the physical

the physical

tunnels deep
holes burrowing

bandits

cutting backwards

cutting

cutting doberman ears
to hear the Sun.

stunning liberty

standing sane
with room to breath

bares little subsidies
for the damages filled

filling soundless

filling subways temperature

filling ungraceful substitute
before the body can feel.

your colors steel my sound

untouched
highway nails painted bite marks

track forward

trapping lungs in astroids
leaving

osiris to kill the moon for silver

and thursday mornings spent with ills.

and the mind can betray
the mind will always betray
the savior that hides

a sutures tangle

like blueberries picked in secret

or the light at the end of alabaster.

the flavor of celerity at dawn

the fear of luxury is mutual.
I can see it in their mouths, between

breathes of cold. it leaves with the last
bit of fog breath attachment-

but it does not last the wind. i bought in
once. the winter grey could not be seen then,

tasted then
painted on lines of sight then.

and the air was so clean

on december streets, blushing bootleg blues
emotion, but it could not last the wind.

the weight of debt is mutual.
I can see it hidden

in pea coat pockets
carrying elephants eating eggplants,

and paintings of still life-without eggplants-
bought with credit

extentions; so we all could have long hair.
its december again

and assembly is lost in the winter grey

like the taste of lemon seeds
in tonic,

or the flavor of celerity at dawn.

unknotted

im good at knots.
the problem, it seems,

is the twin-
with fibers impartial to
juncture,

impartial to circumstance,
and the curtains you will hang

when you get your shit together.

i eat simple,
sipping life through

slotted spoons dripping,
and the good

drops
beneath the lips

and onto the floor,
so the cat can know brevity-

her nose smells the breach
of decent.

losing interest,
she attends the

fake mouse
sitting still.

they are...

the both of them...bored.

and here i am-alone,
sitting with the mouth
itching,

hands, incased in air imprisonment,
and can
not touche you-

a plastic pillow case of sinless saunter;

coating confidence,

and i am found
wanting you-

unknotted.

it can not be found
in all the moments taken by breath
left to lead the eyes forward,

to awake-
ness

to impress the sheets warm-
ness

to breath, shameless sleep forward-
ness

while sleeping.

the toes are curled, and
memory, to engaged in dreams

for walking.
it would not be found

in rosary beads blushing her
breasts expressive (and she

wore it the whole time)
it could not have been found there

but i didn't mind looking.

It will not be found
in lesson,

when words require words
to feel, be felt

and fucked
under disposition. it can not

hide in thoughts given.
nor does it hide in movements,

faking movements, while all the waves
dream of clean breaks.

it has not been found in squares.
making circles optimistic-but not easier
to draw.
-
it has not been the breath taken;
that leads me to raffle.

nor is it a moments clutch in error, as it
exits, chain linked

imprisonment-as it leaves-

fatal connections in tact and toe;
so its not their fault

to follow.
no, to raffle is nature.

its body swells on cue
its temperature humor foreskin removed
by old men

with old problems and young minds.
-
it can not be found in you
or found without you

it has not been found in me.

work schedule

your door broke its bell,
ringing saunter

down 17th, while you
spread your jokes

and the mouth can be so clean,
at times,

when the tiles of sanctuary
are scrubbed loneliness.

and the unmoved smiles of the web
are not enough.

and i never cared for your jokes.
the smell of them

makes me sad

like butchers cutting goats.

but we don't know any better
so i guess its ok.

and there is always next time.
i know

because the work schedule is on
the freezer,

and in the hallway,
its not changing anytime soon.

i mentioned the moon...as usual

the mornings bridges bark
inbound,

but that doesn't matter to you
your belly

is full and the heart, just empty enough
to laugh,

and carry conversations about rocks
sold on Polk street

that can break you sideways,
grant silver lips auspices

and reminds the moon to blink
bloodshot pennies

facing tails

looking forward to the next hit.

but brunch was good,
the bus ride home, empty

but you can't blame them for that.
they wake up empty,

unfueled, humming without emission.

