Work Quickly

Those cool breezes track the morning light. Illuminating instead of heating, they play tricks on morning commutes.The sun has yet to find its coffee left by the moon. I am yet to find my coat. Or one warm enough, you tell me to match the three protecting you. So the winds pick up and the sun hits the snooze alarm. The coffee grows cold. The nascent light hides behind brick and mortar shells. And I am left with freezing chest and sore throat and you are left with a sick and sorry man lying in your bed,
waiting for you.

A Terrific Promise

The bright sky
smiles endlessly,
bathed in yellow, pink, blue
and moon,
stagger and sets itself,
strangers playing music in the night,
a forecast overcast,
in the not yet night, gloomy

A sparrow song,
delicate and sporadic and his,
a drifting cloud
intolerable, the martyr for thoughts
and dreams and lies and truths,
a simple chord believed,
for those who wish to play with fools
Distorted beauty ends too soon

A Brave New World

Competing Narratives

These things are quite juvenile. 

Some operate without us.

Fostered by those who love, not knowing. Those unaccustomed to conscious thought. 

ignore the signs, the murmur, the crashing silence. Waiting.

An arrangement of flowers, on the surface, dew covered and
blighted by age, water, thirst, hunger
a truth, unwarranted.

Two giants, risen, worshiped. Loved. Like Gods but held. In their hands
Loved. In their arms, rotten, Loved.

A truth denied. The blue light of televisions, in constant motion,
flicker, flicker, die. Unchanged, unmoved, Blue.

Transitional, untouched, imploring. Walking high rise morality
thunderous applause.

Hold your ears, the blue penetrates them. A memory. Compulsory

Compulsive. Bleeding into you. Me. I. We.
Voices in the woods, paper burning,
burning your eyes, sweet to smell,
Hot.

On your face it burns. Bathing you....Me? Which...?
Words. Orders. Lives. Good. Bad. Toxic. Intoxicating.
Fortunate. Us. Charming. Favor. Blue.

Alive.

Dead.

A tunnel, unending. A beacon.

A blue light, artificial. Watching.

Follow.

Follow.

Escape

We are escape. We escape. Escaping, Renewed. The gun turrets turn.
Magazines, empty. Laughing at the world. Remorseful, watching, longing.
The gates closing behind, four wheels. Guns blazing harmless pressured air. A symphony played in whistles, silenced. We escape, in silence. Followed. Guns trained. Terror trained. Wheels digging clouds. A tornado blind. We.You. I. We are the Escape.

Sweet Some Losses

And the bitter nectar
of golden flowers
flakes in your hair,
binding us
to winds unchanging,
gesturing north
an equivocal compass,
a dimmed star,
following behind,
resplendent,
a liar quoting truth
collecting belief
arranging them in clever patterns
to be spun again.

Triumph in December

I've ignored you
sweating warm neglect
in the freezing winds,

it's December
and everything is blank whiteness
dying, renewed;

There are wolves in the forest
passing by, and silent
ancient reliefs from petty stone,
a hoax, a skeptic, a pleasure
and you unspoken,
unwritten,
at home.

Left

A man was cleaning out
trash cans, I didn't catch his
name, or his face,
only his occupation,
as he turned a smaller can over
an empty cup missed
the large collection bin,
it clack clacked along the floor
the sound thin plastic makes on polished tile,
it rocked back and forth on infinite sides
at my feet as I passed by,
I did not stop to pick it up.

Warning: Do Not Anchor Here

Thousands of them,
glowing golden
in the high afternoon light,
piercing the air
like the marching spears of
bronze clad roman legions;

above, folded layers of white clouds
peer down, filtering the sun;

bursting from the ground
a line of unlit firecrackers
fed by languid streams, the water
cool, reflective, alive,
billions of droplets
rising and falling,
illuminated, like the foliage,
from within.

The World Between the Fat is Meaningless

From darkened lens
it feeds on the soul of the landscape,
a panoptic succubus
dulling green, blue, yellow, orange, gold, brown
muting sounds
subjugated to humming machines
pounding metal,
oiled and blistered,

A perspective
determined by architects, city planners, engineers
a fixed line to visualize the world,
whats beyond
is prostrate, unimportant,
hidden behind malls and crowded
fill-up stations
boasting minimum charge ATMs,

Obscured lives
move beneath us,
absurdly seeking
a righteous path, a
greater meaning,
of syncronicity
rather than coincidence
and longing,

A photographers voice,
the blind man's curse,
locked away in forgetful undeath
while unseen wheels,
perpetual turn,
carrying us, eternally,
to nowhere

Raymond Boulevard and Washington Street

The ladder leads up to the roof,
all gothic ornamentation and classical reliefs,
you've already descended
uninterested in long dead sculptors and philosophers,
calling out in a voice to me,
follow! follow! follow!
I peer down through swirling winds
and vibrant colors
I'm too afraid to leave the sky.

Regrets are left next to coffins, to be picked up by curious youth

I'm Sisyphus pushing a
pyramid toward jagged peaks
while you watch,

a 6-pack too many
and you're sloppy drunk
or epileptic,

no matter what side I turn you
it's all the same nowhere,

standing slouched, peering
over gorges calling names,
we are bathed in the sweat of regret,

a sweet inviting smell
that you've accepted,
and wear in resignation and disdain,

I'd like to hit you
so you'd snap out of it,
but the jump has already been made,

Now all thats left
for me to decide,
is whether
I should watch
or
close my eyes.

Feeling Down?

There were cold nights,
the guns silent,
their barrels chilled and muted,

the sky havoc
with dancing particles,
of dust or something else,
like the empty bottles
strewn about our feet,
illuminated by our sorrow

there
time covers distances
transversed by
misunderstanding,

waiting for the sun,
the white clouds,
the smell of flowers
soon to be trampled
under fallen bodies,
we sleep
without any alternative.

