of myriad possibilities.

Frost is two roads not yet contemplated.
We have barely set out.
There will be many chances to diverge,
Each one a "what could have been."
But now there is only one reality -
A fantasy of who I want you to be
Whatever we will be, we will never be this.

Frost is nipping at my nose
With teeth like wintergreen chiclets.
I have eaten roasted chestnuts.
Seduced by the smell,
I am always disappointed by the taste

Yet, ever optimistic, I try again.
And again I come closer
To making fantasy real.
All we can have is close enough.

Frost is on the window.
Scratch with your finger to see through.
Delight in how it rolls under your nails before it melts.

Fever drives burning rubber and sweating coolant. I never thought this would be me; Living like a willow weeping stalagmite that drips in a cave, gutted of its most precious treasures. Volcanic emissions eat their way up my esophagus, acid refluxing, reflecting the queasiness vigorously sloshing in my abdomen. A motel's vacancy sign glows behind the round masses that sit within the bony sockets of my skull. Void of thought and reason, the cavernous hole that appears to swallow, swallowing my words, swallowing my tongue, swallowing my teeth one by one; Chiclets, sliding down into molten rock. Crumbling pieces of hope plunge, deteriorating, integrating with the earth, six feet down, bodies buried in boxes, confining cells of solitary. Laid out like a game of memory, time passes, and no one remembers who lays where.

convened
in my living room
summoned to a setcat
to decide by voulbee or fratricide
the next Father of Thieves.

Blahznivee Semyon rises up
like a winter sun over the steppe
peels off his sable coat and hat
he garnishes round after round of applause
for his tattooist's magnificent skill,
and the number of skulls etched in his skin
one skull for every ****.

Arkady the Krahsnee comes to the front
draws a cross across his chest,
wipes caviar from his pickled lips
sheds his necklace of bloated tongues ripped
from the mouths of informants who sing
and with a halo of bicycle chain whirling overhead
steps drunkenly into the ring

The display turns black
chairs are pushed back
***** in every hand.
The soldiers prepare
with a toast and a prayer
and a drop of blood from each man.

Now squaring off
Dva Rusahky:
a fat taloostee,
the other slim-tenki
wade into the fray:

bez nervee, t-shirts, boatkee or fear
they destroy my hanging chandelier
their bratvas stand around and cheer
pass round smokes and mugs of beer.

Černobog’s hammer sits
inside a chalk line circle
like an *******
waiting for a fist.
Black stars collide
shoulders knees torsos
wheel thrown into ****** slabs
hole punched and wire cut
falling on cigarette butts
nicotine thumbs empty eye sockets
vitreous runs and pools
seeps into screaming mouths
through mangled cheeks.

Teeth litter my rug
like chiclets in berry jam.

Here's a finger,
make a splinter
wounds are washed
in chilled Żubrówka.

Semyon lifts the hammer, the winner
a new skull in his flesh, still wet
when he buys my silence
with a Russian dinner
and a round of Russian roulette.