it could have been freedom

did we replace the jungle of leaves,
with a jungle of thieves?

for there is plenty of wind in both
and

the ground feels all burdens.

a bold wind can blame the cholera
for chimera,

when the noises heard from opened windows
carries a neutral, nerveless passion

killing you to freedom,
killing me

indifference

and the last bit of child has left me,
was left by me,

in the spring of 97'

its skin dust settles sour
in the lungs of us all.

a moment in waiting tables

you told me you where done.
standing behind

our wall,

shoulders bow bent and
stranded,

holding the weight with surprising
enthusiasm.

"I'm done with now, I could die," you said.
your words, moral and

justified, mumbled between


turning tables like tricks with your
blouse cracked.

your straight teeth teasing, allowing them
to see how lies can

blow luxuries into glass-to gain
light in silence.

and, we make the salted butter in house.

And I knew it was true. because
your eyes where gone,

unfocused

telling me nothing. so I knew it was true.
why not I thought silently,

you've seen
you've tasted

been tasted, with boring tongues;

and its tiring believing
that only sober eyes

see the truth.

I offered you the night,
the skin

required to sleep, but your answer was no.
so there's nothing I can do for you.

water records

i take my contacts out. let them drop
into an old water glass

dusting its circle clean.
its satisfying

to take the day
off the eyes,

to see it floating in jobless water
thats casually leaving itself

to dry.
they say there's memory in water,

and when ripples widen, its wrinkles
are writing down

all the sounds we make. I'll take it soon
to the sink.

letting go, the sounds it keeps,
like water records

we'll both forget,

as it joins itself below the street-
and then the sea.

and the tide
gets high

laughing, yelling our quotes
to the moon.

I hear them too, from my opened window
microphone; only the nouns are verbs and

there is no room for why. but the moon
doesn't get it.

and neither do I, but we both smile
because the ocean is funny.

old noodles

what now clutters palms in rash repair
settles debts with jesters,

spitting loudly, and calling out
bluffs settled by jesters-

when the days where blinks
left to up to

the Sun.

you asked me how we could dine
selfishly-on the flesh, grown

so thick the bacon curls
itself-

and in an instant be strangers.

you ask me with sounds, incomplete

but with purpose,

unmouthed, but leaking through the hole
in your shirt.

you left the party early,
but my jeans still smelt of lipgloss

and the story you told me, about a knight
who slayed a dragon,

and lost the ability to speak.

I know now, that you could never be loved
between stares

and that lunch you spent alone.

I will never know all the bands you think
are cool,

and why you need to be stared at
constantly.

but you could never be loved

will always

be loved by someone
giving it to you hard, like old noodles

stuck to empty bowls,
turning white.

the blood is built to clot. so to not
let the lot of it

leek; into an opened air calvary
branding for keeps-singing,

breathing mischief.

u bleed like passengers in an airplane
sleeping, letting the rain drift off

unnoticed, until the landing strip appears,
on schedule; and then you forget the names

of your neighbors standing in line for taxis
heading outbound.

u bleed like jokes written for lawyers,
balanced,

because its funny when it's balanced.

we are funny, levied between floors and a
lifetime of light

defining shadows
of words uninvented, to keep

the sounds inside

and the hands soft
for touching.

but it feels right to touch. fingers sailing,
north to south, learning everything

there is to know, while the mouth is closed

and nothing is spinning.
not even the watch you keep

on your nose, letting me know
when its time to leave.

coupons and corn puffs

the post man leeks his fury through
wrinkled corners, post marked

passive facility,
posing as ledgers of progress-

but I could never keep a sticker
stuck.
aggressive remarks lend their cents

too colorful to care, how many people
can use a useless

discount;

but I flip through the pages between
bites of corn puffs anyways,

thinking, that's a pretty good deal.

whipping milk from my chin I think of
cashing in on favors given,

like coupons crammed into my mailbox,
unannounced-

shouting, "cut me,

put me inside of your pocket."
so we'll both save a few dimes.

channel hiking

I'll believe you when the locus become friendly,
spelling words from their ears

instead of toes. my nose smells your breath through the
screen in front of me,

through the words in front of you

and a cable of truths
between us.

no longer can I read the eyes of tin
people reading their point of views

on points of cues given to them as paychecks.
you say ad-lib, I say birdie

ad-lib, birdie
ad-lib-birdie
ad-libert-y

actors.

