Questionnaire

Lapping keystrokes of the woman beside me,
deferring her future Socratically,
Jewish basis,
not that I have a problem with the faith part.
It could be any religion,
rooted in tradition,
concrete
eternal.

She following questions to find where
she's going with
her tradition.

I'd ask what the hell was so frustrating
about her rabbi's aptitude test
so I could make conversation, but I
already
told her
I'd stay out of her business.

It's good for me to know
this stuff so I can tell myself
I'm not crazy like how I'm not
deteriorating, the voices are
lying, and she's not leaving me
by next week.

But she's just typing.
I'm reading and writing in Chinaski's book I got
for Chrismas. That's pretty much it.

Morning Headache

I sleep
2 hours, wake at
2 a.m. to lie awake for
2 hours, the
2 of us.

It will be a long day,
one where
your head either hurts
or tells you lies.

Everyday effort
of maintaining
continuous self-respect
starts with
acting and sometimes
acting as if,

as if
I might as well
explode
rather than give
tomorrow the
time of day.

Flowers are ugly,
petals so easily
crushed
frozen away.
I want something
stable, not just
a pretty picture.

For Dad

(I wrote this for my father for Christmas.)

Father,
you've always been
my Zeus,
at times with magnificent rage
others to my mortal defense.

I aged with resentment
so I would not be
you,
but it was something
unavoidable.

And now I am a man.

I like this man,
this man likes me.

If not for you, father,
if not for your constant
parenting, I would
certainly be a vagrant, clothes
unchanged,
begging for change.
At best, I'd be unhappy.

I've been
learning to survive with your
help, always.
I notice how we imitate
the same
tune,
the rhythm awkward,
key of F-sharp.

Mother's Daughter

ditzy porterhouse, jezebel
scurrying about in your
southern-charmed parlour,
awaiting some dupe to
bite your head,
to gargle your blood
in his asthmatic esophagus
before we all come
to our senses.

your whore doesn't do IT
for me, the compulsive
IT that drew us together,
a guilty saturate, the
one that keeps your woman
up at night when I
need a dry mattress
so my tears won't
pass through,
passing through on their
way to North Carolina,
just passing through.

Eyes and Veins

Grabbing for a smooth corner
of my bedroom

to maintain my isolation,
I'm caught by your

blue eyes,

blue veins,

so blue I could soak myself

in the desperate beauty,

so blue that I

can’t stay away.

A piano in harmony with

my hands

grappling the skin

against the assured rib
cage. 

Always incomplete,
I,

the holes in me

everywhere,

your blue eyes cover my head,

blue veins lead into my heart.

.

Her Nightmares

Rest with theoretical suffering,
disrupt the peace of
my company.

Darkness in the mind
cannot touch the
world we share.

Nightmares cannot become real,
could only have come already,
and you know this;

I'm as ineffectual
over your nightmares as
your mind.

Love's inadequacy sticks me,
a succulent spine between
my sternum,

multifaceted and, naturally,
coated with a odious resin
like childhood.

We were red with rebellion
and called it
determinism.

You were fearless
and it brought you
nightmares.

Mold

mold fills my eyes

when I look upon

the chair.  I feel it

fill my lungs at every

intake,

a living plague,

filling me with

carcinogens that spread

over time

into my organelles,

smudged

black as dusk,

signalling to Fate I've

accepted my condemnation,

nothing to hope for.

Decay with every

sustaining breath,

green, black and white

pathogens with musk.

I stay away to protect

the more fortunate

bastards,

fuzzy with

self-satisfied affection.

the smell faded

months ago

for me,

and I’m glad

because

life is shitty

enough

without being reminded

of how bleak

it is.

Walking Home when You Live Downtown (Winter)

You're on a street corner
early evening
too cold for your flannel.

Your friend is late
and you walk home,
taking Fern Street;
14th sounds scary.

The grates do not
shine, nor will they help you,
stoic you both are,
artificial mirrors.

Metal makes the stores
blend, all those pointless inventories.

People look with disgust
because you're a stranger;
they're disgusting
because your trust must be earned.

People who matter have
somewhere to go;
you couldn't wait
another judgmental minute.

The mucous on your sleeve
shines brighter than the streets.

The next corner:
16th and Pine.
16th doesn't sound safer,
not like 40th
where you're going,
going.