The Time Traveler and the Auto Salesmen

I'm writing to change
the future,
but you already forget me,
I left a letter for you
next to the vase of chrysanthemums
on your desk,
I wanted to write:

"The Dreams you had of me
were meant to come true,
but for time they were only sketches
to erase."

Instead I wrote
"I guess I missed you,
Love,
Tom"

The woman at the flower shop
typed heavily on the cash register,
I told her never send
Christmas flowers
in February with the sky
gray and winter watching,

There was a 57' Chevy
in the parking lot,
in 1957 it was new,
it looks new today,
its license plate
reads:
"Classic Car."

it had once read:
"DGC-1486"

I told the woman at the DMV this
and that classic cars
aren't really old or classic
they just are,
I think she smiled,

I walked to your desk,
but you weren't there
and so I waited,
a man told me you no longer
worked here,
it looked like he had a firm handshake
I didn't test him,

I wondered where you had gone,
I stood there for a while
deciding to scribble a
short message
in case you ever returned

I looked at your desk,
empty but for the
fading ring left by some fading glass
I crumbled the note and
fit it into my pocket
to reread later,

how strange,
I remembered
because
I was going to
leave you flowers
but
I forget them.

My mornings with Arthur and his kind words

Everywhere the Aardvark slept,
the grinding of steely intestines
and metallic orbs
watching over us,
brought him restless nights,
though in the morning,
with a thin bead of light
shining through our window
he always smiled,
spoke of romantic dreams,
and drinking cups of
blackened coffee,
waited for the rapture
with me.

White

There's music in those white sneakers
and a weightlessness in their step,
with a song like that
we'll never touch the floor.

Is this today or yesterday, Without a Liberal education I can't tell...

They came from privileged space,

descending upon the uncivilized 

to teach them the honor to be found

in free labor, to a people 

adverse to work,

to impart on them self-reliance 

and prudence, of which it was thought 

their people had none,

From the spheres of Oberlin

their hair tied back,

their finger nails clean, they found

a presence unwanted,

a feeling they graciously ignored

for the betterment of their pupils,

The land sacked, the houses burnt,

the order of labor and life and thought and society

up in the air air air,

And they carried their education like their enemies 

had once carried the whip and the cane and the gun,

In the fields they couldn't find humility

and the cotton weevil had been out of work

for too long to offer much help,  

So when they returned to the mothership

codenamed Oberlin, 

they spoke the same gospel of the defeated,

the landed and the wretched,

about a people who wouldn't be ruled (for their own good)

who fought honorably against oppression (but were impudent)

struggled to feed their families (but lounged lazily)

and built their own schools (but refused to read and write)

A Homeless Break-up; It's Your Fault

"Get the fuck outta my face!"
He half yelled, half growled
The decayed insides of the
chinatown bus stop
expanded and constricted
with his breathing,
eyes staring, ears poised,

She looked at him,
her aged navy blue backwards cap,
facing the audience,
"I can't believe you can say that to me...
this isn't you."

So now I wonder,
when this is all over
who gets the house,
how do they split the cars,
will the custody battle over their children
be bitter or one of compromise,
What will their families think,
How will they move on?

***

Who will accept their worn clothes,
jacket piled on jacket,
to curl up against in the cold night
over the sounds and smells of subway and sewer pipes,
steaming air and half eaten food,
"split the shopping cart in two,"
I can hear King Solomon's decree,

And after the bombs have settled
and the contracts signed
who has paid the ultimate price
for their fast cars, expensive food,
little suburban homes and fancy dress?

the look painted forever
on their
forgotten
hands and
ignored
faces
is my answer.

The Frog

We are marching toward
a conclusion, crowds teeter on
the brink, the equivocal grunts
of preachers, prophets and fools
turning us into mush,

You are being shaped by someone else,
from noxious clay with shriveled stones
for eyes, vestigial, yet marked with
bright illusions, painted in colors
inured,

A tactile smile remains
to blind hands reaching out
seeking comfort, deaf to the blissful
laughter and heavy tables, privy
to gluttonous feasts and unforgiving bodies
practicing the religion of perfidy,

The jungles frost over,
snow breathes its way into our lungs,
A little girl offers her hand,
if you take it, they will set you free,
but we watch her leave,
the insects wait and the vultures descend,
there is a voice but we can't make it out
calling from somewhere between history,
like the frog who has run out of lily pads,
there is no path left before us,
He tightens his muscles and leaps
into nothingness,
the water splashes around us,
the parting of red seas,
ripples echo like miniature earthquakes,
and then--
and then--
nothing is calm.

Ignition

you send me on those twists and turns. the road to nowhere is everyday bordered by the lost children of faraway dreams. To cancel your subscription just return a postage paid letter to this address. We are not blind, so then we pretend not to see. A collection of sentences seemingly random. Or unwittingly constructed. overwritten in verse, underwritten in time. Does everything mean something but sometimes mean nothing? If so, when the hour strikes and the sky is gray will you wait for me? (no matter if I spell it with an e or a?)

