in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for

broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches

a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy

i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote

i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves

but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude

uh
yo im back again rippin' through the flesh within'
casted by hail mary broken through fire
im at a higher journey burn the
tystick slow once i split the blunt pull stunts
money endeavor too clever no one could sever
me and my destiny through crime or dope rhymes
i gotta get mine cocked the nine someones bound for a flatline
heart my foes like Valentine i was a **** livin' the dream
of a rock star movie star looked afar and what did i see?
I seen a brother like me askin' me where my heart at?
i told 'em my hearts gone broken bruised soulless restless
when i see caskets close grieve follows its hard to swallow
life cuz it's a big pill got a will but im in the game for the love of it
**** sellin' tales put my soul on the table
millions dollar label pretentious lifestyle buckwild
cold knuckle head im still revengin' for the lynchin'
of my nigguhs servin' time in Clinton Max to San Quentin
im takin' on traditions evil adversaries waitin' to bury
me but im too smooth smoke em like Sun Tzu
behold the pale white horse of course im still Searchin'
in the Skies bawlin' to the Heaven but the Lord don't hear my cry
eyes watery no love for foes or hoes givin' elbows
to those blockin' my way then back to the highway
gettin' high smokin' on that fry i guess ill be a **** til the day that i die '
livin' this life of crimes its hard times
gotta do what i gotta do so ya know where my hearts at
somebody **** the four-five and put me on my back
open up heaven's door with much gore only to be sent back

The metal in this brass knuckle heart
punches my chest from the inside out

The valves, a semiconductor for the static
electricity of your touch

Who ever thought a defibrillator could be so soft?

And in the challenge of this love
I wonder what kind of mettle you're thinking
of now

And I think patience is found
on a molecular level inside the iron
in your blood

And love then, a stone ground down
from your ashes

I mean, pressure and heat are
what diamonds are made from

Tell me again of the struggles you shone through

And through that logic, we are precious stones
but so much softer than that

I want to hold you like the focused light
from a jeweler trying to make a sale
but so much more earnest than that

And what of the contradiction
between hardness
and softness

Because there is you

How can you be so hard
and so full of life?

How can you be so beautiful?

Let us go to that market on Broad Street, the one by Little Theater
where I got mad at you and refused to scale your wrist like it were a skyline –
I did not even knot your knuckle-hair with my sweat.
I was so angry, but I want to go by there again. We can search for some
nectarines and decide which share of our bodies they appear, feel most like.
One will have to be rotting, because your cheeks are an old peach,
black fuzz on the ends of something round, enflaming –
another can be as young-looking as I was when you first touched me.
Then, you will hold the door open while we prance into the House of Pizza,
find that corner bench where painted lighthouses dawn the walls:
I have kissed you here before, once when I was sad and another with a grin.
Sometimes, I wonder how many places I have loved you
but that would be as impossible as counting every way I have known you –
sometimes you are a moon off the axis, sometimes you are a plum
sometimes you are bobby pins in my curl, sometimes not
sometimes I rest on the bench where you licked frosting from my cheek
and sometimes just going to the grocery makes me miss you enough.

We were frolicking through the streets, amusing ourselves
with what was noting less than bliss.

"Points mean prizes my friends,

"Knock the door go on,
"You do it man,

As they walk up to the door one is smiling the other of a
nervous disposition, "relax man,  they discuss the doorbell
or the policeman knock?
The knock is better louder of course attention grabbing
but then other neighbours will hear its echo and curiosity
will awaken them to phones and regrettably police.

The door bell is rang, but not a murmur so repeatedly
they tap it until luminosity awakens and words of
profanity dripped out like a leaky tap. "Dam,
Looking at each other, as hallway lights emerged and
footsteps danced down the stairs a melody of F's P's
and a kaleidoscope of others painted the air.

If I had a swear jar on this house I 'd be a rich man,
as he unlocks the many bolts. "Not a trusting man I see,
The door takes an age to open as we wait eagerly and
then he grinds it open slower than a snail in a race
with a bullet we start to get frustrated.

"Foot meet door, door meet foot,

As the door releases back and the chain is deprived of
its clasping the gentlemen is thrown back not with a
racket but more like slow motion. Then he hits the floor
Like china thrown from a fourth storey balcony.
Then there is silence, "Check his pulse man,
As one of them linger over him listening to what
ever sign of life is left and then like he was reanimated
from the dead he lunges forward and grabs a clump of
hair. One laughs while the other one screams in a girly
kind of shrike. Composing himself quickly, one swift
five knuckle plant and again the gentlemen is out cold.

"You scream like a girl man,
"Did you see that, it was like one of those zombie flicks,
"Ye right, your just a wetter ma man,

As they stood over the man, now joined by his hysterical wife.
Luckily they always carried a roll of duck tape, you never know
when this will come in handy. As the other wrapped it tightly
around her thin lined lips, and the storm became a drizzle of
crying murmurers. Looking at each other knowing that this only
works in the dark they thought of ways to awaken the sleeping
beauty?

"I'll punch him, "Really that got us here in the first place,
Pondering on thoughts one skipped into the adjacent room,
"Dude what are you six,  A silence of embarrassment lingered
as into the kitchen he rummaged through the cupboards like a
homeless dog in the litter bin. Looking in the fridge he found
what was needed.
"What ya going to do rub it under his nose that kipper stinks,
"Some thing like that,

He unwraps it gagging at the odour that perforates the air,
"How can you eat this it smells like a prostitutes well used bits,
The woman smirks in a half terrorized quarter amused mumble.
As he nears his prey fish wrapped in a hand towel, whiffing it
below his nostrils. This isn't working the thought, "F#ck it,
Raising his arm up in the air he slaps the unconscious gent clear
in the chops. He stutters awake in confusion wandering what
was happening then in realization he speaks in ferocity.