God's Love

God loves the grotesque.
God made them that way,
made them that way to
keep me away from the bad things.
God made things
squish, and others
sticky, and others still
crunch vocally when you
bite them.
That's why it feels
bad to see something
I shouldn't, because
God didn't want me to watch.
And God forbid if I
touch and then
taste any of it,
God forbid!
God wants me to listen to the piano;
God wants me to look at pretty things,
not touch!
I might break them
or make them dirty,
so God forbids.

A Calm Suburban Evening

Limbs rose on a blackened afternoon,

the night I sunk low,

low because you left,

lower because I could have

stopped you from leaving.

now my crumpled letter

is just a parcel of trash,

ferried to the dumps

where it waits for me.

I go home where

it’s quiet

enough to think-

think, that’s all

there’s to do

and where my folks

close the door

so I won’t bother them

with the latest girl

or when I lovingly pet my only friend,

in front of their doorway

on a Stokes Forest Green carpet.

My cat,  

my cat would detect

when I was maligned

and come to me,

but now she does not purr

when I scratch her,

only stares,

my fingers a mother’s tongue

on a kitten grown old,

one that no longer trusts me

because I am not worthy,

so let me die

in this staunch mold-ridden

tomb,

the end to a parasite, this  

without self-reliance;

nullify the weak

before they multiply.

Simple Kiss

I tell you:
there are limitless
parcels of
that waning and waxing
infatuous reservation
of mine.

For simplicity,
I could go on
and on
by the purity of
your laughter,
the whimsy of
your smile, or
the input of
your embrace
and that would be fine.

And maybe simplicity
is best,
available for anyone, but
that wouldn't be why
I told you this.

Whether it be from
the songs and sights,
or the darkened windy day,
and all the little creatures who are
almost always passed over,
my inspiration comes from you,
as if everything I could see
hear or touch
was made in your form
for me to seek out.

So,
I am obsessive,
at times,
and I like to say
hello,
so please know
that I feel destined for you,
for your seal,
and I will seal this
with a kiss.

Stranger

A stranger in a
normal land,
where's everyone's strange
style is based on
color,
and somehow
I am the outcast, I-
the only one moving
toward the final
truth!
A stranger with a will
to be weird.

Kids on the Floor

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
made of saline and ashes
fopping on the cold tile,
dusty and dirty
sugar splotches
the blonde results of passion
golden hash
a mish-mash
of Betty Crocker brownie
batter with
dirt-flecked
charr granuals,
a fiery grave danced
upon in the gutters
of Southern cities, the
same as all the
rest,
blessed by some of the
best trivial pursuits
in our neurotic
conforming, regicidal
mediacrity,
wrapped in a nasty navy
leather exoskeleton,
open for interpretation,
by some lady in Iowa
that heard it from
her friend who
heard it on the
public airwaves.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
made of saline and ashes and clay,
secreting constantly
from the bottom and top
middle too, if they could,
with the mothers
listening close
by,
dad's at work,
so he says,
to bring home the bacon
from the Tyson plant
smelling more like a
paper mill than
birds, a
sign of the times here in the South,
so he can bring one more
disgusting imbecile
onto the world to be
controlled by a lord,
oh Lord,
and this vassal will continue
until he reaches Your
great golden plains
because we all have
plans to spend the
sands of our days,our
demands to match what we
stand for.
But that's not part of the absurdity.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
eyeing me with
magical indifference
as I wait for us to be
fed so they can grow
up to be
the people I
tolerate,
condemning lest they
be thrown out
into the sandpaper wind,
speaking the Jester's English,
me being the fool,
fool of the court.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
one missing.

Good for Now (A Modern Freed Slave)

Stiff appendages
day to day
in my lightless hole
prison.
nobody knows
this is where I went.
Even if they did,
I couldn’t
go back to work
and mom,
and everyone
would throw me off
for being there
and staying
like I wanted it,
that I wouldn’t leave.

Is it kidnapping
when you're my age?

I didn’t mind the hands
on me.
More, please.
Black kept coming and
I wasn’t going to think
of their plans for
me since I was done for
from the start,

and I
escape
while they
use me
and I come to
with
burns
scratches
bruises,
whatever they were into,
and I never
like it,
but
it’s fine
it’s fine
fill another
keep this thing going.

You
are the
worst.
The worst I know.
Worst than I can imagine.
I wish you'd
shower first
at least.

This city’s lost its
fLAvor
since I moved here
six years ago, and

I'm sick enough to die.
Load the rig
if you want me,
poor little me.

What were they
paying
for me?
The shipping must
be outrageous.

