she says it's so far away

she says i can't do it alone

she says you'll stray

she says, i need you on the phone

Monet Days

water lover

I know what you are like:

the horses, those wild mares

you step slowly from the shower,

tossing your mane down, concealing your head, your proud neck,

those Chincoteague ponies, straining free of the sea,

emerging, snort, and cast around, 

unable to see what all the fuss is about

Memory

You're gone, so tonight I'll just 

draw the nails of your memory across my back,

the furrows more exquisite in absence

I forget things

I forget things, and sometimes when I see you,

I hear silenceofrain, 

and I'm confused

when you press your sunbitten lips into mine,

what am I tasting?

I Like When You

I like when you are already in bed when I
  arrive,
       and every movement represents an invitation,
you lie on your side, your hip sculpted into the posture of
 -desireforcaresses-,
                   while you gesture with your hands,
  sending your chest into an up-heaval,
                                               indeed,
your lips keep moving, soundless, despairing
  silenceoftongues,
your ankles, 

              danceofgreeting,
upturned and then hidden again,
        as you tuck them behind you,
moving
to me.

Parity

On Reason

she sez,
you're just lonely,
while stroking my shoulders,
you don't really Care
and probably she's right,

but since when
did we need a reason
for this?



i like
the silken, nervedancing, touchability, slideability
your skin offers my fingers as they trace
the paths other fingers, more careless than mine,
have worn into your skin, and you
smile



Freedom
were you born without a thought?
who walks, that never tasted or believed
of love?
who taught you of freedom, that never told you
of briars and desires?
tell me, truthsayer, of reality,
of your abstractions and the beatings of hearts



Morals
where did these morals come from,
when did they snare me such,
mother, what pain you have saved me,
has been trebled by these unpresumed shackles
you were doing your Best,
thanks, anyways.




in the final moments, it comes out,
you look amazing
since I'm never sure
until you're leaving



Victoria
sunlight strokes your hair,
exploding out with all that life, uncontained by
curls, or hairspray, or civility,
unapologizing
hummingbird reason, hummingbird heartbeat
but you're busy looking at Victoria's secret
ah, shame. you victorian invention.





Ache

futility,
never stopped me,
but maybe practice will teach me,
to hold looser, and smile more.

I realize that for the longest time i had too little respect for the expression of internal reality... ...And all dry, choking feelings, all the feelings to ambivalent to form tears... and all the silly, self-indulgent things that have no other release. the only thing i can think of as lack of "quality" anymore is dishonesty. Set some words out to drift and maybe one day you'll provoke someone's curiosity.

What Watches and Fears

When he stirs it,
I feel it spread in my blood,
Rise,
In spreading liquid tension.

He is his veins
That meet the skin.

What beats in deep throbs?

When to-
Does he have eyes?- when to
Close my eyes into this place.
This is his silence.
When does the frozen moment slip,
Slip, into the sweet nectar of need.

This is what it means to be powerless.

He looks back over me.

There is a thick marrow
They find pieces of my confession here.

Did they review it that way,
with quiet eyes? quiet eyes
that have known exactly the size of their power.

What is the slow lift
of the body
and the diagonal silence
Across the harmony wind?

Where are the eyes?

The eyes of him that will always open blankly,
Because this is turning away.
What looks at secrets?
The hands, the lips, the tongue of exposure.

Halfling

She looks at her reflection,
Her face arranged in the crystals of the mirror.
She wonders
Is there a refracted world to watch?
Through the looking glass
are there words?
words, words that exactly map the meaning
of the perfect contours, the entrails
of Desire.

She wants to see and sense to touch
the swimming fuel of circulation-
what do I contain inside of me?

There are no words shimmering back at her
watchful eyes.

There is only static
moving behind the skin.
And nothing written in the shape of the eyes
of her sight.

This is alien.

She is a sad dance,
turning away.

There is no voice and no gaze,
I wanted the words
that would consummate this haploid piece of me,
my incomplete pain.

Occult Motion and Still Photography

Pooling blood collects inside
The corpse, haunted with life.
The flesh-ghost of Fox
Does not part with the blood crimson.

My careful thumb grazes the torn meat,
Crisp dead fur.
I bring my finger towards my eye, closer,
With occult longing for new motion.
Examine the stain of sin, curiosity.

Do you think of resurrection,
Imagine Dead Things, once again scampering?
Think of re-sculpting the idea-carcass
Of a face locked inside of memory?

Life is a pumping, beating thing.
Heart beating; the compression-box body
Of concentrated motion,
Calls out for examination, severing.

Do you look at the mirror of the torn apart Fox?
Watch the stilled prey
With reverence for the fierce dimension
Still hunting.

I contemplate alchemy
Between street-corner drags from a damp cigarette,
the length of it declining, burning.

You can follow the feet-scurry
Of frantic motion on sidewalks,
And wonder about still photography.

Portrait One

PORTRAIT


In the far corner of the room,
This time, I folded
The sleeves,
With careful creation and diligence

While I was thinking about his taste
Inside.

He sits now in the opposite corner,
Hands dutiful like poised children,
Or darkly restrained, like Mourners
Paying silent respect;
He tilts his head in feigned patience,
Warmly playing chaste,
But in secret searching my eyes.

I must confide
It is finally his thick breath of whiskey,
And his skin,
Still luminous with drops of sex,
That I think of-

Letting the shirt fall to the floor,
Like a nod of delicate consent,
I slide towards him.

I trust that fermenting scent,
I am thinking,
as he draws me in by the hip.

Portrait Two

It was the deep abyss of night
I wished you could have seen:

The way I stood on the front lawn,
Eyes lost in dark impressions,
Fixed on the black-curtain skyline.

And the way the bottle shifted
Loosely in my hand,
As I poured the whiskey down my throat,
And it cascaded numbly into void.

If you could have seen the stars,
Arranged in the sky like an erased expression,
Suspended above me in a confession of vacancy,
The image I inhaled with my blank stare…

Or behind me, how He watched through the window,
His gaze tracing my careful outline
With such cold precision,
His dull voice calling, almost to wonder
What immensity had swallowed me,
As I searched the darkness in secret prayer.

Maybe you could have seen, while I stood there
Naked beneath His old towel,
The way the whiskey couldn’t redefine
The Shape of Him,
Or forge from the shadows of my emptiness
The whisper of something full and rare.

If you could see me every night,

The way I Climb through this silence,
Reaching across space with my smoothed skin-

I promise you I shed my soul
Before I let him in.

I wish you could see the ways I pay for you-
The elegant motions, the hollowed-out insides-
All the places I am Empty,
Having found my Self a dark place to hide.

Static/ Pulsing

In the future
I will be someone who looks in the mirror
And sees my refraction-image without wondering
What that hinting apparition of flesh
Actually means,
But believing in something, something earnestly.

Or else in the future
I will have arranged and ordered
All the lifeless things around,
All the smeared steel surfaces and deep mahoganies,
So that I hear my soul’s pulse
As skeptically as the potential words
These things may speak to me.

I pass the fleeting sights of haunting eyes,
The moments constantly forking towards
One or the other of these still paradigms.

There are two ways now to walk, unsteady, with time:

There is the way where thoughts slip away into static,
Slither down my neck, convex along my back,
And then disappear
Into the stealth of the concrete’s cracks.

Or else there is the quick, ferile scamper,
A walk that jumps nervously
With the same caged twitch
Of a Soul-Creature’s fast-heart,
That lonely, erratic beat.

......wait-what?

anonymity doesn't rule. it transforms everything into a mirror. there is no guilt like the narcissist's guilt. writing to nobody for no reason is absolutely the only solution.

Ramblings

A beginning. Ink flows, my mind spins, ceaseless - a gooey, meshy mix of images and words - the crest that was over the narrator's gate in Demian, the bird bursting forth from an egg, breaking its old home, it's old existence to pieces - a deep voice intones, "To be born is to destroy a world." Beginning is ending. Graham Greene's misspent youths, who burn down an old miser's house without even stealing his money; a joker's twisted face appears from the inferno - in the flames echoes - destruction is creation - rip the face off the world to find what's underneath.
I am Tolstoy, unable to imagine a life in which I do not view and review every action, every thought, every feeling, unable to imagine a life of contentment, satisfaction - a life where I but follow the rules, and do not question their existence. I have ceased to listen to the voices of purported logic and reason, to the sounds of men scribbling furiously for the "greater good" of their fellow men. I have turned from the truths of prophets and ministers. Instead I listen to the truths
which I find inside myself, which my blood whispers to me. Without, stars, within, blood, withoutin, twinings.

