I can see the wind
coming down the gray and double yellowed road
like a woman possessed
to spin in violent synchronization
to the beat of my heart, winter licked.
She comes and keeps on
coming down the road ahead,
screaming with speed and
enough speed in her veins
to strip the skin from the face of my unblinking reality.
I play
chicken in the cold and
try not to blink while she
spins her whips like a shrapnel barbed skirt and
winks like sparks from a summer time trip midst fireflies
before dying against the panes of window glass
the way I watched you go through
on that summer trip
and I stared at those double yellow lines
for hours. Running.
original works of parts
Titanic State
There is you.
There is the other you.
There is the other other you.
There is the you with work ethic and acumen.
There is the you with star eyed stupidity.
The you that will try everything once.
The you that never leaves the house.
The you that only does laundry if it is raining.
There is the you that never uses the bathroom.
There is the you that never eats.
There is the you that only sleeps.
There is the other you that never sleeps.
The you that never tries anything.
The you that must sit if he is eating.
The you that always is believing.
And we are working.
Working hard
on titanic state society
where there are one thousand separate hulls
to shield our heart from sea mountains and berg's sprees.
One thousand breakers and dead man switches
for every human being lost to sea.
Destroy the one to face another,
our core assured never to smother
as we ply the waves and heave the coal,
fire, more fire, to the moon
touch the rays of our white hot soul.
Split the stars and peel the tar
from the way of night,
come the daggers, all at once,
we are full speed without eyes,
cut the fabric, tear the silk,
with melted stone plume, coral, and ice,
we are titanic, the unsinkable,
the one never to be unright.
There is the other you.
There is the other other you.
There is the you with work ethic and acumen.
There is the you with star eyed stupidity.
The you that will try everything once.
The you that never leaves the house.
The you that only does laundry if it is raining.
There is the you that never uses the bathroom.
There is the you that never eats.
There is the you that only sleeps.
There is the other you that never sleeps.
The you that never tries anything.
The you that must sit if he is eating.
The you that always is believing.
And we are working.
Working hard
on titanic state society
where there are one thousand separate hulls
to shield our heart from sea mountains and berg's sprees.
One thousand breakers and dead man switches
for every human being lost to sea.
Destroy the one to face another,
our core assured never to smother
as we ply the waves and heave the coal,
fire, more fire, to the moon
touch the rays of our white hot soul.
Split the stars and peel the tar
from the way of night,
come the daggers, all at once,
we are full speed without eyes,
cut the fabric, tear the silk,
with melted stone plume, coral, and ice,
we are titanic, the unsinkable,
the one never to be unright.
To Fall In Love With You
I am in no state
conducive to
falling in love with you
all over again,
the actionable words being
"all over"
because I am forgetting
the way it all came apart at the seems
like all those evils
within me are back seating in an attempt
to make sorbet in June
feel like February winter,
but honestly I am
still broken
and falling in love is exactly that.
Falling once again,
except my broken
wrist and sutures
for the compound fracture
will be less love's arrival as much as a departure,
another slip away of naivete's
rose budded, coke nosed, alright, this time really counts,
yellow brick rail roaded
goodbye.
Bandage
You wear them
to make the recognizer
in their head see
a contiguous face
with acceptable breaks
in its continuity.
Perhaps not its contiguity
as much as
the ability
to see a face beyond,
in lieu of,
its breaks. Though the bandages do
hinder healing
I wear them
because a smile gained
is a smile
loved. And to be loved
is worth every gram of cloth and salve
kept in a backpack
toted for rainy days
refusing to end.
to make the recognizer
in their head see
a contiguous face
with acceptable breaks
in its continuity.
Perhaps not its contiguity
as much as
the ability
to see a face beyond,
in lieu of,
its breaks. Though the bandages do
hinder healing
I wear them
because a smile gained
is a smile
loved. And to be loved
is worth every gram of cloth and salve
kept in a backpack
toted for rainy days
refusing to end.
The Knock
He is the changer,
stranger danger, danger made
strange by
familiarity made
grow-esque in dreams,
peen hammered dreams,
that rattle
if you shake them hard enough
when you are awake enough
to know that you are still dreaming
and a wise man once said
lock the doors if you want
to live long enough
to know that death is upon shoes sans
so change your songs
regularly. And your socks. Someone is
searching for you and
one day they will be there
by the grace of God
to help you close the door.
Holding your breath
in my mouth
makes me giggle
because it is so obviously not my own,
the taste is
rank. The rivets are flying out of the sheet
metal on my dream machine and
ricocheting off of
the bullshit kindnesses and courtesies and
whorish humors of chums. I don't know whether
to answer the door or
ignore the
the
the
the answer to the question being
the seeing of a threat that has yet
to bloom and the warning of
an answer I am prepared to accept
because I cannot protect myself.
The knock. The knock. The fucking knock.
Kiss me, would you? The only thing
distinct from dreams. Tell me I am a wake
and I will carry on, alive, my heart
carrying more weapons
than a zombie shelter and ready
for everything worse than
the knocks of hand that
do not exist
against my door and windows locked.
Locked and locked and locked.
And still they get in;
beautifully
intricate
ways they have to pray
to locks and slips of steel against steel sleeves,
each entry able to make a new angle to the tilt
and unable to leave.
stranger danger, danger made
strange by
familiarity made
grow-esque in dreams,
peen hammered dreams,
that rattle
if you shake them hard enough
when you are awake enough
to know that you are still dreaming
and a wise man once said
lock the doors if you want
to live long enough
to know that death is upon shoes sans
so change your songs
regularly. And your socks. Someone is
searching for you and
one day they will be there
by the grace of God
to help you close the door.
Holding your breath
in my mouth
makes me giggle
because it is so obviously not my own,
the taste is
rank. The rivets are flying out of the sheet
metal on my dream machine and
ricocheting off of
the bullshit kindnesses and courtesies and
whorish humors of chums. I don't know whether
to answer the door or
ignore the
the
the
the answer to the question being
the seeing of a threat that has yet
to bloom and the warning of
an answer I am prepared to accept
because I cannot protect myself.
The knock. The knock. The fucking knock.
Kiss me, would you? The only thing
distinct from dreams. Tell me I am a wake
and I will carry on, alive, my heart
carrying more weapons
than a zombie shelter and ready
for everything worse than
the knocks of hand that
do not exist
against my door and windows locked.
Locked and locked and locked.
And still they get in;
beautifully
intricate
ways they have to pray
to locks and slips of steel against steel sleeves,
each entry able to make a new angle to the tilt
and unable to leave.
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