The atmosphere outside is
too thin to breath, but if you could
see the cloud tops
lit up in 5:30 P.M. gold thread gauze,
sweating blood red where the Earth curves
away into night and feel
the press of apparatus to your mouth and
the heft of your pressure
suit against your skin
hugging you tighter than any love
you ever thought you knew,
with afterburners
daring you to lick the stars
and black depths beyond your canopy
you would cut the power too and slip,
speeding meteoric,
through the mist,
tipping your wings and sliding sideways
through the streams of fire light
to revel in the slow
persisting orgasm of the vertigo,
rolling in and kissing
the whole of humanity
breaking and tumbling loose beneath you
as you spin into her cradle grave and
relish the tug and war of elemental force
so many of them will know
only by degrees
original works of parts
You Should Probably Eat Something
I still do not understand
how people can have weight issues
that are not paired to their genetic make up.
I have a hard enough time, as it is,
making time to make food,
let alone setting aside the time
to actually eat it.
Lately, maybe sadly,
I have the time to prepare it,
the time to store it,
the time to reheat it
and make it edible again,
but no time to actually put it
in my body.
I thought I was brilliant
when I reduced it all
to fluids, but apparently
that road leads
to shitting out your guts
and death
and while I am prepared
to die, I am not prepared
to die by violent diarrhea.
So I am making an effort to eat
things that nourish
and coddle my frame
in ways that I can't actively
or subconsciously pursue. However,
if your problem is a problem
of too much consumption
the solution is
that you are not adequately invested
in your own potential.
Do more. Make more. Destroy
and then build. And then
watch the world you knew
the comfort of the known
melt away like
frost on a windshield
as you pick up and learn
what it is to really taste speed.
how people can have weight issues
that are not paired to their genetic make up.
I have a hard enough time, as it is,
making time to make food,
let alone setting aside the time
to actually eat it.
Lately, maybe sadly,
I have the time to prepare it,
the time to store it,
the time to reheat it
and make it edible again,
but no time to actually put it
in my body.
I thought I was brilliant
when I reduced it all
to fluids, but apparently
that road leads
to shitting out your guts
and death
and while I am prepared
to die, I am not prepared
to die by violent diarrhea.
So I am making an effort to eat
things that nourish
and coddle my frame
in ways that I can't actively
or subconsciously pursue. However,
if your problem is a problem
of too much consumption
the solution is
that you are not adequately invested
in your own potential.
Do more. Make more. Destroy
and then build. And then
watch the world you knew
the comfort of the known
melt away like
frost on a windshield
as you pick up and learn
what it is to really taste speed.
Tensile Strength
Meeting a new manager,
he swept his hand wide of his hip and
swung it back level to clasp my own and
we saw eye to eye
because he was as short as me
with a grip as weathered as mine and
a set to his jaw that let
muscle say more than
stock photographic greetings.
"I bet you fuck
like a king
harried by rebels
on hillsides who
would set themselves
against a pile of stones
if it gave them a reason
to shirk working
for their bread,"
"Keep your head,"
I remind myself
as I am in a perpetual gutter and
easily distracted by flights of extrapolation and
indulgent in long skips of wide throttled glee,
inappropriate
as gone commando uniforms.
With a grain of salt
I take it all and
write notes in my pocket fit book
about how the women sometimes look
like beasts on the savanna
as they hunt
for baking powder in the wrong aisle,
eyes to angry, hungry, slits. The gents
perusing baby food and
engaging in conversations with me
to prove they're not there by choice.
With a grain of salt and
my hard on has everything to do
with reliving the memory of a scene
in a film I saw a decade ago and
not the scene itself, but the
memory of how it made me
so thoroughly aware of what turns me on
at an age when I didn't know
what being turned on was.
And so I am a live wire
on the cusp of snapping
direct into the inseam of my pants and
trying to serve my hours
that I might eat for another week and
live the high life
as far as I've known it and trying
hard not to break and
say something so far out of place
that the damages sever
body parts and put an end to
what I've earned and
what still may yet come to be.
he swept his hand wide of his hip and
swung it back level to clasp my own and
we saw eye to eye
because he was as short as me
with a grip as weathered as mine and
a set to his jaw that let
muscle say more than
stock photographic greetings.
"I bet you fuck
like a king
harried by rebels
on hillsides who
would set themselves
against a pile of stones
if it gave them a reason
to shirk working
for their bread,"
"Keep your head,"
I remind myself
as I am in a perpetual gutter and
easily distracted by flights of extrapolation and
indulgent in long skips of wide throttled glee,
inappropriate
as gone commando uniforms.
With a grain of salt
I take it all and
write notes in my pocket fit book
about how the women sometimes look
like beasts on the savanna
as they hunt
for baking powder in the wrong aisle,
eyes to angry, hungry, slits. The gents
perusing baby food and
engaging in conversations with me
to prove they're not there by choice.
