-I-

Adoration-
Somnambulists cast
paradise magic, allowing a thimble to fall
upon the floor of our private heaven
(a perfect disquiet to our loving)

We daily reveal our reclusive
sensitivities, a flash (a lowered head, laughing distinctly)
Trailing close behind German poets/path of devotion, a second summit of their passionate influence, rippling generations ago now:

(vineyards caught by grasping suddenness/placating daytime/fig & flame/false tower of Babel, ornamental ruin/he feels owed the sensations of an active spirit, to repent the contrary forces within him/myself)

-II-
                      & upon my reflection in the Cabaret of Hell,
I see a gate perched at the base of my wondrous
Sehnsucht-apparition

                    BLUE MOON                 WALLFLOWER

(or perhaps the other way around?)

Overtaken by oscillating darkness/hall of mirrors (memories)
distorted flashbulb *** and anger

until the acts become indistinguishable from themselves/doubly
******* tigers brushstroked in animal blood... essence of devour/temper/
captivation, incredible lips, pulp teeth, pure excitement all disfigured
& joyous

-III-

My azzurine goddess, faced away in
shame, no wonder why!

(hair let down in a drowsy spill of
uncertain hours, wavering in a sullen high, thickly feeling,
the immensity/pleasure renounced for a cabbalist subliminity)

Mockery of the dead dead dog/blind in boyhood/while
curious ghosts skate across the ice-peripheral of our dreaming

I feel love, and horror/a frigid hand who's body I have dissolved-
-caressing my back tenderly
bordering terrific malevolence

...Later, in another try at my own eternal return, I find my comfort brother, accompanied by an overhead
divination lantern..

pounding! At the sun skull, for you (my cherished)
are of high order
I tempt soaking the cloth,
to steer the intention

..missing black mass, indulging instead
on feverish Damascus perfume

Splash ramp
down. Flesh, wailing
vampire/poet
hidden by darkly earth to inevitably
decay by their self-solitude

(descent writhes in the milk of heartache
and cusps the night firmly in his *****
withering palms)

I refuse this fate, and
in Western-fashion
fire down the city worshipper which was once
I, too        (unmercifully so)

..burying his bones in the Scottish dirt

Terrarium hydrangeas, pale (yourIrises) lipstick daggers
slashing in the white sleeve-
red with epicurean
baptism

-IV-

Big bad wolf
banished to his hole,
I kiss the winter fruit clean from your mouth (succumbing to pinnacles of fire/your lost domain) ******* on pebbles, trying to crack through the surface
like a dragon's egg for pride
(big bad wolf is hungry)
We wear away the season, memorizing the newspapers
which are tossed carelessly to our door. Ah, the kitchen ballet dancers are finally tired..endowed to the triplicate beauty
that we individually define (takes a bit to get there)

You/I privileged to ******* Venice with our mutual
imagination,                              owing to Calvino

To crave eachother
as an Acrobat craves the

trapeze

Night filled glittering skies
Cloud bright trimmed in lines
Sloe-eyed music pops and fades
Drones straight edged across the lies
Drugged up players in a lit up world
Smooth cries fill the ears of hardhearted rituals
Flashbulb strobes beat the pace
Fist raised groups of hazed out praise
Rushed up feints in the days of the lost
Last light shines as sloe-eyed music pops and fades

cc2011

People use pictures when they can't
                                   find the words
And photographs when they can't
   hold on to them

I hear you on the radio,
driving to work.
I swear, I almost get sick in the car
at the rush of memory
sometimes.
I remember firelight flickering
across your face,
a dark corner of a bar you wanted
to get away to
after you played a show,
when everyone wanted a piece
of beautiful you
except me, blushing.

Passion Pit was blaring overhead.
I told you about my family,
we're beekeepers from Ohio.
You watched me as
friends of friends approached me,
flirted, I was sultry.
You asked me
if I was warmed by the beers.
Made eyes
like you wanted
to get the hell out of there.

A customer from work, some
rich investor shmuck,
texts me today.
"What are you wearing?"
I'll tell you.
How many ways can I say "remorse"
before it sounds ****?
It does nothing for me anymore.

But no jokes come to mind,
no evasive, coy replies.
Just a flashing cursor on my
telephone
as I remember summer *******
and someone I left behind.

Make outs in a photobooth
that lasted all night
as they swept the floor to
close up shop.
Only our shoes peeked out
under the curtain
threatening to blow our cover.
You wouldn't be thinking about
our cover.
You'd be thinking about what
I was wearing.

You remember
the color of my tights.
You've told me.
The way my sweater fell off my shoulders.
Saltwater-sealed
sandcastle collarbones.
The more you were obsessed
with me,
the more I didn't need you.

