Colors lighted in my eyes

stream flow twirling and ricochet.

I blast tracked in a monkey trap seeing in mind

a number of good things such as

a beautiful woman with an unpracticed smile,

tellin’ the boss “I quit”,

and a child’s conception.

Shift back forth

sought meaning underneath worm bellies,

rose to heavenly height,

then shattered by an alien existence

childlike in the best and worst

crushed and berated

laughter and kindness.

Ain’t it strange way we build our worlds?

Constructed unknowingly dangerously feeling our little tendrils into spaces

Filling ‘em with our dreams and cruelties

weeping guts and smiling

heart pounding thinking this is it

why

why

why

swallowed into a mucky shadow.

Wishes not realities, though we build ‘em such ways and forget.

Then we hurt

less we get lucky and meet soul tuner who twiddles like me.

Collaboration on highest ground until flecks appear dusty

and foundation cracks

refusal to yield

can’t meld

evolve

save ourselves.

Whole thing’s towered up

then struck with different tongues

suddenly like “What the heck happened? I used to love you.”

It’s second law of thermodynamics,

universe hates energy input,

nature’s silly complexities,

just wants some tasty flat.

Then why, you know?

Who knows?

 

howl if you must.

 

 

 

take me now
while we’re dancing,
you choose the music
while i play something
sexy and evil.
within this skin
lie the secrets of the visceral,
i drag them out
and lay them at your table.

 

take me here,
where the mercies
that you seek must be fought for,
muscles must melt and
beasts must bay at the moon
before this is finished.
it is an irresponsible moon
that watches over
our dark acts.

 

take me to the brink as
the whole darkness
consumes us,
sink your talons deep
into my breast, for my
sweet meats lie within.
show no sorrow,
plunge deep to scoff
upon my entrails
before the palsy happens.

 

take me to the point where
i am tipping

 

wicked is the sin
that trips us
as st. vitus dances
up my spine and our loins
explode with truth serum,
howl if you must.

 

bill.

 

 

it’s five minutes to midnight
and i’m taking a clown’s advice,
it’s laced with ennui and cynicism
and dick jokes that
we can both laugh at.

i buy him a meal because
i can see that he has been crying,
and over his black coffee steam
he tells me to abandon the tightrope
and hitch myself to a carny
cos the best any of us
can expect is mud.

outside the world remains
ringleader distant, and it’s late but there
is still news to deliver.
i promise to plant mushrooms
on his grave so he can carry on
entertaining the living.

 

 

Lingering rainstorm, September 2018

 

Hear it,

this lingering rainstorm like a lover’s goodbye.

Remember it,

breezy and gray like a Russian’s eye.

 

Visit the cemetery.

Kneel by your grandfather’s grave.

Tell him dirty jokes.

 

Then stop by Wu’s for fried rice.

Say a prayer before your meal.

Taste your dripping self in the steamy grains.

Say a prayer after your meal.

 

The humidor should still be open; buy a cigar.

 

Return to the cemetery.

Kneel by your grandmother’s grave.

 

Light your cigar.

Puff it carefully.

Drift away, slowly.

Apologize to Grandma for smoking in her presence,

though she smoked her whole life.

 

Appreciate the soaking your skin’s endured.

You’ll realize later you won’t need to shower.

 

But don’t be fooled for one second.

No flood can wash away your color,

your blood.

 

You’re like a star unable to hide from the cosmos.

 

One day,

you’ll tear a black hole in the fabric surrounding you

like a knitter with a shaky hand.

 

 

Across The Pitches

Gazing across the
Football pitches, over
To the woods. Trees
All the way to the
Horizon where they
Meet the cloudy
Autumn skies.
A church spire to
My left is the only
Man made thing
That I can see,
Except for the
Goalposts on the
Football fields.
I watch old people
Walking their dogs
As I sit here craving
A cigarette. 3:30 on
A Wednesday afternoon.
A couple of raindrops
Fall, so I come out of
My reverie. Stand and
Walk home where there
Is T.V. and cigarettes
Aplenty.

1.

To All the Boys

 

I cannot write like a beatnik

because I am not a beatnik.

I’m too late,

too pretty,

too appreciative of hygiene.

I cannot be a mynah bird.

 

Furthermore,

I am four years on the wagon,

so whatever brash and callous hands

that traded poems for commands

now only dream of being half the height

that Will S. Burroughs stands.

 

My point is this:

I am free and the red, hot,

hot, hot passion has gone somewhere.

I don’t have the luxury of dying

or going insane

or loving so much that no self remains.

 

I feel Ginsburg when I write my prose

I hear Howl when I feel morose

All of it says Live! Live! Live! 

 

So I do.

But not in shades I would have painted with in youth.

Not with strokes so raged they rip the page,

I have different things to say now.

I tried to die young, but

it was simply a choir with no rhythm.

 

 

 

2.

This Life

 

There is no version of this life

That does not end in my suicide

As beautiful as the pulleys

That pulled rock from the earth

The dust of your hands as you gave me an arrowhead

The night you looked to the moon and said you had three months left

How strange that must have felt

The thinning of your hair

The strangeness of your poetry

Sleepless contortion of letters I could have never put together

 

There is no version of this life

Where we speak our words in key

There is movement in places filling with blood

That came from the anger I felt

The dust of your hands as you hand me a flower

That I keep and dry and let define me

It dies by my hand or yours

The weeds overtake the garden

Soon the sun will disappear

I lose memory of a time when words were fireflies

 

 

3.

Happy Valley

 

The secret is to ignore

the most beautiful girl

in the room. She is not

crazy enough to keep

you on your toes. No,

 

Pick the one you need

to take medication for

go to therapy for

make amends to your exes for.

 

No,

Pick the one who almost

bares her secrets but never

really does.

 

Summer comes.

She lets others inside her.

You watch her as she walks

in front of you, stuck inside a story

you’ll tell someone someday.

 

Storyteller,

Close your eyes as she obliterates you.

You are mute.

There are no resolutions.

the root

world weary 

in the womb 

& yanked 

from that 

bastard canal 

w/ bloody 

infant digits

i flipped off 

the stars 

for giving 

me up 

 ______________________