cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?

It started with our late nights and early morning conversations
The random occasions that turned into night caps of psychological ******* is what intrigued me
I only want to know her on a platonic level
I want us to feel something different
Something real
Because truth is when you speak
I get a little weak
The vibrating waves of your voice sends my adrenaline into a rush of multiple frequences
It causes me to have premature ventricular contractions
Meaning you make my heart skip beats
In other words I want us to have soul ***
Our bodies to touch but with clothes on because you haven't been fully naked until you've allowed your fears to be exposed
Understand this isn’t a ****** prose
I want this poem to reroute the superficial ****** game that men played with you
Tonight my only intentions are for us to get high
But not with herbs
I want us to be faded with nouns and verbs that speak life as I ignite this erratic twelve play because the foreplay is just for play
Eargasms that constrict our minds let our spirits bind from the moments when I forgot to pull out by not realizing I was coming on too hard
No need for protection when we experience the cerebral stimulating erections from the raw ******* of sedated discussions
Imagine the eruptions you’ll experience when you vibe off me
Can you feel it yet? No?
Maybe a little deeper is what you need
I need for you to feed me your thought process so I can taste your emotions
If this poem had a body you would be the brain
So let me investigate your introspection by interviewing every inch of you
Reaching the climactic **** of this conversation by deep stroking into your deepest seas so I can see exactly what lies inside a divine mind
You will make the seven wonders wonder where they went wrong
A love we share that's so vividly deep even the four oceans will be jealous of its depth
I want us to be in depth with each other
I want my thoughts to wrestle with your feelings and your questions play hide and go seek with my answers
Suffocate me with your beauty
Ravish me with every word so I feel the sensations from two sapiosexuals making love
I want us to stargaze under Jupiter’s moon as we stare into the solar system trying to combine our souls with God’s system
Let’s touch each star as we track down a meteor shower and shower each other with laughs for hours until you’ve fallen asleep on my chest
And the best part of it all is watching you sleep
Because as you lay here
I have dreams about your dreams
Then realize how jealous I am because your dreams can see parts of you that I’m still dying to meet
So if I am someday privileged to make this come true, you must allow me to fall in love with you

The way her chest falls and rises again
to come back and meet with her clothes,
I find it comforting - not sure why,
but I do.

Maybe, It's because when I see her breathing in,
Slowly, relaxed, on time,
She can do it, so then I know,
So can I.

The waves come in and hug the sand,
Just like her chest does in breathing.
I come in to hold her hand,
but she's forever leaving.

The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.

You give me premature ventricular contractions.
---

You touch me like a melody;
playing my skin like a silent song.
With your finger prints across my ribs,
and lyrics pressed between our lips,
I can feel you in my blood.

He gives me a premature ventricular contraction –
Simply referring to inefficient blood circulation –
Causing my heart to skip a beat on every occasion.

Ever so often thereafter, he performs a cardiectomy –
In other words, a surgical removal of the heart – on me
Through which my precious heart is stolen by my Timmy.

I still experience dyspnea – difficulty in breathing –
And my breath is taken away by he who is my Spring,
My one and only significant other and my everything.

universe, displace from me
this trauma in the breaking
of my father’s favorite scotch glass
for it is simpler to clear glass shards
from the dishwasher and laminate tile
than ventricular shrapnel from my chest

eyebrows
straight as a net
keep me serving lets
racquet, arm, the ball
is all i don't know

40-love
scoreboard soothsayer
divining the true value
of affectionate devotion
game, set, deuce off the bat
[wrong sport]

my serve is in returning
paper bags brimming
with your belongings
(our volleys never lasted)

game, set, match
[applause]

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

jes kiddin’ a leetle

He gives me a premature ventricular contraction,
simply referring to inefficient blood circulation.
Causing my heart to skip a beat on every occasion.

Ever so often thereafter, he performs a cardiectomy –
In other words, a surgical removal of the heart, on me.
Through, which my precious heart is stolen by my Baby.