You placed my
hand over your heart
that night in the photobooth,
so I could feel the butterflies
surging through your chest.
They ruptured in rhythm
with each flashbulb
of light
at the magic, calculated touch
of a girl who had learned
to trust no one.

I didn't want any
attachments.
Doesn't everyone always leave?
No, recording in Richmond,
touring across the country,
passing through Brooklyn,
sleeping on a friend's
floor in Denver,
You still asked me what I was
wearing.

A sly grin watching you, breathy and
raw, finish yourself in front
of the camera
late nights when you were away,
listening to you beg for me.
Just the way you'd say my name
And all the words when
we wouldn't speak.
You brought me back honey
from Honduras.
Told me about beekeepers there
and scuba shops on little islands.

I was afraid to start my life
again with someone.
Too young to plan to
run away with you.
The unspeakable distance
I never told you:
I was sleeping with a man I had
loved once
the week before I met you.
He had stopped loving me
long before.

I left you before you could leave me.

It was some cheap hotel off I-75.
A Korean movie with subtitles
was playing in the dark
and we were slushing wine
and sliding bodies
Your sweat was like nectar
and you gasped as you entered me.

I didn't know when I met you
there was nothing left
of me to offer.
Isn't timing half the battle in life?
I never explained it.
Couldn't bring myself
to drive your nice car like you wanted
while you were away.
Drink your honey in my tea
without grimacing at
the bitter taste of grief to it.

I got tired acting confident.
I got bored telling you what I was wearing.
I got angry that you had never been hurt
by someone
not wearing anything.
You were
empty
and easy and
looking for something I couldn't give.

You brought me with you.
I don't know how,
VIP passes and interviews,
always on the road.
We stopped talking,
but you reinvented me
so many times over
different in your mind.

Maybe it was my aire
of not needing you like
the other girls.
Not remarking on
the contour of your jawline,
Your firm muscles,
clenching
and pulsing for me, leaving you
crawling, still
now,
remembering
what I was wearing.

Felt gospels, locally hand-stitched, hang from the necks
Of the white stone columns. Seven in total.
Wandering eyes have read them all a hundred times.
Each one belongs to a name and number.
The mass assemble on the ground floor.
The circle tiers are near-empty,
They keep their coats on.
I wonder if they are closer to G-d.
The bald island only visible to them,
The vicar’s pure white hair.
Pews are formidable with adults, Sunday best,
A silence dark with giggles, the stained glass
Shone a rainbow of torture, ******,
And I did not know what we were all there for.

Christ hung beneath a turquoise sun, kaleidoscopic agony
Etched on his straight white face. You could play a tune
On his ribs. The vicar stood bored at the platform;
glory in monotone.

Finally, we rose to song.

The adults stood tall, autogenic. I became lost in corn stalks,
Wind of reverence, spirit, mass delusion.
Everyone seems to sway. Some close their eyes. A few
Hold a hand to the sky. A grown man is dancing in the main aisle.
He is making a mockery of himself
And the adults do not stop him. Do not scald him
Or tell him to keep quiet.
The grown man seems to notice no one.
I wonder if he is the closest to G-d.

Water near-boils in black pipes, the wind outside
Seems to find its way to my chest. I choke myself.
Leave our scarves on the burning metal.
No instrumentation! Menace. I mime the words.
Cut my eye teeth climbing garage roofs,
Stole a turnip from Mr. Sutton’s patch -
The air is too holy here. Hypnotic. I cannot breathe.
A football shirt. A pair of jeans. The singing stops.
Prayer begins. The vicar drones, we answer back.
Repeat after me, repeat after me. He is talking
About next week, the order of service,
His out-of-hours devotion, our spiritual homework.
Dismissed, the mass push angrily to the doors.
Quick to their cars,
We always stayed behind. Slow, slow.

My parents led me to the pulpit. The vicar was smiling,
My name was on his list. I wondered if I was getting
The eighth felt gospel..
“You are to be confirmed.”
“Okay.”
I did not know what confirmed meant.
I did not know what submergence was.
The vicar took my hands. I puzzled at his dog collar,
His snap-necklace. My parents stood in the periphery,
The cheap seats; a happy occupation,
A successful operation.

I was to be new again.

“...and let the Holy Spirit pass through Edward,
And help to guide him through inevitable trials.”

My arms were shaking like a tuning peg.
I was a filament, quivering, giving myself away,
Flashbulb memories of disgrace. He must know.
“That’s the spirit of the Lord inside of you,
That’s why you are shaking.
It is working brilliantly.”
The vicar put his palm to my forehead.
Pores magnified, barbs descended from his nostrils,
His overgrown eyebrows. His holiness. His age.
He did not smile with his eyes.