"What the hell you doing my house, violating our residency,

"Now that's we like the feisty ones,

An edged smile greets the bound hostages, then the rules are
read out, "Are we listening, the untapped swear tin is about
to release a tirade of profanity on both so they bind his mouth
with what is needed (Shut Um Up Duck Tape) [tm] then silence
is blessed on there ears and they begin quickly to explain the
happenings they find themselves in.

"Why you slumbered we went through your thinks,
"Madam that was quiet a section we found in the bedroom,
"Sir are we on the limp list, there are tablets for that,

"Rules stick to them and maybe you'll survive,
"Not and a lot of bad things can happen,

1. Try to alert anyone they and you die.
2. If you try to escape we have family members addresses
we will hunt them and end them with no hesitation.
3. Have fun as your life depends on it, be imaginative.
4. We have rid the house of any and all knives and blades
5. creativity is the master of invention, you understand.

As the old guy rumbles on trying to speak, he un-tapes
his mouth and listens to his frustrated rabbling's.

"How we know you'll not just **** us,
"This isn't our first or 26th no 27th in fact rodeo.
"There were six of us unfortunately there have been
winners and losers on both sides,
"We are but three lonely shepherds now,
"Three I only see two?
"Our friend is outside guarding the entertainment value
of this diverting fun tonight,

And then without words he said two his playthings,
"You have to the count of 100 to hide to do what must be done
make your peace fight or die its your choice,

They untapped there mouths as to not be muffled of sound
easier to hear on the ear if there crying in fear, and with that
the gentleman gives a capture a five knuckle tap.

"Good shot, and good on you, now run dead man walking,

They both scarpered hand in hand, love will **** you the
other man thought as he watched them run like rabbits.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.................100,
You wouldn't believe it but a hundred seconds takes
quite a long time in the aspect of what were doing.

They at first play games as stomping upon the laminated floor,
so many had ran when they had done this, Idiots. but these
two never flinched, hats off to there courage. Then tactic No2,
we know where you are, were going to come to play with your
insides with our loving blades they like to penetrate you deeply.

As wandering feet did walk on the cold floor they heard the
scurrying of ill footsteps, "we have a rat scampering beneath
our very feet, Both with smiles lingered on the basement footsteps
and slowly descended as what was waiting clambered around in
aimless wondering. Both thought it was the lonely cowering wife.
Not as once thought as the swear box in the darkness gave birth
to profanities and in the midst of our arrival he was weeping like
a new born child. Our knifes were his voice as blood silenced it.

We wiped the memories of his last lingering moments from
the existence of his blade, this fool thought he had strength but
in the end it bled out faster than others before him.
But wait a moment what about the one that blubbered her
fear in a cascade of tears where was she hiding?
"I can smell your fear it sweetens the air,
Both separated to find and cull the last of this herd.

"Please don't hurt me,
"I'm all alone,

He snuck through the hall way hearing here speech in the
darkened bedroom. His knife drawn, to plunge into its
awaiting pray. heading towards the cupboard he thinks
the prey is getting easier these days. "Found you, as
he opens it wide to find a tape recording on repeated play
and a note saying heel *****.... A confused look on his face
till blood seeped silently down his face. In rage he swipes
missing her by millimetres, then she says one final word.
"These are $500 shoes, and gouges it deeply into his throat.

Screaming in gargled silence, his last sight was her giving him
the finger and her foot gently crushing his throat. She got her
manicured fingers and gently grabbed her neck, cracking the
stress out with each crunch.
"There were three little pigs now there are two...
"Oink, Oink, she giggled in nervous thought.

He stood on the stairs shouting in a lulled voice his partners
name, but with no echo of voices he knew that the game was a
foot and another of his clan had paid the ultimate price.
So the husband with all his voice was a lamb to the slaughter
but the wife, the quiet ones are always the ones to look out for.

He was more cautious now that only the two of them breathed,
they were both the prey but who would be the winner of this contest?
he looked upon the box emptied earlier in haste, the gun?
looking inside a note was penned in scribbled in quickened haste.
"If your reading this well done you found only one of my guns,
"BANG,

He jumped back in embarrassment, he looked around in case the
other was lingering in silence behind him. But no one was there
to his pride and ego he sighed out loud. now was the time to seek
the prize, the hunt was needed as in the next room he found the
still warm but deceased comrade with the heel still in his neck.
"That is so not your colour my man,
He thought there isn't many places to hide in this house, yes it
was larger than the pervious ones but that was half the fun or
was It half there down fall?

She crept within the walls this house was of the cotton days,
hiding those needing escape, through the mirror she saw him
wanting nothing more than to end his life.. but she had no
weapon, or was that a false thought as there were the old swords
Sitting ideal in the loft. They were still sharp as she had found out
not but a few months ago. Paper cut my ****... it needed six stitches
but that had now healed as she subconsciously ****** her finger.

He was getting agitated at the aspect that he maybe next,
but brushing aside that thought he went into the mode of hunter,
seeing if odours of perfume lingered in the air but noting greeted
senses except the smell of blood festering on the air.