Eyes Wide Shut

Eyes Wide Shut

Maimed. Wounds that pus, pulse, and bleed.
In the end, to stop the infection from spreading, the worst was amputated.
I've heard amputees often complain of an itch in the missing limb, a knuckle that cannot be scratched,
some final flickering of nerves no longer used.
I wonder: have any ever complained of a mental disease spreading from the missing parts?
Cut it out and move on. Smile fine.
A tremble. A shiver.
I remember one of those darkly drunken nights where I lost it;
Anna just rocking me in a corner and just whispering, "My God,
what the fuck did they do to you?"
Indeed.
In a way it is senseless - beyond reason - the only response emotional - this dense
other world - of half remembered memories, of partial images.
Alone and wandering, pursued in total darkness. Pitch darkness. The kind of murky darkness that clings,
and captures, that you wade through. Aware - Eli out there somewhere. Not dark - blind - but some other sight,
some sense still lingers. A vague awareness - a desert, no cover, no camoflague. No where to hide.
Just run. Faster and Faster.Run Further, faster. Deeper inside.
Unsettling. Physiological symptoms increase - the body rebels against the mind - which mind?
Who runs this show?
A good actor, responsive, quick. I must be on guard that nothing appear wrong, that I too have this "natural"
human understanding. The physical - difficult. When to hug, when to shake, when to kiss. How much closeness,
what level of body commitment? Where do the arms go? Where does the pelvis go? Is that allowed, or not?
Nothing natural. So fake it. Smile brighter, talk louder, faster.
Information overload, distract them, don't let them think. Don't dwell on the emotions you don't have.
Yet you still feel. Feel some things. Smile - it's the easiest way out of an awkward situation - and what
situation isn't awkward with this disconnect from the rest of the lemmings?
Wondering, is this some manufactured form of autism? Of sociopath, of pyschopath? Yet I feel, and I feel more than
anger.
When people get close, tense. Tried to hide the tension. Smile.
It's the easiest way out of an awkward situation. I read that in a book.
I practice my looks - but how can I feel which look is correct?
Thus I am neurotic when I do have a feeling. Why am I responding?
What am I responding to? What is this thing inside of me, me yet not me,
not under my control, but understood by my body and mind?
Grab a bottle, another bandaid for the holes.
Yet really, I'm fine.
Just look at my smile.

So what will follow here, these are a series of incomplete poems that I jotted once upon a time, sometime in the past two years. I am feeling compelled to just put them up, put anything up, put it to rest. By placing it here, I know I will finish some of them, and the ones I do not I would not finish anyways. Without further mention,
the Incomplete Works

Whispered Once

I’m bleeding,
from the thousands of razor love-wounds,
your words have worked across me,
I’m reeling,
from the strength of your convictions,
your memory has memorized me,
I’m toppling,
from the torch of your touch,
from the fire of your fingers,
consume and complete me.
Deeper than blood and bones,
Desire unmoving as stones,
Let me whisper but once,
Love you.



Charming jilted

Salty sorrow drips silently,
wet cheeks, withheld whimpers,
charming never jilted so well.

Coughing, gasping, vacuous cries,
silent screams heard throughout the atmosphere,
Unable to cut these ties,



Bad Morning

His muted cries
splash across cyberspace skies
it’s late again, these early morns,
Remembering,
with that forlorn face, those dead eyes,
merely observing,
he’s forcing rhymes
out of cover stories and time,

a war, of head and heart,
of head and hurt,
it’s always this way,
there’s only one thing that stays,

past actions, past crimes,
no poet can piece this bloodspattered canvas
into a sunrise.
this story lays barren, this guilt too apparent,
these thoughts too familiar,
these bodies too limp,
these friends too far gone,



DeadHead

Dead head walks in her dead head way,
dead head talks about nothing all day,
Dead head makes a sandwich with a smile,
oh so filled with guile,
Dead head talks too loud, tries too hard,
Redefines the word slut and scarred,
what’s left of regard,
cannot be used to ignore,
looking at her and thinking “whore,”
shallow and vapid,
how could an image deteriorate this rapid?


DistanceDrawn


Distance-drawn emotions,
unknownfilled-yawning oceans,
this abyss of trust is far from full,
do I lack, do I lack?

Remorseless
Is this what I’ve become?
Whose next to succumb?
She tastes of tequila and tar,
and now with this one, how far?

So lets’ Twist, Twist, Twist again.
And forget what we never knew,
there’s plenty of time before when,
and much to do before there’s too few.
and much to do before there’s too few.

Guilt


If I cry repentance!
If I cry sorrow, salt traced trails,
at next glance, still this fails,
for trust is not a bridge,
once burned easily rebuilt,
the nature of guilt,
stops me in my tracks.
What use are these facts?

If I cry repentance,
tell me, how much sorrow will I create?


In Just Life (Edited)

in just life,
when fuckups are common,
with whomever can't be unmade
when emotions rise, alcohol flows,
and
in justlife,
when fuckups are common,
and it doesn't matter who got laid,
when who rides, someone's heart cries,
and the question written in sweet sweat is only - who knows?
and yet somewhere,
empty wine bottles overflow, ashen covered carpets,
beer stained walls, vomitstrewn toilets
a day only, a lifetime,
wrinkles,
and
injust life,
sometimes, hope dies
but what is there to say?
injustlife,
when fuckups are common.

hearts fade.

Lambacts


Watching another one’s tears,
their sobs falling on deaf ears,
my callous heart’s got you beat by years,
slow pulse (scar tissue) yeah so what’s your issue?

She’s alone again, and no its not new
It’s just the end of high school, of the last few,
and somehow, we all knew,


Content

Laying back, scent lingers lightly,
warmth where she was fading slightly,
content.



Mirror Moments (Prose Piece)

Ice cold brings a semblance of clarity back to the room. Opening my eyes in the moment after I plunged my face into an icy basin of water,
I blink back the rivulets of water leaking into my eyes from my hair and brush back unruly short black hair.
Something happens when you stare at yourself in the mirror, some forced self-reflective moment as your eyes connect with your own eyes.

Mirror Moments (Poetry Piece)

Mirror moments catch,
the scratch of the match,
illuminates this face,

whose eyes are those,
that such hardness shows?
Whose soul is this,
that such darkness grows?
even when her tongue tasted of tequila and tar,
there wasn’t such a thing as too far,
Tell me, how long mate
til this sorrow cannot wait?

Ode to Morningstar

So bright, so white,
an alabaster rose
high above, the unwinged dove
tell me is this love?

UpDown

so tell me when your head's screwed on backward,
when your up is down
and your
d
o
w
n

is

p
u

tell me, when your world’s spiraling,
and you can no longer see the floor,
tell me, when you can no longer run,
and there’s no place to hide,
none,
when what’s left is pride,
and we bow our heads in shame,

tell me, what fixes what we became?


Vaccuous

Vaccuous,
whistle of wind
through the empty spaces,
where we sinned,
through the empty faces,

Dry,
too tired for tears,
though drowning,
too filled with fears,
whose counting?

Empty,
of a semblence of verity,
without a semblence of sincerity,
staring you down,
lies with crystal clarity.

Alone,
tremulous triumph,
defiantly desperate,

“I’m the guy who can’t rhyme,
Doesn’t rhyme, doesn’t understand rhythm, meter, or design,”



Weary Wanderings

Untitled

A Six inch black and white in an oaken frame
Boy, Girl, smiles, wrapped
only in each other
Happiness frozen
a sneeze or hiccup, captured
unrepeatable
Eyes, unaware
of World or Worry; keeping time by simpler mechanisms
the soft pulse which brings blossoms to cheeks; bum-bum
the urgent claspings of hands, the twings of fingers and legs,
the blaze of a lover's gaze,
the ember of shared cigarettes.
Outside, a grasshopper fiddles a Mozart march

A five inch diary bound in Indian leather,
perfectly uncaring scrawl, spilling over line and boundary, heedless
handdrawn scribblings, pictures, napkins and maps,
the sweat and smoke of openair markets
the tossing in beds not consecrated by our sighs
the rumpled pages stained by tears, splashed on every line

a four inch piece of your favorite black dress
torn off in frantic embrace
which I tole
A piece of a princess,
wound round my finger; the feel of lips, caress, face
the taste of skin in the crevice of your neck
curve of your back pressed into me, legs enmeshed
scent of your conditioner, perfume and sweat mingling
small noises deep iny our throat, the faint vibration of your pleasure
unitelligible Spanihs in frenzied motion

A piece of a princess
torn off
frozen
Pan's pipes dance softly
the grasshopper sings:
Winter is coming! Winter is coming!

