a walk

(In this way)
Yellow fires light
long yellow streets,
grown thick and syrupy,
under mustard yellow skies,

a single survivor-spectator
breaks through pavement
following the trail left
smoking and concealed
with windows down,
of a four door sedan and arms
fixed to window sills,
radio humming absently

We'd go down to the river, and into the river we'd dive
Oh, down to the river we'd ride-i-i-ide...

(But there's no one else in this [God] forsaken place,
he's seen all the parked cars on all the quiet streets
and yet...)

They vanished right into the air...

The smoke clears the horizon merging gray coarse clouds
with sparkling rain, unable to reach the ground, choking-

(...if only the skies would open up, I could see)

-the heavens, and the survivor below
and there is no oxygen in this hell,
only fires splattered with yellow paint-

(the stars fall sonorously...)

though I know the river is dry-

remotely-

(in love)

Peace for all times

Like steely needles
grasping paper, bent silver
bleeding metal
reflects the flourescent light,
defiantly defying age, logic, truth;
We got to get this peace going
apace with the piece over here
and here here here here here
and so on here
until I get up remove myself laughing, into the bathroom stall,
no longer laughing, close the door,
turn the little knob as not to make a sound,
concentrate on spinning waters,
and send my answer
one thousand feet below.

2

Pass me in the night,
with coming and going,
neither explained or denied
through the air when
you  pass clumsly
bumpingsorrybanging'scusemebrushing
to fall into another seat,
closer to the aisle,
door, bathroom,
those four awkward seats
in the back with no arm rests,
no space, leave me with your perfume
and a nod of your head,
It doesn't matter, after all
I'm waiting for the overweight,
tiny coal-eyed man behind you,
shouting to himself
and planning his escape.

1

The beginning is
2.5 hours richer,
28 dollars poor and sunk
into this white hot ship,
coated in semi-carpet
plastic inside
motionless intestine vomit,
miles of it, enough to paint
the east coast from Boston to Richmond
stagnant and stinking,
if you choose to,

don't bother with the smiley-face bag clinging
all static electricity to your leg,
or you neighbors,
it's twisted infinitely
and only thin enough
to carry the smell,
that smell that wakes you up
screaming sweat
falling from the Girard Point Bridge
salting the river fish below,

But then again you'll get on dutifully
because its going--

and you're going too,
and you've got no place to go.

PHI->DC

Wolves howling into the fog
toward wherever we are,
coming at us like the sick orange bulbs
that make to guide our way,
but merely watching sickly,
drip-drop-drip
drops of cold neon green
sweet blood,
following along at a
quickened deadlocked pace,
as we lurch along
like the Chinatown bus
thirsty for $15 and
Baltimore's lights

Untitled

The Young woman
working tables
dragging youth,

the coffee that bites at my lips,
the empty glasses

damp with wet rings,
a couple damp with rain,
the nowhere sound of
back and forth foot prints,
chanting static with tips in
quarters and dimes,

another hour found
to place myself at random
in this feeling-

across the room-

Peace.

To Meet Again

Tie your car up outside,
let's run away like maniacs,
we'll face back-to-back staring
like Hamilton and Burr,
counting toward the past 1-2-3,
take a step and like a single bullet
falling toward the future
we'll meet again
on the other side of the world

Deck the Halls

Twist from the time shift,
temporal and primordial, notice
below, red churning carnage beautifully
playing a song
across the afternoon porch,
lazy in the suddenly yellow sky,
a glimpse between pink clouds,
roaring engines and backward machines
kissing the ozone frenzy,
battered soldiers return home
from the wasteland futures
on ferris wheels and roller coasters
hallucinating the past.

Questioning Youth

When were those nights
of cold beer and even colder bottles,
musty and brown,
filling our yearning youthful stomachs,
sad and planning the mornings
treasure of cardboard pizza,
cheese terribly hard and tomato
spread like a jackson pollock
murder mystery masterpiece
across your kitchen floor,
waking to the worst-greatest pounding
head trauma, throat burning,
internal gymnast hangover,
the room blurred
and a girl in your arms,
or in your bed, someone's bed,
where were those nights when you told us
we'd live forever, and we felt and believed,
truly, truly believed,
Answer me now why the beer tastes stale
and bitter, why the creases grow deeper,
weaker, and those nights run away from us
as fast as we ran to them,
off into the eternal distance.

Inbox

Hold tight to

cleverly imagined truths,

art and rainbow stained,

All text is an eventual lie,

in cursive or print,

whichever the chosen medium,

crass and laconic 

in the mornings wet fog,

refusing to rise from its 

too close to ground slumber,

burning like wildfires on the rising dawn,

We're all removed (forced marched) to 

the crystal-like clear darkness

of the american wilderness,

far from the maternity wards 

of claustrophobic sprawling suburban America,

waving to passersby at 180 mph

somewhere along the sad roads,

dancing our way through the sad fiber-optic dance,

ignorant of our shared sadness,

human and spambot alike.

we live on in modern times with literature all around us

falling is love,

when she's moving her arms

in a flash of explanations, 

hands forming every single feeling word,

he's standing apart from her

two drags on his cigarette for every syllable 

and it's not sad, it's empty,

just empty, the emptiest thing I ever saw

with doc martin shoes and a ragged copy

of some forgotten detective novella

stashed in their pockets

outside the unnamed diner with the fourth letter burned out

in the middle of the afternoon sun

looking down at her empty eyes,

the tubes connecting her to the life-giving iphone-pod-slayer

playing the theme song of her life,

some lady-gaga dirty harry make believe empty dream,

and if he was listening he'd see its already dead

and black as his lungs and 50 years ago sad,

but now falling like love

as my car passes by and 

forces them off into the gray distance

the only word i can seem to find

in my hands is empty.

