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.
original works of parts
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.
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.
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.
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.
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-
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-
Food Chain
Along the Saturday morning road,
the lean, sun dried leather vectors
of pavement and gashes of curb water
fallen free of bladed unwatched lawns,
they are out in force.
They run their bellies sweaty,
they pause on hilltops to catch breaths
and whisper love songs to their limbs.
They stare down the straights and
tell themselves they are making
progress. Tell themselves they are
beams of light tilting hard against
flat sprayed modernity and
the fattening shackles of success.
They fire their musket balled calves
against the grades assaulting their bicycles
worth more than the cars
they ride the sidewalks on to avoid
and feel alive
as far as they can know living to be.
I try to keep straight. Try to stay out of their way
as they rally their spirits in the rising
unconditioned heat of breaking daylight.
I try not to laugh, my feet touching lips of pavement
unforgiving and familiar as the hairs on my knuckles,
while I see them revel in triumphs
now too small for me to notice
more than a hyena
would make a particular note
of a light snack of field mice pups.
I applaud them briefly. Go getters all,
while I log my 11th mile for the day on
shoes whose tread has more in common
with a baby's ass than a tire.
I cannot remember the last time I understood the problem
of eating good and sitting in one place so long
that I had to set aside time
to make sure I worked my body hard enough
to stay one step ahead
of those who would eat my flesh
if the world ever came down
around our ears
and pushing numbers and papers
was as meaningless as it sounded.
The morning light sings
like a blade against a sharpening stone
and I thrill with the fineness of my own edge
chirping back to her harmonic.
We have been here. We know each other so well
after these weeks, months, and years of
hardening musculature, bone, and joint.
These are my hills, my chiseled ridges, and
time blasted valleys. Along the Saturday morning road
the cattle have come
for their hour long taste of difficulty and
"I can do this", and a slice of discomfort,
and I will allow it, partly because it is
so fucking funny, but also because
without the cattle
there is no meat.
the lean, sun dried leather vectors
of pavement and gashes of curb water
fallen free of bladed unwatched lawns,
they are out in force.
They run their bellies sweaty,
they pause on hilltops to catch breaths
and whisper love songs to their limbs.
They stare down the straights and
tell themselves they are making
progress. Tell themselves they are
beams of light tilting hard against
flat sprayed modernity and
the fattening shackles of success.
They fire their musket balled calves
against the grades assaulting their bicycles
worth more than the cars
they ride the sidewalks on to avoid
and feel alive
as far as they can know living to be.
I try to keep straight. Try to stay out of their way
as they rally their spirits in the rising
unconditioned heat of breaking daylight.
I try not to laugh, my feet touching lips of pavement
unforgiving and familiar as the hairs on my knuckles,
while I see them revel in triumphs
now too small for me to notice
more than a hyena
would make a particular note
of a light snack of field mice pups.
I applaud them briefly. Go getters all,
while I log my 11th mile for the day on
shoes whose tread has more in common
with a baby's ass than a tire.
I cannot remember the last time I understood the problem
of eating good and sitting in one place so long
that I had to set aside time
to make sure I worked my body hard enough
to stay one step ahead
of those who would eat my flesh
if the world ever came down
around our ears
and pushing numbers and papers
was as meaningless as it sounded.
The morning light sings
like a blade against a sharpening stone
and I thrill with the fineness of my own edge
chirping back to her harmonic.
We have been here. We know each other so well
after these weeks, months, and years of
hardening musculature, bone, and joint.
These are my hills, my chiseled ridges, and
time blasted valleys. Along the Saturday morning road
the cattle have come
for their hour long taste of difficulty and
"I can do this", and a slice of discomfort,
and I will allow it, partly because it is
so fucking funny, but also because
without the cattle
there is no meat.
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