You’ll find other girls
in town
since we’re dying
to make it big and
send money home like

exploited immigrants,
trying to win
but we settle
for consolations
that don’t console.

Do not eat.
Do not pass GO.
Do not call an ambulance.

Mom found me
at the hospital
this time.
She brings me
back.

I'm sitting up in bed
gasping,
not knowing
how long this will last
how long until they find me
again.

Has anyone been through this?
When do things get
normal?

Can't go to court
or they'll arrest
me
but I need to
lose this record
so fuck
now what
I can’t do jail
again

fucking D.A.,
sucking Paul’s dick
sycophants

I've got friends
and family
a job
a place
I’m good
for now

America:
pedophiles
are protected by
cops
and victims
are served

Loss

You had it all
and lost it:
broke your back
then lost your job
then your place
then lost your girl
then finally
you died.

You said you
lost it all,
but I never left.

Two Addicts

A junkie and an addict
died the other day.
One lived,
the other disintegrated
quickly.
I felt the same for them moreover.
I didn't lose anything;
they had served their purpose.
Can't say it's not weird,
but it only feels like that.
Two dope fiends
headed for the grave.

Bitter

In my peace,
I place rancours to displace
rejection,
tucked away in my shell,
but my shell has holes,
lesions that become
infected with other's
generosity.

Anything I feel is
like an arrow,
whether it be from Cupid
or Envy.

If I wasn't moody
transferring synaptic chemicals,
I'd engineer jet propulsion systems
or frame a killer.

Admonished by my peers,
as if what I know
is inapplicable,
even offensive,
as if I bled into
them.

I'd confess that
I'm bitter, but
I already told you that.

The Call

You called,
and I ignored,
how much I have changed.
Don't need you,
not to say I don't need anyone,
but you were never
a friend
or family to me.
You didn't leave a message,
so I guess you
didn't need me.
As children,
friendly abuse
was the result of
feeling stuck together,
both scared to
be alone.
I changed,
stopped.
At least
I got away
before we killed each other.

The Sun

I see the sun
hiding from us
on some days,
ashamed of our
pitiless destruction.
When I was a child,
I thought
the Sun
was afraid,
but that was
narcissistic
Geo-centrism.
Now I avoid anything
more than conjecture
about flaming,
gaseous masses
that would blind you
just for looking at them.

When I fear
the Sun,
I fear God
and how much influence
there may
be, more than
giving to chloroplasts.

And we all know
the Sun's
going to explode, and
we push that
thought away like
all the times we
lost motivation
to live.

I see the Sun,
and the Sun sees me.
Praise the Sun.

Dad Mad

Dad always had
a reason to be mad.

Back in the day,
I shot mom
with a water gun
(even though
she said I could).

Once,
I had some cheese
when he told me not to
(even though
I ate dinner still).

Another,
I went to my
friend's house
on a school night
(even though
I had done my homework).

At dinner,
I cried over mom
when we had company
and embarassed him
(even though
they were family).

One morning,
he saw I scratched
his car
(even though
I had really forgotten).

But probably the worst he reacted
was when I had to leave school
again.

My dad got mad at me
a lot,
but I guess
he had his reasons.

One of Those Days

I'm writing again,
so it's depression
or joy or
anger.
Hatred fills my
lungs and
makes it hard to
breathe.
Joy feels somehow
vacant
and depression
feeds on its own
excrement.

Some days
it's hard to say
anything.

Between States

R.E.M. hands,
pale
mortis,
dark hair tousled
in an uncontrolled
fashion with
all the crazy thoughts.
Occasional sounds &
flinches that I
cause
because
certainly you're
still alive
and not a dream.
God,
that smile makes me weak,
the first of the day,
and I don't know if I
should trust
those eyes that could
easily mislead me.
But I do,
I trust your face:
skin of an angel,
lips of a cherub,
mind of a mortal.

Peace

my consistent enemy,
thriving in the
muck of displeasure whenever
I sweep a pen
to make fake
rambling nonsense or
a strange message from
divulged subconscious,
the magick of writing,
lies coalescing transiently
into description and
wandering freely,
honestly,
and honestly,
it comes and goes.

Blue

Around my neck

This scarf,

Bluer than your eyes,

Keeps me warm

When I’m pitifully

Alone and vindictive,

This water-grooved

Clown,

Telling a joke to

Pass the time.

We who

Are unlike others

Find something more to

The balloon in the trash

Or the smell of industry.

I’m the clown in

An empty house.

You’re the clown with
a degree in whatever,
confirming your faith.