I still experience dyspnea – difficulty in breathing,
and my breath is taken away by he who is my Spring,
My one and only significant other and my everything.

from our shores
we stake out our boundaries
at various distances for safety

outside of them
we are entrusted to traverse
quietly
with humility
with delicacy

because,
when we are lovingly let
to draw nearer -

we are allowed to discover
the light and life that many of us must leave
buried
amongst brush and boulders or
beneath the sand

quietly hidden from
the ravenous wandering souls
staring on
tempestuous howling storms
unconsciously devouring
what we haven't tucked away for safe keeping

& with such great gratitude
to have that arterial vein
willingly
with trust
opened for you to climb in
so you can be let to listen
to hear
to see
  to know
the most earnest vibrations
intricate intimacies
  the warm heaving and sighing
the most sacred temple
   the most venerable *****
   a ventricular vestibule
   intimating the harshest subtleties
& the most visceral visions

Nostalgia,
Knocketh on mine ventricular door
Saying
Where art thou?
Mi amour'....
Where art thou?
Mine home....
Wherein art thou?

Tis,
I don't knoweth....

A leaked sanity
derived from a single unintentional stimulus
She immediately drowned in her illusions
A cascade of ecstatic emotional state
Led her to unexplained exhilarating lub-dubs
She entered a trance
An imaginary setting of pseudo-relationship,
originating from a deceptive analysis

Butterflies lodged in her stomach
Like drifting into the sweet tranquil breeze of fall
Odd feeling brought by an accidental impulse
an addictive sensation, continually sought
Like an ice cream that thaws
and never did she regret for this

Like a bud that delayed its bloom
She is a fixated lass
fast-tracked into maturity,
Depriving her of being subjected to adolescent giggles and anguishes
Coping for deficiency,
to undergo short-lived fascinations

It was never an ordinary night,
for it would happen only but annually
It was extraordinary
where angels descended from heaven

She looked at him
as a critical thinker *** philosopher inside a venerable physique
His intuitive notions flowed
keeping his cleverness inhibited,
ingenuity simply emanated
Decisive metaphorical analogies were mesmerizing,
in the depth of the gyros and sulcus
in his intellect she wanted to drown

The mystery of his smirks
she wanted to decipher.
In the profoundly of his personality
she wished to be familiar.

Electrocution!
Extreme voltage in her physique
sanity almost dripped
She cared less about reality,
forgetting about lucidity and rationality
A plethora of outlook insurgencies
led to confused convictions

Nothing big really happened,
just a matter of split seconds summarized as a simple skin-to-skin contact
an exhilarating interaction between epidermal layers
A premature ventricular contractions.

We tell lies
to reveal the truth
which in itself is too honest
to be revealed.

We trick our minds
into believing false realities
so that we can feel at least
the slightest bit healed.

This is how the broken heart beats;
this is how we get on.
And to protect my own fractured heart,
I told myself to move on.

Pick up the pieces he shattered,
and allow him no excuse.
Leave within a timely fashion,
and no further conclusions shall you deduce.

Let things be as they may
before you get even more hurt.
Take your heart with you in its entirety
and leave him to be with her.

I know this is a task among tasks,
a trial of great tribulation,
but without following these careful instructions,
your heart will require ventricular fibrillation.

And I guarantee some hurt will remain,
but that is surely a good thing,
because if you did not feel at all,
then your heart would not be working.

So continue to be a warrior.
Fight with lack of speech rather than word.
And let the silence speak to him
louder than a piercing sword.

It may take some time,
but in his mind will your reason be sealed,
because if you walk the path of the broken,
you will at last be healed.

We try to sink into the crepuscular
as behind, another working week
picks us out of its teeth

we throw a couple of weaves
into the route to the sofa
for a headful of peace, maybe

though home has deaf ears too,
we love them
and through years of gaining favour
we’ll keep bruised hearts open there

beyond, you’ll see each aortal latch fixed,
each ventricular bolt slid
and each arterial snib
locked

if sweat and tears are the currency
you’d better ****** earn it

I hope I never see you again
I tell myself before I finally approach you with words
Words I've been longing to say ever since they formed
that came into being from feelings that I thought were fleeting
"I love you"
A jumbled mess comes out and I hope you heard it that one time because as much as I want to say it again, I don't think I can
I think I have premature ventricular contractions
I don't want to look up
I know this is ridiculous
I've done it before
Telling him how I feel right when he is about to move forward
You stand there
I don't know how long I can wait
and then
I hear you say

you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored in
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and others, more weirder too,
wonderfully inexplicable,
other jimmy olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical
ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries,
and then you wonder why,

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

A bullseye of velvet,
Ventricular,
Soft on the spot.
In bounding,
Sacred.

Devotion is what?
Tis’ hellish? Be free!
But, by the binding?
A shudder, tis’ breeze.