I was handed back to my parents.
They looked pleased with themselves. Did I pass the test?
I looked up.
The ceiling was impassable.
There had been no breakthrough.

Drove past the hospital. Asleep in the passenger seat.
Surgery on my soul. Clean, clean.
There was static on the radio.
The shaking had stopped.

i was walking the other night
closed my eyes
saw you coming at me like a flashbulb
i saw you before i heard you
but you were so ******* loud

knocked me off my feet, you know
you did and you
broke my bones
bled my ears for every last reaction
until i had no more to give

i drifted awake the next morning
silent until noon
i couldn't trust my own voice to produce
its sounds or my ears to hear them
you had deafened me so
and blinded me so

my hands twitched to replace the cane
you'd never offered me so i could find
my way, alone and afraid
crawling back to you
stiff like a dead man
numb like a soldier
soft like a child

now, i sit still

The rich textures of the city
Dark tree shadows and the red brick rust

The bleak primaries of Venice
The sun sparked high contrast to the sidewalk grey

I was faded like the snow on the mountains,
A daily view on a clear day
I was not as high as the clouds
They were invisible as I floated away
Away, away, away,.


Everything was illuminated in the flashbulb of the disco ball
Later that night,
All alone and all complete
With the sound of utter tyrant,
Beating through my brains
Proving the physics of sound waves.

You felt like paper
Flimsy and unsure
I was afraid to take
A picture with my
Mind. You might
Float away when
the flashbulb shines
Losing control of
Everything
all I can
Remember
Is kissing you in the summer
Sliding my hand up the back of your skirt

When I knew nothing else
But the skin on your face
Glowing green in the dashboard light

Another morning off the turnpike
She fills coffee cups for old men
I have memorized the color of your iris
And I play with knives


I have three boxes of matches
Up all night
Coping with addiction
What if in the mind
I could rhyme a bullet through it
I will act as if you arent
And you will be harder to get

I like the variable of your fingertips
And when you hold my eyes
Just a moment too long
If I
Were
To die
Would you throw away my poetry?
Who will sit with you at church?
Let's play a game called: forget it

The wedding partyIn garden’s twilightThe gowns, the flowersThe flashbulb’s bright lightBeyond the fountainThe horizon’s edgeAnd a chain link fenceAt the cliff’s top ledgeAnd down belowShimmering in wavesA final presentOn a perfect dayDancing moonbeams Of a full orbMesmerizing, beautifulThe scene absorbsAnd all who gazePonder the sightOf the kiss of wavesBy soft moonlight

This evening I can feel the fingers of Migraine - black to the bones and crawling with snakes - as they push my eyes forward.
This is pure seduction, the pressure. I can see it - my frail, jagged optic nerve resting between the first and second finger like a cigarette. With each drag Migraine takes, a flash of brilliant pain (high-beam, spotlight, strobe, flashbulb) skitters across my field of vision. I mistake them for rabbits.
And the chase is on. Mechanical dog, mechanical bull, mechanical rabbit of pain like firecrackers, in slow motion. Half-time signatures flutter again as the thing made of snakes inhales my eyes. I guess I am making love to it.
The rain is coming in waves, marked by drops you can count on your hands, in intervals of five minutes. It comes and it fades, mimicking the snake-monster-thing living in my skull, huffing everything I see, getting high on the fumes of the images I feed to it: this paper, these words, blue pen and black sky.
There is a similar sensation in my stomach. I tried to drown butterflies in decaffeinated coffee, and they are fighting back, with constant pressure on the flexible walls of my insides.
They are hungry but know that they must wait three-and-a-half days to eat. They are taunted by words - short responses. They are teased by intense surges of memory, and by smiles that stalk the underside of my brain (have they seen the snake-monster?), waiting to submerge themselves in the calm, reflective water of my face. **** those ripples. They fall down my spine, from the base of my neck where Migraine has made his nest. I shiver.
I am made of ink, rabbits, rain, and butterflies tonight. These shapes I force my pen to draw are serendipitous, falling randomly (rain drops that have collected on the leaves of a tall tree but remain long after the sky has finished sobbing) atop the heads of unsuspecting strangers and one beautiful girl. Why does she always carry that **** blue umbrella?
The answer, of course, is gray matter and black memory, more harsh than my last cigarette will be, four days from now. The answer is experience, drought and flood. The answer is in Migraine, who makes up one third of my soul, and the soul of every human - although he may pick up a different face and hobby.
The answer is that I don't know the answer. I will not until she sets aside that artificially colored canvas reality-shield she carries, and talks with me. With the rain falling on our heads - hers filled with memory and brains, mine with whimsy and Migraine - the mechanical rabbit will come down from his track to dance at our feet, to kiss our rain-soaked shoes. He will lead us to puddles we can jump into.
Splash. Glorious Splash. Migraine is receding to his nest and the butterflies have taken one step closer to contentment. The rain falls, the ink falls with it, and sanity once again speaks to me.
I've missed you, old friend.

