of love's uneven remainder, our lives are fractions of a whole

Feb. 14th, 2009

"Stationary of the Heart" (I've decided to go into a new direction......Prose)

The dogs are barking
from the kitchen--
barking at
ghosts
and
headlights.
I am more
naïve
than them,
using my own hands
to call myself
a poet.
But when the
typewriter jams, she
doesn’t send me
to the store
for new ribbons,
or correction tape,
or printwheels,
and dust covers.
She gets
sentimental.
And all I can
think about
are
new ribbons,
correction tape,
printwheels,
and
dust covers.
I scream at
the dogs,
“Shut the fuck up!”
But they keep
on barking at
ghosts
and
headlights.
And I’m still
no
poet.

Posted at 02:14 pm | Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend

Aug. 19th, 2008

(no subject)

( Read more )

Jul. 27th, 2008

Poem 21.

The ignition of liquid butane
stages its most provocative public display
of affection onto the puckered,
nicotine lips of my cigarette
as the smoke suspends like backwards rain,
almost as if I am a densely compact, anvil shaped
cloud composed of an exposed prose explosion,
conceiving exhaled cognitive embryos
into the atmosphere.

And I’m left undressed with nothing but
naked apprehensiveness,
stripped down to only my
stun-gunned guts stinging like
static whispered fists to the brain,
from either a sniper skeleton
or a finger repetitively punching
the backspace key.

Jul. 22nd, 2008

(no subject)

We all showed up early to your smoke screen slide show-
Undressed lenses tied infrared to distorted eyeballs
with a heated light source from just one of your dead stares,
burning up double time.

We condensed the tight room with our open minds-
Watched the flat screen, bare back of your decayed crust
open for the bullet to the musket like your empty slot light bulb.
It takes a minute to adjust.

Lights out.

Clicks alternate images with space for artistic pollution-
A dead, center magnification through an 8 millimeter reflex.
Fingers revolving around a carousel like a self-inflicted bruise,
I'm watching you move.

You're a wax cast, carbon copy figurine to this man-made, soul screening.
Plastered, plastic meaning onto a transparency.
And when the lights flicker back, you hang like an old dried up piece of negative film.
Opaque, underexposed and washed away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

She kept creeping up on me with these nostalgic responses;
holding her hypothetical, homemade, paper mache noose
between her fingers like glue, contemplating human restraint
and asking me, "Do you think I could be death proof?"

Jesus; she just sat there in front of me,
putting on its last few touches by her bedside.
Innocent enough as an attempt to comb
her story time, golden locks with sugar cane laces of mace;
afraid one day I'll find her on MyDeathSpace or on the evening news.
I spruced up the conversation a bit with unnecessary compliments;
got shot down quick by a girl so narcissistic and cutthroat,
she asked me to proofread her own suicide note.

There were more errors than the barriers between us;
sturdy barricades to match each word running on her renegades,
displaying sharp blades and paraphrases loosening her self-worth.
Standing in her halfway dug grave;
my hands were filthy with her own personal downgrade of dead earth.

Most people stop being genial by this point.

But it was her own white lies that seeped easiest into my skin;
her hairpins even wearing death better than she was wearing her hairpins.
I was sickened.

Breathe into the receiver.

Dial 911.

"Hello?"

"Which layer hurts you most today?"
Next time, don't use so much glue.
Pity attracts jet lag hearts
and runs right through soft spot,
impartial, self-targeted boycotts.

There's no winning the jackpot
when it comes to you.

I cocked my mouth in an unexpected, passive aggressive split second as she lies there second guessing herself. First; by the bedroom drapes she created a second layer of skin, I indulged in the vacant space of silence to tell her the atmosphere didn’t fit her style. Second; by my widened and dilated pupils covering her insecurities too easily as if I shot and aimed at her walls she determinedly built, I missed her kiss by the thousand miles I could see, but we still can’t touch our own bones.

