Monday, January 05, 2015

Lights, Cameras, Rotten Cheese

Smile big, the
camera is
on. This could be your big break
says the oil-soaked, Gucci-battered
demon caressing platinum. You buy into
the lie even though 
even you know of your own lack 
of talent so drunk on kernels
and seeds
that embryos suffice where
life fails to spring. Swallow,
I shall, if the need, um, say
arises. Hard, and in your face and impossible
to forgive or ignore. So, an
apology is in order to every
woman I’ve bedded, wrapped, entangled,
ensnared or otherwise
enchanted. Why, I became you
perspective, and felt that unforgiving
hand on the back of my head
pushing, choking, taking
dignity in strokes. You,
We, and I excited by the animal’s attention, yet
demeaned by their feeding. Their hollow
sweat and abandoned hairs
singing no songs of
morning. But I got the
gig and now I can be a star, and I’ll shine
so bright that all that goddamn filth, puke
and semen will sizzle off my skin like angels
bathing in glorious light. Purified, I
am. Rationalized, you are. Sanctified,

Breathe, in oms, avocado skies and mint water smoothies.

How does it feel under those lights, skin melting, eyes
adorn. They all devour you now. Forever soaked into the collective is
your _______.

You know, but it must not be spoken. The lie, so obvious - so agreed, must remain so, because rainbows can only exist as an illusion surfing mist. Just like your goddamn star. 


Saturday, June 28, 2014


That weird mind space at 4 am when you wake up unexpectedly and your brain is a jumble of dream and wake and everything feels mad and scary and sad and you desperately want to retreat to your sleep, but you can’t. You’re awake and suffering and confused and you have to piss so bad your side hurts. You rub your eyes while you’re at the toilet -- hoping to rub that craziness right out of your brain, but your knuckles bruise your eyes and sheets of geometric explosions spread out and heighten the weirdness of it. Atheist or not, you’re praying to some god to let you fall back to sleep as the clock approaches 5 a.m. and you’re wondering if this is it -- a stroke, an aneurysm, or the first stages of Alzheimer's. But you catch your breath. A calming wave comes over you, and you drift away. The next thing you know it’s 8 a.m. and you’re a touch late for work, but the world has snapped back into place. It feels normal again. But you remember that madness. That confusion. That fear. And you only hope to make the day a good one as you’re up and pissing once more. Relief.

Saturday, May 24, 2014


California taught me that
life is messy. Just the cleaning lesson
I needed. Slick,

round edges, do not breathe in rainless
nights or stuck between hours
of honking car frustration, do those


down under

seek blood and geometry
spun silky over tea. You English gents,
with a soul chewing meat
Americans can't see, but pardon the abrupt


that's life in a web,

fantasy, death.

We came here for a star. We'll settle for a one

...which, vanished.

Why do I fuck you? Because I can, I
suppose. And by that, I surely 

mean some vague
sense of can in a juvenile existential sort of
manner, I suppose. I fuck you, because I’m too much of a spiritual
coward to put a gun to my head and 

it all. I still harbor hope that a third way beyond time
and space will wrench me from this
weird moment of what-the-fuck I find my 

feet stuck
planted in, somewhere between cowardly vomit and
mud. For years, I’ve known 

I’m done living, but for more
years, I've known that the confrontation and its empty stage lights
scare the ever-living-shit-out-of-me -- that weird, warping sensation
of time curving, stretching into unending void. We weird, weird 

spots of meat
consciousness writhing, cocoon-like shuddering as we moan
creation’s moans and pains, ripping ourselves from the
sweat stains of the universe -- beyond all reason, beyond
all odds, which makes it so.

Inevitable, I.

Wrap into your quilted scarf, grandmother. I still feel your slick, shiny,
silver red slip. I know that’s too many
colors, but neither of us should have stole that moment
yet there we were. My mother, in truth, replacement
you were.

My shoes still shine bright.

For you.

Though, they no

longer lace. Sunsets devoured. Just, yank me from this wretched pudding decision, not the milk, but the feeling -- as I still crave the nurturing and always shall ink-put, scratch, crawl, tear soliloquies softened listened as we struggle to understand more than the music of these inexplicable


What even happened from the first moment I entered you?

Ah, yes. I died. But not before a universe cracked egg shells, seeped into the void of your turgid lips and swam like hell to the horizon of a new big bang --
pulled from the scratches of our DNA.

So, I suppose, I fuck you because I’m an English major with too much time on my hands and still believe in ghosts.

Do you love me too?

Said, antennas didn’t think so. But goddamn that guitar can strum.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Empirical Data

I talked shit to get into your body, but, in all
truth, I had only the desire to get inside
your brain. The grape water revelations, however, stole
such inclinations and wrapped me in pedestrian
sobbing. I long not for our union of flesh, but for
more exploration of your landscape of thought. My skin sullied and freckled
from casual enticements means not. But an evening with your neurobiology has
certainly daunted. And Schrödinger's cat still means nothing
without the desire to open the door. I get it, I do. Please, just don't think my hunger
for your mind was the same as simple foot prints, as I have no interest
to tread. You are. And you do that perfectly.

...even if all things become fodder. They were once the
empirical data from which the architecture of mind cannot contend.

It's only 3 years. Mother, I get it. Instincts and hormones. Yet,
your grace carries much.

You, Grace,

I, wither.