I think about my death.

The seed of life
is so
profuse,
and that
is
my demise.

I might live,
but I will die.

When I dream,
I dream
of Judy Greer.

She's been there
talking
about
love and *******
and death
and hurting.

So what can I say now,
when bulletholes
of lightning
people my dreams.

When a couple
shots of whiskey
have put me on the edge
of missing you
over memories.

I moan
and dream,
because dreaming
is a moan
for hope.

And being in for a bid,
is the same
as your lips
to
my
lips.

So I evade promises
and dribble
into traps
of
depression.

I've had this problem
for so long,
it seems inconsequential
that I might
wring my neck
by an electrical cord,
or by the chords
of your heart..

Because i miss you
and that
type
of
thing
never lets go
to much.

I stare at humans with an anchor in my hands.

I don't know if I should break
their noses,
or
tell them how it got there.

Don't hate me,
just be grateful;
that I told you I'm so sad
and worn out.

My drunk dreams
are astounding.

I wake up
at four
in the am.

have a smoke.

Then go back to sleep,
still tipsy.

Judy Greer
makes it to the farthest
reaches of my imagination,
and I must save her
from
a
man
with a hundred
groping hands.

A girl with a spirit
full of the ripest sunrises
in their peaches,
pinks
and plums
must be told
that it is ok
to be this sad
in the morning.

When there is no reason,
and night is crying
over
its demise.

I must take her from the sky,
to take her to my bed,
where we lay naked
having never ******,
but because it's much easier
to tell the truth
when skin is touching.

It is much easier
to feel human,
when you are touching
them
unadulterated.

I must rescue
the world in my dreams,
I must eradicate
disrespect
and
cat-calls.

I am the defender
in my dreams.

Why is it that I dream of saving women,
because I have been told
to do so?

Or because
I am doing what comes natural?

Or maybe
I am just hurt,
and when I am hurt,
I want to save people.

Without you,
I am alone again,
and each moment
feels like a dry fever.

I go to sleep
in fits of time,
a few hours
here
and
there,
scattered like bouys.

When I feel happy
its because I'm in the desert
and
that's the kind of happy
you feel.

Droplets
of rain
on the leaves
make synthesizers
of the earth.

Echoes
begin in the brilliance
of
destruction.

Walking through the morning
in the decreptitude
of missed dreams.

I have been drunker
than any of you;
but you have all hated
yourself
enough
to
think
of
ending it all.

The drunkenesss
of suicide
is enough to understand
my pain.

In the night
you have contemplated
a thousand ways.

Making love
is the city of ruin.

The worst kind of fog
captures it,
a fog where the streetlights
are not pushing out
light
into the right places.

Light falls only on the glossy mercedes
and it's rims
full of hope and wealth.

The skyscrapers
reach the sky
and finger the underbelly
of an afterlife,
as if there is something to look
forward
to.

The buses
transport
souls
and
promise,
or seem too.

But this is all a lie,
the lights only create light,
darkness grows,
the skyscrapers touch the sky,
yes,
but they don't know a thing
about goodness,
and the buses are full
of
hopelessness.

But when we make love,
it is like
we are only looking for the good things
in the city
as we get robbed blind.

When I touch your belly button,
I can feel your heart in your stomach,
so low and so unwanting
that it dropped
to a place of digestion,
of eating what we had
and ******* it out.

It is ok to realize
this untruth
late in the game,
it is wrong to continue
when we know of the untruth,
and that is what we are doing,
that's why I hate
you
and still *******.

I love the city,
in its ruinous returns
I keep fooling myself
into thinking
this is the best thing that's ever happened
to me.

Your ***** must be the greatest,
because I'll never leave
even when we call making love
a city of hope
when we ****
and it's a dystopia
of
destruction.

There's this cat
that moans and moans
like it's going to hell.

It starts up
crying around 4 a.m.,
this ugly, pronounced
violent and deeply intonated
yowl.

