poetry

memories or dreams?

poetry

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.

Watch it.

poetry

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.

2.5 hours to get a table in a door is 2 long.

poetry

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

Why Do I Do These Things I Do?

poetry

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.

Hauntings

poetry

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.

Red River, NM

poetry

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.

i’d write of trees but today (despite their beauty) i’m more intrigued by humanity and how we live with all it’s curious flaws

poetry

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

The Conception of You in Relation to My Fantasies

poetry

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.

let’s drive north

poetry

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.

gone too long

poetry

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

driving through shitty towns drunk

poetry

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.