When the sun goes down and everything gets quiet
The slideshow begins to play
A flashbulb memory of you dancing wildly around the piles of decay
Forever tormenting me and feeding on any bit of happiness that dares to shine through
Shining a light on you kissing her, and me kissing you…
I feel so disgusting…
I feel so used…
I feel so worthless…
It feels as though all of the love I ever gave you was abused…
The light burns my eyes
I’ve been in the dark so long
It hurts even more now that I know this has been going on all along
Did I ever mean anything to you?
Did you ever really care?
Or was I just there to fill the space?
I ask these questions, but the answers I can’t bare…
So many nights spent alone, pining for your love
Looking for just a small shimmer of hope…
Or just one kind word from you to think of…
I don’t have the heart to tell you everything…
What I did while you were gone
Sitting in the dark alone…
Praying not to make it to dawn
I keep these thoughts to myself…
It would only break your heart
After all this is our chance to make it better
This is our fresh start
Still, it eats at me everyday…
Every hour, and every second
I have to wonder if what you say is true
I have to wonder if you really meant it
Are you really ready to come home?
Or was I what you settle for?
Did you come back because you wanted to?
Or did you come back because she wasn’t an option anymore?
How will you deal with temptation?
Will you do it again?
Can we put this all behind us?
Can our hearts ever mend?
Will you make it to the top?
Or is the mountain of guilt too high to climb?
Should I try to move forward with you?
Or am I just biding time?
I’m just waiting for the hurricane to swoop in…
For it to take everything I ever cared for
Leaving me alone again…
I can’t watch you walk out that door anymore…
You are always leaving…
Leaving me behind
Your words forever haunt me
They never leave my mind…
Why would you do this to me?
Why didn’t you offer me mercy before now?
I hate what happened to us…
I want to move forward, but I don’t know how…
I don’t know how to live with everything you have done
Every broken promise ever made
Every lie you have ever spun
How do you come back from that?
How do you crawl out from the debris?
How do you forgive these trespasses?
How do you forgive adultery?

I think of you on days the odor of water makes me dry-heave.

Our photographs still throw me, offguard, into flashbulb memories. Every detail etched into my brain with a hot scalpel.

This isn’t an apology, this is a confession. I am not guilty in my eyes.

That was my hollow lava, this is what it crystallized into. Look at it, laugh at it, break it, keep it. My words were only meant to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes. In your eyes.

Drown my breath in a tub of sand, tell me everything that isn’t alright.

You can weave our veins into a dystopian novel, stamp it with 'fiction' and we can pretend it never happened.

The ordinary incinerated in your palms and I’m reeling from this hamartia.

Paint your carcinogens on my skin, carve them into my bones, punch them onto my eyes. Hold these hands one more time and feed me a blatant lie.

Feed me anything that’ll help me swallow these choked up cries.

I’ve wondered how the others were, how you were.

Was it art when you wrapped blindfolds around their necks?

What was it to them? How were they dying?

How am I dying?

Because I wake up in the odd hours, my chest feeling like it’s soaked in salt water,

and you’re standing at the edge of my bed,

with a mug of poison,

smiling,

telling me it’s okay,

it’s just a bad dream,

here, I made some coffee.

And I believe you.

a million little miracles
standing in a line
laughing at the little man
who chooses not one time.

crowded, there.
elbows and hellos and farewells.
dream
after
           dream
after dream
withering
decaying in a flash of images
of people that will never be
and chances that will never be
taken.
encounters
that will never
                                  occur.

again, a new dream
stands up to take his place.
his place,
and the air rushes in
to fill the gap
where the old dream is no longer,
and the new dream has yet to be.
the air rushes in,
closes in,
fills it all in
and when the disappearing dream
declines all else but its own
                         decay
it blinks.
vanishing into a single point of
                            light
                                   a frozen face
                                                a
                                         fractured
                                                 (smile)
a piece of god
                       of self
                                    of soul
and when it
blinks
it winks
it darks
               and it is gone.
the dream is
                                                                                              worse than dead.
                                               the dream is
            worse than gone.
                                             it simply never was.
it simply                                                                                            never was.