Untitled

A Six inch black and white in an oaken frame
Boy, Girl, smiles, wrapped
only in each other
Happiness frozen
a sneeze or hiccup, captured
unrepeatable
Eyes, unaware
of World or Worry; keeping time by simpler mechanisms
the soft pulse which brings blossoms to cheeks; bum-bum
the urgent claspings of hands, the twings of fingers and legs,
the blaze of a lover's gaze,
the ember of shared cigarettes.
Outside, a grasshopper fiddles a Mozart march

A five inch diary bound in Indian leather,
perfectly uncaring scrawl, spilling over line and boundary, heedless
handdrawn scribblings, pictures, napkins and maps,
the sweat and smoke of openair markets
the tossing in beds not consecrated by our sighs
the rumpled pages stained by tears, splashed on every line

a four inch piece of your favorite black dress
torn off in frantic embrace
which I tole
A piece of a princess,
wound round my finger; the feel of lips, caress, face
the taste of skin in the crevice of your neck
curve of your back pressed into me, legs enmeshed
scent of your conditioner, perfume and sweat mingling
small noises deep iny our throat, the faint vibration of your pleasure
unitelligible Spanihs in frenzied motion

A piece of a princess
torn off
frozen
Pan's pipes dance softly
the grasshopper sings:
Winter is coming! Winter is coming!

College Anthem

Oh Truth,
you foulfaced farce. Lie as dead, lie in soft slumber, lie
whisper naught in my ear, prick not my fear, from me fly!
let confession remain unheard, let lives live young
held ransom by the rose on your lips and the poison in your tongue
We’re both wrapping ourselves in the cloak of who we are not
While our hearts haplessly whisper who we forgot.

She Heron (She of Many Fingers)

Anthropological Neuroses

Like slaves rejoicing in the secret night,
We are intoxicated and feeding on dreams-
Voracious and violent,
Beholding red vast galaxies with optimistic eyes.

We exult in diversions until we have the sense
To suffer or else die;
Or until we feel like Sisyphus,
But turn instead and create new lies,
Discontent enough to know we must deny.

We live trying to ignore and forget
The eviscerating dagger
Through which misery revives,
Eminence and faith seducing us,
Insisting that it does not hurt to try.

But it hurts each and every time
Fresh wounds strip us of disguise,
Animate our memories- expose and re-open
The bruised sunspots, the scar-tissued flesh
Where the ghosts of pain and confused failure reside.

But most can not really resign-
Convinced, even if just in secret,
That somewhere in the immensity of space,
Distilled and remote,
The sacrosanct lotus of ultimate bliss unfolds.

Roderick Lane

Roderick Lane
will smell the dust and death
of the great, great West.

Off the bus,
he lights his mother's stale cigarette.

Looks fantastic in those boots,
in that Aztec Jacket.
(It is a prismatic, hallucinatory,
idolatrous thing. It is the fabric of his dreams).

But the city has thirty years
to play a merciless game.

The metropolis shrieks,
lurid lights invade him
while he sleeps;
the dirty Atlantic
spreads its breath across his back.

In thirty years
his each and every aspect
has become an artifact.

Now, still in his Occidental boots,
he seems a curious shell.
His jacket is a listless cloth,
of dust and death it smells.

(It was a prismatic, hallucinatory,
idolatrous thing. It was the fabric of his dreams).

Untitled (at least for now)

Today, only a photograph remains.
So sad a picture always fails. So I
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

Eyes will hide torment, where phrase still contains.
Sadly though, when I recall his soft sigh,
Today, only a photograph remains.

Desperate, I know how memory wanes.
But I love more to listen to his lie,
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

Good. I imagine his spirit complains
that old mothers at that smile can cry:
Today, only a photograph remains!

Whispers still sigh, of relief he attains,
and (free finally from life's evil eye),
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

I imagine the congealed crimson stains,
revenge for the rest, who ask themselves why,
“Today, only a photograph remains.”
But I preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

No Phone Call Song

Impatient twisting in my gut,
for my part,
fiddle with a watch,
with a heart,
pull a cigarette, have a smoke,
this air seems to choke,
this ember dies on my lips
this echo of silence embraces and grips

no rings,
oh, how it stings,
this cruel vengeance,
the coin flipped in mockery,
this dagger, this dagger
no rings,
oh how it stings.

it's warm where you are going,
I hope that your heart's always cold.

A Great and Perfectly Cyclical Machine

To escape it he slides his head carefully beneath his blankets and gazes up at the canopy he has formed above him. He curls his toes, his hands grazing the soft soles of his feet. His chin can feel the platform his knee caps have formed. Every extremity, once so separate, is now part of some tangible whole. The darkness is enveloping him, he can feel its caress overwhelm him. It is gentle but it must also be dangerous. There are no ominous shadows lurking, no intangible forces seeming to threaten his very existence. But there is the silence, a great and perfectly cyclical machine.

At first it is slow. The vacuum makes every noise inside this microcosm an amplification. Every sound outside is unwelcome, therefore unheard. The silence is first quiet, momentumless, infantile in simplicity. And then the phantasmagoria of his thoughts seems to fill the void created by the immense absence of sound. In his mind a thought flickers. Then dies. A new one is born. And more and more are borne. Thoughts devoid of meaning. Disjointed and sudden and inexplicable and frightening. And then they coalesce into disturbing tunes, franticly playing, incessantly dancing through his world. Inside he thinks his mind is dying, sure of his own suffocation, and desperately wonders about air. Where is all the air?

But then he relaxes his tense muscles a little. The thoughts are slowing down, the heartbeats less rapid, breaths relaxed like a baby's. It feels soft again inside. He can hear only physicality- muffled pulse, calm inhale, the tiny whispers of his occasional breaths. He hears something like a chant, a rhythm, a beat very simple and deep. But slowly this, too, begins to cease until there is no more sound- no movement and no touch.

On Fires

fires don't last if you don't feed them.
but embers,
embers burn long, long after the fire dies down.
and
in cold air creeping,
sometimes spark and smoke,
for the soul of fire lies in them.

Judgment Day

I wonder what the woman with
red hair sees as hungrily she glares,
skillfully to sort the damned from the meek.
Before her elusive eyes is a procession of
the sick, the sinful, the careless, the weak.

I wonder if she knows that
Sinners are always dressed as Seers,
and how often a clever disguise for disgust,
and lust, the demons of jealousy,
will evade her careful eyes.

I wonder what words she will choose
when I stand before her
and she plays for me the eager arbiter;
I wonder if her list of merits and demerits
will be complete.

I wonder if she knows how I yearn to hear
that voice she so enjoys, those whispers of perdition.
She exults in them, my Sirens, sweet secret songs
of Fallen Angels offering me precarious fruits.

And finally I wonder in secret, so softly,
whether they could say something new.

My conscience is the Judge and the Judged
seething in its ambiguous agony,
so I have forgotten whether
Truth can condemn the exposure of Reality.

For Lonely Hearts in Darkness Across Oceans

If you cry my name in the night,
if you call out longingly and in silence, despise me,
forgive me my love!
For I am drowning in silence, drowning in the rays of a sun
that has ceased shining,
in the stars that no longer smile, in a moon that mocks my linings,
my mind mires in sorrow,
for what happiness can I write,
when I can but touch you in leaden images?
When your smile lasts only in photographs?
The depths of oceans are but a tenth,
of the tears my heart has tasted in your absence.

I am hungering for you between breaths,
I scream your name in my exhale,
my inhale moans your loss,
how long will this torture last?
Amor, come to my side, end this fast!
My vision fades to black and white,
without my love, sunsets bleed to a blight,
a memory of beauty once known,
now, only in dreams and photographs shown.
I but vaguely remember taste,
with you, I had roses in the morning, noon, and night,
now ashes have roses replaced,
now, to taste requires a flight.

Let emotion overwhelm an ocean.
As I am yours sofia,
then eres mia.

On Nights Like This

On nights like this,
when the cold breeze from the window,
softly slips across my bare back,
leaving goosebumps and gossamer kisses,
soft as your lips in the summer,
warm as your heart in the winter,
a hearty fire roaring in my loins,
fed stick by stick across an ocean,

on nights like this,
when children’s chatter fills the night,
when pretend adults’ talk turns trite
cringing at every last invite,
I turn to the open blackness of the sky,
to the cold, blue stars, shivering in the distance,
for warmth only your existence,
only our persistence.