End of the Year Budget Checks

It looks bleak,
there are many words outlined in red,
there are none in black,
so much so that someone
has chosen to employ a
blue ballpoint pen, though
it has run in several places,
or been accidently smeared;
names are obscured
so too the LLC,
There is another year ahead
and another behind,
Some of us have found cancers hiding,
women leaving,
grades falling,
but the unlucky
ones have just gotten older
and frailer, skeletons
covered in red,
widening sockets
and tired eyes
looking for the black,
hoping even,
to see some blue.

she tugged on my shirt outside the Lions den

She tames lions,
they were once vicious
now their fangs are capped
docile, disciplined
they no longer recall
the wet jungles, the taste of 
fresh blood nor the thrill of the hunt

Like stuffed animals in
a museum, they plant, pivot
snarl, sniff; blank eyes
and tapered claws,

The crowds cheer, a great
mane desexed, a showpiece,
a lion, the king of the jungle
submissive, subdued,
an exhibition for the masses,
a lean, segmented cut of meat,
pages ripped out of
your biology books,

jumping hoops, encircled by fire,
a blank slate, memories chisled away,
a castrated roar like chiming
silver bells, harmless and
on a road that leads
from nowhere
to the circus,
to the zoo,
to retirement,
to the grave.

A Childs Question

Where will I be,
when you call on me again?
My childhood is the bride
of corporate interest
re: Mikey mouse and Double Dare.
So what will I do,
when you ask of me,
knowing all our magic
has left, that what we had
meant nothing to you
but dollar signs and stock options?

This is your Brain on Graduate School

Retractable parts
in composition,
innate responses
solicitous,
humanity misspelled,

A collection of words
aesthetically pleasing,
arduously placed,
perfectly planned,
and to wit--

I've run out of space,

A copy of Been in the Storm So Long
motionless next to me,
aging, yellowed and unread
yet, there is a certain serenity
in sleeping words
carefully configured with the meanings

of love lose love lose love
and lose
but that's the most important
message
to tell us how much we've lost
and how little we've gained,
before we cross the
first page,

the true muses song,
or do they sing?
is carefully relayed
or
I've forgotten--

and so have you,
don't remember
the words have been planned,
selected, arranged, sealed,
the 4th wall overrun
and unbeknownst (archaic)
to Leonard Litwick,
who sits on my mental porch,
the eggs have begun flying
and
the damned are still waiting,
recall them forever inured
and entertaining
that we'd ever extend a hand--
even as the fields are burning

and you're struck with yellowed
thoughts, folded corners,
underlined sentences and marginal notes

all of us reading
forced to follow left to right
a less then tortuous course
without a clear end,
and when you look back it's blank
and before you is too,
and by then Dr. Litwack has gone home,
and no one is left to explain
anything
to
you. 

Bombing Demogoblins: the Untold Story

In the world of text based hockey

a Mike Ortz save is the smallest

possible statistical outcome

of any equation and its most rare

and maddening quantity.

$4.85; A Novel

He lit his cigarette,
took a drag and threw
the match to the ground.
In between these lines
there are pages to read,
You can never touch them all,
there is no ink to dry
and no corners to bend,
Bukowski filled a book
maybe several books,
I haven't got the time,
So I'm leaving the novel up to you
Because I'm sure
if you're reading this
you have even less
to do.

Fluffy

Today I am reminded of my best friend,
he died looking into my eyes
He was strong, and he took care of me
He got old and frail
and I took care of him,
He had orange hair and a wonderful smile
He slept at my feet and
made sure I had enough sleep every night
We grew up together born only months apart
He died when I was 15,
I held him and felt his final breath
He was scared but he waited for me
I watched him for a while and
I gave him my favorite shirt
He looked peaceful
as if he were sleeping,
I sometimes hear the sound of his voice,
recall the touch of his fur,
I pat my bed and wait for him to jump up
He rubs against my hand
We fall asleep.

And Jesus says...

We turn slower than before
knowing remembering
what we saw, what we heard,
you are reading this
in wonder, it is a poem,
it is meant to grasp at some greater meaning
some silver lining, some pretentious
universal truth,
we are all erudite fools,
words meaning nothing
deeds meaning less,
we are born we grow we shrink we die
the universe laughs
the insects chew on us
recycle our eyes our hearts our lungs
our memory our triumphs our failures our life
and the meek shall inherit the earth

Time of Death: Tuesday, October 20, 2009; 2:00pm

I had already taken those steps,
sat idle on turning wheels
and gliding rails
walked steps through streets of urban decay
and into the light of walled academia,
before I heard the news
listened to the voice
read the pain in those words, still
There was nothing else to do
but move on

Autumn Girl

There is a girl,

she draws attention

she sparkles in the sun,

under moonlit nights,

and artificial skies,

The streets move

with her legs

like the eyes of passersby,

men drunken with her image

wage invisible wars on their sanity,

I am a falling leaf

wrapped in the cool air

over a clear crisp pond,

it is mid-October,

a thin layer of ice

clings to its hardened banks,

at the mercy of the wind

I tumble, a solitary leaf

a moment green then

red orange yellow brown

all at once

once green,

and tumbling

tumbling

falling

There is a girl

wrapped in her coat,

hidden from the world,

the October air, victorious

over summers magnanimity,

beats against her figure,

she is walking home,

by a pond,

its icy banks glistening,

by her feet

a leaf,

the scars of

spring summer autumn

dull its color

she reaches down

her soft fingers weightless

over tired brittle skin,

the others look on falling around her

too late-- she places the leaf

in her pocket

the water ripples with

her echo, we are tortured

by her distance,

unreachable

elusive, he clings tightly to her

the envy

of watching eyes

and

passing gazes.

Good Bye, for my Grandmother and Mother

Time is near its end
a hard orange brown light
and my mother by her side,
I have barely known her,
always on the periphery,
outside, strong
hard, unyielding
inapproachable,

now the light clings
to empty glasses,
frozen mirrors,
reflections of a life
soon to pass;
clustered on the walls,
clinging to the furniture
of a single room

a heaviness
weighing on us all,
my mother holds her hand,
dried tears, but through the fog
I can hear her crying,
them crying, together crying,
playing years like movies
before their eyes,
changing, interpreting
in the end there is no bad,
there is only good,
time memory hello good bye

I say good bye to her
a woman I never knew
will never know,
wishing I could have known,
standing walking running
the rain beats down on our heads
we don't lift our eyes,
time stops for but a moment
yet we miss it,
saying good night
to my grandmother.

