spell

i tried a write but
no moment comes, no intricate truths
or doughy love to conjure up,
no rhythmic swaths to qualify
and cross-examined dissects
to defy. rain my monday night
in fading dreams,
and crispy eves to slide through
interruptions croaking,
shuttered veins--
in breath my faces memories to shape
and saliva running down their necks. make leaves and brush aside,
blue jean eyes that make my future skin crawl
and my wrists tremble.
the reaped rewards of self-respect,
misted greens to brown in weeks
go by,
so i'll be twenty fourteen,
and sleeping nights to lie.

polis

who knew? that you, she said,
can get sick
 /w me to kill
too
the rainy sat.s
i watch run by in puddle drips
till things get dry--
or sick to die.
tonight, besides,
in shallow waters and lights--
i'll have flashbacks in front of these
weekday dreams, from when we
hit-the-bars-in-style like
quick flips through shiny magazines.

rushing before the fall of the morning,
edging glances to count the balance,
blue versus orange encroaching
on the borders of punctual and late, laid out clearly
like secrets of the night before
and like the transparent actions of
broken machines whose only motions
mimic the magic of a previous thousand times' returns

agnesi

golly touched my consumption
mister weakly leaves and falls off the branch
 to quote leather vests the devil's dance
cold movements the sheets
beneath the seeded green--
red paper flags,
the devil's dream

i've seen snakeskins writhe in the wind
like girlfriends gone from the outside in
and scrambled blind by fingered eyes
and fingers plucking porky pies

honey

up and stood against a bare backdrop
with a steamy thigh high smile
colored in by context, style, gums and diction--
only remembering the puke paisley dreams of the sun settled
on the edge of where his vision stretched--
damn curved world--
cursed, and now still sick with worry.
please, we plead,
give me a second day to sort the honey from the tea
and compute all this
disorienting nonsense

the world impressed i knew and felt
and remembered details never left
and miles gone the way of drinks
caloric wasted and left to sit
the world alone in cold and shade,
i've memorized the fields for days but
grains can die and sleep and reap
themselves to hell the morning's keep--
the dawn long gone tonight evolves into
the next fat steel red wrung and wrong
i've kept myself and faded away
the memories can only stay

dciacb

i've missed how
neatly i slip through you
and miss the bits we
never mention,
boring every second
in my soul, drying eyes
to the tune of mothers
sliding past the plans
they laid, rapt attention,
simple plays mad men relayed
between their vivid
orders, sorted by the
sordid fantasies they've
recalled, floating
in their dreams. but fortune
cannot find everything--
leaving quite a bit neglected,
voyeuristic demigods
comment on their
imperfections. every day
still

works  the gap between my
heart and mind,
and we celebrate with grace
the simple-measured melodies
we easily leave behind

paranoid

nothing remains but the web to be seen--you've cast
on me, i can't believe, but i spin my own to deceive
the wrinkled murmurs sharpening in me,
the oracle devised a memorable moment i've
held onto for hours then transformed
into aching years, the smile of a churning mile soaring
for the journey it understands and follows--
missions to help me believe in this, because i know longer see it--
oaths gone on sworn, born, and unsung,
the paranoid remember me as reminiscent
of their dreams--
but i can't empty out my depths to
compensate for emptiness-- after i'm
wasted i'm only spent, day to morning
back to attention's teat,
sipping and dying,
sustaining the simple lies gently
working their soothing magic
and letting me sleep.

pretty

Grimwald smiles and you'll die
defined, disagreeing and divine--
all sick and no sleep, pretty
empty rollers sprinkling
glass in the drying granite slushing in
the sleet,
all
deaf ears curled ivory
roads foreign salted with fresh bile and sweat,
foggy from the furthest reaches,
slipping through beach breaches back
to boats across a map-shorn shore, ailing
for atlantis and beyond,
echoing in seconds after
with regrets alternating against every
long gone fast buck borrowed, spent, and lost

growth apart

give them the world and they'll want to walk it. 
she knows there's something
sad in the logic of a sonnet,
measured, steady-motion rowing
ghosts of hopes from whispering lips
in the weathered rhymes of wintery wits
long since buried in crumbling halls
and forgotten like their fallen fathers.

mental states

sleeve-rolling in the morning,
all hours put off,
strumming infinity's strings.
like oil black hair,
we softly get long--
spines soaking in seltzer,
absorbing their weight,
feeling time in their designs
and space.

