Bed Time

I do not know how many songs there are
about bodies laid upon bed sheets, but it is fair
to assume that the thing that occupies so much
of our time, must be thoroughly documented.

The nights where I have the energy
to realize that I am a thing, a sordid collection of
conflicted and purposed parts
forged in times separated from each other by years
and events that shear consciousness
like white hot wire through styrofoam come rarely
and this is one of them:

To touch and feel the skin
gripping lean thighs and eyes widening when I
realize that it is, all of it, muscle and mine.
That these curves, hard up to the same layer
of brown and tan scar and hair too fine to see
at hip shoving this way and that against veins and
jutting hip bone is mine.  Knee torn and reborn and
scar tissue thicker than, who knows what, from
falls doing things hard and angry and impassioned and
unforgivably reckless.  The fall and rise of solar plexus
against a heart, one size too big, and beating hard enough
to get the only complements I can remember
from nursing staff, laughing at my levity and
quietly doubting my sanity in looping notes.  These
are all mine.  These fans of fingers and ribs leaved
with webbed musculature and a liver side that swells
against walls of sadness and roads of veins and a
stomach like a wishing well
with no water
and a heap of metal gathering rust.
All mine.  And feeling and prodding and watching
toes wiggle in ways I used to despise, but have
learned to love because they are
the stars of every show I manage to go to, and all mine.

More than anything, I guess, in this time of half and un
dress, it is a joy to be the acquainter, the match maker
between me
and the rest of myself.

Greetings

Ambition ran high,
higher than
the deaf wino
standing to the wind
on a stolen mountain bike
downhill to the intersection
and the ambulance en route
to another disaster.
I waved.
They missed each other,
but not because of me.

He waved back.

I'm never all that outraged
seeing them steal,
I suppose, what is nice,
is to think that for those
taught seconds
maybe there was something
thrilling through his bones
that he could genuinely feel.

Body Double

One of those evenings
in the zippered tent of August
where you feel for the seams
to let the god awful humidity out
and end up fingering
the tightly sewn seams of your own torn skin.

Rosaried silent recitals,
that maybe some of the water
so abundant outside your hide
might come in
and evaporate against the pile
of your heart
and turn klaxons
to quiet, sleep rivered, hymns.

Device

I touch my thick skinned palm
to the side of my face
where the hair on my cheek grows thinner
from the hours spent pressed to a mattress
dead asleep and wonder
at the cracks and hairs of ripped,
yet to be work stripped, knobs of callous
where the knuckles join with crooked digits.

I ask myself  what those hairs and cracks
meant to the side of your ribs and the skin,
thin and charged and contiguous and
river bed cool, there.

I do not answer and slip
instead to dreams.  To the calming heat of
solid steel against steel, shining bright
where the red and white warning paint has worn away,
pressing along my forearm like a boa
searching for my throat.  The perfection
in her build.  The cleanliness in the depression of
her switch that guns the ram down and
flushes hot air, like a shower I have yet to take,
where my shoulder touches
the die on its slow upward climb.  Holding me
there, hand inside the mouth, broken skin
to a smoothness I used to understand
in human terms.

Fly Dye

I wear my pants big and my shirts small and
keep hi-fi extra long plays of h.f.s.tival days in a deck
next to my loser remix ep by beck.
I'm a walking 16 bit throw back to years
when tears for fears went heads up to violator
and terminator X was tag trending up in sample
mixes and Lando still sold beers and all
anyone wanted to talk about was foil
embossed marvel comics fleers and clear slammers.
Got shades from the days when urkel used to stammer,
and baloo's only bear necessity was
a good set of spanners and a boozed out nap
to keep sky pirates at bay
and doug funny could still be had if
you did your chores the night before and got up
early Saturday. My shoe strings are as fat as
the orange lasagna cat drawn to cells
and when my cellphone rings it's
the god damn muppet babies theme.
I hum super mario world seven dash two
while I polish my louvered 280z
painted in optimus prime red
and silverstreak blue parked outside my house
tucked up next to my cutlass,
with its windows tinted darker than darkwing duck
and looking meaner than my decepticon tattoos.
I don't rock tie dye or g-unit bras,
cash millionaire chains or sagged out skinny jeans,
faux nerd glasses or nikes filled with exotic gasses,
but when you see me you'll know
where I'm from and exactly why
to this day I'm still pretty fuckin' fly.

Let's All Get

Today is Thursday
which means-

It's Sunday.

What?

It's Sunday.

It is not Thursday?

It's Sunday.

Where have I been?

I don't know.

Well, today is Sunday
which means-