On nights like this,
I had you.

Sleep

The soft drone of hibernation, the
machinery at rest,
echoes forever in my mind.
These are songs of silence,
that dance as neurosis in my mind.
We as Forms, in this void asleep,
our artifices stripped,
reveal in subtle innocence, and
confess.

The hum of his pure rest
drains the venom from his
angry tongue, and suddenly,
his skin pale and baby soft,
he draws his limbs in closer, and
unconscious, rubs maternal warmth
across a cold exterior, making a new nest.

With her composure undone
as she dreams, her perpetual smile
in incremental motion begins to lament,
while from her glossy lips
she tastes the clearness of
wordless, inexplicable tears for
a secret second, only one moment without sun.

And he with the petrified face of day
can't subdue his ecstasy as
his smile exults delicately across once immutable skin,
and his cheeks now pink, colored
like the sunsets back when he was eight,
when his dreams felt like today,
a fear, a love, a play.

So when I cease my sleeping, my dreaming,
then the interior will be my exterior one final time.
This time, Death, mostly I beg for one thing-
That I see an exquisite expression,
one which whispers, without a word.

Time

Monday-to-Thursday and then Tuesday-to-Sunday the same,
days like the seasons cycle through me,
playing a tedious game,
bearing the burden of my blame.

because time sometimes fasts but always slows,
reappearing each second to scatter scars
and tiny ghosts across my skin, and
with each smite millions of undiscerned cycles.

So August-to-February, like June-to-November,
is filled with secret inspections of minutehands that
point to the infinity of noon;
my thousand eyes look upward
at a cycle, which transcends.

But the incessant tick of the seconds, with
sonic waves through my head,
pulls me down with stronger hands.

For Souf

Love,
how wild you have run!
How shamefully you have scorched and scorned me
to be outdone at last,
my greatest tearful joy

You make me weak,
week by week,
Ashes scatter my face,
Disguising patterns you trace.

Love is not a potted plant,
while my flame flickers,
your bonfire consumes cities.
I bring my flame closer, united,
We burn, one, incarnate.

I smile at the stars tonight,
these, cursed beings who define distance, do but desire
the fire.
Tonight, I do not question fuel,
I hang in shame at my fears,
Smiling through my tears,
I laugh at the jealousy of gods.
Oh mortal twinings are writing
the tapestry of divinity in flesh.

Love,
how wild you have run!
We run as one,
two fires blazing together,
with naught to burn but each other.
As flames leap and laughter,
forget all but the light,
we create forever.

A Very Grey Matter

Damn Truth,
Have I not murdered you enough?

Still you return, shadowing my every move,
Whispering your wispy wings into my wire
-taps left to tripdrips in the tediumtimes

Knowledge and unKnowledge
Desparate search for doubles;
No need to look over my shoulder,
Not without a pinch of salt or two in my left

I want carnal possession of the ultimate,
While erasing all my personal carnal possession of the penultimate,
Me n Kurtz could do with one more reality.
To deal with a fearsome desirous ravening need
For my hand to be held,
By anyThing

Still Truth knocks me down from behind,
In order to prevent me from (over)taking her outstretched hand in front;
Stuck in the middle

Behind,
Truth is the kitten I drown in my backyard under the cover of darkness,
The threat knocking on my chest,
Leaving me gasping with these truth-addiction pains in my heart,
With these fears of deeds splayed before dapple skies,
Less
Truth comes knocking like pigs
Rootings in muck breaking down my door,
Early morning light, nazi’s trucks around unnecessary
Only seventeen, a beautifully incomplete boy-man,
Hoping to never be complete, with holes from howitzers,
Self-inflicted

Ahead,
Ever-lasting tag,
Too slow to ever get you before base, and allie-allie-in-free,
But you never come out for me,
Unwound the veils of a very old, very dead man stretched out on really new trees,
Found the threads connected into my very own grey matter.

But you never come out for me,
Despite prayers and pillaging,
Despite fire and fighting,
Despite fear and friends,
Despite danger and darkness,
Despite sin and shame,
Despite monsters and murderers,
But you never come out for me,
Thusly have I been called Morningstar.
And thusly, have I murdered you, Truth,
Yet still for you I quest.

Ephemeral

Peeking at the card again, his eyes brimmed once more. God, he thought, why am I such a sucker? I get stuck on every one. This was more than just ephemeral, more than just a kiss one night, more than just a fuck one weekend, he told himself. Just like every other night. But with every kiss, with every intimate moment, with every lingering touch, he could feel the truth of the world kicking him in the face. Were they all deaf? How could they fail to hear it? Pounding in their ears, moving the blood throughout them? Every tick one closer to death. Every man living in his own shadow. Every death coming a day closer. The reality of the world was ephemeral. And people were still bleeding over land, like it was more than just a place to live, bleeding over oil, like it was more than just an energy source, bleeding over small thinly sliced trees, like they were more than just paper. Was he the only one who could hear it? Everyone was bleeding. A small incision placed inside of them, from which a drip escaped every year, widening the gap in the dyke, letting more drips slip through. The red liquid was pouring out slowly from each. All bled equally, regardless. Could they not hear their bodies calling them to their end? Were they not aware of this beating, of living to escape it? Well, they had their primitive soma, their so-called “religion” to tell them they would live forever. True, his lifestyle was one few could sustain. He understood why. His own mind tried to reject his body’s urgent messages. This is more than just ephemeral it said. He repeated that to himself over and over again, biting his lips in frustration, alternating each one til they were equally chewed. And still when she appeared he kissed her, and when she whispered in his ear, telling of the future he smiled. His mind liked what she said. When they were together, he could ignore the ephemeral. He felt ethereal with her. Looking at the card, his eyes blurred again. The tearing of the anchor shook his whole frame, as a light wind blew him right out of town. He was ethereal, ephemeral. Eternal.

Untitled

I’m the guy who can’t rhyme,
Doesn’t rhyme, doesn’t understand rhythm, meter, or design,
And who often, often,
in the rush home from your house at 11:30, rushing to meet curfew.
Coming back from that which keeps the blood moving slowly, softly, through my veins.

Wonders, how it would feel, if I were to slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, ease my hands off the wheel.
How long my blackened sepulcher with wheels would hurtle onward
I wonder if in those supercharged possibly final moments I would finally grasp
An appreciation, or lack thereinof, for that “gift” of life,
I would find a final answer to the “only true philosophical question”

I suppose I could do it on a straight away,
And see if I had the cohones not to make a move.
To stare death in the face, to embrace it with open arms.
Or y’know, afterwards, I’ll say it was “to see if I had the reflexes to save myself,”
Y’know, cuz it was just a game. You know that right? Oh good.
I wouldn’t want to worry you.
Y’know.

I’m the guy who doesn’t want to step back from the ledge.
But is too afraid of oblivion to pledge
“In a minute there is time, for a dozen visions and revisions
Which another minute will erase.”

So now let’s just….
Ease the temporal away, peel this clockwork orange
To its very seeds. Let’s see under
This
Skin
And
Smile.

Lucid

His hands trembled uncontrollably, as he focused as hard as he could. Slowly as the first flakes drifted down, he poured the whiskey, precious lifeblood cautiously, but invariably the shaking was too extreme and some landed on the asphalt. Cursing, he downed the shot as fast as he could, with the ease of true drinkers. He enjoyed the burn, tasting the truth of the day with Tennessee’s poorest. Anything but this reality. He couldn’t take another lucid moment. Downing his third shot of the day, he rolled up his newspaper bed and moved on to the sidewalk to panhandle.

Shivering through the cold, Jim arrived at the party dressed to kill, with truth the furthest thing from his mind. Until he noticed the girl being groped in the corner was his girlfriend. The liquid burning his eyes made him stumble, as he hunted for the vodka bottle. One lucid moment, he thought.
One taste of reality, he wished with all his might, as he inverted the vodka bottle above his mouth. Careening out into the yard, he passed out in a puddle of puke on a pad of putting green soft grass.

What a drag, she thought, taking a stiff pull on her cigarette. The ember at the tip glowed with a gentle power as she bent over a limp form in the yard. What kind of asshole gets this wasted? She kicked him delicately in the mouth, watching the red pool amongst the brown. Taking another pull, she flicked the butt onto his back and turned back to the party with the taste of truth in her mouth.