I wear my boots to bed while walking through talking ties,
leaning into syllables, like
girls leaning

into uninterested men leaning into them
for as long as it takes to get off.

then they get off, and the smell of it lingers.
I wonder

If we'll last through the summer, last
through the fall.

a food poem

the belief of shame depends on your belly.
cured from within,

it's soft spoken sanctuary,
exposed the rue-

blinks when blinked at
while the summoner sneaks a smoke break.

these are the days of the Thickener,

swimming in salt.
I'll eat a piece,

when i'm good and ready,
but

the pistachios are burnt, and
I haven't the chips

to fold.

at least we can mend

at least we can mend,
while the day is found short;

finding leverage
in the sands of the past.

forget what you think you might know,
and breath a wind

left by a strength
that surrounds you,

in theory.

forget assumptions of comedy

left
by dreams in the dark,

and build castles with concepts,
written with tears,

and we'll forget the rug burns together.

the birth of book keeping

lets watch the clouds go grey.
cast out the lure

that made gold into lust-
made you into steal

and the story
is to long

to tell.

I would soften you with a kiss
if it meant confer;

but no one uses wood to make boats
anymore-

because its not practical.
or,

because the noise heard
while licking lips

softens the feel of it-

and the sounds are to loud for
resource.

or because I am a bad kisser.

or its not
what you thought

it should be.

I thought it was nice,
but I like it when it rains.

the drops of water sing,
drown themselves into

a short street melody.

see them halo, falling forward
like sleeping fingers-their flesh

cleans foot hole directives-
their memories

growl,
unwitted in their own mutiny
for they are many,

and can't read

the letters read to them
since the birth of book keeping.

or maybe i'm too self involved
to know

what you need
to feel-

to feel.

soaking

soaking, pickled in the saw mill shaving
cure that carried me,

long ways,

towards
a kingdom once ruled by

believers, their thoughts
projecting immunity-the indifference
of slaves-

and I'm reading the paper

online

ignoring the difference.

smile, the doctrine of implant
sees you,

knows your face.

let us go, and we will love freely.

because what are you afraid of?
and,

there is so much to see,
and taste, before

the time,

named serious, complies.

to the witches that where killed...I don't believe in magic, only words.

life is a confection of differences.

to understand
personas at random-

and the jokes they read

play and

spin-onto a listener with
pushy mouths.

or why don't we read anymore?

to love the unlovable shoebox;
emptied

and searching...

filling its space in a day
and there is still the night to come.

disturbed

by the small that affects.

hungry for The Age of Stars to return.

ideas

ideas are safe as long as they are forgotten.
hidden behind a gate

never built to satisfy.
they believe in
sandstorm saviors, and never believed

at first,

the stories told to them by those who believed
the first stories told to them.

they are most dangerous when they learned to read
through the holes in your beard-

left alone to wonder how long it takes
to let lying dogs lie.

because no one eats for free.

ideas are safe as long as they can
spread, like fires adapted,

moving upwards

into the chimney top cap turned black,
and speaking,

teaching debonair-

like my english teachers used to do.
and what did they know.