"Come out and play I haven't got all night to linger in this place,

She could hear fear in his voice he tried to hide it beneath his manly
fasard that was crumbling like a weather worn cliff on the presapace
of collapse. She was a very varied woman that they didn't know,
fear had collapsed her in the first moments but now that had faded
like a sunset, she was a ventriloquist by trade in her youth quite the
entertainer. But she was retired and welcomed the rest, but no time
was there to catch a breath let alone to breathe.

He was starting to think, he should count his loses and leave.
then he heard voices but not from one spot but other places in
the house. Unbeknown to him there was an intercom system
and she was throwing her voices though out the house.
"Who is that , what do you want, How could there be more
than one? There was only two he thought, were  they wrong when
they entered this house? A lone wolf that needed the blood before
his blood was spilt.

She was happy that she took out one with her skills, now it was
the other two players turns she was going to quarter back slap the
hell out of this final invader of her sanity. But how could she play
him? Her husband was dead, she knew that for a fact they were bragging it through out there gloating verses. This was her moment
to show who the wolf was and that they were the sheep herded to
the optimistic place of the final ****, her or them.

She saw him silent and still, she had never seen him this weak, but
this was his chance to save her skin, she found fishing wire, and a
pardon the pun, a broom you know where that went to keep him
stable and up right. The intercom crackled she played his voice
over and over again she used to drive him crazy with he
impersonations of him, it always brought a laugh but the were silent now.

"Come on think I'm dead you cant **** anger you child of
pathetic consequence,  

He feverishly thought of moments past was he dead?
they had gutted him like a fish, how could this be.
Phoning the cover outside he said this was his play and
if It ended he was exiting stage left. One final voice spoke
that he knew the rules if he was to exit then he was to end
his existence, there were rules for a reason.

She was had it planned the recorder the fish wire and that broom,
saying her apologies to her dearly departed but it wasn't anything
strange those toys upstairs weren't only hers you know.
Calling over the intercom, "Lets party you, swear box was
blessed with over a hundred coins the tirade of vocal words she
expelled on the air waves. He recognized that expel of vocabulary
as that person he ended not so few hours ago and confusion ignited
on his features to what the hell was going on in this place.

Stepping in palpitating haste he descended in slow motion, not
with the vigour of what was replayed earlier in the night.
"I killed you once old man I'll do it again,
But fear was expelled this time not courage of the **** like before,
He took played his fingers on the wall to find the switch.
No longer did it enlighten the surroundings, he was in darkness,
and then before him he stood, but he cant stand he had gutted him
and no one comes back from that.

"Who says I'm dead, your just a poor excuse for a mummies boy
go on cry ya little...,

Then in haste he lunged at the oldd man, not thinking straight.
fear and anger eclipsed ratinal thought as he sang his blade into
his skull. Cold eyes stared back, then he realized It was a trap,
He felt it but it was not as he thought he would have felt his
skin screamed out in tears of crimson. A sword was visual
through the front and back of his own self. He swore at her
knowing his time was moments away. she spoke from the dark,

"Its not this that's going to **** you, remember what you found
in the bedroom,

"Oh come on lady just plunge the blade in again I cant move,

But she didn't listen  as she bludgeoned his face with it, different features greeted with each impact till his features were just blooded and
he no longer moved anymore. Her face was a collage of blood from
those she had ended, holding her husband in her arms stroking his
remaining hair. Kissing him on the head she gently put him down.
Opening the porch door she spoke out, "I have ended this playtime
I am the queen of this house, the others are still, static you going to
end me now?

"Rules are rules I'm sorry but I must leave you now,
"Congratulations for winning your life,
"Sorry you lost whoever pasted in the game,
"Know if they had walked out they would have been dead,
"Rules are rules,

There was silence, then on the doorstep she rested her bloodied hands
on her knees and tears of fear, of courage poured out.
She was the winner of this even though she felt totally lost.
Sirens were heard in the distance and she just sat there still....

THE BOY IN THE TOILET HOLDS A BLADE TO HIS WRIST.
YOU AREN’T IN LOVE WITH HIM. AT LEAST, NOT YET.
NOW, HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO HOLD YOU
WHEN YOU BREAK APART OF WHEN YOU FALL ASLEEP
RIGHT NOW, ALL HIS HANDS KNOW ARE THE WAYS
TO MAKE SELF DESTRUCTION FEEL A LOT LIKE SELF INDULGENCE.
HE LOOKS AT THE MIRROR AND INSIDE HIS EYES
YOU CAN SEE THE WAY HIS UNDECIDED WHITES MIX WITH HIS BLUES
PREPARING FOR A WAR IN HIS MIND
TO GIVE UP ON ALL THAT LIFE HAS TO OFFER.
HE DOESN’T SEE THE WAY HIS BLUE-GREEN ORBS SWIRL,
LIKE THE WAVES OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN CRASHING ONTO THE SHORE.
HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THAT BLUE IS NOT ONLY THE COLOUR
OF THE SUIT HIS FATHER WORE IN HIS COFFIN BECAUSE
THE SHADE ONLY SEEMS TO REMIND HIM OF THE WAY
HIS FATHER USE TO TELL HIM THAT HE WAS DISAPPOINTED.
HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THAT BLUE IS ALSO THE COLOUR
OF FREEDOM AND IF HE WENT OUT OF THE HOUSE ENOUGH
HE WOULD HAVE SEEN IT IN THE CLOUDS AND THE BIRDS
BUT NOW ALL HE CAN DO IS STARE AT HIS REFLECTION
IN THE TOILET OF THE FLESH AND BONES THAT CARVE HIS DEMEANOUR AND SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL HIM
THAT HIS EYES REPRESENT THE OCEAN
AND THE WAY IT IS RELUCTANT TO GIVE UP KISSING THE SHORE
NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES IT HAS BEEN SENT BACK.
DO NOT GIVE UP.
SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL HIM THAT HIS EYES
ARE MORE THAN JUST BLUE AND HIS SKIN
IS MORE THAN JUST SCARS BECAUSE IF WHAT HE WANTS
TO CARVE OFF IS NOT JUST SKIN AND BLOOD
BUT THE PAIN FROM THE BEATING PULSE BENEATH IT
TELL HIM TO MOVE ON FROM HIS FATHER’S DEATH
BECAUSE THAT WOULD HURT A LOT MORE
THAN JUST STOPPING THE PULSE.
DO NOT GIVE UP.
SOMEONE NEEDS TO TEACH HIM THAT THE BLADE
IS NOT THE ANSWERS OF ALL HIS PROBLEMS
BECAUSE EVEN IF SCARS HEAL, LIFE MAY NOT BE ABLE
TO FORGIVE YOU FOR THE TIME YOU SPENT MOURNING IN GUILT.
DO NOT GIVE UP.