Breakfast, a Play in One Act

A slogan?
I've got one,
she said, and
it's exactly what you
should live by,

the court adjourned-

It doesn't matter
how mediocre your writing is
just keep doing it
for yourself
because no one else wants
to read it.

And...? When they reconvened.

They threw the book at me-

She smiled.
I tried to smile,
poured a glass of
orange juice,
watched the pulp
forced to the top,
struggle, and finally
sink to the bottom of the glass
and
I sat awhile thinking about how sad
that color was.

My Friend

The sweet wine,
neck of the bottle between
my fingers, crystals
of ice, slowly dying
circles below my wrist,

A drowsy morning night,
coming to its end,
Jimi Hendrix
bleeds in and out behind me,
he is dying, like the ice
he is always dying,

And you are there,
almost my friend
There, here, gone
to war, to fighting,
to dying,

I drift in and out of consciousness,
his guitar calling me back
for another sip, the warm morning light
acting a play performed by swirling
beads of water,
when the night begins
it is already at its end,

Jimi Hendrix,
me,
you,
my friend.

Minus the Iphone

Unseen stars
smile through the bluest skies,
The sun shinning brightly
to keep them away,

Time is a constant,
yet operates inconsistently
is whimsical however
uninspired,

All these pieces,
in their perpetual motion
or infinite stillness,
compete for you.

At your desk,
guarded from all,
save the draining sand,
I type to you
over distances
uncrossable
though surmountable,

in a contest for your attention
in a battle for your smile
in a war for your kiss,

Invisible to the stars
outshone by the sun
outmaneuvered by time

but,
and keep this very secret,
I like to think
I've won.

October 13, 2009; 3:32pm

I took a piece of paper,
she told me
"On it,
list your fears,
all of them."

Several minutes elapsed,

I passed it to her
She turned it over,
it was blank
on both sides.

"Very funny,"
She replied amused,
"So you are afraid of nothing?"

On the contrary I told her,
Absence
does not imply nothing,
it implies
Everything.

She

She stopped to drink
with
the dim bar lights
and empty stools,
to
the rain approaching
on a cascade of
purple clouds
marking blood red skies
for
what does night bring
but darkness and regret?

October 10, 2009; 2:38am

she kisses me good night
electronic,
bathed in unnatural blue light,
electronic.
drifting over distances instantaneously
electronic,
but never crossing over
electronic.
we stand alone and together
electronic,

whispers distorting forever
until the footsteps bring us closer
the marching phantoms
their world is colder
as we rely and beg
for loves cybernetic shoulder
to this end we sink older
never aging it watches over
bathed in unnatural blue light

electronic.

October 8, 2009; 1:04am (The Ram)

Abraham and Isaac

I think if I could have been
anyone on that mountain
I would have been the ram,
innocent, austere, righteous
the perfect (in)human sacrifice;

for Isaac's place he took,
Did he waver? Was he bound and gagged?
did he ask his father why?
Did he know he would come to prefigure
the crown of thorns
and its wearer?

To submit is to have faith
to be obedient is to die,

Isaac was unaware
Abraham all too prepared
and the ram, twisted in the thicket
the property of angels,
watched quietly
as God forsook him
and his seed.

Yes I would be that saintly ram,
and I would run away
and leave Isaac to face the fire.

I am

There is this insufferable sadness
it clings to my breast,
in the darkness,
turning corners, gliding behind me
silent, transfixed
a location a beacon
moss covered trees, glow
green, unearthly

a clearing lifeless,
teeming, a clogged artery,
a crumbling artifice,
table for the sacrifice of youth,
unknowingly innocent;
does she realize?
would you tell her?

that sadness is me is you is me,
walking toward you,
in the darkness out of darkness
into light, blithe nothingness

a collage of colors
meaningless, deprived of meaning
spanning time
from time, out of time, around time
turn the corner,
a dark corner
into-
bright shinning light, please
shield your eyes,
there is a figure waiting-
waiting-
not for you,
you are alone.
all alone.
alone.
I am left,
left forever.

October 6, 2009; 12:04am

Joe: why doesn't mine work tom

what the fuck

can you hear me typing

listen to how fast i can type

(fingers: typing fast)

me: are you really standing there playing guitar

Joe: !!!!!(hahahahahaha)

me: i can hear you

(Joe: that's my gmail profile picture)

well its called video chat

so i assumed

Joe: lol

(let me see if I can fix this thing)

my

first

foray

into- (incoherent)

You ended video chat with Joe at --:--pm

October 5, 2009; 11:43

I don't mind it,
You may think I'm obsessed
You might say it,
but I'm not

I'm just...uhh
infatuated!
yeah...wait...
thats technically
the same word, right?

the world is awash with
knee high socks.

October 4, 2009; 10:04pm (or Deadlines)

2 hours...
counting down,
made up of minutes
120...
119,
seconds
uncounted

sixty after 60 after sixty
upon 60 upon sixty upon 60

counting (118)
counting (101)
counting (86)
down.

toward an end,
that has no end,
men age and-
suns grow, shrink
die.

space remains,
bereft of color
a bleed
unconquered
everlasting,

A clock without a face,

an absent maker
laughing
swallowing

counting(75)counting(51)
counting(32)counting(29)

years
months
weeks      (5)
days        (4)
hours       (3)
minutes    (2)
seconds    (1)
Us            (0)

[without end.]

