the real you

you browse through my being
with fluttering eyelash-
squinting at the unpleasantries and
tugging at your brows with nervous thumbs.
i wonder-
will you know me any better by it. you
try and suck out the last drop of liquid life from 
your porous daydreams
sipping from the warm marrow of old bath water. i 
watch you take another big gulp of nothing from the precious air. i
see you take your place in the line
among the spaghettified limbs and elongated fingers of 
Dalí-inspired creatures that walk idly on the flat- smoothed out places of the world 
that stretch 
far and wide like some never-ending ungodly plane. you
scallop out pieces of your knowing just to make sense out of this happening. you
forget to receive beauty in all your eyes devour-
and in all your heart can crave.
the stiletto legged spiders cross paths like stilted walkers, wishing they were smaller
and you
will know nothing of them but will speak as if you've known them. i
can tell 
you've never known them. i
can tell
. you
extend your limbs, hands open 
as wide as the minds of poets, you fancy your fingers as feathers, 
and your outstretched arms as wings. i
know your bones must be hollow because
i've never heard such terrible sounds from them knocking together-
drumming out strum-songs because no strings could be used to make noise
in this place 
you are lonely-
feeling as empty as freshly blown glass
and with
pins sticking out of my fingertips
i cannot drum along
to your sound,
the crackling scratch of a vinyl record as
a cat claws at the beige carpet and 
catches like Velcro loops. i
know i've
put less thought into greater things
and 
you
hold me
for only one second and 
you are the grass stain on my knees,
the flecks of dried paint in my black eyebrows,
and


infinitesimally small particle-sized portions of forever
bouncing around in the dark parts of your irises 
like over-exited electrons colliding in a 
cloud 
of everyday 
dust
exiled into the far corners of 
heaven 


you hold your hand out like a katana and i 
slice 
back 
everything i might of known about you before
that lash-fall instant 
in which
you
smiled

  
  

paper

i have put up facades
and feigned a greater confidence than i could ever possess,
i have touched the poverty in lines of poetry
and tasted the perversion of lame stanzas. 

i have put less thought 
into greater things.


absorbing the warmth of smiling 
through facial osmosis
and
keening away carbon in short- and shallow breaths 




but 
i have never seen again what transpired  
when i watched 
the paper girl
fold herself into pieces of origami-like lovers as cold sheets of fragile fibers
carefully bent around
waxy parchment
she sailed around the room like a paper airplane,
thin, creased skymachine with wings bent back and nose weighted with all the promise 
of an old penny she might have found in her pants pocket

shameless

i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little sluts-
the thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath, one hundred dollars is not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood frothing all over the sidewalk
and running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into the sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
what the hell?
i can't even dare to say.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-erotic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.

girls night in

mouth to mouth-
crystalline tiny cubes of light 
into tasting pieces of acid and spill them all over
your black spaghetti straps
tugging at the bottom of your machine washable
dungeons
you purr words of inconsolation and inconsequence  
stream-line savior 
savour the swift
elongated tongues
of amateurs -
sky machines
sent to lick the blood right off my feet
and from the street
silver mineral spirits swimming into soft-tailed waterfalls that spill over cavernous eyes
she killed it with her kisses
takes it it like a shot of Smirnoff-
a sip of clean glass cologne
pouring ripples right into my hands
letting pools collect in wrinkles
and drip from the edges of my thumbs
as i trace the wet red meniscus of your lips  

bad decision

which is worse
dropping the four or five haphazardly balanced soda cans you were carrying up the front stairs and to the refrigerator,
or having a daddy-long-legs crawl around your shoulder for just a few seconds longer?

October

the galleries of independent machines
are put onto display in the gilded halls of long corridors
bleached away by
anti-
bacterial soap.
and we say that we are the universe.
and we are the ones that tell you what to do.
preachers of mephistopheles,
creatures of indetermination.
and indeterminate
origin,
the goat-footed gargoyles treat us as play-things.
and the winged seraphs as day-things.
but we know that we are night-things.
and night-things fly away.
she wrote her number in red-lipstick, hit the high-notes like a whisper,
and whispered the lyrics into
my ear.
she got under my skin
and she crawled around while she was in.
she bat her lashes
and bit her lip,
she tasted her painted
fingernails
as if licking her acrylic claws clean
and threatened -
to swallow me whole.

[prequel]

and by the way 
there are flies in the basement, 
no doubt, the 
result of passionless blood-letting and 
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places) 
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy- 
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the 
sacred flesh of incandescence 
-these that thrust reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to suck the last drops of electromagnetic intercourse from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile 
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy before my eyes
complete with the vaporous waking-dreams that seep through the vacant nothing
just to fill up the empty spaces- 
with wavering colors and the half-pourn pitchers of denatured memory 
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and 
allowing me the liberty of penetration.
i have seen you scream.
and i have seen you whimper with the joyous sigh of servitude and submission.
wet panties and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality 
and reality consumes infinity 
and the world becomes conscious awareness of infinity. 
and there is nothing to be known except this infinity. 
and there is nothing to be known at all-
alleviant zero of cyclic connectivity 
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation takes hold- 
luminous rings of forever.
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters 
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation, 
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys, thick-rimmed-black-plastic sunglasses 
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity. 
i like my body for what its worth 
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and raped the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse 
and pushed thumbtacks through her nipples just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the sex of cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced nipples and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps of seduction filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
my body? my mind?
her bracelet and studded pieces of leather to decorate
only embody obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendonitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
what can really be done for her-
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning
free flowing prose,
bluebirds
and blue-black bruises on your arms
wrinkles
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be such beautiful rebels
listening to- the stereo silence  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken 
but her breasts, not left untouched


unblessed 
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice


bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft velvet
her skin is an orgasmic whisper
i will leave no inch of flesh-


unsacrificed. 



