and when we kick it,
as they say on the other side of town,
all the folks will stop and stare
cuz there we’ll be, just kickin’ it,
admittedly,
on the wrong side of town
admittedly, i found your body
in a shallow grave in my backyard
i was shaking like a lost child
your body smoking like a fallen star
All great writers are drunkards—
It’s a prerequisite, perhaps,
That too be profound
One must also be inebriated—
This glass and aluminum key
Unlocking chests of insight.
Thoughts flow evenly, quickly—
A bottle tilted to parched lips
Wearing worn pathways
Across yellowed pages.
Words that speak of fight
Words that speak of rest—
Saying nothing at all.
Waking to begin anew—
Waiting to find answers
Underneath sea spun foam,
Crashing into shattered shores
Hoping to find forlorn messages
Sealed safely in bottles.
Swirling stories fill full mouths,
Spilling over the oceans side—
But diluted behind a liquid veil
Pain cannot dissolve in truth—
There is never an escape.
It will always be a fantasy.
You threw your whole body at the icy lava
But it spat you out like a cork,
And all the little fish drank champagne
And danced the rumba because
They thought you’d given up
And they thought they had won.
The big green-eyed octopus down there
Skated along the soft ocean floor like messiah
Each day the slimy grin on his face,
That fatty enclave of salty grime,
Grew wider and wider, until the sea
Started to shiver at the thought of its size.
Months passed in the oyster-grey soup
Of the swelling Atlantic Ocean
But every morning you hear the
Broken-backed barnacles whispering your name
Your time is coming my darling, I can feel it
Put your goggles on, it’s time for a change.
thick warm air
forced down throats by
heaving lungs
barely breathable
make it work, make it work,
cough and wretch and
gasp it down again
and every
little palpitation
of the heart
the mind
the spirit?
will be painted in someone’s studio
imortalized wholly
for ever and ever,
at least,
until the point is moot
the elephant in the room
is that your mother is dying
from a cancer
and your heart follows the
rain,
down through the gutters
apathy is a warm blanket,
your body is a cold machine,
all around you a million shades
of grey paint pop-culture
pictures that disappear when
you look at them like
all of the fake-stars in the sky
there are few words left for what you see
you put your art in a grey can
and give it a stupid name;
this survival is an encouraged
and repugnant greed
and is the cancer itself
beauty is right behind that elephant.
Scrambling like a firehouse
twirling down poles a’ clamoring
If theses shapes don’t go in soon
I’m goin’ to get a’ hammering
The alarm compliments the squealing screeching tires
I hurry to complete the task before the time expires
The wobbly and goin’ a’rollin’ stone
Falls into the circular shape of its own
Better be a’hurryin’ cause times a runnin’ out soon
Place it next to the star, slide in the crescent moon
Tick, tick! Yes, make it quick!
Will I make it in the nick?
Oh no, the square, it’s home, oh where?
If I can’t find it then—oh look, its there!
So urgently, oh the polygonal urgency!
Pick up the pace, this is an emergency!
The last two shapes are swallowed and contained
Times up! The piece pop! Let’s do it all over again
Even as long as the Earth has been alive
and the stars it’s seen explode
and the billions of species it has
deemed unfit to remain,
I wonder if ever
in it’s long, lauded life,
thought it would one day measure,
absolutely,
it’s sorrow by the gallon.
Imagine a little switch that
you could just flick
just like that
‘’flick”
and whoever you’re talking
to goes silent
Like a big fat blimp far
far away
Animated
but so silent
As silent as the
night
As silent as grandma’s
Sunday afternoon,
on a quiet week
If I could get that switch
installed,
(giving the handyman a
cold, beer once
he’s done)
I’d use it on you
everytime
when you refuse to
shut the hell
up.
wind blows the rain
batting the ground the way
i shake my sheets to make ripples when
i spread it to cover the whole bed
God’s up there, shaking this rain sheet
making sure he gets enough wind underneath to pull
the corner over the side of this city
then he calms down. tucks us in.
and whispers goodnight
After all, who doesn’t have their birthday party in the Pentagon?