With a grain of salt and
my hard on has everything to do
with reliving the memory of a scene
in a film I saw a decade ago and
not the scene itself, but the
memory of how it made me
so thoroughly aware of what turns me on
at an age when I didn't know
what being turned on was.
And so I am a live wire
on the cusp of snapping
direct into the inseam of my pants and
trying to serve my hours
that I might eat for another week and
live the high life
as far as I've known it and trying
hard not to break and
say something so far out of place
that the damages sever
body parts and put an end to
what I've earned and
what still may yet come to be.
Player's Coach
To help someone understand vision.
Difficult. By itself.
More so
when
it is clear they want to write pornography and
their hang up
is finding a way to frame it
in story telling
geared to illicit
masturbation
more than wonder and
expecting wonder
to somehow follow
of its own.
The old adage comes to mind:
do not give it the old college try, but do
go dick around,
go get laid,
go
do whatever. You'll find your voice and
you might not,
but
right now,
with the things in hand you can see
along with the things
you have in hand
that you cannot see
with eyes not your own,
is a bad time
to flirt
with edges.
Difficult. By itself.
More so
when
it is clear they want to write pornography and
their hang up
is finding a way to frame it
in story telling
geared to illicit
masturbation
more than wonder and
expecting wonder
to somehow follow
of its own.
The old adage comes to mind:
do not give it the old college try, but do
go dick around,
go get laid,
go
do whatever. You'll find your voice and
you might not,
but
right now,
with the things in hand you can see
along with the things
you have in hand
that you cannot see
with eyes not your own,
is a bad time
to flirt
with edges.
Wheels of Steel
Relax it all and mellow out,
the ladder rungs are greased, no doubt
so chill the fuck, Winston and once
you let the beat stand still
and lay a screen like wheels peeled
against starting line cement and seal
yourself in the drum and beat pill box,
fortifying your shoulders like chopped rocks
against wave tops you can be
individually freed to swim the sea
of music and see where we and you
actually come from and tree
like blood on a sidewalk cut free
from your body into the cracks,
into the soil, where truth boils
black to clear in beds of tin foil and
needle point. Ebb and flowmatose,
conscious and catatonic,
tripping the light fantastic
in the darkness, life shelled sonic.
the ladder rungs are greased, no doubt
so chill the fuck, Winston and once
you let the beat stand still
and lay a screen like wheels peeled
against starting line cement and seal
yourself in the drum and beat pill box,
fortifying your shoulders like chopped rocks
against wave tops you can be
individually freed to swim the sea
of music and see where we and you
actually come from and tree
like blood on a sidewalk cut free
from your body into the cracks,
into the soil, where truth boils
black to clear in beds of tin foil and
needle point. Ebb and flowmatose,
conscious and catatonic,
tripping the light fantastic
in the darkness, life shelled sonic.
Aren't You Worried
Worrying is
for people with something to lose
and if you were to ask me
what it is that I have now
that I would miss later
the answer
would be nothing
so don't call me liberated,
or somehow in touch,
because the fact is
I have nothing to hide,
because I have
nothing to show
in reserve.
My kingdom is still
an anthill in your schemes
of what is and should be,
the difference being
if I am on top of that
hand full or two of sand
I am happier than
others will ever be
with 32 ounce fountains of youth
and milk and honey landed.
for people with something to lose
and if you were to ask me
what it is that I have now
that I would miss later
the answer
would be nothing
so don't call me liberated,
or somehow in touch,
because the fact is
I have nothing to hide,
because I have
nothing to show
in reserve.
My kingdom is still
an anthill in your schemes
of what is and should be,
the difference being
if I am on top of that
hand full or two of sand
I am happier than
others will ever be
with 32 ounce fountains of youth
and milk and honey landed.
Single
One of those things
that takes exactly two words,
like
bad timing,
get well,
bring booze,
be there,
shut up,
take two,
that you can see
everywhere you are,
where you've been,
where you're going,
with no camera
taped to your forehead,
and the photos are
too easy
because it's just so damn literal.
that takes exactly two words,
like
bad timing,
get well,
bring booze,
be there,
shut up,
take two,
that you can see
everywhere you are,
where you've been,
where you're going,
with no camera
taped to your forehead,
and the photos are
too easy
because it's just so damn literal.
Dropsy
I taught my left hand
to do many things
and in return it tried to kill me
and I couldn't help thinking,
whilst tying it to the arm of my chair,
that my last thought
prying it away from my throat
was "you ungrateful bastard."
We've made up since then.
We've graduated from box cutters
to alphabets.
Things are looking up.
to do many things
and in return it tried to kill me
and I couldn't help thinking,
whilst tying it to the arm of my chair,
that my last thought
prying it away from my throat
was "you ungrateful bastard."
We've made up since then.
We've graduated from box cutters
to alphabets.
Things are looking up.
