Saturday, June 28, 2014

Restless

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

Lemon

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

primal
avocado
lemon
spiders
from

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

turn

that's life in a web,

fantasy, death.

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

...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 

end
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


moments.


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.