Saturday, December 29, 2007

to be unfettered. transcendent.

i'll live alone in the forest
afternoons spent
tossing around in my bed
losing the hours

the rain
it comes
almost everyday now
the forest trees would take me in
and play keep away
from all the rain

the leaves above
they have there way
of keeping us dry
making us safe

who knows?
i could be forfeited in caverns
or find the path and walk away
away from the ghosts of legend.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Steaklatechip Cookies, Chapter One

Two pair passed through a broken alleyway, hardly wide enough to squeeze their moving van through, and stops at a wooden post lying on the ground. It was so embedded in the earth, one could suppose the original tree had fallen there.
Griffin and Sal make their way past hardwood floors and 1930’s architecture to their home in Shangri-La, embodied by a studio apartment in building E, 230 Whitecrest. Griffin fumbled to remove his smoking glove, juggling a cigarette searching through his pockets for the golden key that read 240 E. His steps echoed against the floors and flaking paint to as the two pair made their way up the expanse toward the door. Their room was on the second floor, above 140; a room inhabited by a man so fat it was said he could hardly make it through the door.
‘Good thing he dosent live above us’ Sal commented
The sea green door with golden lettering opened to bare walls; more open canvas. The girls would later suggest numerous colors. Sal put down his staircase and walked down the stairs back to the car to retrieve pieces of their new existance.
They soon found the winding staircase was slightly too small for the dresser; it would have to be taken apart, but not today. For now, it sits in the back of the car. A brown buick from the mid 80’s rolls into the adjacent parking spot. A couple that looked like they could’ve posed for the commercial when their car was new stepped out of the car, revealing take-out containers. Sal thought them to be Cantonese, but as he would later discover, they were skeletons from the thai restaurant a few blocks down 8th street toward the record store. The couple glanced at Griffin and Sal before looking down at the dirt and walking inside.
Sal lit up his 7th smoke of the day as Griffin went inside to pack. They went up the narrow staircase again and through the door to the left to the cobwebbed bedrooms. A wall open at both ends separates the kitchen from the living room. A couch slumbers against the far wall and the tv near the kitchen. Just then, whoever else walked in the door. The click of heels and clack of flats told of women. Tawny walks over to the couch and sits on griffin’s outstretched legs. Sal clambers up the staircase to Dawn, who leans against the doorframe, waiting for Sal’s embrace. A quick peck and Sal retreats to the bedroom near the bathroom to drop his bags. One cardboard box, followed by another. One contained Sal’s cds, in the other Griffin’s record collection. The DJ himself set up the stereo to the right of the couch.
‘dude, would you mind if we changed the sofa to the other side of the room?’ Sal asks.
‘hey man, I put it here because I don’t want the tube to be blaring next to my ear when im trying to get some sleep. These paper thin walls won’t hide anything.’ Griffin pushes against the kitchen wall, moving it nearly an inch and releasing bits of drywall over the grain of the floor.
‘It works better over here. You can see it when youre eating breakfast. Besides, toughen up buddy. Youre in for your share of noise,’

Thursday, December 20, 2007

To visit places where there are no hosts

Watch a breath
at night
moon-shot through air pure water
no matter
how cold it must be where
finding oneself at odds with
the night, doing what is
(absolutely) necessary evils;
smoke breath,
chalk breath,
talk less,
talk about what loves you,
talk like time stops
when you say "pause"
or when you kneel to pray
or lie to sleep
and lay where comfort
takes you by surprise
(one is frequently).
When lightbulb talks yellow aged newspapers, take
and turn it to love
or lost love.
Trap that breath on
your lips, those lips though lips
may be dry
(one is frequently)
and there you watch
the air pure water breath rest
and there you lay your head
in an unfamiliar bed
where word mumbled under
is then tossed over
and lost to the night.
Thank that man,
thank that lady;
they, so prepared to speak,
hold in their crowd
of dusk cloud
and say
"Time does not 'pause'
nor will it ever

Monday, December 17, 2007

Everything is as it seems

I’m going out tonight,
a zombie on the streets.
Decked in black jeans,
a sweatshirt,
and headband from nineteen ninety eight

I was eleven
back then.
I used to even ski!
And in these clothes
I will feast.

On passerbys.
Others will watch and think
we’re just pretending.
But, I won’t be kidding,
I will eat.

Motorists pull over
In an attempt to calm me.
A bite of them and I will be forgiven
in the name of Jesus. Amen.
My victims will experience martyrdom.

