I've been trying to decide if you would think
less of me for drinking
my tea through the plastic stirrer
instead of from the lip of the white china cup.
Eye contact is hard,
I know, because
I've changed
more than I thought I would
before this was arranged and
though my irises are the same
the rest is
not so much. Would you believe me
if I said I did not know how that happened?
That I don't remember
what I did
to bring my body from where it was,
where it fell and rose and knit again,
to this table, to this minute
to slouch and stir and mull,
but nonetheless mull, and stir, and slouch
back to back with you
pointing at clouds and seeing
rabbits and birds and witches under the being sun
and beaming some, just to be
collected enough to be seen.
original works of parts
Nature Boy Sleeps
I don't write songs, I write anthems to hatch heads to.
How can you complain about accessibility
when I've tried for years and still don't get you.
In that time that slid away crossed by
political language and over exposed memories,
I tried to see where we all ran and
ended up face down on the sidewalk again.
I broke my bed sleeping hard and skinning sheep
while I was awake. The box cutter delight,
and the burning faceless dream. The thing itself
was full of bodies and everyone was smiling
until the thing turned fantasia and
one by one they went limp howling
in my hands made of razor blades,
egg timing ready mades, and staring at what radiates
from empty eyes and open mouths,
empty words and opened cows. So I do write
where I cannot make right what I never understood,
but dream tight to beneath the hood
of a car that drives me and takes the long way
home, over streets and under world war roads,
the two of us with nowhere to go and picking
hitchhikers from the curb to see
what words we love in common and breath
the same air until they're in a headlit ditch somewhere
and the shovels in the trunk next to the wax rope.
The bags are in my hand and the saw is gone blunt.
I'm whistling songs at work and loll headed all day.
Licking my teeth til my tongue bleeds and thinking of a way
to make more sense of what I feel
and better sense of what you've known,
better sense of what I see and the voices so far thrown
they echo to the walls and fall like glass snow,
coming back to my ears like things I've never heard,
making all the gun barrel nouns into shark skin verbs.
I don't write songs I write anthems to fall asleep to.
I don't want to know, I just want to meet you.
Shake your hand, and say okay. You are you
and I am dead. Alive, cross planes, and fucked in the head.
Let me take this driver and torque on this screw,
blow the brain matter off and add it to your shoe box
of gifts that don't matter or shine, ice rocked.
Suck on it or sit and spin. Both of those work too.
Have you ever been so high you beat yourself to bruises.
Black and green bad jazz and a case of head flu.
Take a minute to think about hot wiring your skull
before you pull your own pins and come apart like
a bomb hand made by God and then
when you think you've reached the end of your fuse
and you've used everything there is to make a mile
in your shoes, screw that fuck into your pile
and smile at the waves of rerouted electricity
to will your power for days and understand
that I don't write songs or feel ready to be read,
just like you, and that the only home I know is real
is the one inside my comatic sleeping head.
How can you complain about accessibility
when I've tried for years and still don't get you.
In that time that slid away crossed by
political language and over exposed memories,
I tried to see where we all ran and
ended up face down on the sidewalk again.
I broke my bed sleeping hard and skinning sheep
while I was awake. The box cutter delight,
and the burning faceless dream. The thing itself
was full of bodies and everyone was smiling
until the thing turned fantasia and
one by one they went limp howling
in my hands made of razor blades,
egg timing ready mades, and staring at what radiates
from empty eyes and open mouths,
empty words and opened cows. So I do write
where I cannot make right what I never understood,
but dream tight to beneath the hood
of a car that drives me and takes the long way
home, over streets and under world war roads,
the two of us with nowhere to go and picking
hitchhikers from the curb to see
what words we love in common and breath
the same air until they're in a headlit ditch somewhere
and the shovels in the trunk next to the wax rope.
The bags are in my hand and the saw is gone blunt.
I'm whistling songs at work and loll headed all day.
Licking my teeth til my tongue bleeds and thinking of a way
to make more sense of what I feel
and better sense of what you've known,
better sense of what I see and the voices so far thrown
they echo to the walls and fall like glass snow,
coming back to my ears like things I've never heard,
making all the gun barrel nouns into shark skin verbs.
I don't write songs I write anthems to fall asleep to.
I don't want to know, I just want to meet you.
Shake your hand, and say okay. You are you
and I am dead. Alive, cross planes, and fucked in the head.
Let me take this driver and torque on this screw,
blow the brain matter off and add it to your shoe box
of gifts that don't matter or shine, ice rocked.
Suck on it or sit and spin. Both of those work too.
Have you ever been so high you beat yourself to bruises.
Black and green bad jazz and a case of head flu.
Take a minute to think about hot wiring your skull
before you pull your own pins and come apart like
a bomb hand made by God and then
when you think you've reached the end of your fuse
and you've used everything there is to make a mile
in your shoes, screw that fuck into your pile
and smile at the waves of rerouted electricity
to will your power for days and understand
that I don't write songs or feel ready to be read,
just like you, and that the only home I know is real
is the one inside my comatic sleeping head.
Matters of Science 2
I am beginning to believe.
The earth is twenty six years old.
What is coming
from between the leaves of my plates
is liquid rock still red with the heat
of the push and pull
of the fabric of space time.
Not really. I know what it is.
More than the knowing is
the feeling
that maybe it is okay to change
the landscape
if mother sees fit
to wear something new
every once in an era.
We talk about it
on and off
between high tea
and highest tides
and the moon likes
to chime in once in a while.