Sean and I were partners as we colored espionage fish.
Cut them out with dull scissors, pasted them on the wall
Because then we’d get the tax break.
The trampoline we were on took to long to cross;
I didn’t feel as light as I should.
A few of us took pictures of the fish; no one could color very well.
We didn’t have time to asses our folly
Because that was when the eight thugs on rollerblades starting stealing presents
In the parking lot.
I knew one of them, his name was Lance.
He charged at me and I sidestepped under his swipe,
Grabbed his shirt and jabbed him in the neck.
Kevin punched another one and I tripped him as he reeled.
They ran, but I kept Lance’s shirt—it was a level nine.
The action must have been too much for Andrew though,
He kept screaming, ‘I’m going to freeze my dick! I’m going to freeze my dick!’
Your mom yelled at him not to,
But he peed in the misty corner of the room all by himself.
Outside was the beach and a verdant island.
Couldn’t visit though because Natalie wanted to leave and ran the other way.
There was a pathway between the valleys we were in with a barrier in the middle
That she couldn’t climb over,
Like when Ash tried to ride his bike over the miniature cliffs in Pokemon.
It was okay though,
Because Kenny quickly ran over and ate three circular holes through the barrier.
Natalie was still fat and couldn’t fit, so I think she went home.
The rest of us decided with her gone the next best course of action:
We spun in the sand.
Crowds joined and the tide came in.
When the waves were chest high, I saw the uniformed police officer,
He asked, “a little cold isn’t it?”
I told him it wasn’t that bad and climbed out of the lake,
The bear-sized teddy bear named Molly had been working
As a minimum-wage ranch hand all day
And we didn’t want to exploit the fact that he couldn’t swim.
His fur would get wet and then mold.
We went over to the truck rigs since we were in the industrial plant
And underneath a mountain of black trash bags we uncovered a duck suit.
The tall black guy with the mustache volunteered to wear it.
The farmer’s wife brought us eggs for breakfast and we ate them.
It would have been rude to tell her it was 28:02 o’clock.
i thought you were here but you were not
but i can feel you pulling me down
down into your sweet comfort
down into sugar soaked dreams
my eyes, heavy, catch shadows on the floor
thought i felt you pulling me down
down into would-be memories
down to where we sleep life away
my mind is tired, it needs a rest
i come to look for you again
you are not here, and never were
i made you up just for me.
I do not walk in to your house
with my head held high
and my sword-tip swinging low
for to cut up all the carpeting,
my boots making a mess of things
and all the while a smile across my face
I do not walk in to your house
a pistol in my hand
and a dagger in my fist
with a gun-belt and a bandolier,
and a swagger oh-so-cavalier,
my pomp and pride permeating the place
Outside, though,
I’ll kill you.
every time a table is delivered
on time and craftily built to fit
through a door in my lovely america
my confidence in this country
which failed to serve me butter
this morning for my pancakes
slightly diminishes. i need to return
home briefly, visit the dmv and
allow myself to bask in the misery
that is american red tape so as
to better appreciate this bureaucracy
Not again? Not again!
It makes my blood boil.
Sold, misunderstanding—a slave to sin.
A slave to law.
Spiritually void at times.
For what I want to do I do not do,
but what I hate I do.
This law, this restriction—this good.
It is good, but I am not, am I?
I am good, but I am a slave to sin.
And yet?
Nothing good lives in me, that is,
in my sinful nature.
The desire is there—for good.
But I will always fall short.
For what I do is not the good I want to do;
no, the evil I do not want to do—
this I keep on doing.
But it’s not want I want.
It’s not who I am.
It is sin.
And I am not sin.
I am redeemed.
Cold sorts of fingers are
the worst sort gripping
’round the parts one tries
to breath through
and sometimes
(right now)
it’s getting hard to breathe
‘cuz there’s this pressure,
just below the
cheek-bones. Tightening up.
but I still breathe.