It wakes me and Heather up,
it just comes into my dreams
and pulls me so hard
that I stumble back into this world
against this wall of sound
so ugly
that I'm tip-toeing insanity.

I want go out there
and strangle the ******* thing,
I want to find it where it yowls
and silence it.

heather says I'm the meanest person in the world
for wanting to strangle an animal
to
peices.

But the thing I hate is when an animal
lets the whole world
know
that
it's dying,
it won't let anybody get any sleep
until everybody in the vicinity
is standing around it
in pjs, boxers, doo rags, scarves
slippers,
gowns,
that pink thing Heather
got from
Walmart
watching the light of life being reduced
until this dying thing
begins burning
precious oxygen,
oxygen that we all need,
and it just becomes a waste
and a nuisance.

This is the time of year
for lovers to break,
for rounds of applause
to burn
the
lives of millions
into a caucophony
of happiness
and unity,
for the sun to turn
over
in the sky
and get closer
with the Earth
becuase heat
is drunk love,
for clouds
to fall
and get skinny
as they writhe on the earth
and the earthworms
wiggle to the surface
for a drink,
this is the time of year
for maggots,
for destruction,
for putrefaction,
for decay,
just becuase it's getting hotter,
doesn't mean its getting cleaner,
the vultures circle
when the smell of meat
travels on thermals.

This is the time
to make plans
in order to break them,
when we make love on the beach
and get sand in our genitals,
it is because we cling to each other
far too easily,
and this time of year
will remedy
our attachment.

Spit it out, why don't you,
say that this time of year
is better
for self-loathing
and hatred
than sunny skies
and ice cream that drips
for days.

I think
you are so beautiful
Heather,
that I could search for clams
on the beach
and only find fish.

I am unhappy with fish,
they are too stupid.

But your open mouth,
and the pearl
of its tongue,
is just too much.

You have a ******* boyfriend,
with a ******* mustache,
and flannel
two sizes
too small.

My heart is big enough.

I could eat you in a gulp.

Your heart could be dinner
for days,
most likely years,
and if I could just taste
your complexion
I
might finally know heaven,
even as I talk about it
too much.

If I go to Hell soon,
I would tread the fiery waters,
fight the three-headed dogs
and a burgeoning Cerberus,
for the touch
of your skin.

Aphrodite is not beautiful,
neither is
Zeus,
you are the goddess
that puts
all else to shame.

"Where do you find
these
broads?"

I don't know.

But i find them
so that I can love them.

So that I can love them
until it hurts
and I am left with a stinging
pain.

So many wasps have stung me
before.

I have placed the royalty of their stingers
in the waste
of heart break.

The knives are finally out,
I swipe at a million hives,
until I have finally cut the wings
of one.

We rise,
on ocassion,
to drink the blood
of our brothers.

The original vampires
drink the blood of youth,
and bring about the
wandering
and
ill-placed
musings
of old age.

With bitterness
we control our own destinies,
it is not fate
that is cynical with luck,
it is us,
cynical because of fate.

When we take control,
finally
in the last days of men,
we will see compassion
for what it really was,
the Jesus,
the salvation,
the temptation
that we never wasted
our energy on.

I still think
that demons crowd the plains
of our thought,
like gazelles
waiting to be gorged upon.

Demons
keep us down,
keep us in the waterfall
of stupidity
and
self-loathing.

Don't look back,
the demons take control then,
they hold sway
when the juries of our souls
let them talk
without consequence.-

And when the time comes,
what will be left,
will love be left?

hatred as well?

Will the protuberant
gestures
of a worn-down society
still stick up
like bruised,
but not broken,
pimples?

Of what discharge
will humans finally be made of?

We have told ourselves
that we come from the *****
of God, and the ovaries
of Mother Nature.

But God drinks too much
and comes home wasted
far too often,
far too drunk
to ****.

And mother,
well,
mother does the best she can.

So what we come from them
is spurned love,
of untruths often told
over bed-time stories
when God was talking about
his drunken outings
more than
morals,
and we listen
with beady little eyes,
because God is drunk,
and try as we might,
we cannot stop loving him.