the air rushes in
again
always filling in
and the new dream swells with pride.

i
am the dream
that will make
the miracles
and save this man
from the self he
secretly serves.

the new dream opens its eyes.

the air
          rushes
                       out,
                              grows thin,
                             breath becoming ragged
before it has even begun.
eyes tear.
drip and run and **** sadness
and water and cloud
at the heat
left behind
in the wake of the evaporating atmosphere.

refusing to gasp or swat at tears,
the dream stands straight and tall.
i
am the dream
that will make
the miracles
and save this    
man
from the              
self  
he secretly serves.

one moment of attention
a second’s worth of will
and the air would be endless and free.
the dream would be endless and free.

before blinking
the first
(and only)
time,
the newborn eyes
                                                                         swollen, itching
                                                                                                eyes
grow wide in unfeigned horror.

dream after dream
from the footprint under his shoe
to the ****** horizon
of crimson and death and loss
stood screaming.
                           dream after dream after dream
                                        standing and screaming and
weeping
clamoring to be heard.
a cacophony
                                                               so loud
                                                    
                                                     so very ******* loud

his newborn crusting eyes
saw the sound
through the red tint
of sorrow
and loss, the tint
that in mere moments
had become
the only vision he would ever know.
saw the sound
he
saw the sound
so loud
               the fragile air
pulsed and scattered, convulsing.
the sound so loud, he saw it
before the sensation
                                of hearing
                                                  occurred.
before hearing
before blinking
but weeping, always,
                                                                                                  weeping . . .
he saw the screams of all the dreams
through eyes that leaked decay.

                                                       one instant.

one flashbulb spark
second in time
to give this dream
(any dream
any of these dreams
any ******* dream at all)
breath.

one second to pause
to give
one thought
to give
one chance
to give one breath.
to give. to give.

and the air would be endless and free.
the air and the dream,
both endless,
and free.

                                                    i am the dream
he chokes,
                                                                                              his eyes burn and
                                                                                                              weep,
                                                                                               itch and weep
                                               that will make this man
                                                                                                            he cries,
ears ringing
forsaken dreams
******* screaming
crimson and ****** and loud
                                                 save the miracles
                                                 he secretly serves
he shrieks,
                                                                                                 hands clenching
                                                                                                  into futile fists,
                                                  &

Bottoms of glasses, under ***** caps and vases. In pepper pots, though holes in socks, twixt blooming buds and fasteners. Kitchen’s sink; shades of pink, through willow-wood hearts and:
Behind Polaroid frames and flashbulb flays, measuring pixels and yards and:
In sewing thimbles, between knitting needles; gentle beetles, playing cards and:
Through laddered tights and telephone drawers, on written paper under boarded floors. On cotton shirts caked with dirt and in refuge sacks of reticence begirt. Cushion covers and shopping bags, through electrical wire and sodden rags. Under flower pots, inside sticky locks. In coffee mugs and china cups, Teabags and teaspoons and niches for tee lights. Bottle necks, glass jars, coin dish, cream jugs. Window sills, knife block, light bulbs, plugs. Plate stack, lotion ***, saucer, dust. Record slips, ornaments, lamp, clock. Table, chair: drink and sit around it.
I’ve hidden my heart almost everywhere and you still haven’t found it.

In retrospect
I see
the
defect was
there
all along.

You felt like paper
Flimsy and unsure
I was afraid to take
A picture with my
Mind. You might
Float away when
the flashbulb shines
Losing control of
Everything
Because all I can
Remember
Is kissing you in the summer
Sliding my hand up the back of your skirt
I loved you
I really really did
When I knew nothing else
But the skin on your face
Glowing green in the dashboard light
I cant think of another line for this poem
My heart is too broken to remember the rest

You think you're so charming with your six-string but I've got some news,
and that's that that six-string is old news.
When you gonna pick up that new electronic beat and let the drums pulse heat into your cold eyes,
littering the shoreline with every bit of negative commentary necessary to make the moment much less than romantic.
Jump into panic, oh alone you're so alone and though I sympathize I won't fall for those lies;
you're just a kid with a crayon trying to sell the Mona Lisa.
Dragging me down into new friction against a new addiction I never wanted,
dust litters my clean floor and I can hear you back  there ****-talking the shore as if your racing heart never wanted more.
Racing blurred burnt out on lines speeding past fluttering eyelids so quick, the storm inside the flashbulb can't even stop us.
The quickness inside our pounding hearts won't slow, the blood won't thicken no matter how hard you wish it.
Crushing candy into cotton in public bathroom stalls under careful fingertips, I wish so hard you never happened to me but what would I have done otherwise?
I suppose your trying to **** me evens out owing you my life and though I sympathize, I won't fall for your lies;
you're really just a kid with a crayon trying to sell me the Mona Lisa.
Brother, I've touched paint in my lifetime, I've swirled fine horsehair brushes across an open mind,
and I can tell you your rhetoric is no masterpiece.
Alone alone empty empty
addict, addict
No matter how hard I look at you I can't see you without your lover, how hard she makes you sweat, how she makes you gasp for breath,
in, out, in out.
I can see you leaning hard against those walls,
push kid, it'll never budge an inch.
If my observations count for anything, knowing you doesn't count for anything,
seeing you suffer under ghosts and grime won't make you smile,
no matter how many times I tell you no.
I'll watch you breathe superman until you can leap buildings;
but I won't be watching when you come back down.