October 3, 2009; 5:51pm

5:51pm is when I open the document
my phone is charging for
the second time today,
It scolds me when the battery is full,

I leave it plugged in to
teach it a lesson, lingering
over unfinished
papers, papers, papers;

walk with me
there are trees I remembered once,
nothing truly leaves you
nothing is ever truly retained,

Like a flower I gave my mother,
what color, what fragrance? we know
because we never knew
we create it
I create it
the document is closed at 5:57pm

You Know... (October 2, 2009; 7:20am)

I don't like (him)

so 
why 
does it seem to be
that
(dude)

all the time?
(duality)

October 1, 2009; 10:10pm

An iphone in motion,
an omen,
a sigh,
a southern twang 
and sorrow
and anger,
a locked unlockable,
try

      to think, undreamed
of something, anything
to do
to see,

              to be uncertain, a credulous 
whisper of certain terms,
a capricious mistake,
of technology
of technology
repeat(3 times)repeat,

And there must-

o she's sad, and 
her sweet voice-
(atmosphere)

distorted by the future
and screens obsequious,
begging(lying) for human touch-

(covert) 
lascivious!

and they tempt,
                       tempt us
give and take us-

leaving us 
with
(impalpable) 
permanance. 

She Likes Steak, Especially Petite Filet

She’d gone to freshen up. His hand rested on his glass. It was cool against his fingers and the ice floated there motionless and nearly imperceptible in the candle light. Their food would soon arrive and he day dreamed about what he would say when she returned.  For her birthday she had made it clear that steak was what she wanted to eat. An odd request possibly for a meal meant to be romantic, but knowing her tastes he had not refused. “Let’s make the most of it,” She had said, excitedly, “It is restaurant week.” So he had made reservations at Ruth’s Chris’ Steakhouse, an odd name but perfectly explainable: a woman named Ruth had bought a man named Chris’ steakhouse and retained the original name. 

So there they were opposite the candle light, her chair empty about to be filled and him alone among couples and parties and families eating steaks, mushrooms, salads and potatoes. As if an alarm had sounded the moment their main course was to arrive, she appeared out of the far right corner of the room and began moving toward the table, the waitress carrying their meal coming from the left at nearly the same speed. Two trains travelling toward each other on a single steak powered track. They arrived together and he winked at her and thanked the waitress. She sat down smiling broadly, somehow the silverware already in her hand.  “Smells so good,” She said giggling. He touched his glass absentmindedly and laughed, as much at her enthusiasm as for how much he loved her. “Ready!” she said bouncing in her seat. He shook his head and reached out for his fork.

A searing pain.

Startled he pulled his arm back.

Seeing stars and Petite Filets.

She looked at him, a piece of steak impaled on her fork.

“I think I burned myself,” He said, a curious expression played quickly across his face, “Look.”

He put his arm out toward her, “Hurts pretty bad.”

She looked at his arm, lovingly and disinterestedly and concerned and hungry before popping the piece of severed steak into her mouth.

“Watch out, These plates are really hot.”

In Every Heart...

flowers scattered
haphazardly throughout
my room
littered with memories
still smelling of Her,

radio obscured
in the morning haze,
a sound
barely audible
hums

She lies beside me
a phantom,
an indent on my pillow,
a figure in twisted sheets,
a passing glance

Fall's crisp air
bleeds into Summer's tired breeze,
like Her fingers
through my hair
ephemeral,

we forget,
we remember,
recreate
and transform
always
pausing,
always
swearing,
always
lost
and--

Her voice
from somewhere,
calls me back
an unreality- a memory
laden with memory-

the remains of a kiss
a fissure through a universe unseen
footsteps paired on a dance floor
a half empty glass of wine,
the two of us together
shaping worlds

And so it goes--

Running

I'm tired.
there's a fan in the other room buzzing.
crickets outside
and trash cans
sitting next to driveways.

under a desk light
with the night surrounding him
a man can be forgiven of all
his wrongs,

in the light of day
with the desk lamp cold
and trash cans empty
he's just tired.

Dream Storm Approaching

In my darkened room,
I sit,
legs reclined,
feet resting on top of one another

a cricket plays a lonely concerto
for the
night
steadily marching
towards the
day,

In the distance
lightening flashes
my cat,
his long black
tail
hanging from
his window perch,
pays no notice

I think sometimes
maybe we are all
just dreams
of one small sleeping cat
overlooked,
unloved

eyes closed
body rising in rhythm
up and down
up and down,
paws curled under its chin
ears
twitching
absently,

A light,
silent
reaches out across
an unknowing distance
insurmountable
and more deafening
than the
lives we have lost
or have failed to lead,

cats know this
very well,
or
atleast
they should,
they
sure
sleep through
alot.

Promise

i
promised
you
a
poem
by
the
time
you
woke
up

so
here
it
is.

Beetles, a Screen Door; Summer

Radiating black masses
over black, purple bleak
skies,
the moon on their backs
undefined

they danced,
oddly shaped
seemingly uncontrolled
I watched ignored,

Raised a bottle to my lips
sipping,
I squinted at them
hard,

What did they want?
what wisdom? Grief? Praise?

the moon
compassionate
a solemn face,
failing to comprehend,

and the dancing shapes
and the hapless man,

are
no
better
for
it.

Cream Soda

the body wash in my shower
smells exactly like cream soda,

the scent
is
unmistakable,

it reminds me
of warm summer nights
and Dum Dum
lollipops,

of jailbreak and lighted porches,

our laughter shattering
the
night, a curious
reflection marching through the dusk
as old ghosts slept

she never held my hand,
and I never asked,
the screen door
swung lazily behind us
back and forth,

the condensation on my glass
dampening my fingers,
the bottle on my lips
calming, cool,

into, out of the abyss
figures running toward us
in the
darkness,
we readied ourselves,
for,
in an instant
we
were
all
of
us
about
to
be
free

untitled

I figure the most
important thing to do
is to sit here
and continually write
shitty poetry,

because, as I see it,
eventually you'll
be forced to
shit gold.