So we come from love
and hatred,
addiction
and
hopefulness,
Mother giving us as much as we can
until we betray her.

This won't last
forever,
at some point,
you will have to throw in the cards,
and who will be the joker?

Worst comes to worst,
don't go crazy
on a Friday.

Don't lose it on the train tracks,
you will get reamed.

If you decide to lose your mind
at the bus-stop
don't forget that there are some irrevocable
hurts
in this world.

Maybe you will go
to a seafood spot,
at Southport
and stare at the gulls
and scream
from inside the sound studio
of your car.

The kind of sound studio
that could deaden
sound
itself.

Maybe you will hammer it out
in your garage
and destroy your entire face
with a buzz-saw,
because insanity is your husband's love.

There is a bridge
where cars stream
and make
river-noises,
jumping from pearly concrete
to volcanic asphalt,
you might feel how it feels to
go from heaven to hell,
maybe you're always at that place,
but if anything
don't
do
it
on
a
Friday.

Mondays are better for self-hatred
and
suicide.

An army
in flower-print
dresses
resides in our backyard
on a guilty clothesline.

Their bloated bodies
float in the water
of the wind.

In our tiny gestures, we tell potential buyers
that we had two beautiful daughters
who left their clothes everywhere,
and we have finally killed
them.

In small voices
they sing for justice
on the clothesline.

But the dresses
are our own childishness,
and not our fake childrens'.

And we tell our buyers these things,
because we want to leave this place,
but on our own terms.

I have dreams
of taking
friends
on suicide missions.

Missions gone wrong.

We place ourselves
in the arms of destiny.

We pit
hope
against
Hades.

When the bullets
are let loose,
and their voices
are as blurred
as tears
it makes sense to say goodbye.

But to **** the evil?

The ignorance?

It seems we die
against the murmurs
of both of them.

A dark night
where the reaper
gets his fill,
where my ribs
are picked dry
until the vultures circle
the ****.

I don't know if pain
is eventual
or just a residue.

IF love
is a black hole.

Because I bring my friends into it,
I take them down
to the blackest deeps
where Ahab still stirs
crying over the white whale
as he disintegrates
into krill.

So,
I
have
dark dreams.

I dream of Judy Greer
and ******* her
until she's dead.

Dream of covering it up
with plastic tarp
and love
that won't return
even when it itself
is so ready,
it's almost magnetic.

These are nightmares.

This is waking up to sweat
at
3
in
the
morning.

Just another black man
Just another black body
Just another black tomb
A bullet pushes itself
Through a skull
Pops out the other side
And skids
Along the asphalt
The gun is still in
His hand,
He can’t release it now,
He will forever
Have a clenched fist
A ball of fury
A chamber of memories
A prison inside the palm
Shackled to the ground
They don’t even have
To snap on the cuffs
He’s somewhere else
But that doesn’t matter
Just another black body
Black bag
Black tomb.

a man like me
needs you
because his heart
is broken.

Sometimes
I like to think,
that what we had
was part of
a dream.

I just want to hold you
even though
you've travelled across
broken bridges
before.

I like to come back to you
in the swirling clay
of night.

When purple clouds
make my pain
seem all right.

So, I drink
to you
constantly,
because if I don't
I'll forget me
in place of the breeze
that rustles
over my rattling lungs.

I could never sing
you a song,
and I could never
drink
for
so
long.

Oh,
touch me once more,
let me feel your tiny hands,
those black fingernails
and their jaundiced
finales.

So much smoke
was wasted
over
our love.

And it makes one
go crazy.

Angela,
would you ever
come back?

I've been asking
this question
as the licquor
subsides.

I've been
sleeping
on it,
just to take
its weight down.

I ate
three tasteless burgers,
and rummaged
through their tomatoes
looking for your lips
red as cherries.

Hopefulness
is a disease,
a cancer
because it spreads
in violent fingers.