The colors seemed to flow from within and without of everything. The chemicals in her bloodstream left her breathless, examining the scenery with a fascination unfathomable. The white winter overrunning the dull brown of slow death found her blood enchantingly warm. The ultra-realness of it all gripped her, as her shivers brought her to her knees. She could feel her heart racing as the snow reached up to embrace her. A bad hit of ecstasy?
Her final thoughts were replaced by surprise, as her body found that particularly spot of yard already occupied.

Jim woke with his wish all around him.

Ketchup

Ketchup

Life is
Living the Young American
Uncomfortable, scratchy, tight in the crotch jeans that look great
the long walk from the Metro with 60 pounds of books,
being chased the last 200 yards by the
kids you were friends with in kindergarten who now hate you,
making it to safety, white picket fence with friends and baseball bats
slurpees at Seven Eleven and shoplifting and
wunderkind and wanderlust and friends anywhere and everywhere here to share it with
CD players, death metal, guitars, girls, too loud and parents that have lives too
Beltway Plaza movies at midnight, opening the emergency door to let the group in
Not liking snotty preppy kids and finding some of them aren’t too bad anyway
Scatter, running from the cops, K-9 into our precious grove of heather and oak trees
Experimenting and finding what’s good and what ain’t
Drunk on a rooftop staring at the moon and thinking and talking
Of Lestat and Armand, vampires young, the battle to come, angels and demons and humans
Once in a while enjoying school
And actually having fruit with lunch and always making a sandwich
LD tournaments and stomachs dropping out, crushing some witless girl in a round who couldn’t figure out what Locke’s social contract and governmental legitimacy have to do with each other if the world
Depended on her
Watching Mulan and actually liking it and knowing all the songs but not saying a word, cuddled on her couch and knowing
That touch is the greatest sense there is
And damn this layer of cloth between us you smile at me and I’m blinded
Staring down the sun when I see you
And we’re roaming the streets and it’s past 1 on Christmas Eve
And you remember your dead mother’s suicide on Christmas Eve
And your dad leaving with no goodbye and I don’t know
What to do and the only thing in the whole world
That makes sense at all
Is life
Life is
A bottle of purple Heinz Ketchup

debutantes and dresses

Debutantes and dresses
The social til is brimmed and overflowing
Emotionless stresses
This (thief) knows where he’s going

Hard Drinks and Dry Docks
The register left empty
He’ll have it on the rocks
This (murderer) knows what he’s doing

Dysfuntional Families and Dreamfilled Diaries
The take(s),
Mini
-mum
The heartbreak(s),
Max
-imum
This (monster) can’t stop the shake(s).

soft slinking salutes

Soft slinking salutes,
From the waves to a small sandy beach,
A tiny boat rocks, with us two, bobbing backwards
Towards the horizon, never to be reached
Your wave
In and out of focus, swims
In time with this ragged breathing
As these masks slip on and off
In time with this ragged heaving
In time
In time
You will tire
Or I will tire
And what will happen then?
This image, in and out of focus, swims,
A final Polaroid afloat
Fighting to the surface, one more lungful
Oh lightly lapping lips,
From the waves to a small sandy beach.

How Do I Explain These Things?

Write-
-Ing w e ighs
Worth-less when
C
Oompared
With your lips
,
With
y-
oour
hips
;
all m-
-ooves
a lay-
-back
to
young,
- er
scripts.

Last Saturday

Last Saturday, I wore a funny black and white and red costume,
The red, a little flag that went from my neck to my navel
Oh gee did everybody look good, grand
White dresses and debutantes, on everyface Ayn Rand
And I sat at a round table, with nary a knight in sight,
With many wine bottles and
Im
Portent People
Told how great things were going
And how wonderful our leaders and politics were
And I deigned to suggest that perhaps perfume and silken blindfolds
Had them unable to see-smell the dead hippo,
Which I’m sure my friend harryhomeless was intouchwith
And a lady dressed in black, with a very nice
Pea-Green-Gold necklace, to match her emerald eyes,
And her immigrantmade pearl necklace from Tiff
Any’s, an indulgent old soul, also from Tiffany’s,
Told the table that
“Under 21 and they know everything”
Which clear makes
The
Verse
-In truth
Over 21, and know nothing do you?

He Met Three Times An Apocalypse, and then Wept.

the first apocalypse might have
destroyed the stars, but instead
filled his vision of innocence
with dread, where time was
naked, wearing only its increments,
and thousands of tomorrows went on.

the second apocalypse had few
words and now a song,
taking away the wholeness,
and calling minuscule heartbeats
the soul. the potential remaining
might have killed, might have loved-

but the third apocalypse was different,
unkind, and swiftly destroyed his freedom
by cancelling two revelations' joy. and
loose now, reassembly crept with footsteps
inching to inflict upon him
a fate lacking death.

He met three times an apocalypse,
and then wept.

in just life,
when fuckups are common,
with whomever can't be unmade
when emotions rise, alcohol flows,
and
in justlife,
when fuckups are common,
and it doesn't matter who got laid,
when who rides, someone's heart cries,
and the question written in sweet sweat is only - who knows?
and yet somewhere, hearts fade,
and
injust life,
sometimes, hope dies
but what is there to say?
injustlife,
when fuckups are common.

Memory *unfinished*

Sometimes,
I like to follow fate’s path with my fingers
as my tongue tickle traces the triangle
that brought meyouinside,
where we linger
sometimes, as untwo.

Privilege

it makes me laugh sardonically.

you lose the privilege to condescend me
when I'm driving you the long way
to your car in the eight a.m. air.
(Don't you see the fog?)

you lose the privilege of authority
because you're just as drunk as me,
too inebriated for ordinary reprimand.
(Can't you hear your slur?- it's not just mine)

you lose the power of desperation
as soon as you leave, and then
my sighs are the exorcism of our callow.
(If only you could see the exhale)

it makes me laugh compulsively.

Growing

Sleepless sultry sunless times
Spent wandering darkened streets with you
Constructions noises dwarfed by a pounding thought
Still you stood and fought.

The dusty taste of tar and asphalt swirling in our mouths
A kayak ride across a raging ideal
While waters’ lapping lulls the senses
Your gift: An Annapolis superficial feel.

In Praise of Cadence

Some words form the songs of saints,
in their geometry lovely blurs of ambrosial chants
that arise, as if the softest sea,
beside a tune of ecstasy.

Still more are the discord sequences
of awkward construct, many narrative joys,
provoking the clever auspices
of reason- please, oh dear, the colloquial
reaching through the prison precedent of the mind.

In the speech of thought these two polars combine
with harmony and a sudden flash
that erases the plain, evokes the divine.

Real words to me belong
joined together so as to heal the void
whose empty silence demands in sheer lust
to hear the world's exulting siren song.

Untitled so far...

I live in bends, in curves, within curves,
Straight is a path with an edge,
But funny is the beautiful valleys
Made- more
Mountains and thighs shook for less, I says
To waste curves, the truest sin.
AH! And OH!
Truer worship than alabaster starch.

I live in bends, in curves, within curves,
Time pricks my limbs as
In a small box,
Prurient priests, a-leers wide,
Poppin’ cherries, proselytize me
But time’s tune is truer.
Dark horse footsteps echo,
But buried me be in rolling hills and roiling valleys.
Amen.

Improvisation 3

the empire

Lines From the Brink of Illness

the looks of multiplicity in disease
glare back at me from the
distant corners...
I shrink away.
I am beneath protective coverings,
in every possible way.

I hope those looks don't peel away my blanket,
a soft, soft ocean eclipsing sight.

I hope they don't steal and dispose
of this sweet narcotic joy,
the excess robitussin that gave it to me,
or the clouds that in formal flashes
spastically melt before my eyes.

I hope they don't pry open my brain,
and play tauntingly, recklessly with my precious thoughts-
I so love to feel those thoughts dance in there,
majestically the electricity sways.

I hope they don't steal my pen,
or with swift gestures render me unable to write,
I can feel thousands of such ifs
crush me small with just potential.

I hope they just leave me be,
where I'm inches from remembering
what it felt like to scream with joy
in daily juvenile bursts,
all in efforts to voice the exhilaration
of jumping off a moving swing.

I hope for ten more seconds of this
I can stay.

