We are murderers or saints,
Tottering on aspect
Drugged, sick or lucid
The clarity of spectacle
The blur of inebriation.

Decadence, excessively ingested
Inappropriately appropriated,
Indulged in slight/in secret
Punctuating breaths, punitively, pulmonary.

Peacefully an altruism attained
Guilt an uncondition,
Inevitable indignance,
Motionary intensity
Vitriolic reaction.

Blocks like vignettes,
Poor greys and vapid whites
Inertiatic gutters
Optically poisonous.

Storefronts stationary,
Seeping sedition salaciously,
Surveilling suspects sadistically,
Saints and sycophants; similarly.

Thoughts like prisons,
Chemical barricades
Flesh and steel,
Extremities clenched,
Suffocated-
Allocate all atrophy.

All verse subversive,
Here and one more,
Sequential linearity
Ellipsis emphasized...

I am the one,
pacing through cigarette smoke
passing crowds, head down
eyes heavy, body weak.
I am the escapist,
barely seen in dark alleys-
a quiet street,
and the night is clear.
I am the ghost in the distance,
on top of hills,
quiet neighborhoods,
affected, hidden..

I see your bodies,
buried in leather
bullet-proof,
hiding never-souls.
I am the distant,
I am the noise.
I am the rustle in the bushes.
I am the target of death-squads.
I am the undercut surprising.
I am the failed, the weak, the cheap.
I breathe through my nose a dirty air,
and from my mouth,
salacious gestures.
The art is now dead,
the spirit all but gone.
We are the generation,
hearts torn out and spit upon..

I am the non-political,
the leech, the apathetic.
I am the one who buries himself.
I am contemptuous of complacency.
I am hung with no audience,
no cackles, no adoration.
the poetry now exists
between blades of grass
unnoticed, laid upon.
I slip through pinholes,
vacuous and black
disintegrated, non-matter.
There is no rhetoric,
which I may conjure to explain..

my platform is sinking, broken.
I will die alone,
like the ones that never existed.
I am an eyesight,
a laser beam.
I am polluted with the presence of my neighbor.
I am an edible rose, eaten.
I am broken plastic,
silicon on forgotten asphalt.
I project to the cosmos,
a sound, an image dispersed,
thinly, widely absorbed
into eternal, spontaneous gravity.
My pages are the embers that envelop your fingerprints.
I sand the crests down to their troughs.
I am the illiterate reading a newspaper;
the incontinent, needlessly whirled.
I turn knobs, become offended at myself.
I close books quietly, brush them,
betray the words..

I am never, ever again.

i once strut a morn
in a bland city with pale sunlight
a hue grey as the sidewalk
the breeze clashing with my hairy legs
i inhaled a joint
and felt dizzy already
it was 9am
i didnt feel like going to class
i felt i would burst laughing
and embarrass myself,
for the professor looked like larry david
although i doubt he would think it was funny
since he reminded the class
of their inevitable
'death and demise'
so i went back to my car
drove home
wondered if it was the dark roast
i was to prepare
or was it medium?
african roasts
must be the dark ones,
i thought
and it was a sullen morning
the ants moved along
in their capsules
not staring at each other
and i yearned to go back
to cities with canals
and maybe i'd be hidden
beneath a subway
where my heart finally burst
and we spoke across tattered connections
floating up and down staircases
until it was done
and you never saw me in the mirror
i was never there
and i never was
just a terrible wretch
stretching legs uncomfortable
aroused by sounds
no one had heard
a resonance
swept between my feet and the earth
and to all greyness i will see
much closer
the bottoms of cups, red
and always again
the strangeness struck me
alien and forbidden
balancing between houses
knee-deep, moist,
and unforgiving.

depress-
sion
is
a
frag-
mented
po-
em;
mis-
leading
to
some
giv-
en
up
by
many;
but this
time
it's not
art rather;
it becomes
necess-
ity
when your
poems leave
you
to your
so-
li-
tude
like a
brokenhearted
woman;
leaving you
to rot;
except when
they have
K
I
L
L
E
D
me
they will
find my
corpse of words
shin-
ing
in the
faded sun
for all
to see
like a
train-
wreck
of sorts;
but it
will be
for-
got-
ten
like uni-
verses
before us
exist-
ing
to
de-
exist;
all there is
is fate
and i guess
luck, too
so pick up
the fuck-
ing dice
and throw it
all across your
doomed
Existen-
ces.