Ideas are safe in the head, where they belong.

it is the end of the night.
i know it is the end because i am

peeing white. that is to say there is no
yellow.

no more color. only white.

and then the eyes close.

and then black.

and then the
disturbing dreams only a traveler

sees, while searching
through the lines dividing
the forgotten from the televised.

and the news make so much money theses days.

the liberty of saints

the sinners wept. living sounds like
screwing in nails; when all you need

is a hammer.

like a trumpet under Lake Michigan-
channelling comment cards to those

who do not read,
and counting coconuts always takes up

the afternoon...

when there is everything to do and nothing
is single.

their eyes tell you they want you,

but you know their thoughts.
and they are responsible,

and will not take you for themselves.

and you will not feel their skin on yours

and you will not taste their neck.

it makes the sinners weep-more than black berries
after the summer,

more than the rights of spring,

more than jesus,

because he was lucky; and took the liberty of saints
and died early.

something about ants

i try to speak lightly, like walking
on egg shells, hungry,

looking for yolks-

but there is nothing to find but noise.
and breaking broken shells never feels good.

the chatter, attacks in waves,

discounted with coupons, selling adds
to the corner of my minds eye.

I try to walk lightly, like speaking into the

ears of ants, hungry
to please the lover they will never touch-

feeding fatherless offspring, and always moving.

the ankles, wear wrinkled clothing-roll their own cigarettes,
and complain about the weather.

and so i smile lightly, sit lightly, and let fingers do the talking.

its only wednesday

they found a tea cup upturn,
and declared the cabinets clear.

a newborn believer sliced her breath
wide open with a knife previously used for

quality control. the lotus

soil spoiled a concrete coverup, called

in favors, gained when blooming bath salt

butchery.

and its only

wednesday.

hiding in the shadows

the truth is a flower

hiding in a jungle

scheduled for demolition

so that we may wipe our

asses clean.

our feet and mouths

hiding in the shadows

awaiting rues.

i thought it best not to tell you that i'm not the one, for now

for the wages of sin is life.
what doesn't kill you makes you

want more.

what can i say about the mistakes i've made,
but more of the same-

and i've crashed a bike more times than
i care to admit.

and most of the trees will blossom in the spring.

and the songs sung by empty lovers makes
more music than elephants could;

fighting over scraps from the journals of thieves.

and the plans made by sons of gods-or at least
they thought they were.

but what could i know? i went to public school,
where it's better to be lucky in choice

than to know the Truth.

good always comes with the bad, like breathing
the dust of sailors past; traveling into the known unknowns-

and faking bravery,

playing the game of constitution, liberty and
other, "what the fucks," that games hide

to be more enjoyable. because noone knows
how to make their own salads and be happy with

them-i'll keep my plans tight to the chest,
angled, so the light kisses them conscious.

so they'll grow up to be lawyers-
arguing the seas

arguing the depth of law

arguing temperatures seen through the eyes
of estranged boomers

who never learned the meaning of Spring.

move with me

move with me. move to me and i
will call your name. we can be like the power

lost in transistors, unaccounted. kiss my life
Judis lips,

and doom it falsified.
we'll become nameless but unto ourselves.

and time cards will forget us quickly.

believe in me. and i will be the lion
walking the perimeter of our lot.

feed me. to feed yourself. and we will learn to
lie when convenient, to a life that is to afraid

to make love; when love is for the making.

lets burry Easy behind our jokes and live between
the postcards we'lll send

to all that have laughed,

cried or cowered

in the site of Moirai.

i want to dance with you, make tacos on wednesdays
and never where pants on the days

stolen from reasonable substance.

with the bulk of our leisure spent forgotten,
lost between blinks and touches

that seem to last a thousand creation tales-

i could move to you, opened. allow me to
surface the hidden trappings of belief-

stowed away in a thing you've forgotten matters.

move with me. move to me and i will call your name.

