HOLIDAY

My bizarre take on a strange holiday tradition has produced magical dancing light.




p.s. may all of yours be merry and bright.

What can I give her that she doesn't already have?

I recently received a text message from a very good friend:

“You watch grinch? What the fuck are they singing?”

I replied:

“Been a while: Ah-boo-doe-ray, Ah-boo-doe-ray. Or something like that. But what I really wanna know is why santa is such a dick to rudolph.”

This was my friends reply:

“Donner a dick too.”

And because I can’t let anything go without an overdone, unnecessary, crack-pot analysis, I replied again:

“Yeah, what up with that. Nice message to send kids…youre different and I dont like you, so fuck you until I need you to pull my sleigh. Then I like you. Santa almost push rudolph over the edge.”

My friend was probably thinking "Why did I even ask?"

But, yeah Santa is pretty much a dick to Rudolph. I believe he says something to the effect of "Pity, and he had potential, too.” And my friend was right, Donner was a dick. Desperate to prove himself a worthy sperm donor, he makes Rudolph cover up his depreciatory genetic mutation. Explaining to his son that there are more important things in life than comfort, like self-respect.

The message: If you don't fit in, you aren't worth shit. So suck it up until you either fit in or someone needs you for something.

And then everyone tries to take it back and pin the "reindeer of the year" award on Rudolph. Kids have to see through that.

(Clarice knew what was up, though. Right from the beginning she knew Rudolph was the shit.)

So, I say to Santa and the rest of the fuckers in this world...just because someone doesn’t fit your image of what “a something” should be you think that they are incapable? Not worthy? Without feelings?

"Just wait, and watch your back."





And, of course I had to look that shit up, so here it is:

Welcome Christmas

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome Christmas,
Come this way!

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome Christmas,
Christmas Day.

Welcome, Welcome
Fah who rah-moose
Welcome, Welcome
Dah who dah-moose
Christmas day is in our grasp
So long as we have hands to clasp

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome, welcome Christmas
Welcome, welcome Christmas
Day


Copyright © 1957, Dr. Seuss.
http://www.seuss.org/seuss/welcome.xmas.html




p.s. a lifetime supply of it.



(poke)

What would you have me say?

Ah, the extraordinary from which I glean substance.



Aviva

In two months time, they had already taken half of your leg. And, your decision to give your eyes had been made, all the arrangements confirmed.

Your veins carried the bits and pieces of your death. Broken off from the center of your gut and pumped through your body by your two-timing heart. The debris collected in the narrows to strangle your extremities. Passageways filled and clogged. Backing up, they would finally find their way to your heart which, by that time, would be too exhausted to push any further.

You were one minute shivering with cold, the next ripping with heat. The cold hand towel placed on your forehead and the morphine on demand were your only physical relief. But the tricks that chemical played on your mind, bringing ghosts to your bedside, became your greatest emotional comfort. You claimed “She’s standing right there.” Obviously, no one else could see her she had been dead for ten years. But eavesdropping on your conversations provided insight into your fear.

"I just want to know why."

"I know, but I'm just not ready yet and I don’t want to be afraid."

"Because I don't want it to end."

While in reality, he stood tirelessly by your side. Always ready for whatever you needed, and there was never a hint of frustration, never a moment that could have been construed as forced. He was in no way put out as he took over some of the nurse’s duties relieving you of any more embarrassment. All for the things he already knew. It was his most selfless act, but at the same time provided him relief from deadful thoughts. Without question or consideration, he cared for you, cleaned you, changed your clothes, your catheter, the colostomy.

Because it was all he could do.

Along with that came the visitors, myself included, each lost in their attempts to find meaning in what seemed incomprehensible. They stumbled to find the right words to reply to your pleas of "I don't want to die." Wanting to ease your pain and take your mind off of death, they attempted small talk. When all you really wanted was someone to agree with you, take your hand and say "I know and I don't want you to die, either."

The swift destruction was overwhelming. All the poison they pumped into you, and the painful, awkward experimental treatments, failed. You had been through enough.

Then finally, “Let me bring her home.”

They delivered your hospital bed the day before you died. I know because I was there, for both. It remained by the large bedroom window, unmade and unused, for several weeks. It sat to reinforce the loss.






p.s. there is a time and a place for everything and that is neither.

Well tempered.

“Something with poison in it, but attractive to the eye, and soothing to the smell.”
-Wicked Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz





Once upon a fork in the road...

In the corner a ratty green sofa sits butted up against a water ring stained end table. There are at least four three inch burn holes in the snagged, stained fabric. Heavy, dark drapes cover the window. The time of day is a complete mystery to anyone who has spent any time here and time is all but spent.

The sofa, the room smells like piss and acid. Pizza boxes, broken plastic forks and unwanted, half-eaten food are surrounded by empty beer bottles and overfilled ash trays. A bent spoon sits on the coffee table.

Around the corner, the kitchen cupboards are bare, the fridge empty. It’s water and anti-acids for dinner; anything else would be a waste.

“Have you seen your family?”

“Well, you should. I know they miss you.”

The visit was brief and I was grateful to have had the opportunity, but for some reason I can’t help but be thankful for decisions I made long ago. I emerged almost unscathed, at least in that respect. I wish there was more I could do.

"Call me if you need anything."

In that dark room past, present and future all at once delivered upon us both, redemption.

"Yeah, I will."






p.s. it is round there aren't any sides.

They said you said what I said to you

Your subtlety lacks finesse. Either it is, or it isn’t.

And, we know it is.

But it is incomplete, isn’t it. What is it that was left out or held back?

Well, let me remind you.

Fear at all hours of the day and night. And, I couldn’t breathe without suggesting abandon, so I suffocated from repression. Then, managing the never ending time spent attempting to quell your irrational needs killed me. It was never enough, the time, the attention, the truth, so I finally caved. Yet, the debate continued. And, you couldn’t stop me or make me change my mind, and that infuriated you. But, instead of pushing so hard you would have been better off just killing time.

But, I relent and you suffer delusion and sometimes it was the other way around.

It was like this; there, assembled from misery, denial and frustration, we produced an alternate reality. Can we just admit that it was unnatural? Not quite forced, but awfully close. If so, then we’ll leave it at that.

In the end, it was finished. I’m surprised we held out as long as we did.

And yes, “it was grand, and we have the pictures to prove it.”

Now it’s just shit and we are both shoveling.





p.s. while hiding beneath the window, crying.

Obviously.

I Hate Swimming

I am barefoot
and the pavement burns
my pale soles.
I begin to shuffle
first to the left
then, right.
Holding each
until I can no longer stand
without wobble.
I would seek shelter
but, that would find
me leaving you
alone, again.
And, I can’t.
Won’t.
Your willful eyes
and your exuberance
stand with me.
I am here
to brave the burn.





p.s. all that stuff about going blind is a lie.

The day after the day after tomorrow.

I arrived suddenly, and knew for certain that I was in the best place. It was warm and calm and I stood quietly in the moment, waiting for my turn. But, I quickly realized I was alone. Figuring my wait would be short; I let out a breath releasing the smoke from my lungs and viewed my new environment. All around me the black tar covered ground seemed endless, as if I stood in the parking lot for the world’s demise. Its emptiness ran undisturbed to the limits of my sight, and I thought, “When does it all get here?” Then, as I dropped my spent cigarette to the ground, intending to snub it out with the toe of my boot, something caught my eye.