So I made this up; she and I never spoke a single word. I just poured over her like a rain cloud, a slicing blade of ice to her ice skates, the right words never spoken into a microphone, a child choking alone in a house forgotten, switched lights with red and green and fallen eyes between two crashing cars, the love made between politicians and innocence. Swift; soft, vulnerability, she cries onto me with movement into my jaded ears like dull spears. I’m clearing my throat so I can digest the moment right. With a stocked up esophagus for times like these, hibernating ideas like her meal I am coddling a new breed of disease.

Okay, so even I made THAT up. We never got as close to touching. I just stood there; she was sprouting and I was disappearing in her lips’ hush. So much for alternating words into cities; feet smothered like my eyes just gazing like a fucking mute on a commuter train of rejected thoughts that could never grow, even in the midst of a monsoon, brainwave tycoons refusing to work on the sidewalk of a strike, a well rehearsed chorus line so unlike me. Never hand me the opportunity of an open mic.

------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up in a backstroke position;
tight eyes wrapped around the goodbye of a dream
with watered down exceptions of the living easy.
But it's not easy living in a slippery state,
listening to my suede mistakes like the counterfeit leather
jacket that never fit you right with your denim jeans.

You say you're tired of being depressed;
I tell you to hold onto me.
But I've always been no good with semantics.
I speak tragic when I mean happy.

I cured my alcoholism with a self help book;
added fire to the flame that was once undercooked
by the freezing touch of our tomb-like skin.
But no matter how long I practice revival;
you were always the strong, silent type
holding quiet eyes in the loudest rooms.

I say I'm tired of being depressed,
but I have no one to hold onto me.
I've always been no good with semantics.
I speak tragic when I want happy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She's staring at the strings
with her fingers and precisely placed organs
that makes my tongue melt her music
when orally translated through taste buds.

She could sing a four-course meal
simply by stroking her guitar.

As she's far too deep inside her own muse
to notice I'm writing lyrics
to her electrical, loose fuse;
she sends me shaking up, solely from
the illumination of her burning insight
to those dim things we tend to take for granted –
like truth.

And it's those hidden parts;
my knots of thoughts that fail
to rest easy in her short circuit strokes,
like fine written footnotes making up her beauty marks.

When I start to hesitate in harmony,
she offers me a refrain of chain reactions.
But it's her sentimental pheromones
that has my backbone stretched out
and hollowed to the curve of her delicately pitched tone;
she's got me swallowing the catastrophe
she sheds onto me in her final crescendo.

Though her eyes never follow through
like her cigarette smoke to the open window,
she persists in music as with life through existence.

And I spend my days in between my own teeth,
trying to sing her worded seeds into blooming clarity.

(no subject)

Soggy, sloppy seconds of great
American authors like Bukowski
sticks like red carpet adhesive
to the sole of my Chuck Taylors
while my English professor publicly announces
my obvious misunderstanding of singular agreement.
And I feel like Henry Chinaski in his
taxicab course, I quickly correct
my mistake like a star sarcastic pupil
as the static electricity from the star spangled banner
rug shoots affirmative currents through my
grammar book body. As the singular cigarette resting
inside the pencil indent of my desk
begins to look even more irresistible than forty minutes ago,
I'm wondering what it'd be like to cut my Marlboro red
with him during my ten minute cigarette break
when my anxiety begins to flare up inside the
black and white spaces of my composition
notebook I've been doodling.
God knows Henry's got a bottle
of wine indiscreetly kept inside his street, worn jacket.
We'd stand in the midst of the tobacco crowd and sing
"My Heart is a Hobo."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re like a knockout; clean cut, Shakespearean sonnet centerfold in a dirty magazine from the first row of a rolling, New York City, street corner, newspaper stand with chronic, heart stopping sparks like downtown’s biggest ticker-tape parade. The kind of girl who only exists on a pixeled picture; straight edged and glossy, two dimensional camera set, wearing a pair of eight inch, black high heels in an appealing position with the use of all her two hundred and six bones. But unlike you; she’s got an on-hand church congregation, melted mess of colors to cover up her hangovers and unprotected sex and to seal her mouth with reds and yellows and to keep her face concealed in a Mueseum, life-like, clay pose when she speaks grammatically incorrect and misplaces her cons with prose.
The difference between a blonde-boned, cigarette masked model and a girl like you is that you live beautifully.
You’re no exception to the nth degree, enveloped in a memory of bottomless pronunciations of expression.
Like a surgeon of misguided words who attended to my underdeveloped lungs, giving birth to my own virgin lips, sprung rhythmic frequencies of love. I’ve got a picture of you taped over the loosely, sewn seam to prevent drastic bleeding; a bleached clean, beach ball music theme feeling I can’t get out of my head, like the best, hand gripping Stephen King novel I’ve ever read. An unwanted, irreversible procedure stapled high like a sore thumb, lightning rod
of the biggest "Thank you" card over the walkway to your front door.