NO PARKING: street cleaning from 9:00 am-11:00 am

it's monday, meaning an early rise for
me and the street cleaners-

spinning,
counter clockwise,

turning the leaves

to mulch

when discovered

liable. but i'm not a hugger.
or i wish i wasn't.

and, if the trees hold their breath in winter,

we certainly can. for as long as it takes
to burn up what was covered-

and then, i guess we'll

breathe the difference.

or breathe only on mondays, like my car does,
because its doing fine.

you own a strength inside of you

Ambivalent! screamed the risky night,
you tried to fill your bones;

with nothing more then cups of wine
to drowned the shattered stones.

close your eyes while the music plays,
and throw the bag to them;

to see the lucky winners eyes, you won't,
their broken, sotted, dim.

you expect to find what your looking for,
between a Pabst and Bullet-

or cater to him bathroom stall
snap a shot while you pull it.

beat them all to the punch line volley,
and they will forget your face.

cower like you've learned to do,
and drink to forget the space.

Or recognize the fading light,
that led our race thus far.

built bridges passed the broken rocks,
and channelled burning tar.

built time itself, to laugh it off,
and tapped the tree of thought.

you own a strength inside of you
and it's not the one he's bought.

your broken. ending lives for
pipe lines and houses in the hamtons.

and machines do the trading for you.

what else is my money good for,
but lobster dinners and power

you've grown between your legs
where your needle dick

used to be. And no one cares.

being normal

when the better part of sensitive, reverts
to sequence, like air spoiling fruit;

it's time to rearrange.

selling time to change is hard, like
lighting candles with scapegoats,

and praying for a flame.

i once lit seven cigarettes, at once,
and passing them to friends we shared

the moment.

I once half made love to a girl, who hid
her pain in the nook of her chest; closed

her eyes and wouldn't let me in.

I once cried at the site of an elephants foot,
dried and stuffed, resting in shag carpet

and covered in wax.

I wear shirts of justice, telling stories of
purity,

of letting go
of consequences that have no intension

of following through.

what does
that make me?

normal.

your hat problem

i can not wright anymore, the words,
they have left me.

i see them collecting just outside the tongue,
trading card like jokes

to be used when its their turn to play.

your kisses do
this to me. for a time-for its

when you smile-you leave out the punch line.
like your saving it for something,

for something that won't cut you.

for something worth more then
a night,

more then an itch,

more then christmas in july.

you give something else instead.
something below your neck, below your

freckled skin, and
between the words you used, when we talked
about, how drummers are assholes.

but i won't judge you when you wear hats,
because you think it hides your thoughts

and takes away the feelings secretly
shown in yours eyes,

and keeps the sun out of you.

but before you go i would like to tell you
that i think your funny,

and wouldn't mind it if you stayed awhile;
we could eat some cereal and talk

more about your hat problem.

the coffee table

two cups of coffee, a half eaten bowl of corn flakes
and an overt expression of debility,

conflicts what was,
an otherwise distant coffee table.

when it was younger it kept records
of people passing, and the words each one used to

describe proclivity. but as it aged
with coffee stained wrinkles, it began to loose track

of the many worlds spoken. as time rubbed corners
clean, my coffee table forgot what it was like

to carry lightly objects passed upon it shoulders,
residing instead to hold, with yellow constraint,

strings of frustrate. never cut or untied these strings
stretched, made shadows on the walls and assumed the art.

and now, in shadless excuse,
the morning pretense smiles.

blow me a kiss, and i will keep your hands
busy, belly torn and you can not feel

the sensation. the morning will come,
bringing its single blade of straw, breaking,

and brooming away all the clutter from burdens
past; but not today.

i wear my glasses to bed

i wear my glasses to bed, sleeping still,
to see my dreams more clearly.

to define the leaf from the twig
at distance, and learn in multiple ways

the differences between them.

to rewrite signs and tangled lines, unmanaged
by the view-

seen through eyes, the shapes comprised of
reprimand, broken glasses

and the saltless tears of forgotten dreams.

but in the sake of dreaming awake, i find
the stories enduring,

like a fire burning tricks
like a sandbox shitting on babies
like an onion buried yet blooming
like hell, but in Miami in December.

job hunting

job hunting is like trying to sell cloth to a clothes line.
you have to convince yourself, and the clothes line, that bearing cloth is normal.
is every cloth draped line, bent heavy, swaying in a sunlit afternoon, happier than the others?