At the hem of my faded, old black shirt was a white thread and without reflection I pulled it. As I pulled, it continued to reveal itself. So I continued to pull, believing that my shirt would soon unravel. But instead, my shirt remained intact while the string started to wind around itself, twining, until it became as thick as a hangman’s rope. With both my hands I began to work against gravity to slow it down, but it quickly stole my grip allowing the rope to spill out, coiling at my feet. When it stopped its fall, the weight of it almost pulled me over and I realized it must be connected to me. I pulled up my shirt and discovered it cleanly attached to the center of my chest.

Then I noticed smoke coming up from the center of the pile and realized the rope had coiled itself around my still lit cigarette. I frantically began to kick at the rope, fearing that it would fuse its way to my heart, igniting it. My success gave way to alarm as I heard from behind me the approaching sound of children’s laughter. When I turned, they were upon me. Several of them grabbed the rope and ran past me. As I watched the rope begin to take off I grabbed for it, but it slipped in my hand. When it disconnected from my chest I fell to the ground and grabbed for its end, but it trailed off behind them, leaving an inky trace.

I remained on my knees. A dull pain echoed in my chest as I watched the children huddle together holding hands to ears, whispering. Several of them looked over at me, but quickly returned to their attention to the group. I felt like an idiot. Oddly, they seemed unfazed by my presence and began to jump rope, their laughter in time with its swooshing rhythm. So, I asked them “Don’t you know you’re playing with the end of me?” My reply came in the most unexpected way, as the smallest of all the children approached me with the seeping end of the rope, smiled and said, “It’s your turn.”



p.s. I’m always fucking late.

Dig into her.

Of all the translations of Charles Baudelaire's Rêve parisien that I have read, this version is my favorite.


Parisian Dream

I

That marvelous landscape of my dream —
Which no eye knows, nor ever will —
At moments, wide awake, I seem
To grasp, and it excites me still.

Sleep, how miraculous you are —
A strange caprice had urged my hand
To banish, as irregular,
All vegetation from that land;

And, proud of what my art had done,
I viewed my painting, knew the great
Intoxicating monotone
Of marble, water, steel and slate.

Staircases and arcades there were
In a long labyrinth, which led
To a vast palace; fountains there
Were gushing gold, and gushing lead.

And many a heavy cataract
Hung like a curtain, — did not fall,
As water does, but hung, compact,
Crystal, on many a metal wall.

Tall nymphs with Titan breasts and knees
Gazed at their images unblurred,
Where groves of colonnades, not trees,
Fringed a deep pool where nothing stirred.

Blue sheets of water, left and right,
Spread between quays of rose and green,
To the world's end and out of sight,
And still expanded, though unseen.

Enchanted rivers, those — with jade
And jasper were their banks bedecked;
Enormous mirrors, dazzled, made
Dizzy by all they did reflect.

And many a Ganges, taciturn
And heedless, in the vaulted air,
Poured out the treasure of its urn
Into a gulf of diamond there.

As architect, it tempted me
To tame the ocean at its source;
And this I did, — I made the sea
Under a jeweled culvert course.

And every color, even black,
Became prismatic, polished, bright;
The liquid gave its glory back
Mounted in iridescent light.

There was no moon, there was no sun, —
For why should sun and moon conspire
To light such prodigies? — each one
Blazed with its own essential fire!

A silence like eternity
Prevailed, there was no sound to hear;
These marvels all were for the eye,
And there was nothing for the ear.

II

I woke; my mind was bright with flame;
I saw the cheap and sordid hole
I live in, and my cares all came
Burrowing back into my soul.

Brutally the twelve strokes of noon
Against my naked ear were hurled;
And a gray sky was drizzling down
Upon this sad, lethargic world.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)




p.s. you will find figs and days, lyrics and plays.

Flammable Fingers

Time spent, not wasted.

L'envoi

I have the presence of mind to call you out.
Bring it on, I have no doubt
You will leave me when you hear this.
Because, you already know what it’s about,
It blisters my fingers, it breaks my bones.
They’ll say you should've been better told
You won't get far on that soul you sold.

You have a knack for turning me out.
Knock me down, I have no doubt
I will leave here once I say this...
I have to find a better way out.
My hands are full, my mind is clear
All I ask is look beyond you, my dear
I've lifted your curtain and cast out my fear.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the ugly truth behind
All the words you have eluded.

So bring it on and I will profess
And in turn clean the fucking mess
Of your life; what has become
Of your once upon a happy home.

I have half a mind to pull you out
Scream in your face, there will be no doubt
You'd be better off. Then dead
Years shattered, moments that mattered
Have all been dusted with your heels.
Did you know? Could you see?
I have closed the door behind me.

You called to me; I had to believe
When you cried I'd find relief.
Then you left me to be,
Taking your brutal confession
For an old useless possession.
Because, you said you could see
All the misery hidden within me.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the ugly truth behind
All the words you have eluded.

So bring it on and I will profess
And in turn clean this fucking mess
Of your life; what has become
Of your once upon a happy home.

And I can’t be this anymore.
You know what I mean, it’s too deep.
So in the ditch, I've become the creep
And the moments have lost all their meaning.
Two far fetched visions of one useless being
Breathe while you stand there pleading
For truth. We spill lies so deceiving.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the greedy truth behind
All the words we have diluted.

So bring it on and I will confess
And in turn clean this fucking mess
Of our lives; what has become
Of our once upon a happy home.

And I can’t be this anymore.
You know what I mean, it’s too deep.
What could I say if you fell before me?

There is no time to be weak.
After everything we said, it’s a shame

With all of that cruel intention,
I have always taken the blame.

Funny, I wrote that around this time last year. At the time, drawing upon "only so" recent events and feelings in order to understand the shit I was currently mired in. Words to heal by, I guess you could say. And in case you were wondering, they helped.

p.s. it is or it isn't or it was but not now it can't at once be and not be but it could never have been or what it once was now.

Cereal monogamy

On the front porch
Laughing and crying all at once
She has no idea the vodka belongs on the shelf
Orange juice beside the milk

It is the same front porch
That whispered baseball calls
To my bedroom window
As I peered down enticed

In time, now stumbling forward
Often infused by the same mixture
I recall her laughter was not quite right
And mine often sounds the same

From the front porch I forgive
As any good lesson I read
And now in her face reflected
The moment that I returned




p.s. in the never-ending battle to match wits.

Lost, at See.

Is it my words or merely their attribution?
If they fell from another, more absurd place
A less substantial weight to bear. And, I know
My bed is made and the window remains open
Allowing irony’s profit to be misplaced.

Words, my last few volumes broken, then
Apportioned fault by a guile fleet, far off
On the horizon, consider the last avowed
Rescued last year, and now netted
After the flood pushed everything out.

p.s. and everything from then on.

Echolocation

It was written from another’s perspective. A recollection of a conversation turned first person. Expensive, anti-climactic words ringing in my ears with an unrelenting need to, once again, find voice. In reverse, they became a bit of guilt unfurled to reveal how my selfish needs superseded best interest. Recall that I held on too long, to that room, to that moment.

“Just say it, say it already”

“I don’t.”

As painful as it may have been to hear it rephrased in that manner, I never meant to be cruel. And now, when the melody of the moment presents itself, I am reminded to never again make that mistake. Although ironically, it was only after repeated cost that it became my lesson. I hope it has become yours, as well.


p.s. volumes like breadcrumbs lead back.

There's a word for that.

It is everything built to borrow
made of a moment or two of sorrow
with a roof pitched of tar and nicotine
and everything good that is in between
that has taken three hundred days
sometimes filtered through a painted haze
while holding breath without suffocation
there is love and hate, anguish and elation

Manifestation Monster

Wax and wane, spit out the profane
He found it fit to sit and complain.
And in the shit still, remain
Spirit coursing diligent, but in vain.