Looks in the Mirror

I feel my face against the glass; my cheek spreads across it and through hazy eyes I see the mirage that is my own reflection. My hands grip the handle of the car door, I am opening it, it's not the driver's door, I fumble around a bit. Why do I feel this apprehension? I shut my eyes and breathe with the crickets. I'm sure it'll all turn out fine. I slap myself in the face and open my eyes, ready to move the car and park somewhere less obvious, getting in the driver's seat, driving carefully, ready to stop anywhere and toss and turn beneath my blanket for many hours, hours, hours. Song after song, passing light after passing light. I see the policeman drive by, he's probably looking for delinquents with fireworks. He should be looking for me. Breathe, make myself smaller, hope through the shadows he doesn't see me asleep here. I don't know what this means but I know that as day breaks I'm in a parking lot tearing open my car, looking for my weed, knowing it's not there, breathing so fast I can't comprehend my own thoughts, tossing out every little piece of trash and these are the possessions I have that matter to me and there they go on the asphalt. Computer, clothes, on the ground. Make up, cds, on the ground. Notebook 1, notebook 2, Dostoevsky, Nabokov, Kesey, Wolfe, all on the ground. And now the car's empty and It's not here and what does this mean? Does this mean it's gone? Does this mean they will think it's his? Does this mean I am lost forever and I'm condemned? Does this mean I'm a horrible person and it's all my fault, all my fault, all my fault? I can't find anything, I'm a terrible searcher, I'm a terrible searcher, I tell myself. Want to scream but can't make myself, want to cry but can't allow that, want to vomit because I feel genuinely sick, but don't do that either. My face looks the same, alterations very slightly around my lips which are trembling. It's seven in the morning and there is no one around to see this mess.

And an hour later in a Shell bathroom I look myself in the mirror where the remnant lines of formerly bloodshot eyes creep away into the corners of my tired eye sockets and I stink of a thousand cigarettes. Really, no, only 8. And I feel the blood poison creep through me, and I look again and I'm repulsed and I don't know why, because it's beyond the usual disgust. It's the same and it's different because it's compounded monotony. This is who I am. It's always the same.

100 bad dreams, 242 cigarettes, 76 shots of alcohol, 107 hits of marijuana, 420 mgs of adderall, and 6,000,000 looks in the mirror later, it's still the same.

administrative comment

who the fuck decided if you can't say something nice don't say anything at all? Damnit I want some bitchy feedback, as long as it's constructive. Keep the good stuff too, but I guess I should feel safe enough to be able to let someone know if I disapprove.

note

Ferlinghetti's little site is amazing. I like the poetry is section and then advice to budding poets.....

http://www.citylights.com/poetrynews.html#whatispoetry
(what is poetry?)

http://www.citylights.com/poetrynews.html#challenges
(challenges to young poets)

At the Smithsonian...........

Cezanne perched two bottles on
a table cloth- which rested
in messy distress upon a table.
Also, some obligatory fruits,
precisely four-

four? not enough to compose a scene-
too many to look accidental.

We contemplate these fruits,
these anonymous bottles-
Why are they here?
What intoxicant swims inside
the dark opalescence of those
mysterious bottles?
What forbidden poison seethes inside
the lushness of these untouched fruits?

And what form would such sundries
assume today?

Perhaps the sordid remains
of an evening's festivities,
scattered awkwardly for display-
empty bottles, a few liquors, canned energies,
dried syrups, some crass crumbs
sticking to a defiled table-
for the painter's inspection the next day.

7.20.06

R

Life should be rated R for the birth of man and the resulting depravity.

More Improvisations

hunting for picnics


hand held

ECHOES OF MIKE (rough-help!)

“Toph,” Mike had said to me in that coarse, angry voice, “I'm just tired.”
I'd been waiting for those words. My advice had fallen through the cracks of his mind, and that simple, short, “I'm just tired,” seemed to be the culmination of his years of desperation and yearning. This last statement had caused some sort of unnatural nausea to set in. I contained my panic with rational thoughts. Choking a little bit, inexplicably, suddenly, I rested my hand on my knee for balance. Voices in my mind chanted, he's said that before, he's said it before. But still the unique ring of those words was haunting me- the drug-fevered, lonely pleas seemed to reach me through the phone. I moved the conversation forward apprehensively, suggesting he clean up and take it easy for a while.
Mike cleared his throat loudly and cushioned this abrasive noise with a few involuntary sobs that I knew embarrassed him. I was the only person who heard when Mike Thompson cried.
“Look, fuck cleaning up, we both fucking know....” and his routine rant against sobriety began, seeming to last a while. I twitched a bit, tapped my foot, uncomfortable in anticipation of a new, more disturbing twist on his monologue.
He was a scary guy, Mike Thompson. He had latent anger, which he expiated with unendurable sarcasm and a cruel sneer that he reserved for most people, but not for me. He had no impulse control. He had every drug habit imaginable, the worst drug habits imaginable. He had a rich past, an intelligent past, a past full of love that he chose to forget. His prospects for happiness seemed to stop abruptly at thirteen, when his father abandoned him to choke on his own vomit. He had talent and hope for things he'd forgotten about. He used to love to write, to read, to laugh, to sing. But now the music of his life had ceased, and his ugly sneer only served to shroud the emptiness within.
When he would disappear, he would disappear for days. Usually at weird hours he'd call me, slurring his words and incoherent, across the country, insisting that I help him pay for whatever sordid affair he couldn't make right by his own means. I knew he felt abandoned every time I'd say no- and at night I convinced myself that it wasn't resentment I felt when he called me at parties, begging me for help.
I remember how he concluded our last conversation with an astounding clarity. He was living with his drug dealer, strung out on heroin. He'd been gone from his home two days. “Well,” he said, pausing briefly- a pause that communicated an unparalleled melancholy- “I know you care, but sometimes, that's not enough.” And it took me a minute to realize he'd hung up. Wait it out, I told myself. He'll come around.
For one week I tried to forget about Mike Thompson. This meant forgetting the warmth of being called “Toph”- forever condemning myself to those superficial slaps on the back, to cold, unappealing renditions of the name “Chris” or “Cameronne.” It meant temporarily abandoning all recollections I had of our time together as children- in which we stood together above dead birds, poking them with sticks, in which we laughed and jumped from cliffs into the ocean, in which we grew old and took our separate paths without dissipating that fraternal love, in which our memories mixed together, in which we swore we'd never abandon each other.
And it meant, when his mother's number appeared on the screen of my cell phone, realizing all of my mistakes. His mother, plagued with those maternal anxieties, asked me if I'd spoken to Mike, if he'd called me, if I knew anything at all. I didn't, and acknowledging that condemned me- I swear I felt my organs collapse in mock imitation of death. My prospects for redemption falling from my grip, I searched for my phone and I called him-no reply. His mother's reverberating concern in my head, I pictured many morbid scars, needles, dirt, blood, a lifeless grin on his face. I secretly prepared myself, so it wouldn't hurt as much when she called me. And she did. I remember those soft, motherly, nurturing words, words of encapsulated loss that only a mother can say-“He's dead.”
He's Dead. Those words in sonic echoes, and then guilt-a critique of my actions. Finally, a collage of words surrounding my only image of him- ten year old Mike, blonde curtains of hair around his innocent blue eyes. Suicide, loss, pain, friend.

7.17.06

Contradictions or Scorch(ed)ing

Terse tones and ignored moans, two voices speak through her
Resisting chances with beckoning advances,
Which one to believe?

Heartbeat listening, tongues glistening
Truths half-passed between,
Tantalizing tangles, womanly angles
You’re a study in form to be seen,

Philosophy drinking, flirtatious winking
Tragic tales scatter my sleep,
Farreaching fears flame again:
She’s a bit scorched – but refuses to weep.

Assignment 2- epistolary

To You-
as you cling to me,
soft lips and close everywhere,
and as you run from me
the rhythm as your feet beat away through
the night-
(I can taste the wind) :

We spread intoxication,
We unfold delight,
defogging those moments
when thick summer mist rests fine raindrops
on our skin.

We listen to night music,
and deeply the trees breathe-
the grass swaying swiftly,
live from the sustenance of our secrets.

Wait- your soft feet run away,
while beneath tender air
soft daylight eclipses the eager night.

Pray your back before I'm sure again its day.

