Last Line

I am writing anywhere
carrying and placing mugs,
leaving rings of condensation,
atomization around
tired eyes, staring out
into light polluted skies
no STARS! My God! No
Stars! NO FUCKING stars!
blankets of purple clouds
unfurled, beyond that unearthly
opaque blackness, like
skyscraper windows unframed,
hell, and ah! shit, expletives and
what-ever-have-you-not
watch this thing unseen, it's
video-logged to you head
linked directly to the brain,
layered like cake, thick
and creamy icing spread between
pink naive wrinkles and synapes,
LOOK, I only write what's behind
my iris, see? didn't you know?
I got hazel eyes, two colors unfold,
you'll be wondering,
we'll be gazing,
face to face, sight line switches
between pupils, dilating--if only there
were enough words to get it--
but there's too much--Aww~!
you know, too much too much,
I only have one line left.

A conversation with TIME

Time looks at me
for a long, uncomfortable while
turns its head and spits
quasar star-birth, black hole words,
language as a road map through existence.

I say I ain't got no place to go,
that it hasn't happened yet,
which is the truth from where I'm looking.

He reads me back my lines,
nothing has ever happened
you aren't even here, and I am not this.

But, that's not what I say, I say,
and it's never been heard.

Desk World

I've got a book of dreams,
dedication page written to myself,
signed by me,

a collection of empty coffee mugs,
placed strategically around my
desk,

one unused AAA battery
without a match,

a jumping spider hunts on my windowsill,
I don't have the heart to tell him
I've got no food,

he jerks, stops, starts, jumps,
rotates 360 degrees, now explores my desk,

makes his way back up white apartment walls,
I check google mentioning his marks,
close the page before the close up
the loading skeletal screen,

there are times, sometimes,
and somethings are best left unseen,

For you and only you to see

Alley way
painted in orange
street light,

cars on either side
sleepy, still

poem painted in still life

there's not much going on,

except, a figure in black
sneaking between cars,
he's knelt down, peers above
car hoods, into windows,
tries each lock, finds one
he likes, eases himself in,
hunched over in the front seat,
he's rocking almost imperceptibly,
sound of car starting shatters
night silence, the car rolling,
no lights, turns out slowly
on to one way street and gone,

alley silent again,

one extra light flicks on,

man appears, leans out, disappears inside,

feet on apartment steps,

the moon isn't visible from where I sit.

Red Eyes out my Window

two blinking red dots
blinking in the distance
shrouded in unblinking
blackest night,

ten fingers tapping
flat keys, spaces in between,

many things are said
by tires crunching the earth, by
the engines they are carrying,

voices whisper below a window
in somewhere lost Virginia,

brown river runs black chrome at mid night,

sewer water gurgles and belches beneath
our feet,

reaching up, reaching out,

two blinking red dots
blinking out in no space
piercing the unblinking fog
of deep night,

ten fingers tapping
space comma good night period

Spider Bite

tightness in my chest, paranoia of closing
throats, ebola virus, georgia guide stones
agenda 21,
head spins, breathe quickens I have nowhere else
to direct my thoughts, videos peering like
hulled out eyes, little snippets of time and
I wonder what is going on beyond
its edges?
scratch my neck, becoming difficult to
see, think, hear, operate, this must be it,
just in time, trucks, painted black pull up
brakes squeaking, soldiers pouring out
like thick oil spilling from back unloading ramp
*stomp**stomp**stomp*
the past age, the oncoming age
railroad, river, road cut off, no currents,
I see myself buried in mass plastic grave,
this must be the time, this must be it,
I knew, I think I knew it, it's hard to say now
my head beating like their boots on the stair,
door kicks in any second, swollen throats,
children crying, I am crying, silently
there are no prayers left, shower curtains rattle,
they'll check there first, that's what they'll do,
then come for me,
then come for me.

Supplication; The Road III

Stirring in my
gut, in memory
in visions of past
and what's coming,
I see long gray
roads bleeding out
into the great distance
ahead, straight as a
Gad damn arrow at the
heart of eternity
and so real, real,
that I can't shake it,
knowing a new season
is coming--a new race to
the coast--my body
picking up speed
going 70-80-90 mph
hitting hell and storms
blue waves and endless
oceans, I can't remain
still, I can't! I tell myself
again and again,
I can't!