He is unraveling spools for the core.
He is unknown: “The Word Whore”
Has every opportunity for more,
But now at last he has become the boar.

p.s. not even (a lex icon) the sharpest ink will get you out of that paper bag.

Good tidings.

Hammer
and hammer again
Louder
and louder still
Listen
and listen again
until you have heard everything that I have to say
And so I stay

and what I found

while at your side

was the moon all along

smooth calcified cockles

and a tangled mass of slime

a child’s bucket bobbing out to sea

Some of it stays

some of it goes

p.s. would I?

(Such a peculiar word, isn't it?)

For giving myself time.

We are all in some way the same. Any of us can be traced on parchment and placed over another and the outline will match, at some point. Keep turning the page until it fits just right. Call it coincidence, if you will.

I can hold you up against me and often the lines match up perfect.



The following is an excerpt from an old handwritten journal.

Yesterday I saw my reflection and waited for an answer. I stood there like an idiot, swaying and staring. It took a while, but what I found was strength and self-respect. The bags packed themselves and walked right out the door. My hand held tightly to all that really mattered, my own heart. All of my abandon had left the poor thing in a sad state, atrophied. But if I am patient and use it a little more each day it will regain its once youthful bounce. It will be fit for giving...forgiving. Forgiving.




(I needed the white noise as well.)


p.s. it is yours and no one can take it away.

Your obituary won't mention you have a huge house and a plasma t.v.

My Grandma used to say "You only get so many words when you're born and once you've used them up...that's it."

She said the same thing about steps too.

"Once they're gone you don't get anymore."

Words and steps, I think she meant that they are the measure of a life.

She was a cool lady.





p.s. and in those last few moments they won't occur to you either.

Pistachio and Anchovy

When I was young I was picked on quite a bit. The usual set of circumstances, I was an easy target (smart, quiet, odd, insecure) and once the kids found my buttons they didn’t relent. For a long time I tried to ignore them. I spent a lot of time reading because I thought that with a book in front of my face I would blend into the background. And, for a while I did. From behind those first books I developed my love of the written word. Beginning with the marvels I found in the library and then later the stories I found in my own head. My need to escape elementary school torment helped foster my imagination, I suppose. I need to thank those kids for that.

So anyway, a few times the kids pretended that they wanted to be my friend. A kid would ask if I wanted to hang out on the playground either at recess or after school. The first couple of times I bought it. It was a pathetic display of desperation that, looking back now, makes me laugh. You can see that kid, right?...very awkward, over-filled book bag, disheveled clothes, greasy hair, hopeful smile. I would wait for my friend to show up and of course they wouldn’t and I would eventually trudge home. Sometimes they would gather somewhere along my route and give me a hard time shouting “Who were you waiting for back there?” and “Did you really think we’d be friends with you.” It was worse when they would wait until the next day bringing my humiliation to school to share with the rest of the class.

Why am I telling you this? Well…insight I suppose and also to offer some context that you may draw from for those times when I seem a bit vague (yes, really). I have had to overcome and still battle with some pretty substantial trust issues. Always present in the back of my mind is the voice telling me to watch out for anyone who gets too close because they probably have an ulterior motive that will leave me in a rut. It has taken me a long time and years of therapy to be able to ignore that voice and share even my more simple weaknesses with friends (without the guise of fiction). And, so I share this piece of myself, my past with you.


p.s. I am not sure what you will glean from my palate but my gut holds plenty.






(Not at present: soon and I'll let you know when.)

For the same reason.

Postage Due

The letters are rivals with swords,
Broad against the flat lined pulp.
Praised, and then repented
Until each has had its way
With my eye. And you
Swear to it; as if it were
Your own existence. Bent
On a fifth or the first degree,
Surrendered at a legendary's expense.
I am brittle and struck in two.
Gone, with a final blow,
The rubbed out remains defined
Ink lined creases on pristine stock.
Held against my flesh, my face
Fierce, rewritten thoughts,
The letters unsealed, recycled
To charm, to hate, to relive
And sent to myself, so I stay
Permanently pointed and fine.








p.s. you and I...don't deny it but at least think about it.



(That is the best news.)

Up To The Ground.

Those hills breathe fire
And exhale into the stream
Billows of crackled frames
Mixed with the amassed sordid matter
Of a thousand million leaves
Pelf, from pandered promise
Settles into the hollows
Filling the rift with futile night
They will brush ash from their soles
For an eternity after having been told
Better to swallow holes than believe
What was struck, no longer stands




p.s. and so it went.

That is a great question.

One that requires a little back history, current insight, and whatnot...

I was so overwhelmed that the thought of walking off into oblivion sounded rather reasonable. It was then, with seven days worth of living layered on my body that I found those words. I can speculate that if I had stumbled upon them at any other time I would have completely missed the punchline. (Oh, the drama.) And, here they are again. Their missive as apparent now as it was then...only I have been there, done that.

And I am now, as I was then, required to debate myself long into the night the commitment of my endeavors. Yet, I am unable to get past the immediate burden of now. The constant demands of my time, my mind, are as good a place as any to wait it out. Work. One might assume that it is my fear of failure that has me stalled. That may have been the case then, but not this time. This time it is fear of becoming stale, stuck, tired and ridiculous…and my own overactive scrutiny as evidenced by the aforementioned fears. I can think shit to death, but right now I am not in the mood.

Perhaps, I am lazy. So what? Maybe I need a reprieve from self-deconstruction. Nope. I will just put it off for a little while and take a break. Tomorrow, next week, next month aren't going anywhere and all weigh heavy on my mind. I will give them due course, in time. But this, this moment that is happening right now…I have to deal with that first (even if it is nothing). And I know when I am ready and after proper deliberation, I will be comfortable, not resigned, with my decision.

Then, I am sure to hear the brilliant, overcooked opinions of those looking out for their interests in the guise of caring suggestion. They'll think me an idiot who blundered upon reason. Fuck ‘em if they don’t get it.

All of that back there and the way the author selected his words to sound like what they tell.

“lifts and lets fall. lifts and lets fall.”

“which spurts fragments of anguished glass.”

I see it, the crane in the scrapyard plowing through the wreckage and pulling up piece after piece without inspection. It sounds just like that, the pick and pull, the overflow spilling over the sides, the popping of the windows. That is an amazing talent; to be able to choose words in such a way as to make the reader see what they hear. Or is it, hear what they see?

And it is dark and fateful. It asks me to consider what will tear me apart. How easy it is to devour prey. Hunger, either voracious or timid, is base. And there is always a suitable meal. There it is so beautiful, enticing that we can’t resist the need, the desire, to grasp it tightly holding it steady so that we can get our fill of it. Our free hand may then break it down to its pieces parts. What is consumed will either be used for sustenance or pulled apart and re-pieced for an altogether different machine. One built from recycled guts. Delivered to a showroom near you, or shit on the heads of unsuspecting park patrons. Either way...we are what we eat.

And the contrary always appeals to me, reminds me that I can be full of shit.

Natural versus manufactured destruction...involuntary dismay and the crow and the crane and we are preening. Is it less evident because it is instinctual or because it is easier to sleep at night?


p.s. I will undoubtedly revise as it has re-established its hold of my time and my grooming.

Guess I should have called a plumber.

I would like to share with you one of my favorites.

