-

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.