i could prose your love but
sexier i would find it shoulds’t it be versed
instead

Dirt and other
certain types
of sedatives
surround us
as we
contemplate the simple joys
of being above ground

And of laying on it
cock-sure that we’d
never have to contemplate
the horror of a world contained
within a cramped, yet
relatively roomy pinewood box

For all eternity.

cant do what you cant do unless
you’re powered by something bigger
than a claimed 9.5 hour battery life
which keeps going and going and going
until 9.51 hours at which point you will
die perfectly without lasting even a second
longer than you’re measured to do that’s what
you’re like when you try to do what you cant
do

stick to what you’re good at

you live right-of-center
chest cavity
as a hollow feeling

you poke at my ignition

gas floods my eyes

and if i do not move
i will explode

and if i do move i will
drive ’till the atlantic
or pacific or
indian
and i don’t even want
you to come with me

i don’t even want
you at all
if not for a second.

everything’s come unraveled
but that’s hardly the point
everything is
done
it’s done
it’s done for
and nothing can be
done
to reconcile this much damage

Or maybe there is something
but we’ll need the largest spindle in the world

THE MATRXI
FIGURE EIGHT
WOMEN
VODKA WOMEN
LONGING
WHEN SPRING COMES I PACK MY BAGS AND HEAD FOR THE NEAREST REVEALED THIGH
THIS IS CALLED BEING ONE WITH NATUR
THIS IS CALLED BEING A MAN
I AM NOT TO OVERCOME MY NATURE
I AM NOT TO HEED TO MORALITY
I AM

WHY MUST I STAY AFTER THE TEA HAS BEEN FINISHED?
WHAT IS THERE TO TALK
ABOUT
ANYWAYS?
ABOUT HOW THE WORLD IS SPINNING
STARS
SUN
GOD
HUMAN CONDITION OR INTERACTION
POLITICS
FAVORITE COLORS
HOW ANNOYING THE WAY I SIP MY DRINKS IS
HOW I CONDESCEND WOMEN TOO OFTEN
(YOUR ALL JUST HORMONES ANYWAYS)
WOULD YOU LIKE TO YELL AT ME FOR NOT PUTTING DOWN THE TOILET SEAT OR NOT BACKING THE CAR INTO THE DRIVE BECAAUSE YOU HATE BACKING IT OUT?
WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DREAM OF OTHER WOMEN
OR WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO GIVE YOU THE VERY ESSENCE OF MY SOUL AND LET YOU RUIN SOME OTHER POOR CORPSE OF HIS ESSENCE?

I HOEP IF U LUV ME U WULD LET ME GO

I FEEL AS IF
AGNELS REALLY DID MATE WITH HUMANS
AND THEIR TRAITS ARE ONLY VISIBLE IN A FEW OF US
AND THOSE TRAITS ARE SLOWLY DWINDLING
SO THE AMOUNT OF PREVENTABLE DEATHS KEEPS RISING
BECAUSE MONKEYS WATCH 2 MUCH TV

Awaking with sleep soaked eyes
Fingers curling underneath covers
White noise between parentheses
Vehicle horns absorb the silence
Ceiling fan twirls perpetual circles
Streetlights through open windows
Scatter reflections on the walls
Pixies dancing in frenzied zeal
Migrating breeze tousles curtains
Perfume on delicate pillow creases
Ruffles embracing vacant hair strand
Corners with abandoned furniture
Rosy gleam silhouettes the door ajar
Fulfilled before consciousness
The farewell message of desolation
In a pale room long disregarded
The darkness outshines light

I drink my iced tea from a
Glass
that breaks when dropped
too forcefully

And when the pieces won’t
go back together, we
must sweep them up
reluctantly
and hope that no-one
finds one
with bare feet, and
accidentally.

We decorate.
We celebrate.
We cheer and eat.
Spending time with those we love
(And maybe those we don’t)
We bake and we grill.
We wave flags.
Setting off fireworks
(And setting off car alarms)
Watching as they fizzle, pop
Dazzling into the sky
Onto the marveling,
Sparkling beauty of the night
We are blinded—
Lost between the air
Smothered with the scent
Of smoke and sulfur.
Rejoicing gleefully.
Tomorrow could never come
(And then tomorrow comes)
And we reluctantly embrace
The daily grind again.

Music to my ears
I swear it,
written like a lullaby

Strikes me deathly still
to hear it
bottle rockets touch the sky

Beauty to behold
and near it,
all the luster one could ask

though the night is cold
we fear not,
marching towards our final task

(Or just a sofa and a cask)

the way my lips touch the ground on return home
should feel better than this but carpet
blocks the soil from beneath me and i
lack the wherewithal to again bend to my
knees and kiss the dirt beneath my feet
when i finally reach the red soil of my motherland

here the wind blows harder
than you might remember
though you’ve probably never come

and here the people are meaner
than you might expect from such
kind faces

and so i’m tempted to bend my knees
and press again my lips to the ground
and screw the dirt that grits between my teeth

soul-searching
best left to the
not-so-faint of
heart, I think.

The question, though, remains:
how to test the faintness
of one’s heart without
a little bit of
soul-searching