the others, standing just as tall.
the others, entertaining birds.
the others, undressed without defense-scaring sheep.

job hunting is your last cigarette rained on.
the wet paper turning clear, exposes the guts.
forcing you to smoke it gently; or through it in the gutter.

it forces you to lie, by telling the truth.
to dance, interpretively, to the sound body language makes, underwater.
I can hold my breath for 30 minuets without laughing.

job hunting is for losers because winners already have jobs.
but if winners have jobs then what's the second job for?
and in the real world you wouldn't have to bleed, just to blink.

a story of the middle

we enter the story in the middle
the middle
being where some stories become not boring

where its beginning to show signs of
something worth telling

worth repeating the story

and thats where it begins
in a sense

the beginning being ignored
applied as
unimportant

or at least
in as far as

the story goes

omitted

it is a story unfinished
the end is unseen

and therefor can not
and should not
be speculated upon

however it is important to note
that an ending is being formed

even now
as the middle progresses
from a beginning

into a middle
and eventually an end

meaning the inevitable demise of
and resolution of
the story itself
and most

if not all
of its unwilling inhabitants

i assure you
all the details will be presented

in order of importance
which may lead the reader into a twisted
albeit predictable ride

the tale
being unpredictable by nature
should exhaust such fumes

of nonsense
choking its participants
its readers

and if its lucky
any ears listening to its retelling

and this is where the story bends
the reader

searching for meaning
in the words
but sadly

i can not go any further
seeing as though

we have now reached the end

i moved on

i moved on,
my legs carried me, as they do.

I walked out, into the path
of a man

drunk, pissing on his shoes,
his knees, cock hanging

freely as he stumbles.

life turns real in the time it takes
to wet your pants

and the street below. life always
appears quickly.

says hello with hatchets, stands
staring behind sunglasses

appearing to stare without sunglasses
waiting with hatchets.

I wanted to turn around.

or do it over
again.

if it was possible I would
have

made me selfish. taking you upstairs
to keep.

but.

I moved on,
my legs carried me as they do.

at best

at best we are heros without capes
looking towards the clouds,

for rhyme, for shapes to move us
and chances to plug

whatever makes us feel important.

at best we are the opened books
being written on windshields,

before it rains. and the street cars
hum; itching for speed.

our songs collecting in ribbons
of water-like veins spelling stories

that always blame the weather
for directions lost. at best

we are a bridge, tunneling through
the wind, repenting to no one,

breasts exposed-fucking
the tide below.

at best we are sexy spring, growing
tall the smell of newness

we are lazy summer, to hot to care

we are fetid fall, killing what can not
endure the labor of winter.

at best we are augment, with nothing
but the past to set us free.

a kiss

a kiss stays trapped, composed, ambiguous
collecting wait

like elephants grazing-but we can not
accept the touch

or breath its air
until there's room in it for the both of us.

there is a first kiss and a last,
ones that lead us to our death

and past, hiding middle ones
on the neck

to be remembered on mondays.

and there are others of course
less interesting kisses. forgettable

moments easily paid for, played for
thrown away in vain for

a cup of accession.

a kiss, tasting like december
and carmax. or cigarettes,

or vodka cranberries, or both.

and morning air kisses, warming
toes in woolen socks,

with you
wiping cold nose off you cheek.

Poetry

Poetry, the effectual lover. She will leave you
for your brother;

drapes torn, while the taste of her is
still on your tongue.

Poetry knows your lies,
collects lies,
makes you believe.

Poetry is a plastic bag in the wind against August.

It is the unkept self in the morning;
with nothing to do but rhyme.

It is the weed pushing, drawing air
deep into its lungs, corrupting,

assuming parking lots.

Poetry makes love in the dark after fucking all day.

It will lame you, lead you,
find your most intimate words,
then leave you.

Poetry is the blind man singing beyond his sight,
a song made for everyone-

and some will not understand.

morning construction

I awoke this morning to the sound
scaffolding makes

against cold hands and sidewalk.