Those Beetles that hang on your ancient CD player

i waste my time with insects,
they hold me down
with legs and hands
covered in hairy spikes and
six arms
and pull off my wings,

the pain in my wrist
throbs like the spiked
lime green mountains on the EKG,
bouncing in rhythm with the road,
and timed by those all too
human minds
that keep me alive,

guess what? like the penny
spiraling down that tunnel
with no tracks
except for that canary yellow-vanilla
slick plastic,
you know the one
for charity?
that you love as a kid
and scold pessimistic with age?
catholics saving children and atheists mocking lupus-

well, that's where they meet me,
wings tucked behind hard shells,
and I'm at a loss, a sudden loss,
of anything really,
and that's why I tip my hat
and mumble something between
"heyhellohow'swhatsgoin'yo,"
and we feel like idiots and hold the door,
for anybody whose coming,
unless it'll close before they reach it,
well then it's beyond the rules
of polite society,
or any society, and
they're on their own
with that heavy-hinged door,
its little featureless window and the world beyond,

But they can fly-or can they? (we're inside/underground)
if they can't don't look back,
keep your head down, if they fall
it's not on me or you, they're heavy and
I'm more worried about my wrist
reminding me I'm alive,
or taking you to bed,
or the guy in the corner looking
like something is up that only he knows,
or that next meal I can blow ten dollars on
with an 18% gratuity and note to the waitress,
to check if they're raising
those nightmare arms to curse me or the NGOs.

October childhood

There's so little to remember
of the summer
as the autumn air begins to sting
our breath and our memory,

My stomach lifted
back through time
by butterflies
and I'm 9 years old,
sitting against my father,
my new hat
pulled tight over my eyes,
blue with gold trim,
stiff and proud,
we're waiting on the pretend smells
of wood, dirt and leather,
the passage of time,
these 17 years,

still-
somehow-
wind circles that
long gone coliseum
with diagonal walkways
and crumbling concrete edifice,
left to history unkind,
and memories golden,

My father plants them like a seed,
a red, powder blue, blue, magenta seed,
it's like magic
and suffering,
and happiness,
and defeat,
and childhood,
and victory
and belief restored
promises kept
through a dream
and
it's October
and it's life.

With/Without Our God

The past feeds on itself,
ink burned pixels
cutting around fleshy steel
and we act unscathed
with these magenta wounds
that shift and bleed
like some doctor strange
psychedelic fantasy,

watching the eye of agamotto
trapezing, tumbling
legs over head
falling through this arching
nowhere, dizzy with
hunger,

rain nodding irreverently,
kneeling toward the sky
and praying to find peace
on the ground,
the earthy brown-green
moist crushed ground,

where we walk underneath
the treading feet of
gods long pretend-forgotten,
their wishes too heavy to
acknowledge,
one scowl and the mountains burn
purple-blue, mouth preaching
stern, love-

Adjacent to heaven
we plant our flag
of atheists open-minded
and fleeing the truth,
quoting the blackness of space
through the uninspired beginning,
Our god demanding the sacrifice
of art, love, poetry,
we gladly give away
trading weight for peace
longing for forgiveness,

Place your hand on my forehead,
fever burns with memories
collective memories
laid to waste, blistered by fiber-optic cables
and golden finches,
fed to death with designer cheese
and television sets,

make room for your coffin,
pretentious in death and life,
tear down the walls of belief
for an indulgently clean conscious,
because you found the loop-holes
left all over this text book,
written in the heady ink of
philosophical-hypocrisy,

I hear it raining and
Oh, I know the outcome,
we can be obsessed with magic together,
I'll access the wikipedia to find out how,
then grovel at its inane alter,
one click away and 30 keys,
type faster to measure
the size of your reproduction,
on your miniature screen avatar fantasy,

I hear facebook calling,
it's interactive and concrete,
Although it's not free-
to
watch,
and juggle your response,
google already knows what its going to be,
so it has some suggestions for you, me, us,

So choose 1,2,3,4,5,6,7
what your god asks, demands
without demanding,
you'll gladly go to war for free,
as would I,
by design, all the variables met,
the clever turn,
the acceptance of nothing,
the entrance to the machine
the diffuse eyes and ears and wand,
poking at our bodies,
feeding tubes and remote controls,
the inbred tv guide
grasping our last sexual urge,
browsing the instant queue,
and determining our dreams.