The **** of my heart
has begun
before the burgers
settled.

When the time comes
will you have
an open ear
for a closed mouth?
or an open mouth
for a closed
ear?

What did Orpheus say?

What birds left his mouth?

Was there anything left on them?

Or did they fly naked?

Their feathers had been taken
to tar and feather.

The heart, bitter and bruised
broke through his chest,
in the furious night
of those
cold bird's
wings.

What did you say?

Did you say you'd be right,
that I'd be wrong?

Because you only
ever let me
hold your body
in stillness..

I could never hold you
like death.

So when we see each other
again,
in the blue balm
of day,
what kind of salve
will we choose?

will it be coffee?

or tea?

or whatever the **** people have?

Will we look in each other's eyes
instead of devouring our birds
one by one?

She’s got her
Legs wrapped around
My thighs
Like blood-filled vines.

She pushes my ******
In and out.

Kisses
Me
hard,
like she wants
To bite off my jaw.

“sometimes I hate you,
Really,
Sometimes I love you,
but not as much
As I hate you.”

she says.

Before,
The first time,
When *** was just a game
And we were kids
Who didn’t know which hole
Was which,
it was good.

Now it’s a witch’s brew.

When I look into her eyes
She spews poison,
Like it’s her passion.

And her mouth won’t stop
Exploding, because
She talks in artillery
And thinks of me
In games and warfare.

How did we get here?

Was it something
I said,

probably what

I did.



It was so dark
And cold the night
**** went downhill.

And there was no one out
It almost felt safe.

Nothing left but intimacy
a hungry phallus
And drunk love
for the tired young man

*******

his girl

In the back of his Camry.

He was Tired
already, ready to die,
Too much romanticism in a
165 pound kid.



He tried to maneuver himself
So that she sat on his ****
and he could check the rearview
For creepers,
and at the worst,

Cops.

but all he could see

In the mirror

Was her going

Up

And

Down:

Naked; Beautiful.

Her Brown skin burned

against his.

Her *** looked like
It was going to fall off
She was going so fast.

Her black eyes punctured

through him like she was taking
core samples.

She was

going to take everything

and leave nothing behind.



Wiggling like broken
Cogs, he and her scrambled
As the lights flashed
Blue and red
And he scrambled
To pull his **** out of her,
as he
Came, and some got
On his legs
And even in her *****.

And for a moment

He feared and hoped
He would be a father,

A proper father.



The cop shined
His light, and tapped the window.
She snapped her bra On
underneath her shirt.

The boy zipped his pants up
like he had a gun.

The cop really thought he had one.

the cop backed away

and started yelling
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

The boy didn’t say anything,

He just sat there.

The girl was crying silently.

The cop was still yelling.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR,NOW!”

He just sat there.

The cop was still yelling.

The girl was
Still
Crying,
Silently.

“DO YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT OF THE ******* CAR!”

He hops out.

The cop wrestles him to the ground.

There’s broken Coors bottles down there,
And cigarette butts.

Some left-over
Beer gets in his nose
And he inhales a *** of asphalt and alcohol.

The cop is pushing his face into the ground,
It feels like a car crash.

The boy feels like his nose
Is about to break,
Little blood vessels
Burst as red streamers
come out of both holes
And drip onto the refuse.

He can barely breathe.

Each breath is full of more blood
Than left-over beer.

He can taste the iron in his
Throat.

That was once a good drink
And a good smoke.

Now it’s nothing.

Now nothing is finally nothing.



The cuffs snap
On cold,
colder
Than the way his body
Felt when he saw those blues
And reds.


She remains in the car,
Like a woman in confession.
Her penance will
Be over shortly.

She will be taken home,
and her parents
Will forgive her.



But the boy will not be fed.
The cop will forget.
And the girl will sleep
As silently as a knife
In a drawer.

This is how it ends.
This is where I am
When she has her legs
Wrapped around me.