her wounds bled with the words,


you begin 
to 
understand-
all of me

  

M.

bitter but better is the sunshine of never
all over
her body
are dead things and dragons
spiders and stabbers and
ink thorny anklets
calf-twisting vine lines
and thigh wanting roses
fingers paint black tips and
lovers cross black lips a
body
lain naked
her lies of love broken
her eyes leak of lust rust
a bat on her breast
she rises from rest
she sits up
and pulls
a black SG onto her lap
and whispers
"more"

the quick big rain

everything i thought was effective
or somewhat powerful
was so, only in the moment,
removed from its context
it all becomes nothing more than nothing at all
these words put together forever,
poetry for naught but a fraction of a minute
never, to ever again become real
and i became you
(and i blame you)
in the instant i believed in the beautiful fools that crave
the taste of fire-water to remind their palates that they are alive
groping for the burnt four pieces and
the pieces of eight and
the things we used to burn for,
the symbols we cast away.
and then there was that old radio i found
in the attic behind a pile of unused bricks by the second chimney
that was hidden
by the wall in the still unfinished section towards the back,
and i wonder who put it there?
and what for?
some men remember the debt-
others, the hot intoxication of rubber bands breaking
and the swift sharp snapping back against their forearms amidst
the long flat bodied spiders that make lonely homes
with white picket fences and
lighting strung up on silk to rally us towards
celebration
and away from contemplation about the way things could be
and
my mind has changed, i have found,
over the past few years especially.
i can no longer lay claim to the quick sharp concepts that define adult reality-
nor pretend to,
i rely on my gravitation towards the long soft ideas,
clouds that wrap around the tip of internal dialogue's tongue,
loosely and golden,
they are the breaths drawn in while napping haphazardly
when i become unobtrusively aware of physicalities such as the mild moistness of sweat and oil
resting quietly upon the pores of my brow
and of the bone structure of my forehead as it leads into my temple
and of the smooth coarseness of the bottoms of my bare feet as they rub together out of habit.
and i am grown.
and perhaps i am old.
too many haircuts have redefined me
my hair, so much coarser and curlier than when i was young
so much shorter than when i played guitar in the high school hallways
and perhaps curlier still.
and my beard is a patchy refusal of wisdom,
uneven, undeveloped ideas forming stubble with each follicle growing,
prickly coarse pendants pushing out of too-smooth skin.
this thing, my youth, two mirrors made to face each other,
visible in either direction are unattainable and strangely foreign glimpses of myself,
equally ponderous opposites, glimpses at "i have been" and "i will be"
and "who the hell am i?" creeping between questions like "where is my now?"
as i stand leaning over the bathroom sink, rubbing razorblades across my cheekbones
and halfway down my neck.
and i think what i need is an old wooden desk
and a warm tabletop lamp that casts just enough slender golden hush of illumination
as to not disturb the soft stillness elsewhere
and to leave my eyes dilated as i read.
i have tried using flashlights but always find them to close, and too cold
my brightest flashlights dispel the shadows into sharp discernible pieces
and leave little room for the gentle contours of soft-form inspiration
the page is too white and my eyes fatigue fast,
picking up the pen and placing it amidst the cold circle that grants me sight,
i find the pinpoint accuracy of the beam unappealing for such purposes
and somehow feel trapped within it.
i'm almost certain i need a desk
and to sit wearing my loafers, having citadels of old books and stacks of my handwritten notes
piled up in front of me
and leather-bound journals.
and i would be forced to write of children,
little girls playing dress up,
draped in large button-down shirts, with their slender necks, tangled angels in their fathers' ties.
but they like the cool touch the silk,
and to see the sleek swoosh of of iridescence as they fantasize
about magic fish's scales and mermaid princess treasure.
they conjure plans and great feats of architecture
as they construct intricate blanket-forts that envelope entire livingrooms,
and bring into being splendid cities that leave an opening just wide enough to see the T.V.
i call you a crybaby because i never could understand.
i cry so differently than you-
much more softly, more slow.
i let the tears swell  up gently until they bead at the edges of my eyes and let them roll quietly
down the side of my face.
i'll often stop for a moment to contemplate the physicality and sensation of the saline droplets
that air dry naturally and undisturbed
momentarily taken aback by my pensive observation,
i take hiatus from the pure emotion of the experience and it becomes more of an intellectual process.
later on i may go back to crying.
and i wonder if there is such thing as poetry.
and i wonder if there are such things as poets anymore.
outside the window
there is a tapping of rain-
glisten, good moisture
walk away with all you had and everything you never gave
piling down hard and pulling
fiercely
on the air that surrounds
glisten, good wet ground strings
glisten and go forth with praise
my brows push together
heavy with the knowing of raindrops that cease to tumble after showing all that they are
glisten, good sundrops
glisten and be glad you belong.
hence came the end of the quick big rain

(and out came the sun to show what it had done)

Indoor swimming pool (pool party)

After some consideration I had to reach out and touch you,
And hold you and kiss you.
But when I backed away slowly and looked at you, breathing, “sorry”,
You came back for more
And after wrapping your legs around me as I held you even tighter,
You backed away just for a moment, looking down and breathing, “sorry”,
Your lips still wet and wanting more.
And so it continued in this cyclic dance of hesitant passion, or passionate hesitation,
I’m not sure which,
Until we had become resolute in our decisions to love each other so sincerely
That it didn’t matter that everyone else was staring.