i have devoted myself,
devoted myself,
to death.
you are living, yes,
you are living,
but you devote yourself to death.
i devote myself to you.
we are devoted to death.
but i love you, love triumphs death.
love is passion, passion is immortal.
that is, that which results from passion.
you are my life,
you are my death.
i may be slight, you may be diverted.
i don't blame you.
you are you.
you are beautiful.
you know it.
i've let you know it.
those who are better than me,
have let you know it.
so i don't blame your decision.
it is only rational.
that is, where ration is rational.
sometimes it may be senseless.
sometimes it is senseless.
sometimes it makes sense to be senseless.
sometimes it doesn't.
i don't blame you.
i don't blame anyone any bit.
i believe that is sensitive.
it's too bad i don't care.
it's too bad, too bad, yes
sensitivity to death.
so slight, yes
i only exist in words,
possibly, the only way i exist,
that is, tragedy, that is
diversion, that is,
too bad, yes,
too bad.

'oh well, too bad.'
that's what it will say
on my 'tragic' grave.

i saw her in a dream last night,
dark hair, close
a whisper in my ear
a touch, and i was finished
i awoke to my dream
alone in a bed
somewhere
and i knew
it had to be the wine
i drove to the store
paid two dollars
and forgot.
i found her in a dream
i find her in my heart
i find her beside me
haunting, dragging
i find her in a nightmare
of this life gone wicked
i find her when she isnt found
i find her in a drawer,
in an envelope, in a bag
i find her in my bed
i find her underneath calloused fingers
i find her with no money
i find her on vast highways
wondering where the people went
i find her in boxes
i find her in hollowed books
i find her in blinding screens
with eyes gouged out
i find her in california
i find her in new york
i find her in utah
i find her in the pueblos of mexico
i find her in the canals of amsterdam
i find her in glass bottles
drained and useless
i find her in my wallet
i find her in knots of wood
i find her everywhere,
her beauty haunts me
and i am the sensitive heathen
pale and doubted
hiding in small rooms,
i need you,
i need you like a child,
helpless, and naive.

drink thy tainted liquid,
black and syrup,
fiery as nether realms
and holy as cherubs

down thy poison
and anti-emittent
until thy mind soothed,
the suede of opiate

the soma of earth,
the light of moon,
and a vacation soon.

the peace of earth is sunlight,
the peace of earth is passivity.
the peace of earth is love,
wherever it may be.

inbetween sidewalks,
inbetween counters,
inbetween highway lanes
waiting to be devoured.

in a drawer, in a bag
in a hollowed book
a hidden stash.

we stand like fences that divide us,
losing traction, and sinking.

precipitate; show me the way.

i want to be light as a feather,
yes, floating and floating
over seas and beaches,
past sails and boats
the sun and the sea,
standing, watching,
glistening, staring
fluttering slowly
past children and birds,
yes, my destination unknown
thrown and carried throughout
streets, cities, gutters,
mountains, highways,
the gust of movement
letting go of everything
and always free
some let me be, some might
stick me in their hair
for beauty
where beauty is kept
but it is movement,
nonetheless,
and time goes
on.

centuries (older)

yes, i have written for the centuries,
their eyes so enclosed,
i have seen, their bodies warp
in unending fashion
that coil promoting
those blackened stars
their beams fuzzy
in the absence.
writing for all times,
a lonely drawl
sickeningly ironic
a very convenient
image to prove.
a hallucination
to which had
no barrier.
i have drunken the poison,
yes, 'the devil doth offer'd'
he has sat with his proposition
along porcelain tile
leather nests
spinning on their axis
with a certain inquisition,
a beckoning, 'broken or filled,
broken or filled!'
a time passes
everything
disappears
transience ensues
a helplessness
inevitable.

remember the days,
when the wind was cold,
and the bristle vibrations,
echoe'd that of a pine needle youth?
and your face was smooth,
and eager, and every movement
slid the nonchalance of stride?
and the adrenaline and blood
clothed the arteries with friction,
repelling the brisk breeze
of a winter south
and the innocence steamed from my throat
onto your window,
where we construed caricatures
made of wire and tape, erasable
evaporating, inevitable
translucent and tinted
amid a moonlight sun
where the eyes grew pale
and hair stung wildly?

and i remember you were there
with your skirt colorful
and legs smooth
my red blood and white wine churning
with shivering appreciation
all but speechless,
stomach a vacuum for words
while i gathered coins
and flipped for what to say
indecisive and indignant,
remember the days, babe,
remember the days..