I love this scarf,

How it fits but doesn’t.

It’s too long,

And I don’t know

How to cinch it,

Makes me think

Of your hands around

My neck,

Loose

For me to breathe.

I could throw you about

And wrap you both around me;

The scarf was free

Graffiti Night Fever

Nothing like
being alone
4 stories up,
looking down
on your subjects
breathing coloured fumes,
hiding from the light,
from police
in the night.
I've tried women
and drinking,
but nothing
quells that
graffiti night fever.

How I Remember Yesterday

My friend comes over.
We take my car.
$5 to enter.
Walk and warm-up.
He meets us there.
Move on.
Film me.
He won't sleep with her again.
Bloody cuticle.
Have a bite.
My hands look great.
Film my friend until he sends.
I definitely got it; that lady's wrong.
Go deeper.
Survey the South Pacific: too deep, too grainy.
Gaston the crack and fail.
Show them up with muscle memory.
What does she see in him.
No, I don't love her.
Deeper.
Simple shit, conglomerate.
Getting cold in the wind tunnel.
Come back.
Finally he leaves.
Then we do.
I got Bootleg.
My friend got Sternum.
And he got nothing.

I sleep next to her

I sleep next to her
when I can
in a small bed
inches from the floor.

neither of us sleep much-,
not a sex joke-
I think too much awake;
she too much asleep.

never regret it;
my back's fine

I sleep less
play more
life's great
awake
where
nothing
hurts her

When I See Your Simple Smile

When I see your simple smile, 

etched on my wrist

warm

in red ink

staving the blood

like a gauze

against my circulation,

I smile simply.

This tragic fantasy I have,

poisoned through my

eyes & ears,

is retold by you;

water vipers

lay in the inner waves

and aren't so easily caught

by simpletons.

But I shalln't worry

and continue looking for

things to disprove,

so I let go before

I thrash and 

strike her accidentally;

anyway, 

despite my intentions,

it's far in the past.

Square of Myself

Smudged mirror
hiding my assets
who is this monster...
not I.
I am beautifully
flawed
an iron belt through sandstone
smeared lipstick on my cheek.
I am what
I love
and the destructive
perfectionist
controlling
that makes me
question
whether you love me and
I was just thinking about you
and questioned why
I had so many questions.

Pre-med Self-Defense

Knock on the door

he comes out

he goes back in

grabs a knife

a big one

I catch it

turn around

press

don’t stab

him

over and over

I’ve been waiting

for this

for years

so

I get away

in my car

blending into

every other car.

It

might be in my head

but

I’ve got to get

him

before he gets

me

and

I will

someday. 

Clown

I’m a clown,

happy to the touch,

destroyed within my

repainted face. 

Dragging you to misery,

I’m unworthy of your

attention,

a goddamn leper,

keeping distance.

Seceded from those

who love

but are never around;

we all have

our shit that’s better,

you fucking liar.

I’m a clown,

smiling for you. 

Colourful

I'm a shit,
I can't deny.
Lie, maybe
but it's in
my defense because
I don't know what to
do when they get
pissed at me and
insist that I show
the motherfuckers respect
that they don't deserve,
all those other asswipes
that are on
their knees
for validation.

My imagination's colourful
and racist,
not that I choose my views
independently.
I thought a thought
because you made me,
and the action was all me.

I can't believe
I used to want to
kill myself
over this shit.

When I Go Outside

When I go outside,

the first notable thing

is the smell:

the dirt and sand mesh nicely.

The second thing

is my shoes,

lusting for traction

as I traipse through the hundred-acre woods.

The third thing

is the lack of control

no matter how I dress

or prepare myself.

The fourth thing

is my feet

rubber on the billion flecks of sand

nature fused together.

The fifth thing

is the ever-present fear

things could seriously fall apart

and that’d be it.

The sixth thing

is how my mind drifts

with no place to be

without trying.

And the final thing-

standing above my peers

and even myself

on a good day.  

Same Bus

Almost everyone is interesting

if they let you in,

whether they think

you’re taking a different bus,

or you don’t matter.

I’d rather know you

than myself.

I’d rather remove my head,

wander blindly through the wild

than know that it’s all heading

to the worthless end

no matter what I do.

Maybe tomorrow

will be better.

Maybe tomorrow,

I’ll forget about today

and still learn from my mistakes

while forgiving my friends

for theirs.

The One I Love

I think of the face

that I would wake to a million

times and never tire from.