7.11.06

The Rise

they crawl out beneath me,
rising from ash-ridden graves,
reborn ascenters, praising the light.

rising, they half concede as
in darkness they once fell-
but it seems to obliterate
because this it their eternal light spell.

anonymityrules
7.5.06

[Shavingcreamcoveredsurprise]

Shavingcreamcoveredsurpise,
A summer’s wisdom sings to me
Sings songs of threes,
Sings me-self tragic tunes -- always a satiric twist,
Leaves me gasping, unable to resist

Lays down with me, only semi-platonic
Reverses my decisions with the blink of an eye,
Bats eyelashes, only to deny
Oh, and ever the tease,
And I, the “gentleman,” trying to please
Doubtless to overreach in my humor,
All ready can hear the whispers of rumor

Find myself afraid of movement, and afraid of standing still,
Between the thought, and the action,
Between the feeling, and the attraction,
Searching desperately – keep it new, fresh,
Yearn for a return – entangled flesh

Hope peels my skin – fear grips these bones – wisdom
Don't elude me.

administrative measure

If nobody objects--I'm reinstating comments because well--what's art without a response from those who experience it?

exposure

my cell phone--10 second exposure

Sometimes art doesn't have to be so serious. I'm going to try not to take it too seriously anymore--results in less frustration.

Improvisations

the anthem for the rest of my life


At one point I was obsessed with taking pictures of the sky. I have lots of them and there will be many more because the sky is so good at improvising. Such creative ingenuity will always be beyond me. I can only stare in awe at its craft and plagiarize those priceless sights in a pathetic digital format. I'm here to share a few.


a rather unlikely prophecy

the impossibility of anything being as ordinary as we wish it were

Untitled Part II

i was going to suggest we call ourselves "the Deerslayers"
in a moment of comedic brilliance,
when the stars struck me for my insolence,
and i realized : which one of us is the car? which the deer?
we're all fucked up.

On Friendship

Running frantically from the lunch room, terrified, torment screams piercing through my small thirsty mind. Consolations and tears and coming home and by myself her busy lies fly. Silly games and following her with intelligence and fright. Trust in those small eyes as she calls herself fat, then glares at me pretentiously, eyes alien and I'm sad. A barrage of his images- his silly frail inadequate grin aglow as he stares, feet climbing out the window with his wrists while they bleed. This time in secret whispers I tell myself what he's done, and in his drug world I know he is saved. WEIRD words through my mind as in drunken moments I know he remembers me small. Giggles and warmth and suicide and helping carve a heart on her hip, because tequila is a lovely warmth to heal us. Hate filling my heart in clenched fists as she flashes me that smile- pretending, pretending, convincing me and I fall through myself in this speed- meth haze, while she steals him away. Her blood stains my skin. My contemptuous fear as my kin lurches forward with a knife, and I run like I'm small, like my shame is gone.

anonymityrules
7.1.06

Years After Being Saved

one day her sick blonde smile
one day her pale hands
over his murder.

one day the malicious grin
and the bleeding knife
beneath his skin.

one day all those memories
of choking down her sin
will bleed into his open chest-
and make her ritual sacrifice.

And his unforgiving Majesty,
cackling,
waves a hand

because she still believes
damnation feels like skin.

7.4.06
anonymityrules

Their Narrative

And deep inside the chasmic mind,
in the darkest hours of his many nights,
he seemed to perceive such danger
in this thing the rest
called life-

he seemed to fear the tremulous hour
in which to dare to lose-

and he seemed to find her- in one of those
fortuitous lights,
blinking and cherishing oblivion,
breaking moments into dust-

he seemed to let her dream for him-
to scream and fight, to let him lose.

And he seemed, in the
foggy sexual world, to have her
understood- to know her every inch
and flinch- to feel at times
like gold.

But he never let his
heart beat quite sweetly enough
to feel remorse
as she grinned in secret,
and time grew very old

anonymityrules

6.27.06

Wait List

When my mom says "It’s here! Your Letter from WASH U!" I dash from my room. Run into the kitchen, searching for the mail.

She's extending an envelope, normal, normal, sized, too small, why is this envelope so small? That isn't my envelope no no no that's not mine, no wait, maybe they've changed the formula and send the acceptances in small envelopes, I heard about that from a guy's whose name I've already forgotten as I extend my hand to take the envelope from her. And then I have to open it, knowing what it says already, have to open it in front of them when already I want to die, when already I can feel the consequences, feel the shivers sparking up my soul, just holding this thing. Feel the future waiting in that envelope. And their eyes are pressing me, my sister with a sadistic grin already on her face, my mother smiling in anticipation of my crumble, and I rip it open, and see the words Wait List, and feel like somehow I'm back out on a playground somewhere, somewhere where I'm friendless and somehow somebody bumrushed me, knocking me on my back, a single shot to the temple, that familiar, it's not a ringing, more just an explosion of sound back into your world, as if for the moment you were hit, you went deaf, your eyes stopped functioning, in this moment you don't have balance, which direction is up? which is down? am I walking on the ceiling? on the floor? and that letter is sitting there, disturbing the colors of my universe, I can see the edges of my vision warp, slowly bleeding red, bleeding big Fs into my soul, tattooing me with the symbol of FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE my mind screams, as my mom, too slow on the uptake keeps asking what does it say, as if she can't see the giant big red words WAIT LIST in my hand, as if she wants me to acknowledge the knowledge I am so quickly trying to thrust away. I drop the letter back onto the counter, face up toward her; she disregards them, instead pushing me, crying “Tell me!” I respond, too harsh, too much anger in my words already "It says Wait List" I explode, regretting instantly responding. But like every moment today, I'm stuck in here, regretting too much, reliving too many moments, feeling my world slide, slide slide......slippery slopes are a fallacy I mumble to myself, a fallacy......I slip into one of the LD rounds I lost this weekend, mumbling slipper slopes are a fallacy, you have to have impeccable causation, not just a correlation, and as I'm mumbling some black girl comes and takes my trophies, and as I stumble, I feel the fingers of the street clutching my ankles, I see cancer growing in my stomach, I see her there, leaving, I hear your footsteps growing closer as you say, one last time, "I loved you babe." already past tense, I'm fading, I feel all this as I walk back to my computer, tell myself, maintain, maintain, maintain. I turn on Nine Inch Nails. I feel something wriggle lose from a dark corner of my soul, I feel something else eat away slowly at the decadence inside me. I feel others inside my skull. I feel the laughter. I am alone, and I feel the laughter. I feel it, so real, so real, so real. I feel the yearn to know. To call the school would mean acknowledging I'm not there, that what happened today actually happened. I yearn for alcohol. Not a bottle-night I tell myself. I slowly realize the need to adapt. I need to move away from the mindset. You're done. You're not in. But its’ been too long. 4 years, you've thought of this. you lived this. You were silly oh so silly. You thought you had it made when you got into that high school. You laughed as you took shit from all your friends, who were laughing at you for leaving, for living with those snobby rich little fuckers up at that big school. You laughed along with them because you knew you'd have it made; you could afford this laugh at your expense. You saw how the system worked; how it had worked to the moment, how you had carried the grades, the extracurriculars, and how the high schools had lined up. You had full-rides and then Prep even said, “Please come.” And you said okay. And you knew you knew, this is how the system worked. Sign my name and soul on the dotted line, sign my 4 years of hard work on the line.

I'm out of here, I'm blowing this town for a good school; yeah, now that's the plan. We're going far from here, where our life will take off right? Where I don’t have to hear of parents beating children, where I don’t have to see drug deals, where I don’t have to remember this past. And those red words, I see them when I close my eyes, on the back of each eye lid, a single word in capital red. The words keep morphing. I can't tell anymore, they're so blurred. They seem to form Stuck Here, but they were wait list weren't they? You would have thought they chose a different color. But no, hey, at least it blends into the background of hell. If the system doesn’t work, what part of this plan

does?

what

part

of

the

plan

works?

I feel your eyes, your despise.

I feel my will, my world, slipping.

I feel everything go.

I hear your voices fading.

I see the colors contract.

I can smell my own vomit before it comes up.The double dose of nausea doubles me over the toilet, as I taste failure in my throat, as it pours out of me. and it doesn’t stop; the heaves leave me broken and wheezing. I take a shower to hide the tears after, and tell no one. My only thought is why, and failure, alternating like currents of electricity.