it is these nights,
the minutes cozy up with the devil
the noses bleed with wide-eyed aspiration
the men sit in empty rooms with
large windows that look nowhere
and put their heads down on tables
covered in dust

breathe with me,
in, out, in, out
the respiration of city lights
coughing their rays on empty streets
while the metal men crawl the sidewalks
painting pictures with their veins
raccoon-eyed and possessed with hunger

and there is a dead lily that once sung me to sleep
there is an empty corridor in which i used to reside
there is a sun that will never know my name
and there is a flower that never grew

but it is these nights,
the glasses stay full until the queue of morning
the flames become immortal
the men solemnly speak
in their silence.

razorblade tricks
scraping bloodstained counters
receptors filled, vision blurred
flame induced euphoria
seeds of joy implode
happiness spurts, as a twitch of an eye
calmed, sedated,
as an ignited heart
doused in caress.
souls afloat evaporating oceans
these particles insufflated
by these nasal clouds.

red girls, red lipstick, crumbled wax paper
blue dotted brown fabric surrounding layers
of tissue. green men, spiky men, branchy bushes
impale hearts pale stringy reels of film.
records of purchase, pink eyed dreams
drink from pink stained vessels
communication electronically grey
wandered lost hopeless.
pressure through liquids, ripples through crevasses
hey sky her weather her dream
her soul steaming waters of life
evaporation and immaculation
silence through ignorance.
incoherently conscious of elder nights
retractable bars of chalk, knobs,
and levers and wires and rain.
an assumption previous creates present
incorrect. a nonsensical language,
we will regurgitate and prey upon,
pray as a woman doused in black.
indulging in gravity fully plump

scrape and mark these surfaces
as if your destruction belonged

a man's heart is too large


it is large enough to encompass a million seas

or a few disingenuous women


a man's heart is large enough to compose words,

and throw them out the next day


a man's mind would like to be larger

than a man's heart

but love is a feeling we pursue,

else we succumb to self-important drudgery


a man's heart is fragile,

moreso than a woman's


a woman is strong in her eligibility,

a man is weak in his reeling showcases, uncertain

but confident


the next time you see a man

quarreling senselessly

or quivering with bitterness,

in his solitude

remember-

his heart is too large

and he cannot figure

what to do with it.

i dont have to apologize to fucking anyone

there are critics who would give me 5.8 on the ten scale

i would kill to drink wine comfortably

many words printed, a million copies

dusted in the attic of the forgotten

sometimes i feel like a pale mediocrity,

inconvenient and ugly

astringent to the eyes

of which in the city, no one makes any contact

with

a supposed window of a soul

and such a vacant view

pleading cultures of penitence

fall upon muffled ears of deafness

and to what fate must we surrender?



there is a beauty in simplicity,

in unexpectedness, in honesty

it is the simple things that have been forgotten,

like a birdsong or a morning sun

which have been replaced by the bitterness of the masses

the poisoning of our consciousness

with multi-million dollar fad campaigns

penetrating, inevitable,

mindlessly influential

diverting from the essence of life-

a divine experience

in which judgment cannot be passed,

in which time cannot be measured,

in which nor can the value of a life

but there is purity in simplicity,

something we have ignored impassibly

bothering ourselves with the conquest

of an illusory contest

jaded we stride up escalators

and wait patiently for the grater

to approach

dated: 10-23-2006

staring through dirty counters, black words from black throats,
fire breathing, heartless, broken shattered destroyed killers
living longer than i, still days dead winds idle smoke
drifting slowly, rising, falling, parting, moons revolving
exploding fading dying whispering.. suns screaming loud
screaming nothing incoherent anger, sinking, flailing,
failing.. death like idle days idle minds move so fast
so simply intangible, cities, so simply dull, so
gracefully nullified, meaningless and wandering like
autos and spirits from fallen souls absence of rain
absence of life absence of death reality a stale factor
absence of love.. has been forgotten buried suffocated
evaporated disintegrated whoseveryown heart hath been
torn crushed stomped ugly beauty is nothing
nowhere, no one, nothing. no soul, no word(s),
no face action grace friend lover, nothing.
idle thoughts idle bodies wander through streets
what do you perceive? grass through gutters
trees through squares in concrete
machines through space and organisms
are just measurements what do you think?
moments are breaths and breaths are useless
and let this be said-
may the sun redeem itself
when self-inflicted destruction ensues
may it redeem its glory
and the true essence of beauty
is in its silence

