Not so much a venom, being there is no injection involved. Though metaphorically, perhaps it is a venom injected directly in to the soul. Either Way, I’m Dying.

poetry

I drink your poison
and relish in the thought of you
drinking my poison, just
barely hanging on to your
very own guts

I breathe your toxic gasses
sucking them deep and choking
while reaching out to strangle you.
How I long wrap my fingers
right around the pipe that
keeps you moving.

and all the while that
acid smile does
wonders to the sensory:
The poison refreshing  as it
 forces an ending on a body.

I drink it down and dream,
lazily and lethargically,
hoping with every slipping instant
that you die by my power,
all while dying by yours.

This was not what I intended but somewhere along the way, and despite my best efforts, I got semi-sentimental

poetry

i could sit here all day
watching you grow,
perhaps wishing that you would grow
faster
or add in a little more
excitement
but still content,
happy in your acceptance
and in your love,
happy in your dependence
and in the symbioticism
between me and you,
between you and me
and in the truth slowly unfolding
that there is no you without me,
and perhaps after all this time,
there is no me without you.

i want to delete that ( a treatise on how i’m glad life isn’t like a computer in most aspects but this would be a nice one)

poetry

search out the spot on my pants
throw it in the trash
empty said trash.

dont like that friendship?
just open the filesystem,
navigate to “personality”
find the folder labelled “grating”
hit the recycle bin.

whatever your preferred operating
system or analogy
you can agree with me when i say

it’d be nice to delete that about
you. me. this place.

(open wallet, find “empty”, right
click, “create new” -> “benjamins”)

win.

for want of english inspiration

poetry

the beauty i hear isn’t in
carefully selected words pieced together
in crafted sentences on ideas new and
novel

all that enters my ear is
words in mathematical order in
equations i understand but cannot yet
utilize, and colors more bland than
my own color wheel

i miss days of fascination where
my pen couldn’t keep up with the
ideas being generated by my more
than creative brilliant surroundings.

i miss english.

ever-living Fire

poetry

droplets vein and
track down the
slicked and glistened
glass window.

their quiet silence and
my lover’s voice
wake me – it’s saturday.

morning thunder
rumbles out of place,
audibly unfamiliar – belonging
to a summer afternoon
still to come.

chugging low crashes
soundtrack the small
chores of the early day and
rattle the panes once
in a while.

the gray dawning is
sublime and mortality
hangs in the air
between our two bodies – No,

it flashes with a
glance and shakes us,
each to each’s core.

If I were an Ancient Wayward Traveler, I would move across the old countries a bit in the same way that a car full of traveling musicians does, albeit with one less drum set. And probably a cooler sort of hat.

poetry

There are not two
thousand miles between our comings
and our goings,
but it takes two trips
to come and go
completely.

Feet blistered hands raw
from running the walking
stick at probably just four
miles or so. We can’t be too
hasty after all.

Someone lost count after some
of those miles but we
aren’t so long in to the
coming, and as far as things
seem to go, the going
may be rather slow,
so maybe let’s not worry so much
about maps and the like.

Maybe let’s take a moment
or two
to stretch, scratch, and
retie that loose pair of sandals

Modern Love

poetry

I am walking bare foot
Over chalky concrete
Then it happens-

An unexpected downpour
Blogs, millions of them
Pelt down

You’re by the post office
I can see you
Standing there, brooding

Peeling off my soppy jacket
The blogs, frenzied
Drench my shirt underneath

I’m getting closer though
Not far now,
Maybe a football field

But then the clouds smirk
And down plunge the
Social networking sites

Nothing stays dry
They’re loaded, malicious
Each drop a smack on the head

Crisp leaves soak them up
Soak me up
I’m half way to swimming

A few feet ahead of me,
Vague text messages
Hit the pavement like bullets

A few feet ahead of you
A white wall of water hangs
Dancing like a drying sheet

Smacking shards and droplets
Away from my face
I look out, searching

You’re gone, walked inside
Posting something?
In transit

And I’m there
Sewer rat, dripping
Typetitypetype.

last night i had my first zombie dream

poetry

i bashed in heads
apparently my preferred weapon is a baseball bat.
i ran through abandoned suburbs
on sunny days chasing flesh eating
former humans.

i fled to the safety zone again and again
but throughout my dream
(and this is where it crossed into reality)
i left the safety zone repeatedly
to hit the grocery store.

wanting cheetoes (the organic puffy kind)
seeking runts and nerds and french baguettes
and donuts.
beer.
always more zombies for beer.

they crowd in the rotten produce isles
if you enter just right you can escape without notice.

last night i had my first zombie dream.
it wasn’t scary at all.
but now i’m more fearful of an outbreak.
the reality of my unwillingness to stay safe
without beer
is terrifying.

Philly bums

poetry

When I run out of all this
hard-earned easy-spent
cash of mine, I’m gonna
end up just like one of them
laid back Philly bums.

I’m gonna chill.
Right on that park bench
with those sunglasses on
and that old suit coat
buttoned all the way,
and when you pass me
I won’t even ask for cash.

Them laid back Philly bums
know just what it means,
I guess.

They get what’s good,
and sometimes with the
taxis trying to kill a body,
and the buses not caring
if they do, I guess a little
live music and sunshine
is good enough for me.

just like one of them laid back Philly bums.

mind altering substances

poetry

i wonder what it would be like to
pop something like peyote for the
night and entertain myself with
thoughts a little less mundane.

i wonder and find the thought
different enough i’m willing to
settle for having partaken of the
inquisition, and lacked the drug

Distance in many senses.

poetry

You seem so very hopeful
with that
smile stitched so carefully
just underneath your
nose,
where your scowl is supposed to be
But please, just gnash your
jowls,
I’ve no reason to fear you today,
as it’s so hard to
hit
someone a thousand miles away

And even if that smile
was
as perfect as you claim,
it’s impossible to
touch
you.

You’re a thousand miles away.

worms on the sidewalk

poetry

we went downtown and we made it happen
me, dustin, and brown boy went to an
unchristened skate shop to score some
of that ol’ pick-me-up-rocket-ship

we rode it back to locust and pine
where the drunkards were yelling

i was smashed and kind of on edge
facing face to face with faces
reminding them that johnny law
has an itchy trigger finger (ya dig?)

ms. white was in the closet talking
budgeting and finance, cogs and
gears and regicide and fire

we were howling at the lonely moon
wringing whiskey out of the night’s
spirit-soaked blanket
with jesus asleep on the couch
and
the sky had white clouds blocking
the stars just because

we had the tunes and the intoxicants
flowing like blood through the streets while
the men and women with twisted spines
were trying to sleep under itchy sheets with
the sound of our madness ringing in their
ears keeping their stupid dreams from ever
coming.