Thank you.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your hometown, green hills spilled
a smoky shadow over the white face, drive-in movie screen like the sunset’s effect on window sills.
With cars lined in holy war rows,
ears pressed in an open mouth kiss
to their teenage romance headphones.
You left me alone in your father’s minivan
to sell popcorn in a deadman’s float;
along with swimming fish surrounding your two, blue lips--
a roped net gathering the insides that pour from your open throat.
You rose to the surface like the rolling credits,
reeling you in delicately; we left before the picture went black and the film wound itself around again.
I sang you a song on guitar in your friend’s living room that night with one hand on the empty glass of my third, red wine streaming straight to my head.
You were the orchestra and I was still nobody
when the curtains rose and the projector light was dead.
And the back of your neck held the palm of my hand in a sad moment when I killed you with a kiss and called it poetry.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Posted at 05:18 pm | Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend

(no subject)

I haven't written like this in a long time 'cause I usually write a lot of poetry. This is sorta just for me, just practice. I don't think it's suppose to be good or anything.

If you've ever seen fireworks on the fourth of July; or flying, ultraviolet sparks from behind the mask of a welder's helmet, then you're familiar with the penetration of dark with light. Or if you've ever seen that old film where the Russians detonate the "Tsar Bomb" back when it was still the Soviet Union; where first all you see is night- a pitch black velvet screen. Then boom! The combination of a vibrant aluminum, magnesium, and titanium explosion. Then boom! The ignition of high voltage and metal. Then BOOM! It's the end of the world.

This was sort of how my dream began. Then I was running. High blades of grass were cutting into the folds of skin on my face. What I was running from was sort of how I've just described.

It's the end of the world and all you can do is run.

What some may constitute the end of the world as a "quick bright flash... then nothing." Others may have the expectation of an explosion.

"D-day."
An "apocalypse."
"The final battle."
"Armageddon."

Sound familiar?

Whatever religion, the world comes to an end at least once.

Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell; an afterlife, an eternal rest, or even reincarnation. This is the last time around. I hope your last past life didn't suck as hard as this one.

This is all I can think about while I'm running.

The high grass eventually comes to a clearing. It's a city landscape. The street lights are merely a weak, candle flame on the verge of its own demise. A fleeing smoke cloud compared to the destruction falling all around me.

I'm still running. Everybody is running. Like chickens without heads.

I catch my breath beneath a dim, lamp post. All of this is senseless.

There is a door propped open. A white door all chiseled with age. I walk through and begin bolting up the staircase. The piss stained staircase.There's a clapping echo that follows me up each diagonal set of stairs.
"One, two, three... four... five...six" TURN "One, two, three... four... five...six" TURN.
This went on for quite some time.

I thought I was dead. I thought maybe the building had collapsed and I already died. I was in Hell and my punishment was to run up an efinitie flight of six sets of stairs, never slowing down or stopping.
I hadn't tried to stop.
I was afraid that if I did stop, I'd still have to go through the process of death. This way, I was already dead and I could just run. I'd just run and imagine what happened to everybody else. Like that Greek God, Atlas. The one who was sentenced by Zeus to endlessly hold the weight of the Heavens on his shoulders. What would happen if Atlas had just stopped. What would happen to everyone in Heaven?
...If anyone had made it there...
What would happen if I had just stopped running?

I wasn't dead. Yet.

There was no door when I reached the top level. Just a doorway. A beaming doorway.

The penetration of dark with light.

I was expecting to see the St. Peter of Hell there waiting for me.

