Between alpha-thoughts,
Warhol sucks limes,
where Pontiac and derivatives of art-freedom,
levitate,
sacrosanct.
Baroque patterns of chaos and free will,
march (loyally) to the array of micro-trumpets;
so as to live with words once again.
Bio-chemical mindscapes,
known as songs to the self,
obtain merit badges (Allende was a Scout too).
‘Allouette’ the hopeful derivatives,
of gallery momentum,
or reverse migrate where required,
to a new ritual of orange.
Carriage of Aztecan brass shapes,
un-art that ‘old thing’,
and caffeine ‘some something’,
in the meantime.
The manuscript aims to debunk,
grammarian sticklers and bonehead Lords of the ‘art-world’,
word-worlds away.
Quantum cliche hipsters take un-ironic geometry sets,
to angle-find America,
where crows and Eden un-spawn the metaphysical,
to infinity.
Triangulate the set-list,
for bushy tailed humanimals,
and orphans of field-guide aesthetics;
Tree-diagrams set forth the monster conundrum,
where hummingbirds quelling,
quill squirching non-sense.

You hung up your wings
took a sharp left
there was no panic in your heart
as you opened the door to exit

You hunched over the edge
your life was too short to remember that much
and that canvas hundreds of feet below – momentarily
will be the final painting of your collection

When you fall you will recall
your corruptive way of life
your pawned reality
and your children created out of spite

Cheap whiskey afternoon delights
Soggy plays with complete unknowns
Dia De los pinche muertos
and how you always knew you would die alone

We will immortalize you and talk about you while
sipping Starbuck’s house coffee
and in the bite of a blueberry muffin
the subject will change

We’ll eat mom’s homemade tortillas without flinching
and she’ll still praise her most prized failure
the glorious splatter of your blood hitting the ground
and the sadness of a boyhood smile that never endured

The others will know that you made it in by default
It was me who did not let you be forgotten or become insignificant
Someday you will acknowledge it
You were the Earth of the Salt.

When my 21-gun salute commences…watch out…they’ll be aiming at you.

I return to spike the live-long morning
Dull brained, mush mouthed, drunk in dread
For burn bright egg goo gore made burn of morning here and now.

What yellow is this morning?
Buzz bomb, vibrant, fuzz fused hum
Of lusty malcontented heat (for me)
: The nothing, stillborn, nil and null.
Of blue-gray splotch of absent goop
Un-enlivened by this tempest morn

Whose but burden does this day provide?
Possession all of fancy, this, a rude red shine of vibrancy

Scream stiff insisted honesty
from one
who lulls
And fights to dine
alone into the night.

i hadn’t seen her in two years when she came
over on thanksgiving.
it was glorious and foreign and awkward for me
all at the same time, so my best shot
at succeeding
was to be myself and cross my
fucking fingers
and pray to the gods that i could do things right
for once in my life.
and for the most part i did;
we joked and told stories about the old times.

when you’re young, the twisted feeling in your guts
heals itself like a shallow papercut. the lump putting
pressure on your throat disappears in an hour. i miss
those days.

when i was young, i was conditioned for emotional
numbness; before i knew the definition of apathy, it
had defined me. my mother taught me to
believe
that loving relationships were based on a certain
standard.

my mind was very fucked up.

at 18, i would sneak out between my classes and snort
shitty cocaine off of a frisbee golf disc. i would peel the
coating off of oxycotin pills, and boil those fuckers down;
i felt no fear as i was putting those chemicals
into my bloodstream with my diabetic
friend’s needles.

i never learned if the coating to those pills was made out
of plastic material or some kind of hard rubber. it felt like a mix
of the two between my fingernails as i scraped the
extended release portion of the pill off and flicked it into
the carpet of my car’s floor.

the last time i called her was the night after senior prom.
i felt like i was the executioner
at the edge of the guillotine, pulling the lever that made
the blade fall. i wonder if any of those men ever felt remorse
or thought about the evil inside of them. i hope not; i don’t wish
that pain on anyone.

she pulled up on thanksgiving in her mother’s car. she flashed
an all too familiar smile as she strolled towards me. i froze.
my heart asked me,
“is it okay if i stop now?”
i told him, “not yet.”

the rest of the night was easy – laughter, eye contact;
i brought her drinks like i was
trying to save a parched rose garden with a thimble.
i walked back and forth between the kitchen and the living room
with tumblers full of vodka-7s again and again.

we were sitting on the floor.