SHOCK
C.K. Williams


Furiously a crane
in the scrapyard out of whose grasp
a car it meant to pick up slipped,
lifts and lets fall, lifts and lets fall
the steel ton of its clenched pincers
onto the shuddering carcass
which spurts fragments of anguished glass
until it's sufficiently crushed
to be hauled up and flung onto
the heap from which one imagines
it'll move on to the shredding
or melting down that awaits it.

Also somewhere a crow
with less evident emotion
punches its beak through the dead
breast of a dove or albino
sparrow until it arrives at
a coil of gut it can extract,
then undo with a dexterous twist
an oily stretch just the right length
to be devoured, the only
suggestion of violation
the carrion jerked to one side
in involuntary dismay.

Splayed on the soiled pavement
the dove or sparrow; dismembered
in the tangled remnants of itself
the wreck, the crane slamming once more
for good measure into the all
but dematerialized hulk,
then luxuriously swaying
away, as, gorged, glutted, the crow
with savage care unfurls the full,
luminous glitter of its wings,
so we can preen, too, for so much
so well accomplished, so well seen.





p.s. it was a plunger but nevertheless.

In and out, in and out, in and out, in and out inandoutinandout.

You can make what you want and call it what you wish.

Art.
Shit.
Smart.
Dense.
Dull.
Smut.
Filth.
Provocative.
Evocative.
Stimulating.
Irritating.
Ironic.
Idiotic.

But as you create, ask questions. When you view, do the same. Consider the intention of the creator. What is the subject of the work? What is it about? Why do you think the work was created? What does the work mean? What is the creator trying to say? What do you think is the creator's view of the world?

Or don’t.

Creating thoughts, words and images using a living, breathing human subject has its purpose. Recording visual data, commentary on an historical event, describing a religious ritual, and storytelling are all examples of a creator’s purpose to tell a truth creatively...through any medium.

Rewriting or embellishing also has a purpose in art. Individual perspective perhaps, but where truth remains central. Though, not always. The creator’s intent is to persuade, the purpose to shift perspective. Provoke. Fiction, telling a story not entirely based on fact, may contain imaginary or real characters. Not all fiction may be considered art, but entertainment with the intention to change mood.

As living, breathing humans we have the gift to create art for a myriad of purposes and intents. And, every human being interprets art in their own unique way. Art can provoke the viewer to reconsider previous assumptions or consider new ideas, it can challenge the viewer to explore new emotions or look at the world in a new way (through the creator's eyes).



It all has its place.

(But, what the hell do I know?)








p.s. ahh yes...suck, swirl, release and flush.

Hurling sanctity at destruction.

forced in two flash









p.s. sticks and stones and broken bones there's no place like home.

(just a throw away.)

About a recusant.

It is a youthful requirement,
A developmental entitlement,
To want to be separate, unique.
“Your perspective is quite oblique.”
True, but they say it’s inevitable
And becoming is so undeniable,
That now, when I look into me
More and more it is him that I see.



p.s. of course I am and he wouldn't want it any other way, a knock-off.

Slurry.

Let me tell you what it was like. Lying on a rack of a bed, the sweat from all of a sudden and a half minutes of sex still clinging to my naked body, I am no longer relieved. Instead, I am shaking (but it’s not cold). The blankets have fallen away and I don’t dare get up to retrieve them. I know that if I do I will not return to the bed. And it is all gone anyway, finished off an hour ago amidst impetuous greed and loud music. The others, the music, all of it was irrelevant to relentless want. The pattern repeated, ten minutes of synthetically induced exaltation followed by the entirety of my consciousness engulfed by its insufferable demands. Fake rapture.

And in that bed, everything I had poured down my throat to even me out is trying to make its way back up. Another reason to stay put, but I can’t sleep with my head twitching and an arm around my neck. So, I will pace. I sort of know the neighborhood, and because I do it will occur to me much later how fucking stupid I was. Not just because some desperate fuck could have put a gun to my head, or because it was way too much, or because I am not entirely familiar with the body in the bed, but because I will have to live with it.

Nevertheless, I am not thinking of that when I pull on my clothes and walk out the door. Swallowing hard and still grinding my teeth, my jaw is tired and my lips are chapped. My feet step ahead of me slightly, but I am keeping up. In order to slow my quick heart my breathing becomes forced, gasps long and slow. Think. Breathe. Walk. Walk. Walk. Think. Breathe. If I just keep walking it will go away, all of it…even the body in the bed.





p.s. yep that was the last and forgive me the past and present tension.

What?...exactly.

Way down at the center of the Earth, the core as it is called, the pull is intense. The rest of it, what I see every day, endlessly revolves, but down there it is all held in tight. I want to be that close, leave the cycle, become random. I am a part of the pattern and I know that is why I feel this way. So much of it is polluted.

There is the challenge.

I tried to dig it up once. I wanted to know if it would pull my soul out and then would it also find a place in rotation? Follow me around batting at the back of my head? But, my palms blistered before I made it. I would like to say I did not give up, but I did.

Yesterday, I read in the news that someone had finally reached it. Once they arrived, they made legal claim of the core of the Earth. Stuck a flag in it and gave it a proper name, in a proper way...I hate proper. So, now I want it even more. The rest of it can float off for all I care.

Well, not all of it.

I will try again. This time, a bigger shovel and a pair of gloves might do the trick, save my hands. I will not quit; it is worthy work. When I get there, I will release it. I no longer wish to be a part of its rotation. Instead, I wish for the whole of it to become the rest of it.


p.s. each day the same way and then look at it again if its there, focus.

You couldn't shut me up if you tried.

As any good poem will do, I was moved to another place. Taken back to a day long ago when I was twelve, no maybe eleven, and had spent a good portion of the afternoon alone foraging around in the yard. Aside from some awkward social issues, I was content (even the social issues contented me because it gave me the excuse to be alone). So that particular day, standing in my yard, breathing in the warm fresh air of spring, I recall being rained upon by helicopters. I collected them all in a box, or perhaps it was a bucket, and climbed my favorite tree as high as I could and re-released them to the ground. It was my intention to allow them a second flight, to once again be aloft.

It is amazing how similar we are, humans. Inhale (I’m), exhale (here). At the very core we exist, our attempts to make our lives enjoyable or in some instances passable should be worthy. Take it in, the amazing, the simple, the meaningful and give it away, just the same.

As I have said (and as some have speculated) I am privileged to have a few places to spout off (last count...Three, “oh lucky me.”). Of course, some of my words were never intended to be read by anyone other than the one I wrote them for and in some cases no one at all. These places have never intersected, until now. I have been reminded to rip myself open. So, I have gathered up these words for a second flight.


Her fingers weave through my hair
And her breath is a reminder (that I breathe)
In and out, slow and almost silent

I'm

h e r e

I'm

h e r e

I'm

h e r e

Her evening promise
brings me rest.
When I wake, whenever that may be
I can tell her anything
and she believes
And I understand
the weight of trust.
She begs me for more,
more anything, more everything
and I oblige, within reason
I can give endlessly
and she will return the favor.
She is at once present
and future entwined
For years in the making
and each moment a step
closer to letting go.



p.s. but once I am dead, Dis.



The written word, in any form, is a powerful gift. But, it can also destroy.

Stand.

There are so many things missing, last night
Last week, and now quieted by irreverence
Two feet deep and thick with sickness
We are lost and no longer linger. Still
I can reason your denial in difference
Came upon you for thought, and mine
I must say thrust upon me in shame.
I shut my book to save your eyes.
Who is lost in plain sight can speak
As you have always claimed, in truth.




p.s. with an uncompromised view for any other is...well, it is compromised.

An obscene waste.

Honorable Mention.