Be seated, sir, at the right hand of our lord.
I will be forgiven.
In the name of Jesus, I feast.
For I’m eating thee with regards of the spirit.
Welcome to my church.

Your body is my temple
and to this I pray.
Now say thirty Hail Marys
For now I eat.

A city full of sin,
Of gays,
And bars,
And junkies.
I won’t have trouble.

I will find my congregation
Ten Bloody Marys deep.
Thy will be medium rare,
On earth as it is at dinner,

I will eat

I will raze the trash bins
and pick out everything
behind maternity wards.
like a demon.

And I will be forgiven
and seated, with respect.
In my vicious martyrdom,
of which you’ll all be victims,
I am forgiven

My acts are justified
for I am legion.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

kicking water when nothing's a better feeling than anything

you swim in it till you drown
you breath in as she puts her hands around your neck
choking you till you cant feel it anymore
kicking water when nothing's a better feeling than anything
veins bulge and struggle to push blood through them
you wonder why they were ever there at all
and maybe theyre just lazy
and maybe theyve been beaten down
but I'm not breathin' with phantom all white and naked
and everythings just alright with me

Friday, December 7, 2007

For John Donne

"Never lose sight of his love."
His long beard is caked with dust
and dirt.
It smells of sweat, we both,
but it brushes against my cheek
as his dried lips
cracked from the sand-heavy wind
Brush against mine.
No miracle,
but warmth and strength.
His hands are hardened from
carpentry and magic
and they slide up my back
but he is short and they
barely reach my shoulders
I bend my head further.
His tongue tastes of gristle
and raw grains.
There is a sense of acceptance
in the movement of his lips
No miracle,
but human skin that sweats
the same warmth
and scent.
He has decided not to change my life.
His chin and nose are pronounced,
the nose rubs gently
against the flesh just under my eye-
sockets, eyes closed, I can see
when they open,
a short man, carpenter,
he smiles.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Upon awakening, i tell my dreams to someone else

you never expressed so much regret

the other times you left me.

time has never warranted this,

the lavender song has lost its time and scent.

i will grow a large beard

and rough you up

to forget my childish ways.

i have learned to isolate my fantasies.


you think you can hammer out

your indiscretions on an anvil of pulp.

let me have time to lick my wounds

like the god that i am.


it’s comforting when she says,

“you can’t like me as much as i like you.”

in my insecurity, i know it’s true.

it’s cold and the gas won’t be turned on

for another week. she was right,'

this bed can’t be slept in alone.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

ambiguous symphony

cannonballs but in the abstract;
violins linger as though
walking through a
city of bohemian beggars.
rivaling renditioners
of beethoven compete for your money
from opposite sides of the street.
the notes juxtapose to perform the most precise beauty
ever born of trifling rivalries
and you are haunted by an irreplecable song for the next three days.
a cannonball tears through
your car stereo in rush hour traffic,
it flies down the lane two more miles before
it comes to a stop.
somehow, everyone has been waiting for this to happen.
somewhere in the atlantic,
fourty tons and fifteen months of construction
become the blip on the radar screen
that is no longer blip-ing.
it reminds you of
being spanked to tears as a child upon misbehaving,
of being put in your place only yours lacked the finality.
seconds before an ocean wave
that is really a schizophrenic mountain
screams all kinds of nihilism at you
you realize that the stars
are very pronounced and numerous
in the middle of the ocean at night.
cannonballs fly but in the abstract,
there are violins and stars, though they drown too;
the ocean is large.
you too with ambiguity envy such a death.
pure, unrestrained and final.
the cars ahead of you are moving again.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

No epic so epic

There was a snowfall deep
and quiet in November
when the heat was still such
that snow felt soft to the touch.
When the red-haired girl was,
when the blue-eyed was not,
innocent, but for grey
streaks against the snow-
clouds against the sky-
smoke against young lungs:
they used to cough so much.

Black rubber tar tires
worn through, sliding in snow.
Winter splattered with salt stains
and dirt-caked shoes worn thin;
dear then but not worn again.
Then, when drink was always gin,
burning pine needles,
great mouthfuls of fire,
charred christmas tree guts:
they fought back so much.

Basement party epiphanies:
"Graham, the Bowie Boy who kissed me,
the girls would look on and laugh,
he used to say he tasted honey."
Lips were never that sweet,
soft, yes, and warm, but
smoke black and cracked,
bleeding gums and lips,
dry from electric heat:
they used to know so much.