Can't stay up!

three nights I
hang my head,

last two nights
it rained,

I can't keep my
eyes open,

plot holes
left dangling, unable
to answer questions

I drift,
head heavy, mind
wanders,

I am walking through dreams.

there are no places
I recognize,
yet I remember each
and every one,

it is not raining here,

it is all foggy
like the light in my eyes,
erased by morning,

I drag my feet
for the next 12 hours
until the next night
repeats.

Fall on Rainy Mornings

Rain
on
fall
mornings

anyone can
write this
but I am
and it's mine

stepping
out of metro
I hope it's raining
harder than it is
but it's a fine
drizzle

it's nice so
I'm not so
disappointed
I quite like it
actually
now that I'm
thinking about
it, it fits with
today,

sky is bright
but gray

I pick up
a coffee
barista knows
what I order
it's ready almost
before I walk in
and the cashier is
always looking
at me like she knows
something,
she smiles out corner
of her mouth,

I wink at her,
walk back out into
rain,

it's chilly today,
drops hang on my glasses
but I can see just
fine,

the street is glimmering
blackness,

rain falls and gathers
like mountain
streams in the gutters

it smells like wet clothes
and old cement.

The Field

she walked
down to
the fair-down the
hill downhill
to the fair--sky was black
and peeling--cars
windows rolled up
sat driver-less on
street corners
under big red signs
the sky was reflected on
lights hung up over canvas--
it seemed about to
rain--and it would rain,
she thought as she walked
downhill tiptoeing slowly
watching her step, they said
it was going to--

she had grey eyes

her mother looked at her
each morning and after the
girl left for school, her mother
would think about her daughters
sad eyes,

but they were like the
sky, really, neither happy
nor sad,

they just were,

without beginning or end,

when she reached the fair,
big globs of rain wet her
gray dress dying it black
in large cool blotches--
the vendors sunk beneath
off-white canvas, closed their
doors,

she knocked silently on
leather hides, thin metal poles,

she danced home
under rain clouds
between drops

laughing.

Just remember to give them back

tick n tick
n count
to down to
what to up
words words
on screen/representing
page means nothing
aw fuck means
everything to me
maybe a bit too much
maybe not enough
I'm too caught
up in letting fingers
hit keys
plastic rounded
black keys white
letters no sense of
self sense of hard work
just ease of finger transfer
spell correction

what we SHOULD do is--

ignore this little
lapse, I pull the curtain
like magicians
cap and none of
you are real, see?--

only me,
I'm in here
alone

not lonely--

merely alone

watching the clock
writing to it's rhythm
but you didn't know
so go back over the lines

I wrote them for myself
but you can have them
too

if only for a while--

Buy me a house on the mainline

morning kisses
on the work line
saddest kisses
watch lovers go
to waste and soften
8 more hours closer to death
sunken eyes
hollow faces

remember when they
walked in fields together
looking up and pointing
at clouds?

they don't look up anymore
just down
at feet and
crumbling sidewalks
white lines
for crossing streets
blinking men
made of white lights
and orange hands

dance to the music of
roving cars
trapped in city frame,
8x5 times 50 years
dragging nothing
but memories
of white walls and
should-have-beens
and longing
to the grave.

I let go

And on the edges
like paint chipped
old and lead weighted
colors ancient drip
from cracked ceiling
cracked reality cracked
walls, flood of color like
love and the universe
staring through so much
I reach my hand in blinding
ooze of light and shape and
shadows some being beyond
the rim of understanding voices
like flashlights out into the sea

there comes and end to
everything and becoming
nothing is the next step

I let go

but not long enough

walk along the hard brown
shore listen to the hum of the
river the drowning wind
recall you've heard all this before,

only once

and that was moon
hanging overhead
overheard

what shape?

pull the rift closed
wipe running paint clean

it dries up again
it is lost
there where there
is no heavy drip
where the paint is sealed

there was never a hand
a body a reach a pull

only a funny dream,

Brother

Id like to sling tht ball through galaxies/
past gulfs of time/
into my brothers gloved hand/
hear tht satisfying POW of leather oil n skin/
scuffed with dirt/
off-white ball of displaced memory/
quickened by the long tears/
sadness grown from growing old/
in fields of calm green/
swaying gently in super nova breeze/
a golden star smiling/
film of dirt over mouth eyes/
taste of earth and daring and gods/
Id like to wait for him to toss it back/
to start all over again.