Mosquitos

small

red

upraised,

tortuously

inflamed

I think about them,

scattered over

my arms

legs,

as we drink ourselves

to death, laughing

as the embers die,

as the sun rises,

as the tombstones 

are carved,

and the morning flies descend

A Magical Mistake

A peach pit half buried in sand
discarded
lazy
Sundays at the beach,
A wrinkled brain
bursting out of
desert sands,
waves crashing
a newspaper
fighting
winds,

I ask my father,
"How'd the phils do?"

"same as always,"
He replies
looking up
through misty
sunglasses,
I'm watching women
walking
by
flesh burning
in
the
high sun,
Brilliant colors,
distorted figures
the
failed act of becoming something
unattainable,
something
lasting,
is lost
on damp towels and aluminum chairs.

Visiting New York

New York always cries
when i go to see her,

tears fall from the sky,
cold and hard,
covering the streets and sidewalks
drowning out the city smells,

leaping from awning to awning,
or hiding under an umbrella,
the tallest buildings
are lost to me,

The Empire State Building
rises silent
obscured by
a thick cool fog,
a white Aegis blending
with forlorn skies
glowing white,

rain taps incessantly
at my face
filling my glasses
with coutless
tiny orbs,
buzzing
like one million
frenzied gnats,

tirelessly she cries,
people walking,
jumping
huddled
shielding their heads
and faces with damp arms,

animals creep silently
in alleyways,
trash soaked through
mildews in ignored
metal bins,

I carry my head low
staring at pavement
one square at a time,
beginning to end,

New York cries and cries,
continues to cry,
weeping heavy tears.

when I visit her,
New York,
she cries.

Under a Few Articles of Clothing; Seduction

Under a few articles of clothing (all mine)
I found it,

A single pair of white panties
(outlined in pink with scattered pink stenciled dogs)

She's trying to seduce me,
It's becoming obvious now
I am
sure of
it

Trying to plague my dreams
and conquer my daily wanderings
with images of her,
her,
in those white panties
with the irresistibly cute pink trim,

I would have believed
it a mistake,
if --
the incident,
you see,
had been isolated.

But rest assured
it certainly was not,

Just
two weeks
before,

one single
white
knee high sock,

She knew how
I liked them,
had asked weakly, shyly
to see them on her,
how she coyly
acquiesced,

not only that!
No!
Also a white bra,
soft and feeling of her,
intoxicating

Yes,
shes trying
to seduce me
I'm sure of it now,

I take all the evidence,
filling my evidence room,
a drawer of their
very own,

the pieces,
building up my intimate evidence room.

* * * *

My door shuts
*clack*
Her figure gone,

A kiss and hug good bye
still stings my lips,
only the ghost of her
remains
through smell and imprint alone
an image of embers
dying on a dying fire,

And then I
start looking,
leaping from the bed,
when I am sure you are gone,

under couches

behind doors left ajar

in the kitchen
bedroom
bathroom

next to hampers

near the computer

beneath clothes
piled high,

She's trying to seduce me,
she left those white panties,
with the iresistibly cute soft pink trim
She's absolutely
without a doubt
trying to seduce me
the evidence is all here,

my Lilith
my Aphrodite
swirling maenad

she plays her game,
her ammunition
carefully chosen
a clandestine war,
attrition and bondage,
and socks and panties (with pink trim)

I collect all this evidence
from the war
she's winning.

We...?

Did we...?
no, really...?
I thought I...?
You...what...?

Ahh...Fuck...

Hipstery This, Hipstery That

Camus or Hammet,
Roth or Virginia Wolffe,
Quote them all
from their Wikipedia page,

Is that a dog-eared copy
of Thomas Pynchon?
I've never read that...though,
thats not what I say

I'd appreciate your tweed jacket
and bowler cap
If you hadn't danced like Williams
or cried like Yeats.
or, you know, spent $300 dollars on them
at Urban Outfitters.

A metaphor from the 1920s
can't explain everything,
well fed kings starve on social capital,
I just wanted you to know...

(while you drink your acid kool-aid
rocking chairs in a house covered snow)

I'd rather you read Stephen King.

Internet Dating

I post fake missed connections ads
on craigslist everyday,
I hope someone reads them and laughs,
or truly believes it refers to them and responds.

In the remote, bleak world
of internet classifieds,
I guess I am either
angel or jester.

A Good Morning

motionless,
slender arm
stretched toward
the window,
slightly ajar;

a cool morning breeze eases its
way across your body,
legs tangled in covers
caressed by the gentle
current, whispering;

the hint of movement
like thunder over the
quiet rise and fall of your breath,
the sun barely awake,
focuses its light
in a single stream
across your unclothed belly,
tan and shimmering
between tangled shirt and pants,
groggy, aloof;

heavy eyelashes rest,
mouth serene,
barely discernible
lips quiver and stop,
several strands of jet black, glistening hair
lay across your cheek,

Bed, metal and wood and foam and mattress,
floating,
it holds you, still cool
remembering the chill of the night air,
the warmth of your sleeping body,
the day not yet begun,
paint its picture,

you, the model,
sleeping soundly,
safely, beautifully silent,
fingers relaxed
pointing outward,
the sun rising,
dew resting on spring flowers,
a wish,
a dream,
a moment,
a memory,
a good morning kiss.

Eternity Diner

Braun Rodman is in the funny business!
yes, yes he is!

she looked at me, pulling words from my throat, from my heart. I turned; her piercing eyes torture me. The menu is so very large, I just cannot decide what to order. She turns away, destinies untied.
A sigh of relief, I have a few more minutes.