Untitled

No hedonist am I,
Yet my conscience will not rest.
Til this story be told, at my late behest

I killed a deer yesterday
Driving past midnight on Cedar Lane
With only my own headlights to guide me,
A doe, young, fragile, free, leaping lightly into my lane, froze
In her meltingly vivacious Bambi eyes, I saw the light reflected,
As a thousand brilliant sunrises
Untouched
She did not swerve, but faced my dark vehicle
Like a Catholic martyred by a lion in the Coliseum.
With as much defense.
I braked with shallow force, surprised by her sudden appearance in my sight
And truly, curious as to what would happen, waiting for her to spring away
She did not swerve, but faced my dark vehicle,
Staring calmly into my eyes, with naught but belief
Like Caesar as he turned from Brutus.
Shock rent me as the impact jarred my senses,
The jeep slalomed over her rear first; legs flew and split askew,
Her tail shorn, and now also torn in twain.
My wheels ground quickly over her back; pausing for but a second as they trod upon the heart
And in the last moment before that clinging body received its freedom,
Staining my dark vehicle with its youthful hue,
I paused and saw the eyes, filmed over with liquid.

Us, Blackhearts

Shock of red in a sea of black,
His hair reminds me of what I am,
of the fallen prowling ‘mongst the naïve,
We are the jackals, us blackhearts,
Who weed society of its weak,
week by week,
Oh and here our prey,
Sauntering to us with delighted smiles,
He pulls her in close for a quick embrace,
And I can hear his claws click as a heart they trace,
What a sport, where the prey play prowling,
Oh and if they knew how we pray,
The long torturous nights spent on top and underneath and sideway,
And if you but knew how to prey,
How the temperature within,
is howlingly hotter than the temperature outside
slipping in is as easy as sin.

Shock of red in a sea of black,
Who can give my innocence back?

Retired…or simply Long Game

Love : not made for triangle shaped pegs.
Love : the game we’re playing, not for keeps
Love : indecision, redecision, decision?
Love : summer-jiving, tangledancing unanswer
Love : three hearts unbearably beat as one
We two seek “WISDOM”
(-for a namesake, she’s certainly lacking)
Moon-shined, star-filled, overflow ache
Grace(hope-ful) retiring retreat
Laurels lovelessly left, I’m exiting to such a but-but-but-but beat.
But of course line three.

[sky is gold, with touches of rose]

Sky is gold, with touches of rose

Curves of lips, with rushes of close.



Sky is black, with spots of star,

Curves of hips, disguise these scars.



Sky is gold, with touches of rose,

Swerves in thought, still nobody knows.

stepping through the block

At first I thought I'd be flashy
on my run toward the goal.
A burst of brilliance--
short, declarative spurts and fakes,
but I was blocked before I could take a second touch

And then I thought I'd be slick:
rehash a classic strategy
but spin it a new way,
put a different bend on the shot,
But there's a reason it's not my move--
the defense held firm,
held me at a line
I couldn't move through

So then I thought I'd be cute
and flick it through--
a short and sweet nutmeg to get me past
but I needed an extra touch
and couldn't take it, and we reset

Then a stroke of inspiration
sent a beautiful line through to me
but I was stuck at the eighteen--
couldn't finish

And so I was desperate,
slammed my head on the pitch:
cried foul--but I only saw yellow
I marked myself down

Play on: I needed the point--
It'd been too damn long since I scored.
So I thought I'd be random and
take a wild shot--
It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't memorable,
but I got myself through,
and godammit, I hit net.

pointaken
7.1.2006

A Few Minutes in Her Mind

Mirrors are everywhere. I Look at my eyes in the car window, I look at my lips in the glass on the door of my classroom. I Take out my compact with a mirror and look at my reflection while I'm waiting for lunch. When I'm bored I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror and fix my makeup and fix my hair.

In ten minutes I have fixed my entire physical appearance and truly examined my life. I'm getting ready for lunch. I'm delicately fixing my makeup, taking tissues and wiping off smudged eyeliner, popping the pimple on the side of my cheek. Eww that's so gross. Everyone will think I'm so ugly if they see it. Okay, just breathe, maybe they won't notice.

If I laugh and accentuate my lips when I talk maybe it'll be okay. If I giggle in order to get my way they won't notice. If I take off my sweater maybe they'll look at my boobs instead.

When the lunchroom is really full I want my old seat back. Yeah, I left half an hour ago, but if I apply minimal effort I can get it back. Perfect. That geeky kid in the corner with the huge and obvious crush on me.

Whiny voice, whiny voice is perfect. No, fragile voice. I'm not actually fragile, but it's better when it looks that way, I think. Perfect- a fragile, whiny, weak voice- maybe even slightly sexual. The combo.

“Zach-” I moan, “You took my seat.”

“Oh, oh, I'm so sorry.” he says bashfully, looks away quickly, runs to the corner and sits against a wall instead. Success- so I sit down.

And the people around me make pleasant and funny conversation, and they laugh and I laugh. I laugh really fragile like and giggle and sound stupid when I talk. Wait, why am I laughing again?

I've been doing this so long I feel stupider. What if I am stupider? What if acting this way for so long actually made me this way? But even if I am stupid, it doesn't matter. Don't linger on that too long.

Then I take out my small sandwich that isn't really satisfying, but I don't care. The key is to eat around my peers. When I do that, no one suspects that that's the only time I eat. And I chew very slowly and delicately and focus on looking dainty while I'm eating. And I only eat half- because it shows a very feminine sense of control. Because control is everything.

anonymityrules
06.17.06

What I Want to Remember When I'm Dying

The first high- not those childish ones in your backyard with suspect characters- that first true one that made you learn something about intimacy- the one in your car, blissful dancing music in your ears and companions by your side. The first orgasm and the first time someone held you close, extended and beautiful as you rested, sleeping as if you loved your life. The first prolonged eye contact with romantic overtones, not only sexual, but intimate- those blue eyes opened up so wide you wished you could fall asleep in the womb of the azure. Sitting naked in your backyard, totally revealed in a drunken stupor, enjoying that cigarette and that breeze against your skin. Moments of anticipation- your heart moving outward with force and revelation. That moment where the only real mother in your life brought you out of numbness and you shed a true tear- the wet reality climbing down your cheek in a bleak reminder of the beauty of momentary affection and love. The last real hug you ever received, one that was gentle and comforting in your loneliest hour. The last time you looked someone in the eyes and saw them- wholly aware that they saw you too. The last, final ecstasy- whatever artificial or natural form if may have assumed in order to manifest itself in you- and how you knew why the world spins so enthusiastically about its axis. And knowing the reason you lived to see this day is summed up in these brief recollections. And also knowing that your physical existence and physical memory are the very essence of the metaphysic of your life.

anonymityrules

06.08.06

Evolutionary and Sublime

I am odd system of nerves
and cells and electricity-
from science's lessons I learn
the physicality of my existence.

And the nerves-
they communicate mysteries,
the mysteries of feelings and
smelling reptilian.
The mysteries of
nature and desire and death.

Unless you fight them.

Occasionally, mostly accidentally, I flash
you abortive smiles, fake ones too,
and occasionally, always accidentally,
real smiles.

I embarrass myself in preemption of pain-
With constant, bright, shining lies- constantly
Emerging, darkened, from the
Perilous periphery of my consciousness.

I long, with heavy dedication to
my sacred sentient breaths,
for the memory of real sleep inside the womb
and that salvation be in the casket,
and that it be final.

I will always become enamored with
anatomical drawings of the heart,
but not the soul.

And as the result I stand fully
formed and crippled:
here you see me, a cryptically
purposeful grin on my face,
eyes squinting, and lamenting
being allergic to life.

And I walk onward with definite steps,
contemplating my near-expertise
at maintaining patience in opposition to desire-
Fearing more nightmares in the day time,
Speeding through time and forging, with
astounding zeal, a collective
guilty conscience for the innocent.

Blink once, you can feel the tender overtones
of the evolutionary and the sublime.

anonymityrules 6.10.06

Eyes

Dart away, fly away, breathe,
deep inside the sockets-
Drift away, lift away, emanate
distance.

Widen, shrink, avoid contact.
Blink occasionally, move with
astounding subtlety.

Hope and pray no one catches
you, dream and sink inward.
Live without thirst.

Catch an image, prolong your pain,
make his image beautiful, meet
those others before he looks away.
Fight penetration, mask melancholy,
joy and disdain.

Search it out, sadness and tears,
and once you happen upon it,
Never sustain.

anonymityrules- 6.8.06

Thoughts after I

You see she says,
Now I'm not afraid of her,
Cuz y'know she's met her
And thinks she looks
Better.
But she doesn't realize
That all curves are dangerous,
And the mountain really depends on the climber
And it makes me a tad sad
To think I'm scattering seed
On such shallow ground.

-nefariousone -