Pauses can **** and will,
if you suffer it to be so.

Such suffering is painless, pointless and ill defined,
In most men's minds, it's taken as granted,

while freedom is linked to the toys we always
desired, as boys, we invested worth
in the real, attainable, full-auto

tool for killing any thing that can think about killing me.
Guns, more magic than magic swords, in the hands
of guys like me and Sargent York and Audie Murphy.

War, no AI, I did not say war I said "who are" we fooling?

Suffer not a fool, lightly.
POP
In the future there is a wonderful
Old html 5 effect right there
Like a *** of

Magnesium, flashbulb
Old school indeed
McIverish, in'it? Flash in the pan. Like lightning.

Everything is made of something seems right,

as an idea.

Nothing's wrong with the idea,
Nothing is right, either,
Nothing is impossible,

if there were such a possible state of being, nothingness-ivity…
in light of light existing,
enlightenment demands light, where light is, nothing is not.
Light is thing-if-i-able is it not?
Light's a thing.

If I were to question that
it would change everything would it not?
Nothing is, right? Nothing is right? Who knows?

Silly. A child's word for
"You can not expect me to believe your behave-ing,.."

oops. does not compute

be and have
are so hard for me to see
together.
It's like every word with
be is hiding a clue
that, if AI can break be joined words apart.
In the parts,
you find a thought that came to
be symbolized by the sound
for the thought
be
and the sound for the thought of having

Behave.
I don't get it. Have. Be.

Here again we see the danger of approaching any complex dis

Cussing  without proper oathz for secrecy,
we three or four,
No more.
We can build anything
when somebody finds
Higgs and gets some useful work out of him,
Right now
all he's doing is making stuff heavy.
Matter matter matter everything he touches turns to matter.

Massive ab-usive power at the very lowest level
Of is-ness ever.

Still, there is a ness, a stillness,
a calm being made
effectual as a word from a being whose first words are
"Don't be afraid."
And we obey,
like magi.

It’s four in the morning
half-******, alone
slouching towards brilliance
on the back of a half pack
of cigarettes and a lifetime
spent staring out the faces
in the ceiling.

Been this way since evening
unshaven, undressed
striving to be beautiful
amongst flashbulb memories
of my fingers between her legs
and her phantom song
that cut through the smoke

and tore the heart of every man
left standing
in the room.

How I don't remember is something for laughs
That I don't remember kissing that pretty little lass
But waking up feeling like I had been making out for hours
Is something that truly makes me grin

That next morning my head was in a spin
The feeling of what I had done, but no memory to come
Or at least til later that afternoon
When that brief memory floated back to mind
I bust a gut laughing until my head was fine

The next thought to come
Was how exactly did this happen
What on earth had gone on
To make this long time crush
Straddle high, and get her freak on

A sort of flashbulb memory taking place that night
Leaving much to be questioned, and few if any answers
First, texting one girl saying her place in my heart was secure... blank
Second, locking lips with Miss "Who Do We Have Here?"... blank
Third, Miles feeding me was, though my mouth tastes like ***** and beer.
Absolutely illogical, this has got to be some big joke, crazy and weird

Dear God, or anyone who's listening
Please let me track down this girl to question
I don't even care for another repetition
Simply put, I'm going to ask, "How the hell did we get in that position?"
Hopefully she can and will fill in a good deal of all that's missing.

And I get to fall on my *** laughing.