A moon-shaped belly button
full with sweat
where i hung my tongue



where did you put that
poem i gave you?



I think you tucked it somewhere
in your bra,
and let the ink run
over your skin
that day it was too hot
for shirts.

You sat by the a/c
in your *******
and sweated out every
sin that god ever
created.



Right below our apartment
were the subways filled with people
in the tunnels where
the heat made the people want
to strip down to nothing.



I don't have to tell you about that day,
but i want to just in case I forget
and forget this final *******,
not to you,
but to those
underground rumblings
and tiny teeth of electricity
that flitted up through our bones

as though we were just tracks

of steel.

This love
was the thing running us over
grinding our skeletons
out to a mechanic thinness.



the day we said goodbye
we said it
with middle fingers.

If i keep with my stroll,
I might just
catch a crazy case.

I might just catch
crazy
in the worst place.

In love,
the worst humans
debase
themselves
even lower.

So when her love
reaches me,
it make me less human
to the point that I don't even
know her.

I begin
to only know myself
in my episodic returns.

The episode
of kissiing.

The episode
of loving.

The episode
of breaking
over *******.

I wish I could pull ****
my way;
have gravity
in my palms
and the sun
in my arms.

I want to  feel heat in my biceps again,
I want the mountains
to rise up
again,
I want volcanoes
instead of pimples.

The words of a heavy
heart,
are replaced
by the resplendence
of life.

I think about her
constantly,
but truthfully
you have been my only friend.

I call
and
call.

I place hope on Hermes,
I place hope on my messages
and their ability
to convey
how much I care
over telephone lines
and the truth
of my heart's reminiscent eye.

A collection of sadness
is the heart
when it swims
in a pool
of madness
waiting for success..

Have thoughts and prayers
like
the thoughts and prayers
of a CEO.

Think of yourself
as successful and important
as them.

Our society says it can only be men,
as a woman,
work twice as hard
and be twice as passionate
as them.

It shouldn't be that way,
but it is,
so you've got to make it
and want it worse
in every way.

Saw a ******* on the border.

Looking for fireworks and something
To keep her busy for the rest of the night.

I was shuffling through black cats and m-80s.

She was in a pink spaghetti strap shirt
and  a black ***** belt.  

Brown eyes
like cut-down bamboo.

When she walks by, a little kid
steps on my chucks and trips.

The kid was trying to squeeze in between
Her and a dude who was trying
To talk to her.    
                                                                                                                          
The floor
Is littered with plastic broken fuses,
M-80s and a texture sticky like
It had been mopped with *****.

Too me she was beautiful.

I had so many purses
of night
that i couldn't sweat her.

I couldn't feel warmth
even in the embrace
satan
made
when he held me
in his sweater.

Hell could catch me for a thousand reasons,
I might be a sinner,
I might **** a man if need be.

But my heart
is made from a century
of hate.

A century of racism,
telling me that the white girl I loved,
was probably getting *****
when we ******
and made love
on the side.

So what can I say,
when I go on journeys
against Hades,
trying to pull life
from the depths
like Orpheus' stupid ***
couldn't do
for
Eurydice.

I'll never do it again,
this is where
the heart the begins.

In hell,
trying to make
sense
of the devil
and calling her
to make amends
for my sins
with girls
with a ***** smell like vanilla.

Blandness is a disease,
I can **** a thousand of them
with ease.

Ease is the son
of lazyness
and I've gotten careless.

I used to love
the ripple
of her.

I Cherished
placque suns.

I walked amongst
the withered oaky clouds
reaching to the earth
in capillaries
of lightning.

I made
****** on journeys
in the night
to the
licquor store.

I could take refuse
and morph it
in my hands,
because they were
her
hands.

She was the gravity of neutrinos,
I spun
and
spun,
and threw off layers,
as her bra
lay on the floor
and the laces
of her ******
lay
whitely
in the corner of the room.

I could've been anywhere
in those final seconds,
the club with it's thousand
orbitals of dancing brilliance,
the park
with it's millionaires
of hate,
the senseless
desert
of my
heart.