THE BOY IN THE TOILET HOLDS A BLADE TO HIS WRIST.
YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH HIM. AT LEAST, YOU THINK YOU DO
BUT YOU STILL CAN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND WHY THE DEMONS
CHOOSE HIM AND WHY HE REFUSES TO LET GO BUT TONIGHT
HE PUTS DOWN THE BLADE AND THE BLAME
BECAUSE HE HAS YOU.

YOUR TOUCH BURNS HIM MORE THAN THE BLADES EVER HAVE
AND HE THINKS THAT THE SCARS ARE HEALING
BUT HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THAT PEOPLE LEAVE SCARS TOO
SO HE HOLDS YOU AT NIGHT
AS YOU WHISPER EMPTY PROMISES IN HIS EAR.
DO NOT GIVE UP.
HE LISTENS AS YOU TELL HIM THAT HIS EYES
REMIND YOU OF THE GALAXIES
AND EVERY TIME THAT YOU ARE WITH HIM
YOU CAN FEEL THE STARS BURNING IN YOUR STOMACH.
DO NOT GIVE UP.
YOU TEACH HIM THAT GRIEF HAS TO BE LET FREE
AND YOU WATCH AS HE TURNS INTO SOMEONE
YOU NO LONGER RECOGNISE,
HAPPIER, LIGHTER, SO FULL OF LIFE.
DO NOT GIVE UP.
THE BLADES ARE NO LONGER IN THE CABINET UNDER THE SINK
BUT AT THE DRUGSTORE IN PERFECT LITTLE PACKAGES WAITING TO BE BOUGHT.
HE DID NOT GIVE UP.

THE BOY IN THE TOILET HOLDS A BLADE TO HIS WRIST.
YOU ARE NOT IN LOVE WITH HIM. AT LEAST, YOU WERE ONCE.
HIS EYES SLOWLY GATHER MORE BAGGAGES AND
HE DOESN’T EVEN RECOGNISE HIMSELF
WHEN HE LOOKS AT THE MIRROR
BECAUSE ALL THAT STARES BACK IS AN EMPTY SHELL.
HE FINALLY UNDERSTANDS WHAT YOU MEANT
WHEN YOU TOLD HIM THAT PEOPLE COULD LEAVE SCARS TOO
BECAUSE THERE IS ONE, KNUCKLE DEEP, IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS HEART
AND HE URGES HIS EYES TO START THE ENDLESS WAR
BUT INSTEAD HE STARTS TO SEE THE GALAXIES
AND THE STARS IN HIS EYES THAT YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH
SO TONIGHT HE PUTS DOWN THE BLADE.
HE STARTS TO UNDERSTAND
THAT EVEN THOUGH OTHER PEOPLE CAN SHOW HIM
THE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS,
IT ONLY DEPENDS ON HIM TO PICK UP THE BROKEN PIECES.

~ BY THEODORE ROETHKE
The whiskey on your breath  
Could make a small boy dizzy;  
But I hung on like death:  
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans  
Slid from the kitchen shelf;  
My mother’s countenance  
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist  
Was battered on one knuckle;  
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head  
With a palm caked hard by dirt,  
Then waltzed me off to bed  
Still clinging to your shirt.

I know the feel of your bones
creases in the  knuckle
The skin stretched taught
Grasping with my love, my hands

I love the squishy parts of you
The parts that give to my touch
Through your cream skin
I see the highways and byways
That bring my love life

your slender neck wants my kisses
to begin their way
down the valley of your spine
mmmmm those hips
the curves and dips

She turns up  her music because she knows it annoys me.
I push my earphones in as far as they'll go.
Kate Nash 's screeching drowns out the Cranford Nix whispering in my ears.
We sit screaming at each other with our mouths shut.

If I were the bad guy, wouldn't she be bleeding?
If I were the bad guy I'd be out right now with my friends rather than sat with her in her ****** tiny ******* car.
If I were the bad guy , we wouldn't be in this situation.
I wish I were a worse person sometimes.
I wish she was who she says

I touch a broken finger to a bruised knuckle and look over at her dry pale cheeks.
Why isn't she crying?
Why the **** isn't she the one that's hurt.
I think i wish she was.
That would be something.
Jesus give me ******* something.