What a doll,

what an essential babe

who should ever grace my

thoughts with hers of me,

who could never understand

the longing I feel

when I haven’t even left.

Were I to compare you to a

thing, ‘twould be a hearth:

for the firepit keeps me warm

when I am around,

gives me longing when I am

out in the wilderness,

and rejects me from coming inside

when the blaze is blaring.

But this hearth is the center

of my home, of my comfort

and delight, and I would do anything

to fortify the circlets of carved rock.

Undoubtedly, my simile does not function

because this is a woman,

not some thing to improve

to fit my expectations.

I refuse to mention

the struggles of this seeming damsel,

only that her strength outweighs mine,

pound for pound.

Yet, she clings to me with

unbelievable kindness,

such that I may spend the rest

of my life trying

to describe, to those who

only take meaning because

I don’t need to explain.

Beautiful black mirror,

you are the darkness I embrace

the most fondly, the reflection of
what I love
and desire
in myself.

Not of this World (Revised from Nihilist's Life)

This bastard brought into the world

searches for

or avoids          

others like it.

Stuck inside,

living like this.

I once felt

something with

a bottle and flame,

moving from green to white.

I would stop, but

the feeling is my friend.

Emptiness surrounds us.

A zillion miniscule somethings:

the reaction

is from collision

of those little somethings,

making nothing.

But at the end,

what's left,

nothing, really.

Nothing to remind them

of all the wasted time.

Not a thing.

Cathexis

Our cathexis is gorgeous
and not in imitation,
healthy, strong, and
burning like sticky pine-bark;
the aroma is with me always.

She holds the other half of my desire
by her fingertips pinched
and would not relinquish
such a longing
if I could help it.

Peering past the pupils
into an ocean of tears
that I could drown in,
submerged in the unspeakable,
untranslated passion.

Every time I hold you,
my fingers fill your ribs,
like only mine could;
when you hold me,
I could die in your arms.

And the best times I've had
were when you and I
walked alone, hand in hand,
where we shouldn't,
flirting with the dead.

Cars and Pedestrians

Balmy mid-morning
with the sun peeking,
the urban selection shows itself
to party-goers returning home
after a regretful
or prosperous,
memorable night.

He had had
too much,
and when his foot
left the sidewalk,
the poor man's soul
left the poor soul.

Out of all the times
I muttered,
"Someone better have died,"
this was the first reasonable obstruction.

The police were on my bumper,
and a woman,
probably the one that killed you
waited,
and covered you with a blanket.

Your family will think
"It's our fault,"
for turning you away
because you didn't have
shit to contribute.

You should have
looked both ways.

Fine, How Are You?

Far from glad
and not at all unhappy,
drift sensually along
through the darkness
until we are both nothing
in the void of perilous
misunderstanding, like a
ghost without a sheet or
casket with no grave.

Unknowing of
what we can't know
complements the lustful nature
of young lovers who
don't realize
what the other wants
nor themselves.

Thinking is like red wine:
good in small dibbles,
poison past the cusp,
injected venom into
every evaluation,
greedy,
ugly, and
suffocating.

And on most days,
we can cope with our flaws,
but on my worst days,
I could kill someone,
and that
should be obvious by now.

Going Somewhere

I listen to a pontiff
just as I do anyone else,
though we disagree
but I'm open to how
others think and
feel, especially
if they overlook me:
21 years old,
a child that can
serve as an adult
but depends on his father
and wants to get away
but lost the map to
wherever he was driving to
and now relies on
a compass and memory,
afraid of being dumb and
getting lost because he
second-guessed himself;
it happens every time
I am indecisive and
self-reliant.

On the trips I
find myself lost,
I go
and keep going
because it doesn't
matter where I end up
since it'll be somewhere.

My Imaginary Mom

Can't tell if you 

were there or never were

all the times I bumped my head 

or lost my friends or

got yelled at, but

you helped every time.

For if not for your smile,

or the things I heard of you,

I'd be in the gutter,

perhaps literally, but

I'm glad I can't know.

It's hypothetical, whether

you would have stopped

me from recovering, and

it's useless to wonder...

pressure on a thing

imaginary literally

makes my stomach turn.

Can't feel for someone 

you don't know

but have to

'cause everyone's got one

and I don't, and

I'm proving I

don't need her 

to function.

Saturday Afternoon Drive in October

Man lying in the street,

with a blanket over

his shame,

laid between two cars

on the melting asphalt.

No one knew you before,

and even now,

they pretend to not,

giving you a mask

to hide their guilt.

