Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Bright Spring Mourning


I’m having
some sort of reaction
to myself;

rooted a paranoia
in my blood
so deep

it can never
be dug out.

And there’s just enough light
coming from the television
to illuminate
and affirm

my unstable
fleeting sanity.

Is mania
the cause of medication
or is medication
the cause of murder?

Murder is
the cause of mania;

definitely mania
because of murderous
misanthropy.

Stagger
          scatter
                   and scramble.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Sick Nostalgia

Simultaneous screwdrivers
in my brain
my liver;

a combination
cirrhosis-aneurysm:

fairly common
in the twilight
before blinking.

When clouds are close
enough to reach
up and caress;

the dread
that accompanies
a false
but albeit

convincing death.

Phantom Pulsations

There's blood
in the milk;

a satin coffee stain
from a styrofoam cup
on a newspaper
is sick
nostalgia;

childhood anxiety
that runs
in the deepest abyss
of your stomach.

I bit the inside of my lip
until I tasted blood,

but I had siphoned
so much of the night

my blood had turned black

running invisible
beneath the stars.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Photon Band


We’re clearing the cold
from these mesh screens.

I’m saving it
scraping it
salvaging it
for winter

when the flannel sheets
grace our bodies
and make us sweat.

If I open the windows
in the scared scars of dark

sultry delirium

to let the icy breeze in
and swoon me back to your arms,

will you promise
not to fly away?

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Demise of Kerouac

Whiskey and malt liquor
at 11 a.m.

or mountain climbing
and spiritual revelations;

maybe both,
or maybe
one won
over the other
one.

Blood poured
from his mouth
faster than
his rising fame
and new label - 

Father of the Beat movement:

A label and a fame he equally despised.

"Something good will come
of all things yet."

But blood won't clot
with a damaged liver.

"Live, travel, adventure, bless,
and don't be sorry."

...and don't forget
to drink yourself into the grave.

Your lifetime of scenery
won't
can't
save your cirrhosis
from a lifetime
of tequila margaritas.

here

there

in the sky

on the road;

"Stella,
I'm bleeding."

Friday, August 10, 2012

Mo(u)rning Dew

The sky was bluish-gray
more blue
than gray...

maybe glue?

My brain couldn't decode
what my eyes were seeing:

happiness being found
in misplaced things;
misplaced happiness -

the mast
the sails
the millions of trees

that aren't speckling
the ocean;

the forest in the boat on the sea.

Some exaggerations
some understatements
some both.

A vision - quite like you -

that got too vivid
too perfect
too beautiful
to bear.

Monday, August 6, 2012

there, here, it's you


there’s a storm coming;
there’s a storm here.

there’s a horizon falling
there’s a grey mess blackening.

here’s where I stood and
here’s where nothing is wrong.

here’s when I see dissonance
here’s when it doesn’t exist.

it’s freely flailing
it’s rattling around my cranium.

it’s a ghost, a mirage, a phantom;
it’s effect is more real – more traumatic – than death.

you’re freely hovering
you’re still scrambling on your own.

your inhibition is plaguing and
you’re killing me and
you’re healing me and
you’re killing me.

Friday, August 3, 2012

The Magic Bullet Theory


…and tonight,
well,

we don’t even have
enough time
to settle in

and say goodbye.

Still sweating from the sodium –

we’re creating
future nostalgia now.

Hopefully
the subconscious can
considerately

and considerably

warp the reality of waking thought
to where I don’t
understand it at all.


Too many years standing
in the same hot water
gave me an arrhythmia;

terror stretch descending compression.

$1500 for a Broken Elephant Piano


and if you really love me,
you’ll take this icepick
and jam it through
my parietal lobe.

You’d think sleep
would be the reset button
to all my anger;

false news – not to be used
as an anti-coagulant.

The miserable misanthropic
young man
that was once a hero…

but that was a lie.

A Silhouette Sobbing


A paranoia
on one death

preventing me
from concerning myself
with another.

One kiss
from cold
engraved marble

on my unprepared
lips

was not the goodbye
I envisioned…

not from you.


We’ll turn off
the physics here;

in the realm
of inverted gravity

gas plummets
(as/and) we rise.

Spoon in the Mulch


1.

This plane’s going down

and all the runways
are in rehab:

a miracle
or a tragedy –

 a miracle
 of a tragedy.

We skyrocketed
quickly
to the clouds

and obliterated
a series of horizons

but seriously

screw those clouds
and fuck those horizons.

2.

Did you say footsteps
or foodstamps?

A tantrum thrown
in complete silence.

Listening to Asia
at 6 a.m.;

nothing is more delicious
than mac n’ cheese
when you correct it
effectively.

Mindmeld

Hers is the name and place where time stands still. But you’re so far away it makes me claustrophobic. I a blessed earth man a man of blessed earth am your pitch-black darkness in the cold dead of night and you’re the nightmare I (live/love) to dream. Your touch cures every (one of my) daymare(s). But sometimes you don’t exist for 8 hours at a time – sometimes I can’t function funk shun without with you.

Psychosomatic Auditory Hallucinations


11.

Too much blood
in the melody
and the melody’s
on fire.

This is why
and when –

smoking again
in dreams.

You gave my life purpose
and I’ll never forgive you for that;

making time go by faster
but so much more
than someone to merely pass the time.