All these things

A current trend
is when I no longer try
spend all my time
pulling dead bones
across the floor
my dead and dry bones
grind and ache
draw lines of cocaine
sigils on nylon carpets
split and torn on
coarse fibers
lie on back
eyes glazed over gray
follow movement of
ceiling stuck still
unwavering hours like
clouds drifting aimlessly
and fading into still-life
distance of day feeding
night and crickets blaring
heartrending songs earth
depressed sinking into
itself etched by hard
scrawl of my sagging
flesh pieces wearing
unrecognizable i cough
i wheeze become unknown
to even myself
I am without a reflection
there are no mirrors.

There is what is to be said

so many things

I scratch my face

SCAB crumbles
sticks in under my
NAIL

bite it out with
teeth
taste fleshy

chew and mull over

NOW

there is what is to be said

I say it

wipe spot of invisible
blood
invisible to my EYES
dot on cheek
rough skin

curling waves
thinning hair

I watch for movement
out my window
from my perch on sill
I see all
pretend nothing is
going

return to bed

don't forget the light
but I haven't
I never even turned it on

water rushes gurgles
cleans the skin
makes new for further
scaling

moon beams light
waves casts beckons

I twist and turn

remove my clothes
bathed in darkening night

I await the morning

Spiders

spider crawl in
corners on edges
skirt past my feet
hanging from legs
that rest on chair,
a body begins to break-
down? maybe. Not as
tight and fit as it used
to be. Arms dangle arm rest,
spiders have 8 mechanical
creaking limbs put one in
front of the other
children hide their faces
there is no light under the bed
but many webs
which belong to which?
you'll never know
webs belong to no one
they are like thoughts
once thought are gone
and can't be weaved
again caked with dust
and grime and skin flake
one thousand dreams
in the night all alone
moving silently rise
and heavy fall of chest
mouth open in grin
eight flashing eyes
darting breathes
inhale exhaled,

Poet on Ode St

kind of irony

poet on Ode st.

cool fall morning
autumnal sky

like gray coals
on blue background
slivers of golden
light

plays tricks on
eyes

hands pull at grave stones
in feather caps
locked in your mind

Keats says,
"fuck it,"

words are viruses
paraphrased from
old bones Burroughs
dead and gone

this is neither that nor
this preternaturally
speaking preternaturally
knowing
*wink**wink*
like you're on to
something I'm not,

is it all those things you're
thinking at once?

my guess--

my guess is also
young flesh is beautiful
old is learned
with age and wrinkles
is like paste like
napalm that won't
rub off--

I am a cleft lip
hufffing spitting dreaming

writing about death is
writing about life
is stepping out into the cold
afraid

you have to be afraid
to jot it down

or else it don't work.

Everybody Read this Poem!

Everybody read
this poem!

it's come a long way
          *
it says less than
I want it to
but it's more
than I thought
I'd be able to say
          *
SIGNED & Dated
          *
a skeleton man
smokes a kief pipe
mutters about
hashish
got a friendly
robot by his side
arms raised up
into the air
feet are caterpillar
tracked
          *
they're both washed out
          *
they both wasted
          *
they dig this poem
quite a bit
'cause it's about us
says the robot
skeleton makes
no movement on
hearing just puffs
puffs
          *
puffs
          *
I drop an apple core
on the ground
for birds
they nibble away
watching me out
corner of black
eyes
          *
I write novels
sometimes
as poems
on paper
or plastic
recycled
          *
I misplace
the ending.

Left Alone

well
there's this sound
like gurgling brook
and gentle rapids
clean mountain
spring, my window
at night
street light
seeping in
half moon
lazy turned up on
it's side
dandelion
butter cup
shining silver
jets streak in black
sky crack silents
generator hurls
last bit of life
water still running,
feel it in my fingers
drilling sound through
my ears, clock ticking
and I am thinking to
no one is sleeping house
all full but empty
no words before breaths
no open eyes
but mine reddening
yellowed and tired
and old now
something that
shouldn't be,
cleansed by invisible
fountain, I'd like to
find my youth and innocence
and most of all ignorance,
my connection to
the still world outside
in here I listen to phantom
sounds, mysterious oasis,
questioning if what
I'm hearing is real.