The Break Up
Wake up. Someone is selling a miracle. Gadgets to make you slim. Because you eat too much. For your line of work and it's showing inside. Your belt line. In the creases where your belt line wishes it could still be. But not your's. Time is hard to come by. To eat. To think. About making food. Between commuting. And doing your time on the clock. Someone is selling a miracle. Right now. Earlier you stared through commercials.
Not as long or antagonizing. Through the amber of your squared off bargain. Bottle to nurse the child in you. Climbing to your feet. Can be done in stages so you press. An elbow to the couch hot from the side of your face. Cold in places. Where you drooled snoring. And woke. To the nudge and tuck of fingers prodding your skin. Where the veins come millimeters close to. Kissing is out of the question. You've been smoking again.
In nodding conversation with. Beasts. That come and go like cats through the kitchen door. At the back of your mind. Where things are burning. Smoke detector free. But there's no denying the damage. The black streaks across the roof. Of your mouth. The television is off. Has been off for hours. The bedroom door is closed. You reek of try try again and who are you to interrupt someone else's. Dream. Wash the dishes.
At 4 A.M. Or don't. You are fully. Shit faced. But only because you have not washed that face. In a proper shower. As though it matters. The face of Smiles is clear enough. The silent murk spins into a smile. You mirror toddling. Laughing to an inside joke he's spun to Totsy. Who lolls along the baseboard. Near the living room window. Like she usually does. Waiting for Mouthhand to show. And start the party. With a kiss.
But you are unkissable. Equal parts chemistry set. And throat like a cancer mossy flume. So wash the dishes. Smiles sings from between the rungs of the fire escape. As happy to be. Out of doors as you are in. The shit. You promised you would. Not drink too much. Tonight. You promised you would leave. Work at work and pay. Attention and sleep. Like other people do. Like the people that populate. The rest of the world.
Wash the dishes. It would be easier. With some miracle soap. And a rag. That cures musses like high dose radiation. Or was it stem cells. That realign. Brain matters. A bath of salts? There's no amount of lithium that can heal. Dislocated fingers. Totsy is sighing. While you scrub. Knowing. Full well that you are there and your love asleep. Because you cannot stand being. In the same room. With her. The gang in tow.
There are not enough dishes. To span the hours left before you leave. To hack away at work. Though Smiles coaches. And so you settle back to the couch. Mapped out in cold saliva dots. The place where your head belongs. And wish. She could sleep and never wake up. Again to see you so broken up. Symptoms playing like a continuous infomercial. For nervous corruption. And so you walked.
And they danced. Around their fire. In the cottage on the hill top. Burning its way into the Earth.
Not as long or antagonizing. Through the amber of your squared off bargain. Bottle to nurse the child in you. Climbing to your feet. Can be done in stages so you press. An elbow to the couch hot from the side of your face. Cold in places. Where you drooled snoring. And woke. To the nudge and tuck of fingers prodding your skin. Where the veins come millimeters close to. Kissing is out of the question. You've been smoking again.
In nodding conversation with. Beasts. That come and go like cats through the kitchen door. At the back of your mind. Where things are burning. Smoke detector free. But there's no denying the damage. The black streaks across the roof. Of your mouth. The television is off. Has been off for hours. The bedroom door is closed. You reek of try try again and who are you to interrupt someone else's. Dream. Wash the dishes.
At 4 A.M. Or don't. You are fully. Shit faced. But only because you have not washed that face. In a proper shower. As though it matters. The face of Smiles is clear enough. The silent murk spins into a smile. You mirror toddling. Laughing to an inside joke he's spun to Totsy. Who lolls along the baseboard. Near the living room window. Like she usually does. Waiting for Mouthhand to show. And start the party. With a kiss.
But you are unkissable. Equal parts chemistry set. And throat like a cancer mossy flume. So wash the dishes. Smiles sings from between the rungs of the fire escape. As happy to be. Out of doors as you are in. The shit. You promised you would. Not drink too much. Tonight. You promised you would leave. Work at work and pay. Attention and sleep. Like other people do. Like the people that populate. The rest of the world.
Wash the dishes. It would be easier. With some miracle soap. And a rag. That cures musses like high dose radiation. Or was it stem cells. That realign. Brain matters. A bath of salts? There's no amount of lithium that can heal. Dislocated fingers. Totsy is sighing. While you scrub. Knowing. Full well that you are there and your love asleep. Because you cannot stand being. In the same room. With her. The gang in tow.
There are not enough dishes. To span the hours left before you leave. To hack away at work. Though Smiles coaches. And so you settle back to the couch. Mapped out in cold saliva dots. The place where your head belongs. And wish. She could sleep and never wake up. Again to see you so broken up. Symptoms playing like a continuous infomercial. For nervous corruption. And so you walked.
And they danced. Around their fire. In the cottage on the hill top. Burning its way into the Earth.
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