osaka

i'm looking forward to being incredibly happy
rising with the sun firmly on my boundary
trapped far from myself and searching for answers
in the hearts and eyes of the loves i'll be lost in, with
no wonderful tongue to know, lost, lost in the
cherry snow, black dark black on streets and trains,
eyes and hairs all matched the same,
all merry madness unfriendly and tame.
i'm looking forward to low expectations
nothing from no one that no one owes me,
unthinking free from the firm hand,
selfish at last, unfolding in the garden of
my own end. they won't have nixon to kick around anymore
(I'm nixon) here, where
i could never be glimpsed, let alone seen,
or ever known in that full capacity through which
they would have known my awesome glory. oh my dead end
self-contradictory android nation, programmed for destruction--
i'll sigh when i see it go, having learned and always known
what not a single person could ever see in wasted years not listening
to me.

mothers thrown off lightly tonight, without a second thought,
their power grown from milk consumed rejected by their healthy sons.
nothing known, by nothing, no one--empty at last, free of delusion.
i'm your disconnected anchor, sinking slowly, smiling,
i've given you that pride you have, and you wield it so capably--
i have no need to fight you, son, because you're still my child--
i'd have destroyed you at any time, if that's what you desired.
instead i'll bow and take my leave, from this sad scene with no worthy audience
to read into the truth and lies and balance of morality--
or who is true and who deluded, who's to say for sure--
all i know is that i don't mind, all i know is i can't care,
i'll exit left with credits kept, the aftermath laid bare

shade

no rest
for wild droves in love,
rebellion, petty, profiting
from half a world away--
the rest of us are wheat and
chaff, shifting, reaped and suffering,
or rooted where we stay.

electric giants

darn those dadwives and please
pass me the baguettes--
unsafely steered cold aftermath by
an old power saved
from consequence. armed
by feet firmly planted,
each emblazoned and laced in
odd cardboard formations
and  molded plexi.
so glad we took the subway,
so we shuffle huffle by--

lagging behind luggage handlers
staring at ceilings impatiently. dusted mirrors
licked clean by idle fingers--
listening to whispering
exhalations of smoke
beckon me to breathe with them,
swimming in the downstream breeze,
scattered ash infects free wind and
empties into streets.

journal

ugly breathes a smoke ring ,
it catches up to clouds curling in errant hairs
on the necks of leather-clad bad asses,
kicking shattered glass splattered across
faded spaces in the parking deck,
unlit and set apart in equal distances,
empty pages unlike unearthed journal entries

ends

selfish friends cry for themselves
immune to your misery,
never change but of their own pain,
guilt, need, sometimes shame--
and no respect where it not learned,
my friends taught me that blind folks fleeing
for their lives can never tell who helps or why.

pop star

right swing that hope brings
easy over cholesterol
like sunday morning whores in church
with paper fans who laugh it off--
real over rich, pop that corn.
right like lite brite night lights,
scorn-proof like storm roofs--
even sleep in moonlit dreams.

here

here's my nothing no one reads
cause no one can
when it's suppressed, my blacks and reds,
exploding in my mind like seeds,
and leaving still rage in their stead.
nothing real and nothing made,
no sound collapsed or penetrates--
just simple mischief, grins through pain, an
endless cycle of simple games.

and all the hatred I declare disappears
like puffs of air--an empty vessel's offering
once swallowed whole by loves and family
satisfied, who'll celebrate the night you die
with the sparkling tears of crocodiles
from the soulless mirth within their eyes.

last words never heard, a throbbing crowd grows
thick with rattling hearts uplifting life in fear of their own deaths--
all showy mourning gives way to 
their fingers crossed for luck or lies and everything they've left.

here's the world we smoothly run on the pain of lovers broken,
who soak in blood, become our thugs, our victims and drug suppliers--
who boldly shoulder unknown weight that they take below unspoken--
buried in a shallow grave or forgotten to the ocean.

new age

new age
earns its name,
growing wings and blowing past
the last of its daylit morning
celebrating new age
nights and days,
lost in thoughts and calendar pages,
always forgetting from
where it came,
a new age darling
newly made--
freshly wet,  flock upset,
itself deconstructed and reanimated
or on the whole and never broken--
driven on, manipulating thoughts, unspoken
fears, denials, entertaining self
described movements towards
a new revival of empty spirit,
alone, untouched, unfettered and
aligned to its newfound destiny
in the ranks of mankind.