I don't think I'm the villain of this story but I'm beginning to suspect that I'm not the hero either.

heads turn
and minds churn
as the old white knuckle
brings life to the board
facilitation (and procreation!)
become heavenly fit
for the
paradigm day

jitter men
and podium seniors
sit cocked
in the back row
front runners
bust a brain box
(their lines frayed
and edges portrayed)

truth makers tread
the center stage
(with a new and improved
product portfolio)
an evolution
of human spirit
mobilized
in apparent
perfect form

sound bites
and titillating calls
echo from
the main hall
a wise man
cringes
on a poorly
timed exchange

mind sets moving
quid pro quo
intuitions
and convictions
viewpoints
and revelations
all fun
and fundamental
(or so they say)

depth charts
and zodiac principles
speak to the masses
abbreviations
refreshers
and timeless
lifelines

we’d like a peak
inside of you
a glimpse
of your point of view
the turks and talking heads
speak of
grand design
and inclusion

class complete
(interpreted at the 7th sneeze)
please check those thoughts
and insights
the final answers
are coming
(satiric)

T*hree seventy-five. At my current muscle weight, that’s the amount of force, in pounds, with which my fist smashes into my opponent’s face. Flesh molds against my knuckles, vessels rupture under the impact; I am that unstoppable object, that destruction you can only watch. I am that confused, hurt, angry child. I channel it through my arms, conduct it through my knuckles, watch it spark and jump from fist to cheekbone. This is the therapy I so wantonly crave, so needed. The only place I can vent the full wrath of my frustration upon the world; or…at least, a single member of it….

Jump back three days.

     *Why can’t I see you more? I text her. Because I don’t want a relationship. She says. I don’t need a relationship. I just want to see more of you. I tell her. I’m afraid I’ll invest too much. She says. I don’t understand. Is that a bad thing? Seven years of friendship, two of off-on dates and rendezvous. How could you get more invested? What else can you spill after your hearts in a pool at my feet?
I drank a lot that night.

Jump back four days.

     I’m coming out that way. What are you doing tonight? I always initiate…everything. Always the first question, the first proposal, the first, the first, the first. Am I that threatening? Going out with friends. Homework and going out is all this woman seems to do. Maybe one less night with friends, one more with me wouldn’t hurt? Cool. Celebrating a birthday with friends, we’ll be out and about. Maybe we should meet up? If I’m here, she’s got no reason to refuse me…right? I thought distance was our only problem. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me stupid drunk. What a stupid excuse. I actually want to see you stupid drunk. I will at some point if we keep things up.

     Long story short, a guy she sometimes ***** is going to be wherever it is they’re going, and she doesn’t want to have two guys she’s seeing in the same vicinity. What does that make me? I’m getting frustrated with all this confusion and sideways talking. My group incidentally ends up at the same place they are. I don’t even talk to her face-to-face. I’m such a sporting guy. She goes home...alone, to my relief. I get stupid drunk with friends. But never forget to message her back and act like everything’s cool.

Jump ahead a week.

     More conversations to clear up why I fill only one void in her life lead to more confusion. I’m frothing with it. It’ll be in my mouth soon. Wait…I taste it already.

     “Let’s drink and pick fights,” I say to a couple buds. Two hours out, we’re sloshed and trading licks in a back alley. The guy that had taunted and jostled me in the bar follows us out and picks a fight. Says I’m too drunk. Not worth it. I hide a smile, raise my arms, “Let’s see.”

     Shirts are off. Left hook to my ribs, I pivot an elbow, deflect with forearm. This leaves his side open. I duck his wild right-hand and drive a straight hit into his open spleen. He hits the alley wall. “Still want to take a drunk?” I taunt from my knee. He comes back, still sure of himself. I’ll show you what confidence does to us, my friend. He puts up a boxer’s guard and comes back, more cautious. Friends and enemies cheer and joan around me. I don’t hear a thing. There are thoughts. Dark, confused, smashed together, waiting to be dealt with. I focus on all of it. I focus on his face. I listen to the conversations that leave me more hurt and alone than they should. I lean into a false waltz stance, he doesn’t notice the feet. I notice his. He’s more drunk, on less, than I. Every time you breathe, I hope you think of me. The mass in my mind flows through my arms and legs. I charge and he punches straight where my head should go. I dodge right, grab his wrist, snap in and pull out, stringing him in an invisible flaying bed; my left elbow crosses his solar plexus, throwing him to the ground. Knees pin his arms. The hate, and anger, and confusion, and helplessness dissolve between fist and flesh, arc across the pain in my heart and the bruises and blood flowing freely from a fool....

Never entice a man with a need to portray his problems upon a heedless world.

     His friend steps in and plants a well-thought-out fist against my jaw. The one on the ground is down for the count. My friends don’t step in. They know me. I roll off him before his friend’***** can follow through. Now I have physical pain to channel, too. I grin and my assailant isn’t comforted. This is the release I need. This is my way out. This is what will help. *******, world. ******* girl. **** all of you for your games and your feelings and your mysteries. To hell with why you think you need to hide your heart. Wear it on your ******* sleeves. **** your dishonesty and your insincerity. **** your exes. May you all drowned in your lies and guilt and shame. **** you for assuming I’d ever judge any of you, for not taking my love at face-value, for thinking I had anywhere near the ulterior motives you all harbored. My left hand grabs his left elbow, simultaneously blocking a right jab and flipping his arm out of the way for the full force of my right arm into his ribs. A cacophony of bone and flesh giving way to my wrath meets my ears. He yelps. Never yelp when you’re trying to be strong for a friend. Keep your ****** lips closed, *******. He recovers only slightly before my right meets his face. My arc is perfect: the momentum of muscle as it curves the natural twist of a muscled arm, the darkness of my life gathering on knuckle-tips like obsidian gems glinting in the ***** hallway between worlds of vice and vindication, the cording muscle releasing the pent-up rage of a thousand lives gathered in one body.