1.

Mini-dream
of you
curled up cold
in my bed;

reminded me of that road
by your house…

the smell of which
made me happy,

and then sad.

The road
always
inevitably
ends.

Poise: On


I saw something in the sky:

maybe it was the clouds
cracking

or a slice of descending
evil
descending;

I can’t be sure…

Communicating with an
ethereal phantom
this past month
has been terrifying.

Like something out of
your worst daymares…


the sky bluffing a miracle
of secret storms
and sekrets…

you’re alone
in a world of unrest

like a hot glass of ice
trying to expedite
the creation of water.


But a bee won’t fly
to Iceland
to deliver a message
to a sailor.

At the Corner of “Hope” and “Home”


One street is a sanctuary
and one is a sunrise.

There had never been
a more lethal storm
on the fraying skyline.

I drove through it –
half-bewildered
half-asleep;

half-seconds
were half-hours.

When I finally rolled
past the wind and gravel

you were illuminating
your front lawn

with eyes like soft diamonds
cutting through the incurable dark;

lips seducing the moon
to break from its orbit.

Your hair came down
upon me –

cascades of every breath
I couldn’t summon

at the corner
of Hope and Home.

The Heir of this Knight


the air on this night
was thicker than usual.

the panic was like a fever
that wouldn’t break
and kept trying to raise its peak.

eventually
it broke
with a warm
sultry sweat.

the manufactured vortex
was doing just enough
to sustain the frail
fragile window of comfort.

a delirium trigger
condescending
reality
out there.

every ache was a memory
of some hurt I had once inflicted;

every one unintended,
but every one easily avoidable.

every one I want to amend,
every one I’m not sure if I can.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the fever’s aftermath lingered
for a few minutes.

you descended from your cloud
to bring me solace.

solely to bring me solace.

there has never been an encounter
with this goddess that didn’t cure me.

every hopeless winter
with dreary dark gray
and cold bitter death

is at once a virgin sky
that sets fire to
the wretchedness of my nightly deaths.

untitled_071912(2)


I was always saddened
by the scars of the morning.

there never was
a never was.

for the ghosts
of the mirage

for the mirage
of ghosts.

bleed out the miles
between now and serenity.

600 onlookers in distress
60 screaming stars
6 more skies in shock.

oh, great believer,

make me believe
that you aren’t so full of shit.

untitled_071812


how long before life support
becomes death torturing?

repent
repent
repent
repeat.

prayers for hope
ignored for prayers of demise.

and if you hope for demise
then listen:


woke up to the sound of pouring rain…

untitled_071912


and when I closed my eyes
and had seven of my biggest fans
simultaneously simulating serene
wind at my back

I felt like I was in the clouds.

a mere spec of smile
blowing through the vast
space over miles of plains;

lush and a lush.

when sleep is always far off
and the insomniatic crimson
is constantly consistent

retreat here with me
and dream the storm
is further than we can reach.

Panacea


Gravity graces us with fear
and aligns us with treachery;

too many close calls
with hydroplaning –

a déjà vu
I wish I never knew.

But I sang
that brief wave home.

Invincibility is a golden leader
with many followers
and no survivors.

The dark blue
before dawn was piercing –

acknowledging that darkness,
I wanted nothing more
than to descend into
its seductive slumber…


but some goddamn creature
stares at me
well after I’ve pretended
to fall asleep.

This Clay Myrrh


The knife went clean
through my skull

and just enough
to puncture my pillow

case about a quarter
of an inch

or so:

the routine
existential crisis
before nightmares –

always on cue.

I became so wide-awake
in a moment of self-induced
fear and paranoia

it was embarrassing.

The next four hours
were something of
a nocturnal sunrise;

Dvorak had some idea
but was still far off,

withdrawing all the things
that withdraw me from sleep
including this.

Ambivalent Ambulance


envious of some impossibilities
and treading this speckled terrain
like a scared little kid.

She had just slid down
and closed her eyes
and I wished I knew how she did it.

I couldn’t get inside
her dancing mind;

she didn’t know that
she was living the way
one ultimately should:

a flawless blemish
on the decrepit human race.

Her wagon hitched
to endless stars
and every road lined
with serenity.

She didn’t see me as the anchor,

not yet,

but as soon as she did,
she’d be just fine.

something something prologue/epilogue


already given up

just waiting for the right time to show it.


Every haiku
drifting on the Atlantic
and every second

I wish you were gone

because I’m not worth
your goddamned time.

Ass-tarnish-mint


Watching night
turn into day
enough times
can drive a man

mad.

I see detailed visions
of places I’ve never been before.

And I’m without you.

Still collecting
plastic memories
and recollections
and glue.

But after August
I’ll start to recycle them –

you’ll be gone then.


Elude the affliction;

sick of Drearytown.

I’ve been driving
for too long today.

I’ve been driving
for too long.

I’ve driven myself
somewhere unsafe.

I’ve driven myself
somewhere insane.

title borrowed from market fresh pastry filling


at first, the thought of disinterest
with everything is terrifying.

and the overabundance of analytical
reasoning really ruins moments before they begin.

they never begin benign
but rather align themselves
with the malice of logic.

and now I’ve bored myself
with the disinterest of my disinterest.