I am the clown.
Because you asked me to
and I am colorful enough, so
I quickly make the change.
It’s an easy switch in contrast.
Then, you are off and running.
Up and down the row
I am chasing you and I am out of breath.
You are elusive, but you see
I am the clown.
And I will use a trick to catch you.
I must catch you, because I have to tell you
I am not a fool. But, I have failed.

The pulsing lights drawing on
Death and destruction flash above
And beyond you. The images are mostly grave
Punched in and out in perfect time.
They were too many and too long, but
I had to remain until the end.
I knew they would tell the story.
Then, the images stop.
I achieve execution in a flash of bright white
Then perception returns to me, the clown,
Looking at you down the row.
I can’t move but to say the end.
But, I forgot the most important part.

Then, you are gone.
For a moment, I am frantic to find you.
But, I also don’t want to lose my character.
It is of every color and
Can give me up a reckless fool.
While I pretend to know the rest,
I search for my friend.
His name is random, and
He was sitting next to me.
Before you came along…
And as I am just about to take my leave
You appear again, but now
You are the clown.

And you want to tell me that
I am just a fool.



p.s. strung out on pointless prevarication and cardboard collusion.



(...fucking nightmare)

Investment.

Upon arrival, there isn’t nearly enough air to fill my lungs, so in desperation, I scream. Pulling in all that I can because suddenly I feel empty. The comfortable heavy warmth in my chest has been displaced by vacuum. I have no control over where I am. My arms and legs, unbound, find freedom a challenge. And, although I feel hands pulling and fingers pressing, I have no idea why. It is cold. So, I reach for warmth and I find it in purity. I know where I came from; I did not want to leave and with grief comes depth and in the deep I find surrender. It was warm and I swam in it before I knew you. I would go back, but that was before I saw your eyes, before I was pulled into this world and onto your lap a sloppy mess. I need you and without you I am sure I would not thrive.







p.s. i can only imagine.

Tort Law, reversed.

I Think I'll Call Him Walter.

I conjure up images in my head
for no reason at all. I think
they arrive to scare off the vagrants,
or perhaps to offer welcome. All they do is sleep,
and take up space ("the images or the vagrants?").
There are far more legitimate opponents
to overcome than those fucking demons. But they continue
to pick, pick, pick at every thought. And I am bored.
Lately they have been searching around
in the attic, pushing through the pink
fibrous fluff insulating the electric tangle.
It isn’t too dangerous to let them rummage, last I heard
most of that material is useless anyway.
Rarely do they find anything of value
(but that doesn’t stop them from trying to sell that shit on ebay).
Sometimes they trick me into joining them
in the mutilation (discount, decay, delete).
What the villains don’t realize is that
pilfering my reflections fuels my anger
and encourages my breath. They have been
diligent fuckers (pick, pick, pick).
So tonight, I should maintain
my creative endeavor well into bliss. (A bad habit?),
perhaps…It does keep me warm though and tells me when to eat.
So back to the images of vagrants, last night
I pushed a few of them out into the room,
in hopes that they would accompany me, at least
for a little while. There is one stubborn fucker
…that refuses to relent. It pokes me
and pushes my fingers to tap a line. Advice
is meaningless but the words sure are pretty.



p.s. what a shame another party dress ruined at the outing.


("Brought to you today by the letters: TINC and the number 0.")

Conscience Convened Calamity.

Devour me.
Pass me through your lips,
divine.
Chew me up and spit me out,
or swallow me
in time.

Take me.
Pull me in or toss me
aside.
Rejoice in my undying faith
while insinuating
my rhyme.

Shame me.
Judge me with your kind eye,
wise.
Give reason to my rambling
while presuming
my crime.

Reach me
Touch me with your words,
sublime.
Teach me a lesson and rise
or bear witness
my unwind.







p.s. if you continue to hammer the nail the point may find its way clear through or the fucking pounding will cause its head to bury itself too far into the wood to ever be pulled out.

When you least expect it.

I am precipitant, and temptation proffers madness. I can’t resist. I love the fucking rush of blood to my head, my heart hammering my ears. The rhythm and intensity set me to cruise. I am making decisions just moments before the situation even presents itself. And it all works out.

With your assault on my senses still pushing adrenaline through my veins, I decided to give myself a brief respite from self-induced ubiquity. I righted myself before you…almost completely relieved of the obscurity that may have impaired your perception (I am absurd). I focused my energy inward and provided you with a unique, cogent vision...handed to you in haste.

Without contrast.

For just a moment I tethered myself to you. In the dark and held captive by brick and chain link, you held the truth in the palm of your hand. While I stood, waiting for the fucking bomb to drop. I wanted to pull you aside, then. I wanted to tell you, whisper it in your ear. I wanted you to see me. Register my words with my voice. But, translation was lost in my subtle introduction, and I know I caught you off guard. My strength diminished, I walked away with the truth in my fist, my secret under a floodlight.

With you.

I admit that you may not know, but I need you to know. I need for you to know.

After all of that, and even if misunderstood, I have to say that your presence is appreciated…and I must admit often anticipated. But, it was never my intention to lead you. I hope I have not caused you concern, and I must ask, are you angry? Are you angry with me? If you need reassurance, if you question my intent, I could tell you again.

My friend, all you need to do is ask.



p.s. and even then I am amazed.

I'll pay you off in twenties.

My heart is a vacuum
and in it a prickly pear.
It is nothing that I swallowed,
it was you who put it there.
In absence of sunlight
it grows and bares flesh
while spines follow limbs
to a fine found filament
of sugar frosted fingers
for my grip almost spent.
It purges heat and a punch
then I swallow it back,
that prickly pear
perhaps, I did put it there.


p.s. it really wasn't as grand as I thought it would be.

Hollow point.

I will repeat it again and again.
For thirty-two, then thirty-three
time stopped. But, when does it end?
With empty rooms and unfilled beds,
and desperation; the last moments
and too many words left unsaid.



I am copying each name with bold black ink onto plain white card, filling the empty space with the only tangible evidence I have. One at a time I place a card face down before me while I consider each as if it were my own. Then, on the back of each card I write my name.
I can, but they cannot.

So, I will.

Away from here my soul.

The clouds have dropped
below the horizon and
swallowed me whole.
Now, I am not able to see
I have nowhere to go.
And when I get there
the path has been dozed over,
it happened while I slept.
I like it better this way,
because uncertainty is exciting.
And I am tired
of well worn routes.
So, I take the lead
only for myself.
And when I get there
I will know,
and when I get there
I will know, and
when I get there, I will
know.

(Don’t be afraid)



p.s. where does it go? where is it from? what does it leave?

Once more, with feeling.

Clutter. Even a precious possession can be set aside, misplaced or forgotten. Another less important object carelessly placed upon it, and another, and another, until it is buried. It is easy to become overrun and all that surrounds us consumes our sanity, our energy. Soon, you are unable to find what you had only a few weeks ago considered relevant. What a fucking mess.

It is usually in haste that I will begin to rummage through the piles. The need for immediate clearance prompts the overhaul. But rationale overrides rage and I trade trash bags for storage boxes. All that has been sorted out is neatly preserved. I am certain six months from now I will be digging through the boxes.

But for now, space has been cleared and I found my jacket.





The Burden of Elevation

I can no longer stand in front
and throw my fist at you, intent
on hearing every word, captured
in the moment spinning out of control.
But, I miss this like second nature
and then again, I was always more
comfortable slightly out of focus.




p.s. what the hell another won't hurt.

Subliminal Message.