These little rain drops

These
           little
rain
drops

pink flashes

break through
powder blue
clouds

hold onto
nightscape

indigo
edges

shadow

sunlit
reflections
in flourescent
sky

ruby blazing
crystal glare

awash
the globe
in scarlet
threads
memories

of the
morning

birds singing
radiators humming.

She says high to the back of my head

fall mornings
sun lazy on horizon
burning red
cloud cover drift
air is light
rustles sunflowers
at the corner
a squating cat
in tall grass
follows my gait
an empty street
vibrant colors
crisp autumn color
sweet smell
of calender pages tear
drop and torn
a sweet voice calls
like whispers between
sleeping trees
whithered leaves

Take a Lesson from Tolstoy

what's the harm
in dashing off
short novels
when images
spike,

titles stir
and spiral
stair to cloudy
heavens
turn,

I glance at
sky
expecting rain,

sun alone,
pulsing,
day after day,
and soon
another week,
another month,
gone,

I need to find the lock
and pound out
the keys,

why can't I
get this pen going
when I've got
the damn line?--

A Spinning Nowhere

I've bled into toilet
bled onto page
wiped stench of puss
and broken zit on
monitor screen

a spinning nowhere;

footprints from metro
line--follow prey

aged accordingly

locked away in
cool, damp cellars,

fungus and green
smells--wretch
and cough

wheeze;

pack your lunch
trudge up cliffside
peer off the edge
focus on moon
gravid with orange
hue and night

sinking low--

call out and echo

no ears
within a
thousand
miles
will
hear.

Tript

it's that come dwn
mmnt

stars explode

black space

hand ovr eys

light and moon
overcast
              shadows
feeling

empty focus

seeing

thoughts bleed
into single strain

hole in head
filled

that mmnt b4 sleep

same running thoughts
bubbling over

I stand on the edge of great expanse
there is no other side

just oozing blue evermore

pulled bck through
stationary

time no longer spinning

listen to my own breath
still and soft

night wanes
starry

night
sky

night

17 minutes from here

I'm cleaning up
draft poems
that are half poems,
stilted thoughts,
unrealized musings,
most are shit, believe
me,
      
        I'm up here
trying out words,
rewriting rhymes
until there aren't any
left,

        and it's a bonus
if they make no god damn
sense.     

Mail Absurdity

1
If found pl-
ease re-
turn to sender,

shipping
not guaranteed;

see, we've got all
these stamps
piling up
and
nowhere to
send them,
nothing to send
them on,

so you'll have to pay,

don't worry
whatever you send
won't ever get there
can't be traced

because we'll say
it doesn't exist,
we'll shake our heads,

2
There's a small opening
in space painted silver
fed on time

3
this poem is haunted

4
Remember we
never gave you
the right address

5
Send along your soul
anyways

Rejections Incoming

Spinning out
the idea dimension
radical thought process
95% bio-engineered material
GMO-sync-pop-synthetic
afterlife chemicals
breathe in DMT-fibers
colored rooms comes
rainbow armies bitter
sworded hacking at
severed limbs,

it's the future man,
the art apocalypse
a dreaded turn--it's
all they ever feared
paint chips on the brain
rotting palets, dreams--
and nobody has a clue
which genre it all fits in--
labels are shattered,
broken homes, legs
trudge, wandering free
from upper body
exploitation--

appetite--

there's freedom in
each of the four
corners of space
a mobius square
mapped and re-examined--

their numbers, uncountable--

they scream
and buildings like
civilization fall--

one step ahead forever--

writ in time--

the old women
on Jupiters 4th moon
dressed in rags,
her husband, long
dead was known to
say,

at best
they
leave
no
survivors

Story

past tugs at you
stretching out fabric
tearing at shirt

you pull away,
but too gently.

In your eyes
you ask, is something
there?

some small shred,
little place,
remaining? any

way to go back,
at all? Even

if I don't care to?

and worse questions
still, like--

was anything ever there?--

once we are gone
there will be no one
to remember us.

All life is a fiction,
even this, right now,
never happened.

I am left wondering why.

A curved space
between walls,

She has eyes
spiked at the edges
inky black
and running

powdered cheeks
showing no age.

"Step into the rift,"
curling voices,
warped by walls,
say.

She does this.

vanishes.

I am left wondering
why.