Followers

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

bereft

it will get very dark
and it will happen
faster than either of your eyes
can adjust

and the barbed wire of late,
and foriegn, penniless nights
spent in blank stares
and bleek weather

will creep up and around
and around... and around
and around each breath
like the long shadow of a ghost.

eventually, your eyes will adjust
and the clarity of these
circumstances
will strike you

from the tips of your fingers
to the depths of your heart
with the ice cold interruption
-and accompanied isolation-
of a suddenly empty room.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

mount parnassus

when i met this kid, all we did was make poor decisions that cost us a lot of money. but i'll be damned if we didn't have a great time. one day, he met this girl who was a mystery to all of us, and the next day -quite literally- he was moving in with her some odd thousand miles away, in texas. now they are engaged, and producing music that is blowing me away. and i want you to hear it.

http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Mount-Parnassus/355129231955

in the very near future (i'm so lucky to already have a copy), a cd will be available to the masses. let me know if you are interested, or grow a pair and ask him -or her- your damn self.

please enjoy.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

cadmium

if in such an order
we are so illusive
the adorned cry-baby
assumes nuisance.
and while i don't really
know -or care-
about compliance,
i am left here -again- 
at the threshold
of defiance

so the cold grip
turns to rash speech.
and the speed of
"commonplace"
does a 180
and begins to peel-
later, found wandering
"lucid as grace".

it's not wanted
or subjecting;
it's not cornerstone work
or disposable
and handsome,
but it fits upon the fork-
and we'll eat it just the same

Sunday, November 14, 2010

social/security

diet plan/exercise routine:
grow old, and/or
forget to show up.
sleep, without a wake.
bed, without a mate.

nursing home/final resting:
shuffle blindly
and with jokers.
watch everyone else go first.

reading material/extracurricular:
something light,
with an 'off' switch.
stay busy, stay sane.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

suicide is easy

i can    
            
             (have)

draw(n)
              a gun

      into
           my
      hand

in tourquois

with a
           s
            cri
                 b
              b
                 ly
                       brushstroke

of a
              (dirty)
crayon

Friday, November 5, 2010

if you are interested, here is listing of photography. prints are available, please do not hesitate to ask. i would be more than willing to trade. lord knows, i love a good bartering.

enjoy

http://www.ipernity.com/home/strait-jacketphotography

fiction

i tore out the pages
where you feigned love,
like a carpenter ant
discovers a new home
(a place to dwell,
and later, eat).

it wasn't much.
there was never much to say.
so i folded up each page,
into soiled hands
sewn together
in permanent confession
(a place to dwell, 
and later, eat).

cloaca

found
buried deep in sleeplessness
a lost cause
wandering around
in lust and
sic(kly) spoken attributes

i ache in my dreams
where death
stumbles drunkenly
in dreams of you

but you'll never know.

it's already too late.

too late to remember
that the wells
are too deep to forget

upon disfigurement
the color of want
turns to ware,
and we are -again-
reaching for the throat.

if you ask me, it's got nothign to do with vacuums

grip
and curve
cuddle the edge
with your fists
curled up
caught
red handed
in your throat
with nightmares
painted
redundant
at your fathers
tables
under your mothers
skirt
in a house
that soon
won't be a home
at all

lenticular

i buried your words
in my throat,
with faithful irrational-ism.
they have parched,
making me cough
with your pulse

the slivers
left in the open
like blank canvas'
sheltering all our
inhibitions
with a hammer's grace

the words
will -eventually-
make their way out,
in crumpled napkins
shadowed under
a cupped hand-

left idle
-like idolatry-
caught in the act of
sleeping alone in
(copious)
a wastebasket linger.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

hobo funeral

I: trip wire

she'll enter cold
like a match made in heaven
and every morning,
another dramatic curtain call.

i just do not have the patience.

in my dreams,
her eyes go from cyanotic,
                    to strychnine,
                    to apartheid ghost.


II: finding a new place to hide our hands


i carved
the subtleness of lying
from the finish
on her bed frame.

while our insides
were worth our weight in words,
the insinuations,
had begun to sweat
like dynamite.

soon estivate,
wasn't the half of it.

rejigger, on the other hand,
was at least the other half.

the pocket in my hand

one day,
the rattle of
spider-legs, and
sickly paranoia,
will become soft
and flexible
like the sticks and stones
in our bellies.

that same day,
at the bottom of the stairs,
there will lay
a book of matches
and the shallow graves
of all our secrets
carved out of bad intentions,
and even worse apologies.

the ability to suit
having apparently
been cut delicately,
and paper thin.

so much
that even in all it's elegance,
with only a few words
and some spit,
our teeth lost all feeling,
and fell out.

all the vague elaborations,
carefully tucked away
in paper wasps' nests.

the rooms i all ways end up in
that no one ever finds

until everyone is dead.

bruxism

the color
of shadows and lines
    drawn in the dark space between us
    the shapes and contents
    -luggage, and lucrative examples-
                         scribbled half-heartedly
                         in the corner of our eyes
                         and in the palm of my hand

             where is this?

when the stains have faded
i will wash my hands in your escape
                         thankful
                         wishful
                         empty
                         and no one.

            a sleep cycle curls
            at my feet
               in a fatal error
              -a fetal position-

        how our hands
        have carved...

                                      now,
                                      our teeth will rest.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

ghost...s



                a child
                                  born of ghost...s
                   ...and forgottton
                          just as easily...
static in the background
                                      -not even real-
                   crawling through
                                 thoughts
                                            (gouge away)
              little holy fingers
              whole holy fingers
                                            (gouge away)
                                    shots in photos
                                               a flash in your mind
                         not ever really                "thought out"
               a flutter of
                                       participation
                                       lost in the aftermath
                      of our own lust...s
                                                                       ...dont forget...
                                                                                                      ...ghost...s...

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

of knives and knees and one set of keys

in the dark,
my spine would cringe.

i'd flinch.

my feet would fail me.

and just the once
as i hit the ground,
i found your knife-
glittering.

the shadows showed up,
they were never late
-that's not the point-
i wiped the blood from my face
and discovered that it
wasn't me that was bleeding
-anymore-

so i guessed-
took a stab in the dark,
you could say.

now, i digress...
but only because i must.
only because,
you have said it all.
now you must bask
in the plot lines.

there is no argument.

no shelter from shade.

no place hidden enough,
to turn the key
without someone noticing,
that the knives you stabbed
in everyones back,
were the knees you used
to emphasize plight.

bent like crooked letters
written about close calls,
commonplace, and con-artistry.

bromden


i already knew
that there were senses
     farther from our conversations
     than charades or roses
     could neither betray
                      nor help

but i covered myself in dust
just trying to (remember?)
                    fill in the holes.

     and incidentally,
     time, became a gathering of arms.
     and it was selfish
     to have held it
     like a womb-

              casual hair-triggers
              next to calm, spent shells.

    it had become itinerary,
    to wear my flesh to the bone-
    crawling on my belly,
    brushing bloody kisses off the walls,
       and peeling bait off the fishhooks.

but i'm cagey.

i pretend i don't know.