drinks fall
to planned obsolescence
and my sturdy jawed boss
replaces my broken hand
with one filled with beer --

this continues for some time
and some time
until the Earth passes through
a patch in the universe
close to time’s childhood
and time decides to leave the bar

where he goes
only nobody can speculate
as I am left here to apologize
for speculating on time’s gender

Waking up is hard in worrisome anticipation.

Neatly layered blankets

hold

little heat.

Cold nips

at feet

through wool socks.

Skin

sweats

despite this.

A clear picture

of a tree emerges out of paper

and graphite and ash;

it is a sprout between fractures

in the waterless desert,

where agave farmers search

for babies to, one day, harvest.

The dry flat land is drunk with us.

She makes no sense,

in her dry meandering humor,

that raspy laugh, a whisky giggle,

she burns our brains

and begs us to prettify her.

We stuff our bottles with rags,

and wait and wait

and wait

our legs a lotus, one on top

of the other;

we wait,

drunk,

our breath heavy

ready

for anything to show up,

anything, at all, to burn.

Whisky again. She speaks

to me: I wanna do bad things

with you.

Television Withdrawl

Let the pixels refract

through my cornea,

each little ray of light

to bounce throughout

my skull and brain,

this idle mind a porous

haven for a slingshot narrative,

a few laughs, or quiet captivation.

How I want it! How it teases me!

This universe, castrated,

factory-farmed, flash-frozen,

prepackaged, and reheated,

served in sectioned-off plastic,

a compartmentalized story,

a soft mush, easy to swallow;

its silence calls to me.

as a human

bodies never burden

they tighten,

break, rebuild

knots that strengthen

their enchanted grip

with every

mortal cut;

but mind dies

with every moment,

cell by

precious cell,

we cannot feel

them pass but

in our

fleeting consciousness,

makeshift pathways build

amidst bodies of

dead thoughts,

broken memories;

do not look

at my words

to heal

your brain,

you have no

choice but to

look toward,

inward and

find the image

of your face

with a

wide smile.

Options

Let’s forget our careers

for a moment and go

on a trip somewhere.

We can sit someplace

with grass or dirt

and watch the sun rise

or fall into the flat

or mountainous horizon.

We can talk about us,

our love, the trees,

or listen to the distant

train chug away

and let silence strike

the scene, as the world

lightens up, or dims

towards orange

then black in a mist

or on a clear night

or day.

I could look at you,

in your pink

or yellow summer dress

tucked under your

knees, or draped

along the ground.

And we could call

the place home,

or we could call it nothing.

But let’s go, leave, and find

this place, just so

we can see it exists,

home, or nothing,

someplace to dance

naked, wildly, with one another

or sit with quiet smiles.

Images in New Jersey, Ideas that are Our Fault

What do you want me to prove?

That I read? That I have culture?

That I have important ideas

that you can’t see

from your consciousness?

There is nothing new

in this world

but what we make

and call new.

And you want it said quietly?

Slowly? With purpose?

Allusions toward obscurity

flooded in language?

Here is an image for you:

A year old condom,

and a single rain boot

dance on the foamy shore

of Sandy Hook, New Jersey.

The condom, half-filled with

bubbly water, deflates

as a young girl

in a baseball cap and

dirty-white gloves

drops it in a trash bag

and another idealist

puts a tally mark on a clipboard,

parallel lines uncomfortably together.

The image, disturbed

by the youths, is regenerated

the next day. Another boot,

another dance, another rubber.

How can I say this quietly?

There is a lot of trash out there.