HellSpeak

With my ear pressed

into the back of her neck

I heard

          I heard a pulse;

whether ‘twas hers or mine

I do not know

but it was fast and arrhythmic

like cars.

Cars like wasps flailing

about the intersection

waiting

          waiting to tell you

          a thing or two about sadness.

And I’m stuck

stuck trying to start my apartment

with my car key.

Three seconds gone,

but goddamn

you’d swear it was four

for counting on you

          I’m counting you on

the walls

walls that have discovered

a tenured footprint

somewhere.

          Somewhere

sparkling water will sustain you

better than tap

dance water

but it’s not yet 1

          I’m not yet drunk

you’re not yet fun.

Fata Morgana

Dissecting the moon

beneath the corpse orgy

you’re on the

other

side of the blizzard

inventing

a beautiful  way

to say no.

Because you’re still

sick from the mirror

hidden

in the anorex:

recurring nightmares

doowop songs

stalking.

I want to softly snarl

softly into the nape

of your neck

because your spine

is holding

you’re back.

Jeffery (can't) Drive

From within a dim light cast

two silhouettes on the shade

70 miles pour hours

emblazoned down the window

on those drying streets that peer

listless into your cold room

onto your dying sheets

And I stood there on the corner

where the pale green things

met the asphalt; two years nonethewiser

wondering why I’m not the guy

who’s silhouette’s on the shade.

            “Because monogamy is the 5^th season”

forever shadow-caressing the blade

along your arm’s arm.

Striking, isn’t she?

Striking in her gauze-white gown

Striking out

is she

as she projects like eclipses

her silhouette on the shade.

And your keychain feels lighter

when the miniature flashing Chicago skyline

fell off in deep November

          No longer numbering our days

          murmuring me away from your silhouette on the shade.

Imagine living in a state of constant exhalation

Now imagine living.

And Now, Further West

If delirium

broke

like fevers

if this rabid

scrambling

of insidious want

became logically

sane

If rationale

turned its gaze

to awake effervescently

on a bright spring morning

without succumbing

to dark

winter mourning

if your name was

I’m Here

and

To Stay

was more than a melting

block of ice

with no shade

in the black June sun

in the blacker June regret.

Then you could buy me

three months of calm

before the panic

inevitably crept back up

my amygdala.

Jesse West II

I encountered you

at 4:37 p.m.

on the last day of June

somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

I daydreamed

past the nausea I usually feel

the first six seconds

when I see you.

A comforting old friend,

Nausea,

because it means

my eyes and heart

are swimming

circles around you

wishing different moons

were above us;

a moon that sweetly drags

you

with the tide

upon my dark shore.

But here

under this moon;

our wretched

patronizing moon

I am screaming

at windshields

decaying exponentially

faster than you

sleeping unsoundly

insomniatic

without you

on another

black cloud.

Nocturnal Panic Disorder

And that would require

all the terror

I possess

to wake up

in cancerous dark

staring at her

closed, lifeless eyelids

convinced she is either

a shark

or a demon.

Midwestern

Apocalyptic

Summer

Killing

vampiric orgasms

revolving

in the resolution.

With every passing

ghost

dream,

the crow;

black dream.

Jesse West (a gram of ana)

Ah;

in a chilled raven

hence…

A Maisonic Encounter

these prolific moments of sadistic motion
washing the palpitations
whispering in cold afternoon.

sundressed, the mourning;
frivolous revelations
breathing is starkissed.

Just open your glittering
Eyes enough to
Suffocate me in
Sweet serenity

three
minutes
more

on this
the most wondrous
eve of mediocrity

and we're surrounded
by drunken ghosts. 

Involuntary Inhalations

Another broken summer;

another dream about a storm.

A colder wind

with every quicker mile –

a wraith screaming

sweet staccato

like shovels shattering

porcelain.

All the poetry

has wolves in it;

gusts of wind

like heart arrhythmias.

All the wolves

have poetry in them;

dreaming

like your brain

is still buffering.

If only the world

were sepia toned…

Ethereally sad

and gothic

and cold

and dreary

something nostalgically

depressing

in dead sepia.

Queen Size Coffin

And we run

but our words lie

flat.

So much so –

I’ve fallen in love

with the sound

of falling down.

No melody

as unmercifully

beautiful

          translucent

                   ethereal

as hitting the concrete

during the downpour;

blood running

thicker than water –

our bloodwater

running away

without us.

Lacerate & Puncture

What a warped midnight;

some winter version

of an alternate Thursday.

Nothing was right

on the wine-stained carpet

nothing was wrong

on the blood-stained ceiling

nothing was found

on the sky blue sheets

frostbitten near the window

ice instilled on gray

Grey inscribed

on the creases of your sleep.

A crown

a cask

a collective effort

of counterfeit conundrums;

I can’t unearth

your misery

for another afternoon.