So we talk about it
and share our feelings
about tectonic geometries,
but mostly
I am starting to believe
what cums from the intersection
of intent and isness
is a heat I still do not understand
like starshine on the waters
of an ocean
where the forces beneath break loose
and push the heart of a planet
through a throat
to sip open air
it otherwise could never know.
The earth is twenty six years old.
What is coming
from between the leaves of my plates
is liquid rock still red with the heat
of the push and pull
of the fabric of space time.
Not really. I know what it is.
More than the knowing is
the feeling
that maybe it is okay to change
the landscape
if mother sees fit
to wear something new
every once in an era.
We talk about it
on and off
between high tea
and highest tides
and the moon likes
to chime in once in a while.
So we talk about it
and share our feelings
about tectonic geometries,
but mostly
I am starting to believe
what cums from the intersection
of intent and isness
is a heat I still do not understand
like starshine on the waters
of an ocean
where the forces beneath break loose
and push the heart of a planet
through a throat
to sip open air
it otherwise could never know.
The Midnight Run
Thirty five minutes out,
twenty eight minutes in.
Three thousand breaths out,
three thousand sparks alight within.
Watch the lightning ride
the hill crests and outline
the backs of dinosaurs sleeping
through the wind breaks,
huddling noses to their tails and
dreaming stories in rhyme scheme's
measure less known by ear or
heart since the top of the world burned away and flowered
into warm blood. The cold
is toothless though the mouth spreads wide
where the street light hides its face and the sidewalk
sinks into marble stones and standing water
rippling in its vigil for stars.
Climbing the bones, the rising scales of harmony
promising frosted fingertips
there will be a spread palm
waiting pressed against the prison glass
between earth and space,
there is level ground
that wonders what it's like
to fall asleep in the meadow land flats
hugging New York City
before the day dream falls away
as steeply and
skipping down the black vertebrae
to where the head lies still and snoring,
unmoved by heart's combustion and
rain's footfalls besides,
the sparks pour out of me in jagged clouds and
broken crank shaft shards. The hills of Pittsburgh
sleep on and I run through the dream,
part dinosaur, part boy, part astronaut, part machine.
twenty eight minutes in.
Three thousand breaths out,
three thousand sparks alight within.
Watch the lightning ride
the hill crests and outline
the backs of dinosaurs sleeping
through the wind breaks,
huddling noses to their tails and
dreaming stories in rhyme scheme's
measure less known by ear or
heart since the top of the world burned away and flowered
into warm blood. The cold
is toothless though the mouth spreads wide
where the street light hides its face and the sidewalk
sinks into marble stones and standing water
rippling in its vigil for stars.
Climbing the bones, the rising scales of harmony
promising frosted fingertips
there will be a spread palm
waiting pressed against the prison glass
between earth and space,
there is level ground
that wonders what it's like
to fall asleep in the meadow land flats
hugging New York City
before the day dream falls away
as steeply and
skipping down the black vertebrae
to where the head lies still and snoring,
unmoved by heart's combustion and
rain's footfalls besides,
the sparks pour out of me in jagged clouds and
broken crank shaft shards. The hills of Pittsburgh
sleep on and I run through the dream,
part dinosaur, part boy, part astronaut, part machine.
The Test
Press the button. Keep on jawing
me. The next one is coming
between the left and right hash marks
of your eyes. Well maybe not
that accurate. So you should
probably be wearing a helmet
or at least a cup, because I'm
taking none of the heat off
and putting a little extra
fuck you into the next fifteen
minutes of batting practice.
I stopped smiling
when I left my front door to meet you.
me. The next one is coming
between the left and right hash marks
of your eyes. Well maybe not
that accurate. So you should
probably be wearing a helmet
or at least a cup, because I'm
taking none of the heat off
and putting a little extra
fuck you into the next fifteen
minutes of batting practice.
I stopped smiling
when I left my front door to meet you.
You Stank (the day after)
You smell like
malt liquor
and regular liquor.
Well which one
let me rock
your world last night.
malt liquor
and regular liquor.
Well which one
let me rock
your world last night.
This Is
This is the fire
without a spark.
This is the laugh
without a lark.
This is the moon
without a sky.
This is the burble
without a high.
This is spontane
without eous.
This is the me
without the us.
This is the stew
without the pits.
This is the new
without the tags.
This is the break
without the ins.
This is the noise
without the din.
This is the file
without the bin.
This is the start
so spin the end.
The conversation
and continuance,
I have nails,
and you,
hammer head
so let's
tear something apart
and put it back together
and laugh
at the great vision
for a minute
because for once we are not
being graded
on accessibility or subjective perceptivity
and I could not
give two
about anything
more than where exact
this might tickle you.
without a spark.
This is the laugh
without a lark.
This is the moon
without a sky.
This is the burble
without a high.
This is spontane
without eous.
This is the me
without the us.
This is the stew
without the pits.
This is the new
without the tags.
This is the break
without the ins.
This is the noise
without the din.
This is the file
without the bin.
This is the start
so spin the end.
The conversation
and continuance,
I have nails,
and you,
hammer head
so let's
tear something apart
and put it back together
and laugh
at the great vision
for a minute
because for once we are not
being graded
on accessibility or subjective perceptivity
and I could not
give two
about anything
more than where exact
this might tickle you.
Back to Black
Sometimes I hit
control vee
just to see
what I got up to
when it all went to black
and I tucked and rolled
out of my moving car
on the way to sleep
and she kept
right on
a rolling
as if nothing untoward took place.
control vee
just to see
what I got up to
when it all went to black
and I tucked and rolled
out of my moving car
on the way to sleep
and she kept
right on
a rolling
as if nothing untoward took place.
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