I’ve never known a dead man.

Overthinking

My favorite part of
waking up next to you
is the smell that stays,
as if you meant to say
that today would be lovely.

Maybe you wanted me to think
about it again and again and
didn't have time to write.

I could spend the weekend
and the night,
and plan on tonight, but
still
I don't want to wait.

Some days are perfect
just like others are tedious
and the rest maddening.

The clouds soak skin-deep
like a natural cleansing
that illudes;
the darkness I embrace
like a friend.

It's too easy
to do well,
companionship.

But you're worth each failure,
each lesson,
every chance for intimacy
that goes awry
in your head.

It's hard for me,
learning,
and hurts just right.

Been at It for Years

Pray before the altar of fear,
despised and forgotten
at the Sun's rising.

We are limited by
placated withdrawal and
self-righteous decrees,

placed perfectionism with
self-fulfilling,
self-reliant sustainability.

All of this has been my experience,
traveling days at a time
to idealism.

I have been at it for years,
and honestly,
I'm not very good at it.

Could be my friends,
the people I listen to
and gain perception from,

or it might be God,
but let's not go there,
at least not in this poem.

Ask me what I want,
so I can be creative,
inventing my purpose,

and sometimes convincing myself,
that it was always about

the girl,
the friends,
the publishing,
when it was always about
me.

Thought to Page

Empty melodies sputter stupidly
to mind, and the drive
is still present
to create something that will
last because we all know
we're headed to an end
called nowhere and
nothing, but we try to stand
out by impressing the
macrocosm we are
wasting away in so that
the inner anguish doesn't
make its way to the
ugly, honest surface of
humanity we try to
deny.

Hey, dollface,
I can't be everything to
you, and I know you know
this because you're human,
too, and no matter how
beautiful you are
nor how I place
you above and before me
which really makes
me want you so much
more since you're not
some thought-dissolving
bitch like the rest
who don't understand me
anyway and act
like I'm nothing since
they can't be out of control
nor headed in the wrong
direction.

But I'm probably just
telling myself this.

It's All the Same

I might be crazy,
which either hints at
my humility or my
egomania at always being
the best by giving
them a slim chance at
proving me wrong because
we all deserve a chance
to fight for our pride
and not get killed for
it from the inside, the
malicious inside where
the streets are unknown,
the sidewalks are uneven and
cracked and where the fucking
cat shit in the sandbox
again because we all love
them so much to
entitlement and have
them think that Ra
created them first and
who can blame them
when they are
treated to expect a
reaction by me, or
by us, I can't remember,
which was never glorious but
fabulous enough for its
sunken pillows to stay warm
on my cold bed where
she used to want to come
home to after a long day
of people bitching at the
same old same old same old
stupid shit
that no one gives a fuck
about but listens to anyway.

It's all the same.

My Least Favorite Thought

She sleeps in beauty:
I have a bitter attraction that feels without
and will not respond to my advances,
even when I satisfy her;
I expect acceptance
whenever I want it.

The truth is that she is
asleep, and I will join her eventually.
Most of the time, I am
awake, conscious,
neglecting nothing that passes before me,
no plant, animal, thought or expression.

Why is it that we are so
afraid of being alone, as though
our lives were not ours
and we are judged and
supplied with the teensy bit of
satisfaction we deserve.

See what life
brings, not what sleep can avoid
out of the pitiful day.  When
we finish, we start
again on whatever project we
forgot about.

Peace is what we seek, but
we don't know what it looks like,
confusing it with ennui-
boredom of the gods-
and continuously moving to a place
we may or may not desire.

And when, at the end of the day,
you find that you are no
nearer to where you wanted than before,
know that it is your own doing.

Take a rest;
don't go to sleep.

Elephant Man

In their room,
isolated for display,
I am paraded about.

I wish I could lay asleep
and listen to the boiler's hum.

Grateful for fortune
"for who needs it more than me."
They are not all black and white
through my terministic lens.

Why do I live at all,
why do I love at all...
perhaps my curse will haunt others,
or they will get over themselves
after the novelty.

I am dressed like a child
and treated like an animal.

"Romeo," more like Cyrano,
my love keeps me going:
love for art,
love seldom shown,
love that raps upon my bones.

Sophistication at a cost.

You are not good
nor bad,
Mr. Treves.
So kind, to meet you.

Waiting for Her, Forgetting Me

Despicable me,
you were right to ignore
and move on.

To be with you
or in your place
if not inside.