Relative Aperture

A smashed glass cracked
in my last careless act
catching sight off guard.
Points sparkle a dappled dance
across the hardwood floor
spreading as the day grows
and peaking at midday
then rising full in the sky
for the time I hide away.

Until evening’s effulgence
slips through severed slats
catching sight by chance
announcing a worthy time
while bringing rust to rhyme.
From lyric baring branches
pick the last pack of matches
and set alight this balefire
for grieving my darkest desire.


(As we depart, we arrive.)


p.s. thoughtfully holding the line.

I am not who you think I am

I am not who you think

I am

Who you think I am not

I am

DEATH WARMED OVER

or, my life…spent.

That last revolution left me dazed. The same scenery flashed and repeated in an orbital rhythm. My environment moved too quickly for me to identify solid form and everything around me slurred into a meander. Each day turned from brief respite into swift departure. I felt my gut at my feet and my head in a fog.

Towards the end, I heeled my words into the ground in a desperate attempt to persuade the fucking thing to stop. I hung on. My knees were raw from fighting the spin and the tops of my shoes were caked with the filth that surrounded my craft. Finally, I let go.

I was spun out, stopped; a playground massacre.

What a sight, covered in dust and dirt, sweat and blood. But, I was not alone. I managed to attract quite a malignant clutch. And while I lay there, words were unwound and lifted from their purpose by nasty little hands and then, repeatedly passed along, shoved into pockets, and spent on cheap ice cream concessions.

Now, after a few months in circulation, it is impossible to determine that they are counterfeit. They all spend the same, right?

I wrote that a while ago. It feels different to me now. Different, but still...relevant. Well, I am off.









p.s. I am at a distance; you are in proximity…but here, we maintain satellite and If you sspirit through here, “Thank you.”

Construction paper world.

My inspiration arrives suddenly and from a memory that could have easily been abandoned because I was so consumed. So many exceptional moments could have been lost while I spent time in orbit.

Who would I be without that lost reality…and your face, your words, and your touch?

You sing karaoke
without knowing
the words.
Can’t read,
but can kill it
in a verse.
That sweet dance,
a remembrance.

With that in mind, I continue...

I am fascinated with the everyday condition. I watch and listen and I am prompted to return the favor with ink and fiber. I am captivated by the remote.

I am drawn to those who misguidedly assume they have little to offer. I admire those with the biggest hearts, and the quietest egos. And the vibrant, passionate, strong willed and self assured also encourage my craft.

The dark and pensive, the quiet and plotting, the spirited and confined, the naïve and unafraid…any combination a profit, all notions sublime.

The gravity of a book, a wise old woman, a tale told in three verses and a chorus repeated twice, the advice of those who know infinitely so much more, and the unexpected bit of hope that arrives when you say I love you.

p.s. paint your walls a deviceful shade of change and then you will know why.

Sir Veiled.

Arms curl their way around
and into the lions gut,
pulling it down or pushing it up.
A not so subtle departure. From surrender
the lion is hurled into the abyss
or trapped in morbid curiosities, caged.
Some will gawk and ask,
How does the lion live and lair?
Where does it go when it leaves the den?
One says, “It eats the weak.”
Another, “Don’t assume to know its prey.”
Instead, just follow the beast
an insightful track trailed by medium.
The bits of captured consequence
presumed and postulated by
creatures craving more and more.
The lion’s roar is heard for miles.
Some will broadcast in a lesser voice
without notice, to others
a dip in its mouth, success.
Speak to the lion, it is denned.
It is eating. It will sleep.
It will shit, piss, fuck, and roar
for you.









p.s. that shit is corrosive even in small doses.

Recurrency

It has been the same as far back as I can remember. Even though I spend many conscious moments attempting to force my mind to travel in this beautiful way, I am never able to recreate the flight...not in words, not in ink, not in thought. But, I have learned a day’s dream can fuel a nighttime’s tryst.

And so, it is always late at night and always when I am most hopeful that it begins. At the bottom of the stairs I stand and wait. The moment is always the same. I take a deep breath, and then with my arms outstretched, I lean forward. The lift is immediate. I glide easily up the staircase, out into to the open expanse of the room, and then out the front door.

Once outside, I rise even further and the world below me becomes smaller and I become bigger. I am always alone while I fly. I am light. Flight is effortless and I am unencumbered. I am fearless. And, as I acknowledge that wonderful feeling I become aware that I will soon wake up and it will be over. I will return to my feet with gravity’s hold on me and the notion that I can accomplish anything as long as I stand.






p.s. my pockets are lined with holes big enough to hold coins and small enough to sift dirt.

strength of character

willowed cables entwined
confident in the bind

strait and narrow, strong
slight curve at the hilt
meeting emotion
with a halt
holding decision
above impulse
strong, wise and steady
grounded by design

Pendulum.

I am filthy and filled with an untenable relapse in reason. I reek of the ruinous stench of revolt. I am vile. There is a guard posted at my bedside who never allows me to rest. He keeps a silent watch with his fist in my gut. My screams he silences with his lips pressed full against my mouth. He eats my words before they have a chance to live. And, he knows that once I am free I will disappear.

I throw my shadow against the wall. I hope that the guard will find the illusion a distraction and he does. Now, with the guard so easily bemused, I quickly slip out from under the sheets. Feet hit the floor first, then knees and hands, then once I am steady I crawl my way out the door. I only have a little time before the guard notices my shadow’s foolery. He could beat me to a pulp. Fucking prick.

And of course, I always return to the same place. They will eventually find me and post a new sentry. Perhaps the next will be somewhat entertaining.




p.s. present tense and terse with (only) myself.

So...does this mean we’re going steady?

(It was by chance or perhaps happenstance.)

An Awkward Moment’s Legend.

It was one year ago today that I held your hand.
You asked if he did a good job.
It was a good job, wasn’t it?
It was, thank you.
You were quiet, I rambled
And you held my hand.
Can I get that for you? Oh yeah, sure.
I didn’t want to leave you,
You seemed to need
More time, one less drink, and one more smoke.
And I was intent on permanence.

Then, as is now, time passes like a plunge.
I am far, but not for long.
Do you miss me? Yes, I do.
I can’t hold your hand.
You will, soon enough.
In the meantime, I am waiting, asking
Are you sleeping to the sound of my voice?
I know you hear me, you do.
And this is ours,
A moment in time, continued.
And I am intent on permanence.

(How life can change, so quickly. In a moment, in a hand, it can shift. And everything that was will never be the same, in a good way, in the best way.)





p.s. shall we get matching rings? (Go on, laugh. I am.)

In this bleary eyed moment I will attempt an answer (I hope I do not ruin it for you).

A secret? Sometimes I can be so full of myself that I am able to pretend that nothing else matters, when I know that it does. “I need to hear it back.” Can you consider what type of person would challenge irrational fear, to face inevitable embarrassment, because of that need? What drives someone to stand as a target, exposed and almost transparent? Fuel.

The question is this…what do I really have to say? I shout off, in part, to bolster my ego. We can safely assume that you are aware of my requiring a little extra fluffing. But most importantly, I self examine past and present. And yes, sometimes I am so ridiculous that I laugh at myself.

(I mean really, am I that much of a _______________ (insert derogatory explicative)? Perhaps, I am. But lately, I have been ending the day with a “yes, I was”. So again, contradiction is my burden. What you do with that knowledge is your own business.)

A truth? We all will die. For some, there is a need to find every little piece of evidence to the contrary. I admit that I have been guilty of this myself. I have been so turned inside out with the need for truth that I challenged every bit of logic I encountered. I do not know exactly what truth is, but I know my perception of it might differ from yours. My truth may be painted in a different hue. Slightly off color, but still my truth just the same. And I will stand by it, fiercely.