I never knew tonight
Was the last cigarette in the pack
I never learned which way your hands went
and why
Or if your car would have made it to D.C
without dying
But I remember
How cold your hands were
And how it was raining
And how you looked like an actress
caught
in a
simulated
rainstorm
and the fan would blow your hair
and the water buckets poured
And Johnny offscreen
Banging aluminum sheets together for thunder
a cigarette hangs from his lips
a flashbulb for some lightning
Your umbrella opens up
beneath your make up running
My chest began to squeeze
Between your wet hair falling
I couldn't hold it back any longer

I love you

......and cut

You can smile the smile of perfection
Leave a twinkle in the eye
Move in every direction
As the camera hides the lies

You can take the shot over
Adding dark shades with the brightest of hues
Keeping off camera one thing or another
Hiding what blemishes you choose

Touch it up with Photo Shop
Dress for success in this life
Keep the negatives in the dark room
As the camera hides the lies

Put on an air of achievement
When you haven't really done a thing
Except pose and make love to the flashbulb
Bringing us all into your make believe scene

If we ever knew the real you
Would what your selling, we'd buy
One thing I know as the truth
The camera hides the lies

December 13, 2018

"hey"
all lowercase
My mother never texted me in school
And when she did, it was straight to the point

"call me"
all lowercase
something must be really wrong
she would've pulled me out if it was too serious, right?

my fingertips feel like rocks
as i force them to dial her number
the phone only rang once
when I heard her sniffle

At first, her words were inaudible
I was frantic trying to figure out the code
and just when i found the signal spot
Her words broke me in two

"Cory died, honey"
I stopped dead in my tracks
in front of the guidance counselors office
A single tear down my cheek

I hoped, no, I prayed it was a dream
and in that moment reality hit me
Like a truck racing at full speed
And I walk into her office

In a broken sentence,
I told the secretary it was urgent
And when she wouldn't give up
I yelled as if it was all I could do

I watched my mother's car pull into the school parking lot
And when I entered, it was silent
the kind of silence that deafens you
And i think of him

He wasn't my brother by blood
He was my brother because he treated me like family
More than my own family ever has
There isn't a day that goes by where I don't think of him

I like to think
that even when i am alone
he is always here
watching over me.

in the somber shade
of worn summer nights
hidden were boxes
of summer memories
left to rot in the attic
there’s a fog drifting
through the smokey alley
of memory lane
and words of promises
slowly evaporates
to the empty summer air
i stood there, reminiscing
letting flashbulb images
run through my chaotic heart
a tear falls, and more
as i finally took a step away
from a place we once called
our home

There was a tale of three.

A he, a she, and a me.

He had eyes,
Projector screens,
Reflecting the films you play in your head.

She, a Hollywood queen,
Hair as gold as her heart,
A sucker for romance,
Caught by his flashbulb smile.

Me, the screenwriter,
Knowing the business enough
To recognize the mechanics
Behind the greatest actor
In the world.

Award winning half truths
That I could swear were written by me
Find their other halves
Written in starlight
Shooting from the mouth of he,

The lifetime achievement of
She
Limited to their happily ever after.

Me, playing back over footage
Replaying the scene unfolding between them,
Trying to hear a romantic score,

But rather being bored
By the actor's lazy gestures,
Me, being deafened by the silence
Of this pantomime.

She, while skilled at book work,
Had simply been miscast
By he, who had not yet planned his end scene.

There is a temptation within Me,
To write myself into her part,
But I know,
This show is not about me.

She was not the wrong actress,
Just simply playing a part
Diverting from action.

She froze the plot,
So they existed as pictures,
Perfect in pixels,
Worth a thousand words,

Only no one would ever speak them,
Potential untapped.

I gaze at the screen,
Drifting to sleep in boredom

Being woken at any sign
of the screen going
Dark,

Only to have their starlight,
Lull me back
Into the writer's dream.

When the weight lifts
I rise
Hope like sunshine fills
My eyes
With gentle certainty
Realize
All things change
Nothing dies

I'm not as smart
As I thought
I needed to be
Now I see
I never needed to be
As smart as that

I idolized the intellectual
Depression was my reward
For failing to meet that standard
But life gets hard as the years go by
Harder, harder, yet harder still
Death loses more of its sting
The older I get
Until I'm happy to go out
Like Kevin Spacey's character
In American Beauty
Lost in the portrait of better times
Distracted unaware of danger behind
For at this moment Heaven fills his mind
A camera shot the photograph in his hands
A hateful man shot a .45 slug into his head
With a smile on his face he fell to the floor dead
Life extinguished in the exact amount of time
It took for the flashbulb to illuminate the image
In the frame
Smiles all around, except for the executioner
He was miserable
Feeling the weight of pounds and pounds
Lowering onto his back

Never to lift, thrown into
Water
Drowned like unwarranted litter from the
Fat belly of a mangy dog
Sinking like the ******* twisted face
Of the unwanted feline
Ghost sends for the ropes
Ghoul fetched the heavy stones
Goblin tied the ropes to the animals feet
Gully dwarf secures the stone
And I'm the only one with the sense
To see what needs to be done

