Memories

Remember when I sat on that
couch in Hyattesville, MD, I all
but owned the first floor and the
shower in the corner past the kitchen
with its black ants crawling up the
wall and getting wet by the hanging
shower head--crawling on my clothes,
sliding into the sink--those fucking ants,
I couldn't save them and they
followed me into that small green
tiled foggy cell;
Remember how I'd watch them
uneasily while undressing, like the slugs
slithering across my kitchen floor in
dead-winter, thinking, "What the fuck am
I doing here?"

What Dreams May Come

Opaque sky splitting heaven
and I sat on my back looking up
at the ceiling and imagining the time
we had left, that I can't count because
only you know the date, I left my hoodie
on and my shoes and I just watched the
darkness growing old, thinking is life
ever going to stop and why is the earth
cursed with the passage of time? I hated it.
I fell asleep and felt I was falling somewhere
too soon, do you think maybe after we lose here
we could meet again? I was hoping so when it
all seemed so unreal, but now it's heavy and my eyes
reflect the sun, my shoulders are sagging toward the
page, I cried that night and ignored the feel of the
tears running down my face, it was 5:37am

I dunno

There's pulsing lights
that work to numb my brain and whit
watches me slowly drowsing, he's
slowly drowsing, into the night
only a touch in front of the morning
like all nights growing darker then suddenly
empty and bitterly engulfed by the sun;

I saw you hail a taxi
somewhere beyond my memory

I crashed, I'm disgusting, a sleeping wasted
soul on these hardwood floors
my mattress barely holds it's shape
tonight

tonight is never brightening night
Whit takes a long breath reflected
in the mirrored glare, re-situates himself
waits for my hand, often he's meowing our
heads off, but now he's in another space,

what am I thinking? eh--
I jump up, my chair squeaks
my chair is thinking these things
by itself, a glass is cleared
and the morning yellow fast approaches;

I don't want a lot for Christmas

The radio is already like "Hey,
you piece of shit it's Christmas
get to buying those presents!" and Mariah
Carey is trying to tell me that there is
something more beyond what we see,
I don't know who to believe sometimes
but I do know that ABC family is not yet ready
to countdown those Debbie Macomber 25
days of Christmas programming when my mom will be
baking baking baking until we're all so tired of
cookies and she's crying watching an angel
save a father/son/mother/daughter relationship,
I mean, it ain't even Thanksgiving and I'm supposed to
imagine Rankin Bass claymation in the streets? I'll play
your music anyway, and my little statue of Jesus
is probably gonna cry because my uncle prays all
night but hates the Christmas tree, I guess he's
read Ezekial...shhhh that's a secret too; my secret,
and last night someone vandalized? vandalized the History
Channel Ancient Aliens Wiki...with a long grammatically
incorrect cryptic message about angels and extra-dimensional
beings and B101 was playing and I said to mike, "Jesus Christ,
I hope that mother fucker is right."

with a glass

Gray skies on a Thursday look
exactly like they did when that storm
wouldn't leave us alone over Indiana,
and we traveled at the same speed east until
the mountains stopped one of us, but not
our car which was going 90 without traffic lights
or shitty Pennsylvania drivers, who shit on you
and hate to be passed and hate to let someone
in their lane because you may get to someplace
before them and they just couldn't take it,
casting hateful suspicious faces out their windows
scowling at the driving world they race against, and
I drink my orange juice
silently in the morning gloom,
scratching my head and
thinking about these things

cute little love poem

Sometimes sitting by your side
I become enamored with the world
but lose my sense of it, I walk away
without a thought or memory of
what I saw, what color were the trees,
what did you say to me as we tripped
over uneven sidewalks, how bright was
the afternoon sky, were there clouds to shade
our eyes? Sometimes leaving you
numbs me until I stare out moving windows
for 3 hours without a word, sometimes I wonder
if you feel it too, sometimes I pretend these
wheels are traveling back to you

Evening

It's time to write something pretty
about artificial light shining in my face,
unplug it like god will the sun on some
Mayan afternoon. It's a prophesy I am
sure I came up with and am about to
implement in my mind in the world
I'm still not sure is real on the eve
of leaving and returning--

I'll pack a picture of you
maybe in your bathing suit to remind
me what I've left behind on the road, remind
what's in front of me on the road, but
what do I need that's alright? alright,
what do I need that's real? Real, I'm
not sure yet...I'm not empty yet,
to be ready to fail and laugh and love--
I've got wheels under my feet
and that's just the way I hope it
always stays. Ignition.

collage o' collage

It's the nature of space
to blip-blip-blip out existence, and
some asteroid is eventually gonna smoosh us
without the satellite laser to protect
the techno-biological-mind that
thinks for the masses and tucks our babies
in at night; that's a fairy tale though, because space
is only time that's infinitely empty, the truth is
under the stars closing in, the cold
stars that cut like diamonds through indigo
Philadelphia skies; you can't see them
my love, the stars, you'll have to imagine them 'cause
we're somewhere's else entirely,
somewhere in the pretty marsh
that exists after time, that isn't anything special
at all, that is as always was inevitably uncolored,
a shrinking iris, a beautiful smile.

Yep more while reading Endymion in the park

The trees are fall
and frost is winter
in the car I'm safe from all

A spider's abandoned web
sun's cold reflection
our silent thoughts are the past

No paper to capture
this mornings sunrise
only my weary eyes

Suicide note

I was going to try
trying but it's hard with all
this aspartame bleeding me out

and if you wouldn't mind
I'd like a sip of water so
the fluoride can drown
my aggression, I could get up
but apathy is something treasured
in tents outside government buildings
fighting a power I don't understand
or you don't understand; it's not the 1960s
brother, power is diffuse and it moves
and watches and thinks before we do,

so pass me another brain lesion and
I'll take our sorrows like a shotgun to the
back of my fleshy 98 degree mouth
counting the fucking seconds flat