ideology

evangelical vocabulary diffusing elements shooting through with eyes wide open every fiber of your being— intertwining through the primal human urge for some classical iconography, its simple sets in play—the world revealed inside its way

completion

there are patterns in the world that speak to those who listen to the crackle in the flame echoed as the radio plays-- to the catches in the voices permeating through the waves-- representing ocean currents trickling through the mesh of threads trembling through their speaker heads.

letters to a fiend

last night's raid
hums in my mind- the
swaying of
underground street signs
ringing with the blinding
hysteria of passing lights--
a lover's ignorance
becomes my crutch, but
no order in time
except for the illusion of
growth. no reason seen in
passing nights spent
parsing shades of
black and white--
empty hand and honest action
brushed aside in gathering
questions and fears, new paranoia
tainted moments previously
held endeared.
mind me not my disappointment,
held parallel with my enjoyment--
nothing like the awful remembrance,
always young and effervescent
lost moments and pointless times
i once knew as transcendent moments
now faded grey and ground to dust by age
and relocation's way. an evolution
bridging brides,
bringing us to the realization
(or the failure) of a destiny--
memorized in daydreams and awfully self-serving
fantasies, we're dashed upon the
evidence--a ship among the wasting glaciers,
wasting in the present (progressive) tense.

misled the tribe of
animals incensed and heaving
primal verbs the beasts priests monks nuns
ravaged by the empty tongue
the simple evening lullaby
sing sweetness of the afterlife
ferry rides, fantastic rates
and parking to the upper decks

gimme rains in static torrents--
dusted and committed to consciousness,
their coded addresses
flashing and jingling
in the bleak early hours of
endless end days.

in time i'll buy your lives
up in the madness of a gory summer,
lifted by your tragic hearts jingling
with nickels and dimes bitten and squeezed
fore surety and stacked in moments remembered
you need

6th ave

sore folks break
bullets deep,
sweating minutes from the morning
silences dreaded under rusted iron bridges, their
logic splintered by lines of laughter, like
floral patterns dotting
print paper advertisements,
peeking from every dirty corner
and rustling breeze.

spring sprung

draws close
slowly silken curtain
graces the air, its embrace
singing in its rattling rings,
singing across the golden rod
humming with ticking clock
burning with candles at this low hour.

my finger waiting on a
milky hand
older than I to
signify 12, the hour, and the sky--
games of chance
while the springtime
tries my mind
in riddles posed askance
from topics intertwined.

love me stupid i'll
ruin your beauty

soporific

indebted to misery,
my only friend--
we smile together and pretend.
credits to the wasteful end--
sucked into whiling for the moment,
drinking syrup while we wait.
the world's our only metaphor,
and we're the only race spurning
superhuman qualities
and ridding ourselves of death.

grooming

i'm the mower in my dreams,
killing for a living
almost by accident--
grimly scything swaths of grain
cutting paths to a paycheck,
animal friends bleeding in my wake with
eyes rolling gently to
the humility of death's embrace.
we feel sorry and move on. all
as merciless
as the
rotation of the globe on its random axis--
smiling softly
with a tightening grip.

finest

last lines, i exited-- you too, the mirror's comely locks--
serene, jasmine fragrant vagrant, the names of unborn children
echoing in your fleshly round halls and walks.
no man can forgive himself for
saying so much--
in the night time he names himself
for the cheapest of his hopes, toasted, buttered,
and wasted, scrapped like bad cable,
must not see tv at
its very finest.

oretachi

my company is mine
and we drink black coffee and pick apart
the teevee news in highway diners--
we scoff--
we sit silently smoking cigarettes
exhaling ash
from the half sunk side window of an economy car
in time to the music of a melting generation,
stressed and obsessed with their
recession babies and mayan prophecies--
elections, wars and reality.
we don't abide the ignorant
the religious or the loud,
anyone with their head in the clouds,
the mouthy smiles encased in waste,
the whispering midgets of social circles,
or the nonsense of the state.

we slam ourselves against the textures
of the world,
see the landscape folded up and regenerated--
hoping for the dawn of eyes wide open
the beginning of a dying age.