Dimpled backs carried graffitied blocks
both

old enough to remember the days
when Unions gave a damn.

They moved fast, screwed fast,
hanging the nets and blinds before

my coffee boiled, naming it
Tuesday. I always ask

them about the weather; no one
knows it better then a day worker.

They know it like a baker knows yeast;
using their noses and
the feel of the air.

I watched as the new kid awkwardly
thumbed a hammer. Dropped it, in front
of a cute skirt wearing train wreck, walking past

them all-teasing us all. He'll get it
for the rest of the day,

but he had it coming,

the new one always does. When your new
you get it twice as hard, taking the shit
the rest went through,

all the days before you arrived-
just so its even.

Their always trying to make it even.

unfiltered communication

I dreamed my father lived in a hallway,
painting clothes; hiding prose and

a cell phone between lucky strikes. counting
down the hours spent awake, and not

counting at all, days spent asleep.

he was younger then, stronger then, eyes opened
at the edges then.

I saw him planting tones, speaking vowels, reading
words everyone loved to hear. but he stood there,
showing me and

only me his knuckles- painted red like a sound
that covets the tongue; displacing meaning,
displacing thoughts.

displacing what it can.

I turned and stole his pack of smokes-
his words they could not see me-
and, plugged them into the

wall for a chance at unfiltered communication.

parades

a toast to parades. I feel the noise.
the awkward setting arranged to let one stare
unmoved, watching life behind fences,

and catching free candy.
a movement of time,
like shitting on the street but with flowers,

or masks,

or plastic cigars

or elephants

shitting where ever they feel like it.
people dress in franchised clothing,
rented, appealing to fever-

colors, bent by the Sun and group think.

everyone waves. i see you. look at us now.
its fun because its true. its fun because
it doesn't last.

the imagination, the power to speak,
type, create and walk using just two
appendages is what separates us

from them. yet sometimes i'd trade it
all for the ability to shit and fuck where
ever and whenever.

i found it hard to practice care

i found it hard to practice care, even though
the night was young, the tricks, flowing

like the bay to the next mouth awaiting
ruse.

there is mistake in practice, and no one waits
for leaning to curve; leading, persuading entropy-

but you can call it mingling.

i'm good at lighting cigarettes, playing
games of chance and creating holes that

loop, but i'm not good at you, or
me rather, and i've forgotten the cross streets

already.

a joke

late one evening, a man, walking into his house, sees a snail slivering across
his door step; the trail drying behind him as he slowly makes his way.

the man picks the snail up and tosses him into the garden, walking inside
he commences his evening activities unmoved.

a year later the same man sees the same snail gliding passively
across the door with reliable fragility. the man picks up

the snail and asks why he is so persistent. the snail looking
up toward the man, stretches its feelers far into the air and replies,

"go fuck yourself."

-

your mouth opens, surging argue. you feed trains
of thought railroad ties and square traces

of kudos; left to their own demise and
not yet understood. you reck syllables,

comforting enough to fuel oil jets speed; flying,
falling ungraceful.

you smoke and lie awake
fretting, thinking foul mouths end swiftly

but can not be controlled. you
can't please them all. so you please few;

candied tongue severed and aimless...
obtuse and unworthy to touch the one you

wish to please the most. you hum dirty floor
blues, swept

away by the next set of wills filling, foaming
cats tails-a cropped candle burning

with no place to drip.

you grow a beard because you think she'll like it,
but it won't pay the bills.

everything blends

everything blends,

plastic blends if you forget
to look-

saying, "everyone gets tired
sometimes." colors

blend, on the skin, ignoring

how to spell blind
and in the trees, when words

can mean death.

dreams blend, in a clouded
mind, that wakes up tired.

wine blends with everything.

we had fun

we had fun without him.

in the streets, and between the
photographs of saints,

left wing martyrs and pie

at what cost do you please him,
feed him deeds, like his mother did-

keeping him young?
he insults the gift before it is given,
with expectations, using

language of bondage and ignoring
the real.

what a child.