     Connection shatters worlds. The horror of life bleeds across his broken window to the world. The reflection of my jeweled nirvana winks across his eyes. See the world I live in, failed rescuer. See the hopeless honor I hold in my *****. Sleep with the knowledge that even when you try, someone will always be there to flash the dark, jaded realities across your eyes…and bring you to my level.

     The other friends won’t budge ‘till I’ve stepped past. They part like the Red Sea for me. My ark is empty until I interact with the world tomorrow.

Brief peace is better than none.

-###-

Ball my fists
And hunch my shoulders
Swinging wildly
Til knuckle meets boulder
Does the earth merit my blood?
Do my bones merit the mud?
My voice becomes a vessel for words reserved for sailors and such
And my belly a sloshy sloppy pocket of ***
Writhing is my skin
At the thought of him within
Alone with no means of defense
Where defense means offense
And offense brings a means to an end
But I'd rather not think on the end
As I'm only about to begin
So I make a fist
And swing
Until nerves breach the bone
And veins burst within
I've known splinters and flint
And broken glass on skin
I know what it is to go without breath
And drown in the sink
This is just another week

The Lord High Constable’s men came down
To Camberwell’s village square,
They asked the Crier to call Oyez
To gather the villagers there,
He rang his bell and the people came
Agog, when they heard him say,
A rogue they sought was abroad, they thought,
Was last seen heading their way.

‘Beware this man, he’s an evil rogue,
He battered his wife to death,
The woman lay in a blind dismay
Breathing her final breath,
If anyone sees a stranger here
Who looks like a feral lout,
Be sure to alert the magistrates
By calling the footpad out.’

The people scattered, went to their homes
And locked and bolted each door,
Then stood there parting the curtains,
Just to be safe and sure,
Most of the men were still at work
But not for the widow Hayes,
She’d not long buried the husband
She’d loved in her salad days.

So when she turned the key in the lock
She couldn’t resist a tear,
She missed the man who would hold her hand
And quieten every fear,
She was much too young for a widow,
Or that’s what everyone said,
And so was Tom, but he’d travelled on,
Had left to lie with the dead.

She turned, was suddenly listening
When she heard an alien note,
And there stood a man in her kitchen
Holding a knife at her throat,
‘I mean no harm, don’t be alarmed
I just need a place to stay,
And please don’t weep, for I just need sleep,
But don’t give the game away.’

He made her lie on her narrow bed
And he cuddled up behind,
One of his arms around her waist
Though he asked if she didn’t mind,
She lay there, feeling his body warmth
And it made her think of Tom,
Would ever she feel like this again,
How long, Oh Lord, how long?

She didn’t know how it happened, but
She felt when he raised her shift,
Deep in the dark, dead pit of night
Her skirt had begun to lift,
She bit her knuckle and shed the tears
That would soak her pillowcase,
And muttered, when it was over, ‘So,
That’s what they mean by ****!’

She cooked him a meal at breakfast time
And thought, ‘He isn’t so bad.’
Then, ‘What if my folks could see me now,
They’d think I was going mad.
I’m cooking a meal for a murderer
Though he says that it wasn’t him,
He thinks that it was his neighbour
So he says, some guy called Jim.’

He stayed three days and was gone that night,
Under a starless sky,
The widow Hayes had grown fond of him,
It was hard to say goodbye.
But the news came back that they cornered him
Had seen him try to escape,
And questioned what she had done with him,
She didn’t mention the ****.

They sent him down at the old Assize,
And sentenced him for his crime,
They wouldn’t believe that it wasn’t him
‘They say that, all of the time!’
He struggled up on the gallows there
With the face of a man who begs,
While she stood near in the Hanging Square,
Stepped up, and pulled on his legs.

David Lewis Paget

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly **** out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence

There once was a man on border patrol
With a heart not unlike a massive black hole
He wore his uniform with brilliant pride
As he sent immigrants back to the right side
A hero of the nation
Into the night he would ride
Some nights he would find twas not a soul to be found
As he searched the dry, sand covered ground
But on others he’d find, much to his delight
Many to which he was not so polite
Harsh and cruel was he
Always, he was a true knight
One day as the patrolman was on the job
Some animals came to start a large mob
They were angry with the hero, they did not agree
“America” they shouted “should be FREE”
He smiled and with sound mind replied
“Not if it was up to me”
They raged at this, which made him chuckle
Until one of them struck and jaw met brass knuckle
Seeing this act of violence, more law men jumped in
The law was the law, and the law would win
just as it should be
just as it hasn’t been
But the patrolman was put away
And the immigrants got to stay
Because not all stories have happy endings
At the end of the day

always  always be ready for when trouble
comes knocking on your door with a flayed knuckle
for trouble always has a bare visage to make you buckle
it always has the patience of an hour glass and its sand
thus, you must needs learn how to endure and stand
against troubled winds in a sometimes irksome world

I have a scar on my right hand, directly below my ******* knuckle.
It is from my teeth digging into my skin while I shoved my fingers down my throat.
It is from me trying to rid myself of hate,
To rid myself of ugly.
To rid myself of the thought that, "I am not worthy if I am fat".

It has been exactly 1 year and 3 months since I last forced myself to *****.
And I can tell.
I can see every single calorie that was not purged,
Every single pound that my body has held on to,
And every single ***** look in the mirror.