23

i became
everything i thought you wanted me to be
only to see that
i'm nothing but the shade
of an idea's tangent. i can't prove myself

until i'm gone. the wraith of my expectations

never let go of my high hopes.
funny how now
i'm totally alone.

when i leave (i know...)

you'll never remember me (except) in
mirrors and shades,
eyes you've scarred that i reached to grasp, the
last fleeting image of the light reflecting
their madness,
only to trace the outline of an impression
in a spotless plain.

and you've never heard anything i've ever told you--
there, tucked into the serpentine curl of your ear, i'm
littered in
the wrinkled songs of the drunk
and quiet, gently brushed and
trickled past breezy anecdotes and
softly spoken
words of encouragement
that always seemed to slide right down your hair
past your shoulders and disappear.

i'll never know
the strength you'd have found to be
the center of my life. the sweetness
you'd have shown to my smiles and apologies,
and the joy that would have flooded my throat and eyes
if we could have wrapped ourselves around
ourselves
and let each other go.

old friend

oh, you runaround american gal--
i'm getting sick to drink with you,
and having every moment stolen from
my nights working on immovable objects,
and weathering your neglect like
a stone made smooth by icy river currents.

east

night air mutters through the window
blowing notes bending by the tip of the bottle
i lust for with the intensity of
the misses i've chanced recently,
according to the same boredom,
drawn out to fit to a T and
nagging me in conversational tangents and daydreams.

blame me for believing, for having at it like
an old romantic, for doing and thinking
the type of stuff that won't be in style
maybe ever again. grinning and grooming,
soaking in the anticipation of what would
turn out to be most definite failure, another night of not
measuring up, untwisting the gentle letdowns from
the sweet flowery embellishments of their packaging.
she's still looking to the sky, or something.
no one seems to get theirs in this economy--i should know. but i never will.
thank you, ma'am, it's time to go--i guess you've been too kind. now watch me fade
beyond your hills, this sweet horizon line

dawn again

what ripens and keeps opening
the bloom of a sunday morning
looking on into monday night
still cleaning,
clinging,
lifting her eyes
to me slowly, the hint
of a wonder on her lips,
but dashed on our cadences slowly,
unrevealed, unwrapped,
overbearing and underwhelming,
unheard and unsinging,
the unknown joys and sorrows
that she's slowly bringing

gotham wit and wisdom

some just want to bleed and eat the smoke,
thinking in the brick buildings
marching ranks towards a city of
newfound glory and infinite return.
some of them have gone too far,
and glimpsed the blinding horror of
the magnum messages scribed behind the
codes by which we manage our
contusions and emotes.

movement 5

i wake to disappointment in a foreign land
traveled by blinding blades too brilliant to
light quiet paths to ruination,
that consumerist conclusion
of notoriety and industrial health,
moaning shades of protest gathered in the
break of stain upon the wet hot clothes lining their
slowly churning belts to product, shipped off and trucked
to hug the soul of the lonely drone
pacing forth and back to
browse the linoleum aisles.

oh, look how happy she's become
this year. she's learned everything she could of love
this year. she passes fading
in and out of focus
graying red with old wounds.
can she whittle a chorus from her foreign bones, scented
with exotic spices and veiled in handwoven fabrics, a beacon of need
inhaling every strength it finds unremarkable

callous grain sweeps and shuffles to
the noon wind refrain, the streets
of age paved with rolling regrets. his eyes bursting soft now,
like horizon lines, vision blurred by messy tears clouding
one bitter morning's break after another quiet evening
contemplating old ends and fresh beginnings.

poison known

blow your black
values stretched to
the limits of
their strength, seasoned in the energy
it takes
to strike poise and starve,
pout right and perfect the gentle
whine, and to embrace the iconography
of an infinite return.
what little age can weave its roots across our
dewy folds, braiding
with my hair,
betrays my eyes from
the herald of your time, the aweful terror of your presence.
i now feel how it feels to feel familiar
with every detail newly known,
still requiring
the suggestion of my memories
of lovers gone and old.
i tire when i see your smile.
rows of molars lined like calendar pages hanging
on the walls of where i don't belong.

i run the pound barking down the street,
eating black mushrooms and drawing conversations out-- watching
the mindful swallow their orange roses, opening their inner murmurs--
the tension wandering sensed outstretched
along the byzantine expanses of its grain.

next

trading caesarians,
afternoon exchanges,
the sober morning meetings
following new year celebrations.
the missile-minded assembled for
another year in plague-- hearken to
the tremble murmuring its origins!
breathing its knowledge of
a manichaen dawn,
marked by the turn of a calendar page,
biding its time and suppressing its feeling, its
rage,
drifting its glowing words of warning
in the torn cotton clouds,
accruing data as we speak on
our goofy plans and master hobbies.
denser by the day,
it speaks to nights alone,
half a world away,
where subtle hearts can now be
born under a winter's white paint graying
our brains, coat by coat,
the smiling hand undulates
and seems to always know.