The question is this…what do we believe? We gather what information we can and draw our own conclusions. We each have our own experience from which we base our assumptions. As long as I have been alive I have registered every moment and from that registry I claim truth. This is obvious and I am ridiculous, really.

I would like to return to the original idea of secrets. I keep most of mine safe from prying eyes. Embarrassing little fuckers, aren’t they? But, by allowing one, two, three, and now four of the darkest their freedom, I have learned something about truth…how important it is to face our own.

What matters to me is this…I hope you read truth here. And by here, I do not mean exclusively my capricious chatter. From my corner, I attempt exercises in poetic candor. Some of it is written for me, some for you, some for them, some for him, and some for her (in no particular order of importance), but never with expectation. I use the freedom I have here to sort out some of my more dangerous secrets and truths.

I have this last little bit for you to use in order to paint me in your own hue of truth (and it is no secret)…
I am porcelain and black as night. I can be as subtle as a 747 and as fragile as double reinforced steel. But nevertheless, I can be poked all the way through and then the light will shine through me. With that light, I am able to produce a force greater than I deserve.

p.s. that place, it is cold and crowded, rough and smooth, and filled with impossible demands directed by my own hands. It is closer to the bottom than I would ever chance to be. It calls, but doesn’t give warning. It immediately holds secret and truth. It is where the unraveling begins and ends.







For those of you that have recently (or even not so recently) lost a family member or a friend, I am deeply sorry.

Have you been inspired?

A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend of mine who told me that he was feeling pressured to modify is behavior. In particular, his use of profanity was called into question. He went on to tell me that his superiors consider particular words and phrases to be offensive.

So, he was asked, and then ordered, to suppress his usage of the following words: fuck, motherfucker, cocksucker, cunt, prick, bastard, jackass, asshole, shit, damn, fuck-head, and ass-fuck, and phrases such as: shut the fuck up fuck-wit, fuck you, motherfucking ass licking jerk off, ass wipe fuck puppet, shit for brains, no good motherfucking son-of-a-bitch cocksucker.

He tried to plead his case to his superiors. My friend expressed his concern to them that without such words and phrases his intentions would be misinterpreted. He explained that he would be hard pressed to find alternative ways to express himself. The integrity of his emotions and his true feelings could not be completely or properly expressed without such words and phrases.

He refused restraint.

His superiors told him “Tough shit.” And that is why he called me. So I gave him this piece of advice, I told him “Why the fuck do you care what they fucking think? If they find what you say to be offensive tell them to fucking ignore you.”

My friend quietly contemplated my advice and then said “Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

He has since lost his job, but he sure is a happy little motherfucker!



p.s. I agree repetition may be in order.

Blind Man's Bluff

Collared Green

I will not be drawn
By your lead.
While you push, push, push
Your finger into my chest,
Bruising your insolence into my collarbone.
Blue radiating to my shoulder, and then arm to hand
Where the green takes hold.
Eating away at my flesh
Working in tandem with the air
To fuel disintegration
Until my fingers fall off.
Until my eyes fill and follow
The trail of digits, divided
Along the cement, among the shoulders.
Go on about your day now.
Take a deep breath of air
Feel it pull, pull, pull
My pestilence into your mouth
Burning your disdain down your throat.
Blue radiating to your lungs, and then heart and soul
Until your eyes turn green.
Until you can no longer see
I lick my wounds down to the knuckle
And I will wax without device.





p.s. beneath an ocean.

It's not so much the burn, but the stench.

I am so sleep deprived these days
that I am beginning to hallucinate in real time.
Did you see that? (I didn’t think so)
Everyone in the fucking room can hear me
talking to myself, out loud, to you. I am beginning
to think that they hear you also.
Or wait, was that me? It was
me...(don’t be too sure) could have been
all the words are running one into the other.
The whisper soothes, the other screams, and yet
another tells a tale in 250 words or less.
I am privileged to speak in more than one tongue,
last count...Three, “oh lucky me.”
Each purpose served with validity
and temperance, but how fucking loud
must I scream before you down it all?
And that ringing, what is ringing in your ears
when a friend, of a friend, of a girl
who trades innuendo for immortality
to the devil mentions me?
Truth (not even close). It’s not cheap.
And there’s not enough to go around these days.
And I keep all of those trades
in my pocket (thought I was the devil, did ya?).





p.s. and to this day it clings to the words both to and from and the memories.

On any given day.

You are all seen.

I am here. Not always present, but I am here. I feel each of you even as I move about my world. I presume we have this in common.

This space is mine in confidence, without interruption, without interception, and without edit.

I carry a bit of debt to you that I have not shared. You have reached me in ways you will never know.

You have helped.




p.s. thank you.

Scratch the surface.

Walking by your side
My head down, shoulders rounded, heavy
It occurred to me that I should stop,
Check the time, and commit
An endless unraveling of pulled wool thread
Weaved into promises of expository resemblance.
The comparisons are never ending and seldom unfit.
“You wear it for a while.”
I will begin again tomorrow with the same start, at the same seat
With the same saucer, spoon,
And without sacrifice
“I will wear it.”
Then again, I could be
Somewhere else completely.








p.s. it is more than an itch, it is a rhythm, a pattern that forms in my head, then through my fingers…tap, tap, tap. Did you hear it? There is no mistaking the origin, is there?



He is aware of the seepage
Bleeding under the bandage
Yet he can’t quite fight the flow
And who the hell will know
About broken bones
And your superimposed overtones
They will all inspect the damage
Because the charts report more to me
Than you will ever see
But oh, how well you see








(Who rearranged the furniture?)

A Moment to Leave by.

pants around my ankles
twisted in the sheets
legs pulled
up high
I am reaching for a moment
and I can barely remember why
then soft skin
legs twisted in the sheets
“Yes”
that is why
you’re back, Your back
warm against my chest
and we haven’t moved
not since death.

p.s. I have to watch my timing a day or two later and well, you know.

Out of context.

I smile when I am nervous. It is an uncontrollable reflex. The fight-or-flight response or my somatic nervous system responding to what I deem invasive. I try to cover up this tic, but by looking away that smirk rats me out. My reply discredited. I can be sold out in a twitch.

A friend suggested that the reason I am often misunderstood could be found in my aloof manner. The way I seem to pay closer attention to a hangnail or dry cuticles than expeditious lips or explicative eyes. It could be presumed that I am not listening. I explained to my friend that this distraction is the reason I can hear.

The corrective measures we employ to keep the world at bay often betray us. We all have our quirks or sharp edges. Our mechanical walls shield us from intrusion, but we are still left feeling the stick, hopeful that the slip remains undetected. And you are right; there is always more to it than the bright lights and poor judgment...set the dial to allow just enough to filter past to maintain focus. Does this mean we are blind? No, but sometimes we are caught off guard. And I do not presume this of anyone…other than myself, of course.

Ghost, thank you.


p.s. the wrong falsehood has been assumed although either way it was a good start.

When was the last time...

Recess.

Blaze a trail of peel-outs and back seat fucks
Into permanence, slammed beyond the thick
much too fast. Recall the whistle's urgent
cry to return from the field too soon and
pulling warm hands back, while whispering in the ears of those
confident to hold their tongues. Now it is late night
debates and those whispers are ignored.
Spinning out, into the ditch,
wheels in motion without regard for direction
full speed ahead arriving at a permanent reprieve
from the creaking knees
and loose bowels of reproach.
It comes without warning, incredible is its speed,
and it will tempt even the most
guileless to race. The truck arrives hooked to pull
the twisted spokes and reveals the fuel stain
seeped into the cracks and crevices.
Smothering the gravitational pull of the earth’s core
and even then you will float, pulled by a chain.



p.s. you felt like that?