But for some reason, you don't see that.
You undress me and you call me beautiful.
It makes me want to *****.
You touch me and i flinch.
You tell me you love me and I ask how?

The only time I feel worthy is when I'm gagging into a toilet bowl with swollen eyes.

These pale little fingers
Are lavishly decorated:

Dried clay soil
Around and under jagged stubby nails
A pink crescent-moon scar
On the third one's second knuckle,
India Ink dried in drips and streaks
Deep whorl prints
Like no others- snowflakes, IDs

And slow to heal,
Painful to the touch,
These omnipresent little slashes,
Paper Cuts.

I only drink ferocious black coffee--
a silverback strong knuckle-sandwich  to the chest
because it screams at my throbbing heart like a drill sergeant.

I drink whisky because
because I enjoy the the burning taste
of sandpaper raking against the back of my throat.
And it gets me hammered the quickest.

Pizza for breakfast,
I'm eating champions of pineapple and bacon
with four different cheeses because *******.

The words I write are contrived reflections
trying to get by in a place I'm trying to convince myself I belong.

Cynicism glares with tired sunken eyes
at deja vu reiki songs,
but my hymnal is the bottom of a moscato,
and I sing louder when grey ghosts from the past
whisper lonely nightmares.

i am not me
im the thing opposite to
the vision in the
room adjacent 
small muffled voices suggest through
this fixed wall tall
things that coulda or shoulda been said

on the other side
things that will be said

filled w dread in bed still cant get up
the sun hasnt won me over yet
im one with the moon
glowfist knuckle **** if i know pushpull hopedoom
lunacy looming over this 
wish
to be 

me
or something
bigger than me

something
i made

i am not me 
i am not this 
i am vision(less)
behind the wall next 
theres no door theres no window 
but ill find a way in
or not
i might jus warm
my hands in the corner
of this dialed-up nondescript
dark elongated room

im torn

she told me to write about
the happiest I’ve ever felt;
the happiest moment in my entire life,
and there is never such a circumstance
in it’s singularity that can be defined,
but in a string of circumstances
a definite divinity can be seen
through the cracks;
sobriety, the comfort of sobriety
makes me feel not quite as content
as the comfort of intoxication,
but the fact I can find refuge
in both is enough to make me,
the way the legs of my bedside table
are cut uneven and the way it
dances when I write,
the knuckle of my *******
kissing a hot coffee cup
in weariness, it makes me,
clichés and the cologne of
grass after rain
petrichor and nasal stained
memories make me,
smokers coughs and phlegmy
clearings, mental crosswalks
with hands and I still walk
with my mouth,
that makes me,
the sky,
and the ground,
mailboxes with the flag down,
telephone poles with expired
promotion posters,
faux homelessness
in small towns,
leaves changing,
trees dying and
coming back to life,
how the wind feeds
conservation,
weeds growing in pavement,
dandelion stains on new jeans
or new jeans staining dandelions,
snowfall,
struggling to pick eggshells out of
yolk bowls,
*** and cigarettes and they dont
go well together
for me at least,
abandoned barns,
barns in use,
the sound of tires on
gravel driveways,
the strength
or lack there of
to smoke when I’m sick,
it makes me,
the look of others when
I allow my dog to kiss my mouth,
the top fret of a guitar,
it’s low and reminds me of
a child’s cough,
wearing my fathers
stained white tee’s
under 80 dollar plaid sweaters,
it makes me happy,
all of this and more make me happy,
but I still can’t touch mirrors
and listen to the way I breathe before bed,
and thats why I sleep with a fan on.

Time to Get Serious: In the Poet's Nook
Originally posted here on
June 9th 2013

Yes it is verifiable, just as prior alluded to,
a few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs,
wizened gray, like occupant, all seen better days,
overlooking the Peconic Bay,
where inspiration glazes over the water

Despite prodigious production o'er past weeks,
ditties, love laughing tributes, silliness aplenty,
these works of dishes washed, Paul Simon,
what to wear to your funeral, knuckle kissing, etcetera...
Though some contained soft shelled, mints of juleps hints,
little sundries, items for sale re suicidal thoughts,

no one takes-tales you serious

Be it tormented rain, intemperate gusts
whipping lashes of sand
excuses real, manufactured and yet,
despite opportunities always existed,
but you answered the question unasked,
you're unready, more likely, fearful.
to pen in the Inner Temple, in the nook.

In the nook, the poems float by, you need only extend arm and
grab them whole, ripened by the delivering breezes,
If you unmask pretense, and wear a seat belt

But here I am, and the welcome I receive is the one
deserved, for one who has joined the ranks of deniers

Favorable prevailing breezes service the sailboats pleasantly,
turn surly and unmanageable from neglect and disuse poetically,
they mock this coward, taunting:

We have waited, fall and spring, for you, our sacrificial lamb.
Your return we smelled, the odor of barbecue and suntan oil,
We observed your beach touring, your eyes upon the moonlight
Highflying, highlighting the path you follow when walking upon the
Water when nobody knows, nobody sees

You scarce provided the deep reveal that is our woeful provenance,
So, having returned, unleash or leave,  expose your La Mancha countenance,
Fulfill your daddy's curse,#
Portray the siren shriek of our gulls insistent,
the blood cold words, as of now, yet unfastened, un-cast,
the forge lit and fired,
Are you ready, self-appointed, poetry smithy, wright-man?%

On knees bent you should have approached,
For the inspiration, years rendered, unpaid, and unacknowledged
But most of all because of these interlopers attached to you,
So many children, green shoots, babes visiting the bay,
New friends hoisted upon us without permission!