Egypt and Prophets; Speak Future

The sun is setting,
with its dying light
it illuminates the valley below,
the prophets can no longer see
what lies beyond, all is cold now
and dark, a churning swamp
from clearest pond,

Stand on the edge, do they see you?
drop your offering,
there is no teller for you,
no seer to speak kind words,

The river polluted, dying;
We search for words
trying, it was once,
but is no longer,

A rush of cool air,
stain blue, a chilling breeze
cools the wax
on knowing candles, blind;

We walk on,
future contaminated,
destinies set,
a wanderer,
a princess,
a love;

in separate directions,
looking back,
holding hands,

alone.

(Film)

(A blur)

we move our lens, focusing;
drawing in slowly, steady

(coming into view a tiny window, a small house)

panning to the right,
we move around to the side of the house;
all is still, only the slight murmur of grass
blowing in the wind,

(the shudders on two windows on the now recognizable
one story house are beaten and weathered, it is difficult
to tell if they were once blue or purple)

There seems to be something moving inside,
the viewer peering intently into the house,
this normal house,
the camera deliberately holding back, playing
on the curiosity of unknowing the unknown,

(the blackness emanating from deep within the house
renders the thin metal bars of the screen window nearly invisible,
perceived only due to the herculean efforts of a small insect  
assigned with the task of breaking into this residential prison)

(The [obstinate] insect offers us a way in,
a means to enter this suburban sepulchre
we become the surveyor unable to be seen
transparent ourselves we risk no moral judgment,
no repercussions, in other words: we are free)

We pass the insect, still struggling to enter,
his wings deafening, a moment of pure vertigo
and he is no longer a part of our memory,
the camera is independent now, we on the other hand,
are only along for the ride, we pan out to take in the room;
all is darkness,

(there was something moving though,
it is written into our memory, our discourse,
a collective memory or conscious,
either will grasp the concept, classified into existence
we have now birthed the experience into reality with text)

looking back over what is written, the camera recalls;
something was moving while we were outside,
when we were surveyed not surveyor,
powerless, powerful, powerless;
the camera understands the limits, knows the limits.
[Of course IT does, IT creates them]

(Opening: When we started EXT. or INT)

The camera, a red light, its batteries, our eyes;
in text, in language, in writing;
participating, watching, becoming;
The lens slowly turns toward us,
we are looking, we are inside, we are being watched.

(A blur)

A Speck

A speck of dust can see, floating above and below us, touching us; invisible it drifts, a voice so small we are unable to hear, like a whisper bridging the gap from an immemorial past, somewhere in a vestigial memory we recall how it once was a mountain a great rolling green hill a breathtaking cavern, but now it is nothing to us (yet everything to it), its only memory is of itself: keeping alive with thoughts of its past, no longer remembered by the base thoughts of forgetful man; and so its history murmurs painlessly, (painfully, elegiacally); wandering in the twilight of day of year of era of aeon, harsh solid abrasive; soft malleable permeable; a closet memory, an epic foreclosure of existence mingling furtively with the dying embers of primordial memory, playing tricks on us in the darkness; there, naming without objects, objects without names.
A single speck of dust can see all these things invisible to man.

What I See When I Look at a Can of Watermelon Juice...

There are Hearts;
Breaking,
Broken,
gone; a list of
loved ones?
Curious,
reaching
obsequiously,

out to no one;

a gray sky ubiquitous,
the entire world trapped
under its heavy gaze, 
are we placid? O, without serenity...

if we put these hearts together
the pieces left all over the ground,
a didactic lesson of lost and love,
of here and there,
of dear and found,
would our sorrow make the slightest sound?

Shadows

For Felicia<3

Shadows falter
minds erased,
a hurdle, breathless
I barely escape; your

image rushing,
in the fore,
a darkness unwavering,
crumbles before,

A building cold, unyielding still,
A fire warm, a glass never chilled,
I'm waiting forever,
It seems alright, your beauty
never fades as does the night,

In blackness unmoving,
out in the cold, a snowflake a lonesome,
a dove once bold, its
breath drifting silently toward your piercing eyes,
One touch,
one breath,
one beautiful disguise.

Pavement

an engine,
churning water under its feet,
an unexpected storm, laid heavy
upon us, the silence of night
unnatural,

Uneasy memories,
linger in this place
a cavern, simplicity rejuvenated
a heartfelt hello,

the air inside stagnant,
and out...something new,
street shining, glistening
slick, coated with languid mirrors,
the crows once voluble, now
silent forgetful, forgetfully mute,

a night a day
a teeming metropolis
a lonely stretch of unused rural land,
a solitary figure waving beside a country road,
the banks growing shorter, the waters
taller, reflective alive

an engine unto itself
explains itself, denies itself
unsettled, rumbling a metallic angel
flashing overhead, to far to be reflected
in our misplaced hungry riverbed.

Two Worlds

Thin rays of Light
Pass through my translucent prison,
Lying,
False,
I pretend to believe them,
That they are warm
And outside is not the cold
dead of winters chill,

Closing my eyes
I coat the world in blackness,
In truth, without the
light to lead me astray;

And He stood there
smiling, holding his hand
out to me, knowingly
frozen, I stand between two worlds;

An Angelic chorus,
A Demon's kiss?
A solid globe of blue opens
up to me, Our Existence
is our vanity,
The waves of sunlight dried up long ago,

I stare into staring skies,
on my last day of sanity

Ode to Balthazar

To a squirrel of the Belltower

The wind swept fog, life swaying in the breeze. It picked up over the fields in the direction of a long neglected meadow, Primordial being, first come, the land was new its race old. Yet new. Crawling and evolving, evolving and walking. I watched the distorted visage, the black specter as it caught my eye. Bridging time letting space shift by.

