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.

Back to type,

my fingers, ink,

techno-natural

creativity pours

from neurons

onto white space

in the birth of matter

from primordial idea.

Home in my small

unkempt cave

under blankets,

hunched over keys

alphabet blazed

symbols on their chests,

I type to fill time,

and empty my brain.

While writing

has great tradition,

and infinite canvass,

my boxy white corner

of the universe is happy,

caught in its own trap,

expanding slowly

with the rest of everything.

wash.

bleach yesterday’s bones.

return His relics to the mantle.

we are barely tomorrow,

so save it, or trash it.

all the time is in

tomorrow’s bed.

3

Fingers and thumbs touch;

motion;

sleep.

2

fingers and thumbs are naked halos;

I am wet and drunk;

self-tactilation;

motion;

sleep.

1

My fingers and thumbs touch. Make halos.

The felt self of skin and brain send reciprocal messages.

An idle escape plan.

There is water

and I am naked. It is Thursday or Saturday --

drunk and mid-circuit, a time to wait.

Self-tactilation is difficult when attacked by choice.

Self-destruction is easy when not in motion;

this is a lie.

Deep breaths. Put back on bed. Touch fingers.

Grab hold. Lock arms. Do not let go.

Sleep. Change position. Sleep.

Writing alone while in love.

Warm room. Feet touch.

In a moment, “I’ve got you.”

I can’t say it like you do.

Antiverb

I am the stone and the seed underneath.

Water will erode and feed me

and I will grow.

in response I

I hear you speak of escape,

of a dirty bus stop at the edge of the earth

and single bag packed with the essentials:

a toothbrush, cat food, and sex--

but I am told by people to mind my step

to fear bombs in the ground, in the sky,

and carried within holy men and pregnant women.

I am told to stay away from folks with clothes on

as I cannot seduce them all.

On the tiled bathroom floor, where I write in isolation,

my laugh echoes through steam, at people and you,

a naked and limbless poet.

I laugh because bombs need not scare me away

from the anti-social creature man has become

and the call of the open road

has been out of tune for decades

people are bears in caves,

and I prefer water.

My universe is made of water.

Time

Though I am told you are old immovable,

a large and ominous cloud above my head,

I cannot see you there.

Sometimes I catch glimpses of you

as a bundled winter couple,

gloves about to touch as you turn the corner

often seven strides ahead of me as I walk home

but when I return to by bed,

and can count the tics of my steady heart

I grab you and hold you close

until morning weakens my grip.

What I want it to be.

It is the day after the storm and a broken tree is outside

our window. It has cracked, its insides struck black.

It is torn and fallen.

I look for you in the coffee nook of the kitchen

but see only faint grey sunlight peek through

the clouds and curtains and onto the coffee table.

Messy brown halos become its ornaments.

I wonder where you are, besides missing from the bed.

Did you take your coffee elsewhere? To the wet roof?

Or in your robe with our neighbors by the tree

to comment on the carnage washed in.

Suddenly, in the eggshell hallway

between the kitchen and bathroom

I hear the shower run.

Steam rises from cracks in the door

and the smell of coffee becomes overwhelming.

crawled up

in bed, a dead stone

with heavy,

slippery eyes --

hand curled

under head,

a weak fist, drool on

my forearm, these are

days consciousness

chooses to nag

in my open ears

and fragile decisions

bite softly

at my leg

my heavy breaths

bring me closer to

movement and death

view from the other side

Since my last paycheck your clothes

have become tattered and a bit worn.

Your face has become a bit green

and its skin seems to be falling off the cheek-

bone. I can see your teeth are chipped

and yellow. I didn’t know that they were.

And I wish you would look at my face,

or at least with a bit more consciousness.

Your translucent eyes affixed to my meaty

and probably delicious pork belly physique

is a little disconcerting

and you should close your open maw,

a long spiderweb strand of drool

is pooling on my welcome mat.

Oh, we’ve never met?

Well then excuse me for the confusion,

as several of your folk come to batter

my door every hour. Who are you?

Wait. Come to think of it,

I don’t want to know. Do you mind

if I shoot you in the face with this shotgun?