There was a crowd of people all hovering over each square inch of the roof. I couldn't see anymore buildings, no more destruction. Just a crowd of people all trying to breath on the same beat to make it easier.
There were even crowds in death, I thought.
Everybody was crying. Some were on their knees. I managed to push myself through the crowd.
And there....
There like antelope grazing around a waterhole...
There like a bustle of citygoers all trying to hail a cab...

There was... Jesus?

Jesus was in a wheelchair, covered in a blanket you'd find a cat resting upon. It's fringes were all loose at the seams. He seemed old. All tired. I thought Jesus was suppose to be this handsome figure, bearded and glowing. His arms all raised with doves circling him. Nope.

It looked like he had all but six strands of hair. He called me over to Him. I didn't know what to do, so I kissed his hand. Like you do when you see the Pope or something. I thought it was polite. Even if he was old and tired. The next thing I know, he's choking me. Jesus is choking me! I can feel my throat closing and molding itself into a melted, plastic bag. If you've ever lit a plastic bag on fire, you know it eventually disappears.
"Trust me," He says.

I ultimately let His skinny wrists go. I let Him choke me.

I look at the faces of the crowd and they look like a smudge of black ink. They don't even have faces anymore. Everything looks like a smeared Van Gogh painting.
"Starry Night" without the stars.

If you've never died in a dream before, then reality is the only thing you can feel. You know the Laws of Gravity, how to operate a motor vehicle and drive to your place of employment each morning where you have a damn boss to kiss ass for a pay check, that it's fucking freezing when you step outside in a T-shirt midwinter, you know the alphabet- you remember writing your name in Alphabet soup on the rim of your tiny, little bowl as a kid. These are things you should know. Things you should remember. You should know logic. Some of us do anyway.

But when you die in a dream, you honest to God think you're dead. Reality feels like the dream. Like death is the only thing you've ever known. When you wake up in sweat, stained sheets and you're clenching your pillow like in that "Metallica" song, you can't even remember who you were. You forget what you're face looks like. And the next thing you know, you're praying to God you're alive! Then you drink a cup of coffee and you smoke a cigarette. And your dreams enters a memory bank. It just disintegrates. Like a melted, plastic bag.Then you only know logic. You have another cigarette.

You know only the order of life like numbers, like the alphabet, like days on a calander.

The penetration of light with dark....

Posted at 05:16 pm | Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend

Dec. 23rd, 2007

You should have been named Judas.

I put you to rest in that far corner of my backyard but not in peace,
knowing you'd never sleep so easily while reminiscing these memories
as a cure for this disease and honestly, that's what I was aiming for.
I knew six feet would never suffice, so I dug ten twice
and spent the next few hours thinking of how all things in life are the same when we change,
hollowing graves for those runaway thoughts that never sit right in the back of our brains.
The loose adhesive between our prosthetic hearts opened like a dam of chemical solutions,
combining tiny fractions of anemic heart beats and undissolved offbeat conversations, thus resulting in meaningless betrayal. I use my heavy, purple heart to count the miles I've driven;
yards of rope I've intertwined into hundred of nooses, all hoping to break loose and hang these excuses because you've never once proven to be worthy enough. This past year; I've been slipping in and out of new faces,
none of which fit right or even feel real from the touch of a stranger
and there's never been any more true of a statement that devils never could sing lullabies
because I stood behind you like a page of words caged inside stained ink,
standing silent like a stage pretending the words could eventually sing.

...And you never could fucking sing for me...

You only continued to hum the tune of that song you love without ever catching a breath,
the one I could never make out beneath your coughing cigarette.
Those moments I never wanted to forget are now the reasons why I smoke less.
At best; I remain oblivious to that striving frame,
surrounding that lump of black dirt in my backyard,
my catalytic veins of unmarked postcards,
my empty pen of a gravedigger's graveyard.

Rest in fucking peace

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of love's uneven remainder, our lives are fractions of a whole

Feb. 14th, 2009

"Stationary of the Heart" (I've decided to go into a new direction......Prose)

Aug. 19th, 2008

(no subject)

Jul. 27th, 2008

Poem 21.

Jul. 22nd, 2008

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

Dec. 23rd, 2007

You should have been named Judas.

February 2009

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