Do they understand despite the solemn serenity
of the place you attend,
This is the observatory
where the stars and scars,
undiscovered and unexposed,
become our property to carry-cross the ocean?

Do they comprehend that black is the only color permitted and the
sunshine coverlet is meant to keep the unmotivated, the uninitiated,
who think that writing poetry is easy,
unaware, and far away from us, the truth purveyors

Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.


June 9th
2013
Late afternoon.
#What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

Step One
Feel the bare mattress scratch against your thighs
and moan in self-pity ‘cause it hurts like a-
Rub broken knuckle stubs into your temples.
Stretch out one two three toes and pretend not to taste ashes on your tongue.
(Forget to brush the cancer out of your mouth again?)

Step Two
OPEN YOUR  ******* EYES
Oh don't be so ******* self-righteous.
Use scarlet nails to probe Scarlett pupils,
wipe away the morning slime and marijuana high, because
quite frankly, no-one wants to see that.

Step Three
The carpet has another puke stain.
Lovely.

Step Four
Walk around Carpet’s new addition.
Choose to be Superman- leave lights off.
You're not Superman.
Bump in T.V. stand, dressing table, fan.
Jesus Kid. How many more bruises do you want to acquire?
‘Sal right though. They’ll fit in just fine.

Step Five
Bathroom.
Violet fluorescent bulb-ly lights that nobody likes.
Twitchtwitchtwitch.
Come on now- when’s the last time you’ve changed them?
Yellow ****- not surprising.

Step Six
Wow. You have not gotten any better looking.
The poetically inclined ****** with knotty curls
and a brazen face your mother likes to call
Darling,
is staring from that cracked up mirror
into your pink, anemic eyes.
And man.
Even your ******* reflection wants to jump ship.

Step Seven
Where are your shoes?
Socks?

Step Eight
High school really is Hell, huh?
Keep your head up Kid; or down…
Last night’s hurrah is still evident
in those washed out, glazed eyes rolling
around in your head.
But don’t worry-
you’ve got a small token of the American Dream
in your back pocket!
You didn’t forget did you?!
Ah- Happy Birthday Kid;
enjoy your ******* oxy-
and try to stop shaking.
You look a mother ******* drug addict.

Search through repression
Self-tempered aggression
its all a lesson in wit,
Slip and suddenly split
your mind eyes up two faces
that line right up opposing
I'm composing verse, or is it reversed.
Verse composing me you see, but not only me
its us
in spite of all trust, lust, one night stands and bad *****
we're here still procreating.
Our insatiable need to keep it all going
to keep it all turning. We're yearning for a lack of
anything, something to rub up against and start grunting.
Thumping our heads against walls, the city sprawl
fights back
always on your back
'til you middle aged, in a rage and you feel a crack.
So lacking my shoulders slumped, I'm stacking.
Bawling my eyes out on pills, ****, coke & ***,
"steady on son, steady, its all a bit of fun"
My shoulders slump some more, I'm lagging
"Give 'im a ***, he's hanging."
Knuckle dragging, I'm prangin'.
But guess what, I've got a little tip
Everyone's medicated its a shame they don't know it.
So that's my little note for the day.
Read. Ignore. Fade Away.

Welcome to the meat shop
Where arms and legs dangle from the top,
Where discarded fats ooze from the lid
Of a metal bin and a giant squid
Is sneaking out through the crack near the back door.

And the floor is ***** and slippery like butter
Oyster juice stained the buttons on the cash register.
Aunty comes with her butcher knife.
She’s about to chop the life
Out of that carp. She misses! And swears.

Her finger, clean cut, and bounces off the floor.
My lord!
Blood sputters from her knuckle.
The entire scene gives me a chuckle.
And I wake up from my dream hungry.

My callused fingers will be worn to the knuckle

Before I produce what outside people would call a ‘song’.

I live in a world of one.

The idea that another pair of eyes truly exists frightens me

Let alone another pair of ears.



Another pair of ears that hears the pathetic wobble of my voice

As I mutter through another verse

And attempt another mimicry at all those artists

That transcend myself in every aspect.

What can I expect?

Not once in my life have I surpassed an outside person.

Sometimes I catch myself in a car window;

A shop mirror,

And mistake myself for one of them,

Before I see the ripples of odious self-doubt

That pierce the pores of my skin,

Reminding me of my place

And so I retreat back into my cage without a lock.



I am the ghost the world forgot,

The more-than-welcome guest left in the corner by the dog.

You can feel it,
In the voices of men on
phones in bars
Spitting apologies turned
recriminations.
You can feel it,
In the scratching of strings
on the guitar
of an inmate and the eyes that
stare in the face of disinheritance.
You can feel it,
In the clasp of the couple
at the beginning or the end
In bed in the dark
in a fleshy shell.
You can feel it,
In  the ink on a page
scribbled in rage
that goes nowhere
but leaves you different.
You can feel it,
In screams of a soldier
turned human through pain
calling 'mum!' or 'god!'
dying abandoned .
You can feel it,
In the cries of a child
who's met unfairness
and not learned to swallow the blades
so throws them out in tears.
You can feel it,
In goodbyes that are
lost for words
but language cannot express.
You can feel it,
In the the stretched out fingers
of those trying to reach
a hand or hate or love or life.
You can feel it,
In watching another slip
and slide away
and flail their useless limbs.
You can feel it,
As the morning rain
hits your hand
and cleanses the skin on your knuckle.

You can feel it sting
You can feel it sting
Let it sink in
and feel it.