“let’s go.”

i’ll never forget her saying that as long as i live.

fuck.

i walked her backwards into the bedroom and we fell on my bed.

now, almost a week later, both of my cats are crawling
over me as i wonder what went wrong
between then and now.
there is an indescribable pressure behind
my eyeballs in the front of my skull.

i haven’t looked at this poem for a day between
the last line and this line. i look out
my window and see the dim glow of the stars as a collective entity in the sky.
“shit, i’m bummed out,” i think.

i miss driving in the country, and my grandfather’s smile.

when will this catastrophe seem irrelevant?

she left the day after thanksgiving at 9:00 am and
we hugged goodbye.

i walked back into my apartment and loaded
a bowl in my pipe.

what the fuck else was there to do?

It’s been days since I’ve eaten anything
and still I sit on the pot
and the sound of absolute silence is
fucking
deafening.

The latest issue of that poetry rag I’ve been reading
is the only thing
that keeps me company
as I expel the remainder of last night’s binge
from what is left of my bowels.
Which according to my GP
isn’t much.

I don’t wash my hands after I shit
because I wasn’t raised that way;
and I think about that and I go back and wash my hands
like someone is watching me make a fool of myself.

The sound of nothing is maybe the loudest sound possible
because it means the opposite of everything that is.
But I only hear it for a moment and then
the sound of my brain washes in again
and reminds me of the 12 hours I spent working today
and the miniscule amount of shit I actually accomplished.

There’s something to be noted about the feel of a 40 that’s half empty;
about how you can run your hand down the side and instantly transition
from room temperature to absolute, fucking intoxication
and still feel as bad about yourself as you did before the night began…
sitting on the toilet, reading poetry,
feigning intelligence like someone is watching you read poetry
while you drop a few unwanted pounds.

Mother
of
Montmartre
Mother
of
pearl
Paris is your oyster
Black waves
at
your feet
In
your heart
a shelter

Driving to the new dentist’s office
the slow drive of a new place
with the McDonalds that I don’t go to
on the left, the mall two miles away.
The Courthouse and the Old Courthouse
road signs that break apart, the fork in the road
that looks nothing like a fork or a spoon, in fact
at best, maybe a knife bent in a dishwasher
that leans to one side. And I know the dentist
will ask about my last visit and want to know
in months that I can’t say some time ago
and I know he will ask me about flossing
and saying when I’m in the mood won’t be
the appropriate answer.
He will call out my cavities
as if they were names in a class.
I brush my teeth before going in.
It’s like cleaning before the cleaning person
but I don’t want him to know I keep an untidy
mouth. That I am the type of person who shoves
things in the closet before guests arrive.

Wheel me down to the shore
where the lighthouse was abandoned
and the moon tolls in the rafters.

Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.

I was never able to pray,
but let me inscribe my name
in the book of waves

and then stare into the dome
of a sky that never ends
and see my voice sail into the night.

From behind the counter, she asked me if I wanted a sample. It took me five seconds to realize she meant the hot pocket sandwich she had just baked. I took the bite-sized morsel of sourdough bread stuffed with ham and provolone cheese. As I chewed it, I looked her over and devoured her honey-spun blonde hair, caramel-colored eyes, creamy complexion, and her slender body. I said it was delicious. She blushed. I ordered a café con leche. She told me to come back soon. I didn’t. It would have ruined that moment. It was the most sensuous meal I have ever had.

Behind a clear, glass veil
Facing a snarling, spitting sea
And the dim shadow of Georges Island
I spent nine dollars
From Mother’s retirement cheque
On gelato down at the bay
Birra Moretti in a coffee cup
And for a frat boy twist
Greek fries with chopsticks

Outside this farmer’s market
A distant cousin with payot and a suit of sky-by-night
Nods his head and fedora in a courtly fashion
To the bag boy and his toil

And the train enters and do-si-dos
With kindred spirit trains
To the strain of whistles blown
For dream time