Longing is
unrelenting and ever-present and
won't fade.

Will not and cannot
forget
until you have.

Will not, cannot
force you
nor make me wait.

Yet here I am,
waiting
like a fixed housecat.

Is it too late to say...
If it's there, no.
I'm foolish
and you saw that.

I tried, tried,
but didn't try enough.
This will be the next last time.

Saturnalia

Saturnalia, worship of nature,
forbidden, gravely misunderstood.
Waiting for your maker's nod,
I stand forever in your magic wood.

Pleasing tracts of land,
gorgeous, again like the wild.
I brush against it;
the breeze is not mild.

Whether in the deepest dark,
or reflected in noon's light,
penetrating quintessence
always makes me bright.

And if you are afraid,
and you start to run,
don't worry, Chloris:
we're just having fun.

Verisimilitude

When I should pass,
if it should be too soon,
remember that it was always
for you, this life, this story,
this road to nowhere.
You could miss me,
if that helps,
but I was never there.
I thank you, though,
for my ignorance.
The world was prettier then,
and I was blinder.
And, honestly, it was nice to believe
in a Thing that loved
even me, even when
I tried to make It not.
God, if I could change,
I couldn't decide.
One of us wandered,
and I found the Truth,
that bitch.
I wish she would just
shut up.

No More Room

Hard ground, desecrated
by the fiendish imperials
we fought to control
but then became.
A charlatan would be proud,
proud of your ingenuity,
proud of your self-service,
proud of the broken hands.
Defy the definition
of what is happy:
money's what I need
because there's too many people,
no more room.
I'd build a house
and grow my food
myself
like they say we should, but
there's no more room.

Loving Validation

I wanted you,

And you said the same.

I said we would be wed,

And you said you were serious.

Always, it was about you,

My love,

Ten years is a lifetime.

I've lived two different lives so far,

And the next will be the longest.

Ridiculous, if only,

I thought that still.

You were warm on your own

Once you got in my head,

And I wanted you out,

To survive.

Happy to be alone,

Running to the grave.
You wanted me,
And I said the same.

A Marriage at Prentice Cooper

Bindless sunlight,
melting into fields of flax
under wire gates and bales.

Forever, forever,
walking together.
We grind, becoming one.

God shows love
in the understandable beauty,
great beauty.
I stifle my nose.

Is it for me?
As in,
am I destined?
Is it ours to relish?
It is, but all around
is spirit.
Filled until we reach
nothingness.

Beyond control,
everything breathes,
even me.
All else is detail.

As I lay down
in the flash delirium
I understand
the dream in the dream.

Damned

Where once so tender,

breaking them all down,

down in the grey wood.

Now,

the reddened carapace

shucks the blue rivers' tops,

too narrow for boats to circle.

A baby cries for care somewhere,

but your children are waiting,

and there is no time.

No me for you,

you for me,

and there never was.

Likado

When will you realize
that it is not your body,
nor your smile,
nor the implacable sweetness
to which I am drawn?
It is you, in all.

I run and avoid you,
the thought resurfaces
and brings me bitter joy,
like an insoluble grease.

If I found you alone,
what would I ever say?
"I love you"?
You already know this,
but I will make sure.

Pleasantries melt away
until we're left with
misunderstood silence
dragging aversion
tense hyperbole
of "worst, darkest, least."

Yet if you came to me
and listened to my verses
and knew what I saw,
perhaps you would leap
and take hold
like I do, always.

Demon from my Nightmare

Here I sit, waiting,
waiting for you not to come.
It's what's left of what I felt
over and over for you,
disgusting.

It's lovely to love,
but I keep you like a damp rag
to help me sleep
and dream,
all it ever was.

I won't wait,
as if you were coming.
It was silly of me to
find the right words.

If that was it,
I did what I could,
and then tried more.
Excess is regress.

You make my heart
STOP.

Nihilist's Life (Read Backwards or as Written)

Emptiness surrounds us.
A zillion little nothings:
the only meaning
is in the collision
of all those little nothings,
making nothing, really.

This bastard brought into the world
wants to,
or not,
find others like it.
It's not easy
living like this.

It starts with a feeling,
then things take off:
a bottle and flame,
moving from green to white.
But no,
the feeling is my friend.

But at the end,
there's nothing left,
nothing, really.
Nothing to remind them
of all the wasted time.
Nothing.

Seeing You Dead

I was dead,
watching you die.

Awake with the
pain of living, living
and trying not to die.