So absurd an incident. So little did we once think of it. the gods were there to protect us. Weren't they there to protect us? We bring nothing. Say we bring nothing. i bring nothing. It was inches from my face. I watched it float like a balloon in the corner of my eye, as if time could not pass by.

Was it mans knowledge thrown through the wind, no intent of malice but friendly play? Alas, I looked at it, unmoved. Could it be something else? Athletic? It would fall the other way. No sickening thud. That’s what I had heard. Shattering that thin layer of peace, a separate peace, forgotten peace. Something had snapped, something was lost.

More difficult to destroy, to warp, than to make. It seems so. It looked so. As I peered in disbelief. i mouthed, and words formed, quickly in my mind, reacted to before I had forced them to the surface. Writhing in its bile, demons hawked the beast.

Gentle creature, so lately loved, posthumously. Forsaken by its god, sacrificed in a wicked mass. The rising structure stood, cold. Colder than it has ever been. Not hate; but disillusion? Not anger. But melodic sorrow. Gentle creature, twitching, watching, perceiving its immutable doom.

In that moment were all one. We died as you. You died as us. We felt your presence. You had to leave. Gentle creature who pleases none, who is alone, with us we were one. taken quickly, we were taken aback. ventured slowly, to the realm; you had lived your short life in lament.

Gentle creature, who pleases none, who is alone, with us we were one, for a fleeting second you reached - we reached. We were one, walking in the blackness of the dying spring sun. It changed forever, colors bleating, image cleaving upon the phallic rock. Looming thoughts, dreams, gods protect; no more. You drifted into peace, from momentary pain.

Gentle Creature. Your forest of concrete betrayed you in your final breaths, it siphoned your life, and a part of us all. Quiet, brooding we looked at you, who please none, who is no longer alone, for we are one.

Crushed Velvet

This is an older poem that I wrote for Felicia near the time when we first met so it's two years old and much more abstract then the way I tend to write now<3, I would venture to say its what caused her to fall in love with me...;)

Lost; found
Purple, light
Highlight; the moon
Walks in,
Spoke to much
Melody,
Lost speaking
Innocent, not
But innocent still;
Stones upon boulders
Walking toward an open door, used and discarded
No faith; in nothing, nothing; with faith. FROZEN. Elapsed time. In memory.
Took a chance.
Told her; heart lost on me.
Destroyed; reaching open faulty
Happy listless denied open to mourning
Heart is shut; NO. Heart is open
Pin up vindictive; love is real? Made me believe.
Saw without sight.
Who walks upon the steps of the other,
Who walks upon the lives of none.
In the corner alone, capable of much
Seen by none. Whatever.
Eaten the food
Nourished good, tasted nothing
So restless in the springs hearth,
Losing momentum. Unsure of; not to be; why?; broken; unsure
Why?
Do you think to? Do you want to?
Spoken, denied? I hear denial but see none
Seemed to be but not to see.

Walking to the foot of the bed i placed to wound. The companion, a friend? bring love, understanding; given love; lover?; given to none, wanted? Wanted. Abhorred. Failure. What I seek; what I receive.
SPIRAL. spiral. SPIRAL. spiral. SPIRAL.

Wonder? Wonderful? Graceful? Clumsy? Unknown. Only written only thought, though Said.
Beautiful? Intelligent? Think I can say for sure. Positive
Belated scorn; NOT; lives wasted
Blackness gone, mystery
No pretense; voice angelic
Blushing, feline piercing
Eyes cautious break,

Mind at ease; but restless. Eyes, wide awake should sleep, glancing across the sea.
Pulled down and drowned; spilled; Soul? Human soul? Defendants not involved. Open I opened, I released. Calm I gave in for
Broken heart or satiated soul.

Funny, humorous
Split, eaten. Gave my all. Not sure?
Spoken name. Black Cat. Open Not like before.
Oh Nightingale! Flown away when I closed my eyes...Forsaken?
No! Hapless? No!
Maybe.

Will not. What I asked. Undermined. Resplendent. Late after.
Apple? Orange? Rotten? Replace.
Mishap? Hero. Cat. Villain. Black. Inspired
Elated. Unknown. Everything.

Nothing.                                                Everything;

Everything.                                            Nothing;

Nothing.                                               Everything,

Coin/cOIN

A sickening thud,
Looking around, she
holds on to her jacket sleeve
tightly, wondrously
afraid and unmoving, there
in the corner, the noise
a rolling, rustling now;
uneven and distorted, like
the moaning of some mechanical animal,
injured and seeking a place to hide its frame,

She stares into the abyss, the
swelling darkness, exhaling
and realizing she had forgotten to breathe,
something was there, the sound
continued to mount, closer it tumbled
on and on,
moving yet unmoving,
trapped in the corner, yet
the sound was all over the room,

desolate and unknown, she
grabbed at her sleeve once more, harder
digging her fingers into the thin fabric,
cracking under the weight of her fear;

****************************************************

I sat hunched over
and my legs pressed together
in the swing too small and
the chain creaking as it swung almost
un-noticeably back and forth
and my feet dragging like a boy's
upon the mulch that had been ground to
dirt under years of playing children
thinking about that girl,

Her hair smelling sweetly in the summer breeze
too beautiful to tell her how I felt
and she laughed at the unspoken words
that sat in my stomach and made me sick
and she grabbed my hand pulling me forward
so that we ran into the field of flowers and
the field yellow and pink and green
and smelling almost as sweetly as her,

The sky blue and solid above us
the pollen blowing in the breeze
and her dress dancing around her as she laughed
pulling me behind her and saying something
I could not hear over the rustling of the wind,

And I sat there on the swing,
watching the children play, looking
once or twice over at the old man on the swing,
and I was happy for them.