i am looking for a girl,
who will swim in my veins
a nice little molecule
perking up my days,
and the sun is brighter
i am looking for you,
and i hope you are looking for me
i will never settle for these 'loves'
until you find me,
and i will be blissed
that of an opiate happiness
your brightness, a blessing
to my shaded eyes,
a straightness to my scraggled hair
a cleanliness to my comfortable filth
and yes, i know you are there
for my soul, gravitational
and attracting only, you, you, you
i wish upon myself your divinity
our words useless, trivial
we are simply afloat in our emotion,
smiling and glancing, eyes half closed
a soft hand of god, clasping us
mid-air, spinning inconsequential
and euphoric
all my fears lost in a youthful joy,
only attainable through you,
my darling, my darling, my darling
where are you?

stuck on a high i cant get out of,
and everyone has left
like the smoke out my window
and i've got bleary days
where i might try
but all the hope
is wearing thin

i'm fastened like a picket fence
seperating houses
in a smoggy suburb
it is a good day to be grey
it is finally silent
and the clouds have stopped moving
there are broken peanut shells
all over the floor
and i dont know what to do about them.
i suppose they should sit there.
but then i cannot step lest my feet parch
and they still sing, sing,
those birds, with nothing better to do
like me.
i'm just a picket fence,
falling over
and rotten
with moisture
the clouds will not
leave me alone
i suppose
i'll have to make due.
somehow.
there are empty tissue boxes
and old books of poetry,
with poetry i hate
and a memory i hate
to remember, all day

i wake up before dawn
and would rather be
soaking wet,
on a vast field of dewy grass,
than in this tiny, old bed.
at least i'd get to see the sky,
at least, maybe, i'd have a chance.
but there is none, so i spend my time cursing
and wishing, my love burning
and evaporating through a chimney.
how i wish
i could be again.

the secret poet

there is a man of many words
of which he never speaks
you may find him,
under a great l.a. sun
waiting for buses,
or walking into nowhere
he may be pale and solemn looking
with jeans and a faded shirt,
unraveling at the fabric
dirty black lo-tops
stuffed into classrooms,
working towards repulsiveness
and he may be repulsed
his fellow man, trudging
and half-conscious
brain so full and bothersome
and may you sight it now
the secret poet, with his drinks and smokes,
he may seem like your normal man
so many do not inquire,
many do not know,
inevitably.
and he may retreat back to his room
small and white, blank walls
to let the words spill out
this small little corner,
belonging to him.
and that is all,
really.

wake up in the city today
id like to see a brighter day
time to take another breath again
and id like to give it away

id like to get to know you
but you walk right past again
and id like to see where youre going
but ive got to go my own way

and you could hurt me
but it wouldnt matter at all
im just a parasite in smog paradise
who is definitely bound to fall

ive got nothing left but these broken pieces
of which i must put together
but i leave them on the floor
for this involuntary life is hardly a life
and for my pieces i say never

so i wake up with pain,
and death is on my soul
and id like to see the rain
so we are pure again

with the winter on its way
we can feel its coldness
everything bright,
drowning in its falsehood

and id like to see you cry
so i can tell you it will be alright
but maybe i'd be lying
for you and me are doomed to see
the fate of our importance

so take this pain and create with it,
all the people that never could
all the streets that are alive
with these empty lives
and id like to make my mark

be human for today
and feel the love
escaping through these gutters
for you and i are sadly seen
as machines to serve a purpose

sip and cringe
until the day gets brighter
brushing off these dusty memories
of a love that could have once been
but wasted once again, yes,
left out with the dumpsters
and taken away.
and what we've got left
are these gutters,
so i drink what flows
through them, and i must
be appeased.
but love is wasted
and floats,
like a spirit after death
finding its place, and maybe
it never does,
but it floats and floats
for time carries,
and time must destroy
the immortality of love,
like all great things,
ceasing to exist.
and i must let you know,
the disappointment of our
expectations are inevitable
so drown them along with your love
what we need now is hardness-
a suffering untouched,
unwillingly subjected,
so maybe you can then see,
yes, what your life is about,
what you figure youve been
placed for,
and let me rid you of your convenience,
a writer, some poet,
probably always,
sipping and cringing,
until the day
must get brighter.