Now, only to peel
the frozen fingers
from my wind-pipe.
To say that it is a little kichy
would be an understatement
but despite all of the tourists,
and all the overpriced shops,
and all the family bikes,
is the land
and the land is perfect,
an idealic world
of unspoiled beauty
still there to be viewed
and possessed for a moment,
so long as you stay out of town.
Looming on the horizon,
amongst and apart of the clouds;
immensity.
Dwarfing all those around it,
standing 14,110 feet above the world,
yet diminished and obscured
only by the slight twitch
of my lounging foot,
conquered by my nonchalance.
So I’ll stop it all right here
And admit to myself
That i’ll never be cool,
That I’ll never be loved,
That I’ll never be that guy;
And instead gladly settle
To be myself,
To love myself,
To be cool with myself.
yesterday a girl attempted to jump from the 7th floor
to make her fiance eternally regretful of his decision
to cheat shortly before their wedding
and i found my daily time of considering death
has not yet prepared me to stare it in the face
and i found my life experience
has not yet prepared me to sit on the cold floor
next to this crying woman and try to understand
It’s nothing I have haven’t experienced before
And yet, that’s what makes the possibility all the more enthralling.
It’s no longer about the act or the finished product.
Hardly at all. In fact, that might very well ruin everything!
Well, almost.
But truth be told, it’s the enticement of opportunity,
The mere perception of the act that I revel.
Some call it the journey,
Some call it foreplay.
I’m not sure which of the two I agree with more.
It’s the mystery which piques my every sense,
It’s the unknown that I chase after with gratuitous diligence.
It’s the almost that I crave with ravenous appetite.
And there you have been, unknowing but tempting at every turn;
A leg, a sigh, a smile, and yes, cleavage.
Yet with exploitation or exposure is there victory?
Contrary, it becomes the inevitable demise.
Behind the shroud, the lust.
Beyond the shroud, it’s all the same.
We’re all the same.
i’m an inflatable man
waving at the heavens
and yearning ever outwards
and futher
but the wind is high
and the gravity is heavy
and reality is lame.
and leave this all behind,
saying farewell to our lives,
dropping the imperatively meaningless tasks,
walking out on our fucking jobs,
jumping onto 25
to see where it will take us,
leaving texas behind (good riddance),
passing through new mexico
only to linger in colorado
before tackling wyoming,
montana,
continuing on with no directions,
with no definitions,
with no plans,
except to find canada’s cool embrace
before our lives find us
and drag us back
to the heat of our lives.
run me down to
the shore
grab my hand and
pull me to
the rocky beach
through the thick mist
peppered with salt and
pine and sea
through the deepening
shadows of the streets and
by the electrified home windows
that echo back
our bright laughs
we stop short of
the water, and molecules
collect in our hair -
in the needles of the trees
we share a glance
a squeeze
a heartbeat
and the sun has set
and i hear it
works the other
way around too
the latin folk
created a word for
this and called it
vice ah vers ah
i think its because
they were ashamed
of the many cream
filled frosted delicacies
they allowed themselves
to indulge in during
the decline of their
once impressive empire
pleaseplease
please please
please
please please
don’t just tell me
what I want to hear.
I can not bear
to hear it
earwig sitting harmlessly
on speaker tops but how
I wish
it’d crawl under my skin
and make it’s way,
it’s harmless way,
directly in to the brain
where it would feast
just like the aliens
in some made-for-
T-V- Sc-Fi
movie.
inside you is a tension
from the building up of steam
and you won’t just let go of it
for that would be obscene
you pretend that you are limber
so to all it can be seen
yet you are just a child, dear
just-a waiting to be free’d
so come and take a ride with me
away from your sick dream
i’ll teach you how to lift the world
and put it down, where you please
see the colors of the void
and then, too, of the leaves
think about the higher things
and sit up in the trees
let all of our love out
and let it flow
in-between.