Weight has lifted
I'm not as smart as I thought I was
Slow down, read aloud
It's almost as relaxing as cannabis

But that don't mean
I ain't gettin no cannabis tomorrow
And I hope it's bomb sativa
Cuz I wanna fly

I step into the mid-June semi-dark to place
his letter in the mailbox. I flip
the flag to attention, adjust
my polyester robe, open a slit
wider down my center, let the tepid,
lukewarm twilight graze
my nakedness beneath.
I recede up the driveway,
padding barefoot upon the still-warm asphalt, when
the resonant hum of the bikes on the bypass
behind the trees seems to
all at once
lay flush upon the parts
of me left bare, the flashbulb
fireflies too bright, too alive for
the nocturnal lull,
and I pause at the stoop;
After a breath I step
dazed into the hushed air-conditioning
of the foyer, starstruck and
overexposed.

How could she reveal it all, yet still be so mysterious?
I nearly choked on my drink when that beautiful mouth let such foul words grace her lips so soft and sweet.
Her stare gave me cancer,
As if it was finding its way deep inside me,
Hunting and sifting through my thoughts,
And she shot horrible looks of disapproval when I mentioned my favorite music and films.
Guess we have different tastes.

But god,
that laugh was so ******* divine I wanted to capture it in my pocket and save it for later.
She flashed her smile so briefly and sparingly,
Like the flashbulb of a camera, teasing
"Baby, don't you love me?"

I don't even know why I'm so entranced by a twenty year old smug *****.
She didn't even kiss me when we parted ways.

simple swing sunlight
glinting off tiny sparkling feet
the pure joy of wind and speed
rushed and slipping by through the hot summer
days. streams of shadows play and splash
around the busy feet, the small bodies
jump and swoop up and around the
flat cushion ground.

memories are made here, with mom
just an arm’s length away - and then -
woosh! soaring again, mouth with
six new teeth shouting in pure
moment and monuments of love and
fun cement themselves in this
flashbulb second:

imagine it with me, I’ve taken
you there: a girl in a pink
dress, the fluffs of her curls just
emerging from her soft head and wide
brown eyes, her smile suspended in
the air as she floats slowly forward

her mom, her source of love, arms
tan and strong that have held her and
kissed her tears away, outstreched
to meet the red plastic swing to push
again, to push again, and her daughter

enjoys this almost-flight. she never
wants it to end.

i'm trapped inside my own head
bed-ridden, paralyzed with dread
dream sequences, flashbulb memories
keep me from forgetting
everything, anything
that drenches me in cold sweat.

is it too much to ask
to be spared from anxiety attacks?
is it too much to ask
to not be frozen inside flashbacks?

apparently it is
i'm in a state of perpetual fear
i have been asleep for years
i'm screaming from inside
the echo chamber of my mind:
let (let)
me (me)
out (live)

is it too much to want to live?
apparently it is

When a class is boring, the air can feel close and rebreathed - not a comfortable feeling for a COVID child. When the class is finally over, it’s like you’ve escaped something.

Did you know an hour has 60 minutes because ancient Babylonians used a seximal system? (base six).

The class I was in was small, just eight of us around a table in a small room (four students were missing that day) and somehow the class had wandered into the unstable, waring, state of the world.

The professor ended his unscheduled thought, on the result of nuclear war, by saying, “After the nuclear exchanges, when cockroaches take over..”

“No,” I interrupted - it was a flashbulb moment - an impulse. I don’t usually interrupt professors, “Ants. Ants would take over - they’re mobile super-organisms, cockroaches are just meat to them.”

His smile and nod of approval felt warm and cozy, as if my emotions had a texture and temperature - but I knew it was something assigned to me briefly, like a motel room.

Nuclear survival isn’t exactly my bailiwick, I’m not sure where I picked that thought up or why I had the confidence to offer it. Confidence is a thin lever to work with when talking to a professor. I’ve seen professors crush brash students.

The bell rang, I had survived, and Leong was waiting for me in the hall. The crowd in the hall was moving on toward their classes, like water splashing in every direction. Leong barked a laugh. “What?” I asked.

“Neh,” she said, waving her hand (meaning forget it).
“What?” I asked again.
“When I was little, I would visit my grandparents' farm, in Shandong (province, China). They would call their cows in with a bell,” she said, motioning, with both hands to include the crowded hall.
“We’re the most privileged cows in the universe,” she suggested smilingly.
“I suppose we are,” I agreed, as we passed out into a wind as cold and harsh as witches' breath.