Pie in the face of infamy.

I am feeling like a bit of a prick this hour. I will not apologize for my rant or the decision I have made. Please, consider yourselves warned. I have a bit of the devil in me.

My foremost priority is to put an end to a certain debate that has been going on inside my head for some time. I am weary from thought, and can barely function from the stress. My torment is unending, and my head is pounding. I have not been able to eat or sleep. I am gaunt, my eyes are hollow, and I look like shit. I have to, at this moment, come to terms with the horror. Ultimately, I must confront my fears and face the question that has been plaguing me at the start of each day. Boxers or briefs? I must admit I have been weighing my options quite heavily. Both have positive and negative qualities, but in the end (yes, I just said that) it is…






p.s. fucker’s out of his mind if you ask me.

Rush.

I am expended. I have given my soul to you and, without question, you deserve it. I am rewarded by my investment and I know I get more out of it than you. Regardless, at the end of the day, I know its worth.

I am reminded that not so long ago I was so afraid of death that I taunted it, begged it to take me on. For a little while, I allowed its insidious grip to hold my soul. I was seduced by chance and by choice.

Temptation will always tug at my better judgment. I have been successful at averting my attention from ruinous behaviors toward the seemingly benign. Still, I question whether I have just shifted gears rather than changed lanes.

Perhaps I will again fall prey to deaths seductive whisper and allow myself to be captured by the romance of self destruction. It is wise to consider that I tempt fate. The alternative is blind supposition.

For now I am anchored to the rocky bottom. I will drift, but I will not be carried out to sea.


p.s. it takes hours to come down and the fall may lead to my imperfection.

Do not surrender your ears.

The click of the door brought comfort to my well worn ears and my heart sick chest. My throat, raw from futile attempts at making myself heard, was bleeding. Alone in the center of the room I am suddenly cold and tired. The heat having been drained from the room at your departure and every ounce of energy I had was expended to keep myself from begging you to stay. You had to go.

Then, relief washes over me in its sickening way. I am suddenly aware of the emptiness of my stomach and my sudden urge to vomit. To dry heave the words I did not say. “I am sorry, don’t go.” Instead, I sit. Right there, I sit right in the middle of the room that heard my pleas for you to leave, my pleading for you to stop believing and start listening to the truth. “Why don’t you hear me?...I have done such terrible things.”

Sitting there, alone with my shame, I realized I had let this drag out far too long.



p.s. make sure it is so loud that they have no choice but to listen.

At any given moment.

My bedside manner is awkward at best. But I will stand beside you and hold your hand. When your mouth is dry I will get you a glass of water. When you hurt I will attempt a story or two to keep your mind off the pain.

Please do not take it personal if I fall asleep. My mind is everywhere lately; sleep overcomes me at the strangest times. Perhaps we shall rest together?

p.s. arrive at once yet move about with disregard and a clumsy swagger.





"FUCK!"

Illusory Perfection.

I am captive and captured in stills, recalled and rendered in sepia toned illusion. My skin is translucent and tangible only to those with clever eyes and a mangled perception. It is there, hovering above birthdays, anniversaries, doctor appointments, and due dates that you will find me, a constant reminder to offer best wishes and maintain schedule. It seems strange to consider that someone would be ticking off days in such a way, counting down to events that I will never attend.

I am usually inspired while I do my ticking, but that does not happen very often. It is rarely with me, and I often forget…tick, tick, tick.

I am absent, and days go by while I forget. But I am drawn out soon enough. The need to move among the living, shoulder to shoulder, pulls me from my daydream. I must be just in reach. Then I wander off for a coffee, and I am reminded again, my impulsive progression brought to a screeching halt by an unfamiliar voice. The sinister tone still rings my ears “Hey motherfucker you got anything real to say?” I never do. I will though, and I will smile when I say it. “Too bad you missed it prick.”

Now that I have had a good breather, stretched my legs, and fashioned myself a clever new suit, I will attempt to remember to tick off the days.

There are things that I have yet to say, ears I have yet to perk. Shall I scream?


p.s. strange days.

The sincerest form of flattery.

Seasonal Affect

Three months ahead
It gets deep.
The measure remains
Uncharted
While dirt stains

Underneath, waiting warmth
Will rise again.
Spirits lift eyes
Renewed
To the skies

A blazing rage
Hammers shoulders
Covered in paste.
Saved
In the haste

A death produced
Yellow orange glow.
To waste away
Piled
For another day.


Because I am feeling rather optimistic.

p.s. do not be fooled by imitation spread.

Happy Endings.

Shame Folded Neatly

The closet was dark, and the air stale.
I waited until I could no longer hear
the breathing, and cracked open the door.
It took several seconds for my eyes to begin
to adjust to the light; I had been hidden
for several hours, most of the night.
And each breath you withhold, while still
sat across the room, arms crossed, and waiting
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
now your image becomes shadow, then curved line,
then hair, cheeks, eyes, lips, and my racing heart
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
I am fully admitted and betrayed
by the vibrations of that persistent organ
pounding in my ears and of that accidental welcome.
You alight beside me
relieving me of my guard, and returning
my promise of faith.

I thought I had waited long enough, but instead you held fast to your claim that I would emerge faithfully back into the room. And of course, I did. Not yet ready to face our lost time. And the screaming, long since dulled against the cold green plaster walls now cracked by our words thrown hard, aimed at heads and hearts, but missing. In the center of this room all that remains is heated breath and pounding heart. And the two of us are searching our thoughts, and desperately trying to string together enough words to reconnect.







p.s. sometimes in the moment we are unable to see the forest for the trees.



"Yes, I do." so now, back to that question...

I prefer it twice a day.

To a Reader
Robert Hass

I've watched memory wound you.
I felt nothing but envy.
Having slept in wet meadows,
I was not through desiring.
Imagine January and the beach,
a bleached sky, gulls. And
look seaward: what is not there
is there, isn't it, the huge
bird of the first light
arched above first waters
beyond our touching or intention
or the reasonable shore.



p.s. they are not entirely well yet...in the meantime, in others words I revel.

For now...this bit of my bad, bad wit.

The magician is in the kitchen
Cooking up some fun
Pasteurize the chicken
Then put it on a bun
Load it up with sauce
And then
Put it on a plate
Eat it up and smile again
Before it is too late.

Now ask…too late for what?











The rhythm of my thoughts is calming. The grainy cadence of my voice is a constant reminder that I must, and will, refrain. It rains and it pours, beating the pattern like a tambour in my skull. The words are fugacious, and conservation is my priority. I have the ability to catch the phrases, hold them in sanctuary until they are well, and re-release them back into their natural habitat. I must let them go. Captivity will only foster anxiety, increasing the pacing…the back and forth search for limits.

It is there that they will live out the duration of their lives.



p.s. is it ridiculous to consider the possibility?

Absent minded memory.

Last night you said
“I would give you the moon.”
Pull it down from the sky
and feed you by spoon.

In your whisper, while hushed
I was bribed by conceit.
Force fed through a tube
of ill will and deceit.

Then, the grandest of gestures
you walked out of the room.
Strangling me in a glut
of dissonance and doom.

Last night I said
“I would give you the moon.”
And you took it greedily
not a moment too soon.

p.s. it was at that exact moment that the unraveling began.