Oh, God, it's all been
spent on your
expiration notice.

Lain against the
yellow corduroy,
I see your screams.

Those of fear,
of torture,
of hopelessness.

I carry you with me
always, for
it won't let go.

Drive others away
when they get
too close.

The rapture lasts only
so long as I
can forget you.

Please,
Leave
Me
Alone.

I died,
seeing you dead.

Dark Current Meeting the City Shore

The sky watches the
ground, and you could be
far away for all
I know.

Not one for the vast
ocean, but
Lake Michigan I can deal
with.

You and I are where
no cars go.
It's our own planet
with a dark sea.

But a resident arises,
a duck and her 'lings.
I envy how they embrace
the current.

You love the feeling
of drowning and
fighting for another minute
of life.

This is the end for you
and I. let us remember
to not think of the future
that is not there.

Besides, you're going back
to Colorado, and me to
the South. So don't cry,
and move on.

We both knew it
wouldn't last
under this sky
on this land, so
grab my hand and
drop into the water
one last time.

Income

All these
meaningful
misguided future
servants look at
me like a
servant.

I serve none
but my own
intentions,
be them independent
or subtly washed.

Wiping tables
to please them...
who's in control of
a fucking kitchen?

The coitus machines
line up and
expose themselves
but talk too much.

I stand still
with my back
deteriorating
as I
sell my soul
for minimum wage.

The Day My Dog Died

It walked so far away, away because it
was embarrassed at how much of a failure it was
to be dying.

So it was decided on the last day
of the year, or maybe months before,
that it wasn't good enough anymore.

But how could it be so bad
if it could escape on its own
without the needle?

Hair thinning and greying, claws reticulating
and bending, ears becoming
more sensitive and less useful.

I can understand, but
the judgement makes me sick.

So, could it remember
all the nights crawling under a bed
on the hard wood?

And did it know
the boy who held its body
close before its life stopped?

And can it have understood this thing
called love,
as a thought or feeling?

But, most importantly,
did it live to its expectations of success
even when it didn't hunt or reproduce?

I remember.
I know.
I understand.
I lived.

Insidious

Fidgeting with
discomfort as we
know the violins
are coming
to crash
again and...
you guessed it.

Fear is
a pinching scream,
nothing more.
To startle is cheap
like a
drugstore present.

I never understand
your interest in
such matters
or how
it arouses you.
But
I thank the fox that ran in front of
my car and made you want to
fuck me.

Fear and arousal:
the two things that
make me feel
alive the most.

I could die
this way.

Nichole

I listened to

That song

The other night:

Still

I think of you

Every time

Five years later.

How sweet you always were:

A beautiful, pale

Girl to take me

Away from my father

And my dead mother.

You reminded me of

My love

For dope

And made me

Think

You cared.

Nichole,

The first crush

I was close to.

You were a great friend,

Only that.

And

When you told me

You had a boyfriend,

I almost stopped.

I became Mr. Hyde

When I was high.

The mind goes to

Recesses

With too many people

In the room:

You two

And the virgin,

Me, who

Thought love was a

Mighty warrior.

And

When you left

Whats-His-Face,

I was already

Clean.

So just like that,

We

Missed our chances.

"Thanatos"

I want too much from

Life, and I see that it’s bollocks

Anyway because it’s not like things would be

Significant if I were to kill myself.  So, should I be trusting

My sight with information that doesn’t make sense and doesn’t

Matter, or should I just go ahead and say “Fuck it, it’ll be ok” for the hundredth

Time?

I don’t have a gun,

And I don’t have a reason to, ok.  I have too much to do to take my life.  Someone

would have to deal with my decision, and they would surely stop me if

they realized what was going on in my cognition.  And I don’t

want to be institutionalized and have that intake

available for records, though I don’t

know if it is.

And they will cry and say, “Please, Austin, don’t do it!  You have so much to live for!”  “So much to live for” is so cliché.  If I’m happy, sad, angry, lonely, excited, afraid, or otherwise, it’s all useless feelings.  I

Try so hard, day to day, and it seems like so many stupid goddamn assholes are excelling at this bullshit.

Mean, come on!  Is it your God that            you are  unconsciously living for?  Maybe I

should ask someone else.      “These            things that have comforted me, I drive away.”

A great line. He’s saved my life    on            more than one occasion by distracting me

from what I’m thinking.  Everything passes, so why bother waiting on death?  It’s natural, would be easier than falling asleep most nights, and thanatos comforts me, like a drug not tried but lusted after.