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus...

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus headed uptown
with the boys, Cursory and Chance-

chasing girls and a free ride. Using the back
door they always find their way

into the pockets of Luck,

walking in with shoe strings
undone, bagging table scraps, while

tying up loose ends with the one really in

charge. Abusing their fortunes, and walking out
with whatever their knuckles can carry;

these three, grown tall by affect, smile wildly
in the trail of their impassive bane.

To connect outside the fold is cautioned,
feared at worst, allowing the prognostic

smell of mumbled words repeating
soak the air and

leak into my now undrinkable wine.

To the blenders at Dairy Queen or why is your skin so hard

I burnt my wrist on the oven, thinking to
much of the beer thats waiting for

me at your place, when this shift is over.

By your place, I mean the bar your always at,
drinking until the lights go up; more drinking

at mine-and its always the same.

If we danced in my kitchen would
you remember?

Cold floor kids like Dairy Queen blenders,
spinning cream and sweetener until

it feels good, and the skin hardens itself-

insides melting and uncompelled.

Can I help the next in line...please?

The Faces

The Faces looked blue behind second hand sunglasses,
walking up Mission St, wondering what
life was like when the

bus was a nickel. The Faces try to hold the night
in their eyes, but can't.

Its on their knees, their sleeves, on the dirty
street torn bags found

rolled up and sticking out of answerable pockets-

obliged to carry god knows what, and other tools
to survive.

The Faces have names but are not spoken, brief
substitutes loaned to them by nature, pose creative

boundaries and spelt wrong,
with syllables swimming through

the air unlingering; dying before my coffee
gets cold.

The Faces breath, but no one seems to care.

Pallid Eyes

When you called me, I couldn't listen
the signal between your phone and

mine gave me mixed feelings of cajole
and being pierced; like when I was

young, feeding thin steal through skin-
watch it dangle there,

a fingertip motif- to be apart
of something.

But no one understood then.

They said Art was for fags, so I
drew a forest in the snow, it's

cold breath weening rain clouds,
and mix precipitation.

So you can understand now, why
I don't listen the first time, or the

second.

because of the fools, with no Art,
and their pallid eyes.

The plot is made best with a twist

The plot is made best with a
twist, settled neatly behind

a point, neasled between few
words and empty lighters.

I remember there being more
light, but it was probably just

the bite weakening, flowing away
like New York, or the Earth before

we descided it was ours.

The scent of your neck makes me
sin, but thats not the point. I liked

it when we drank last, you mentioned
your plans and I thought you were

pretty. The image of you between
me and Jersey makes me remember

when I was a child, fighting trees with
sticks and calling it war.

Guilt is clever, like ashes leaving its mark
on your jeans, and catching the last wind

uptown, staining the Bay Bridge until Spring,

when we all get to feel the Sun.

books in the corner, thoughts in the air

Sitting still, unafraid, and spoiling the game of
time, the words lay,

lounged, paper back lined and breathing.
I count the curled corners of pages turned,

as Fall turns leaves, writhing into Winter, and another
one tossed

into the pile.

I easily forget the words written, winged from the writers
woes, stamped for a lifetime on the pages I read;

but the soul of it stays in mind, whispers, guiding my
thoughts and busy fingers.

There's Books in the corner and thoughts in the air,
reading is the easy part, the hard is to care.

Vague is the sound of confidence

Vague is the sound of confidence. Stealing
cliched tones and buying time form
the only guy who sells it.

Vague is the opposing alternative to silence;
it keeps the breath fresh while
clouding the air.

Vague does not care, after the moment
has passed, who's life was just
changed.

Vague lathers, forgets to rinse, but
always repeats.

Vague never disappoints.

Vague should be shaken before used,
and chilled when not needed.

Vague is the color of the Sun, when I
am asleep, dreaming of coastlines
bleeding from the stars.

Vague are we in the night.