I was in the rainforest
feeling the universe
in droplets,
and my pores screamed.

Destruction
is something to reminisce over,
and I moan
like a cat in the night
with it's broken leg.

I moan
like a dwarf star,
getting smaller
and
smaller.

*******
i miss you.

*******
I wake
up
and
it's the terror
of a famished
heart.

Could I cry
a thousand
times?

Could I have more
eyelashes?

Could I learn to play the banjo
and finally
make a sound
like
raindrops?

the heart is not an easy
thing
to
devour.

The black of darkness
is a black
that's not easy to conquer.

And you have
brought troops
with superior artillery,.

the heart is not an easy
thing
to
devour.

The black of darkness
is a black
that's not easy to conquer.

And you have
brought troops
with superior artillery,.

"You're drunk
you
need it." - Lykke Li.

Don't puke
this time,
make it the seed
instead of the giving earth.

The earth pukes in fire,
and that hurts the belly.

Trust me when I say
I'm stupid,
and that I'm staying.

I have been with Heather,
I have been with Carolyn,
I have been with Gnat,
I have been with Yolanda.

I have ****** all of them.

Every single one
has not touched
as fatally
as you
and you have undone
the ropes
inside of me.

The unbound package
is
disaster.

It signals the death of promise.

But it gives in the lighthouse
of love.

I cross the fog,
I trample
the destinations
of rain,
I laugh at thunder.

No storm is greater than
you.

So replace me,
disown me,
hate me.

I love you,
and that will not leave
in the night,
like werewolves
after dawn.

The winds
only
whisper
when
I'm
drunk.

The tea leaves
wither
in the soup
only when
I'd had a few.

They curl
like disgusted fingers,
or fists.

I scrounge
my pockets.

I litter in Marlboro butts.

I can't go to sleep
without
the biting panther
of the drink.

Those lemon eyes
make sense
by nine
when I've had a few sips
and my lips
are filled with their tears.

Do you know
the forrest of my heart?

Do you understand passion
that destroys
as it grows?

This is kudzu
this licqour.

This is meaning
this licquor.

This is happiness
this licquor.

This is the dissolution
of my anxiety
and fears
this licquor.

I will end
on a sour note
and say
that I cannot sleep.

I cannot sleep
when I am sober.

You don't feel the same
chemistry
with me
as you do
with him?

I asked.

And she just fell into my arms
like
a building.

She was a building.

And I held her,
the biggest girl
I'd ever known,
as she cried,
in my tiny shoulders
and cut out canyons
with her tears.

I had tried that night
so hard,
I wanted that river
of hair,
a river of coal,
to be white with stars
again,
to be so full of a cosmos
with it's millions of chances.

But it didn't work,
and I held that girl,
so close,
because I wanted to hold
that big girl
and let her know
it was okay
to feel small
from time to time.

Have you had enough,
I'm okay,
the pianos
are in baritone.

I wait on the shores.

I believe that anger
is a result
of intensity.

The heart knows
no
flower
better
than
anger.

So,
I work it,
I put the anger in my belly
and put
whiskey
in there
to dull it.

I have had loves,
but I wake up to you.

I have known
heartbreak
but steel is inside of me.

I could break
because it is inside of me
to break.

But i am not angry
to break over you.

I can pick apart
objective pieces in others,
but the sculpture of you
is too real
to understand.

I could say I love you,
that's a lie,
I need you
in order to become a better me.

i know I could've been the one
who caught
the bullet
instead of you.

I could've been in the crossfire
of hate.

Trayvon
will you forgive
me
for walking up to the ABC store
in a hoodie and jeans.

I hate that the world
has become a place of suspicion.

I wish that love
could
conquer
stereotypes.

I wish my love
could
conquer
racism
and
misplaced
suspicion.

i could've been the man
shot down.

That's why it's so important
to don
a hoodie
in 80 degrees
because the degree of separation
isn't that much
of
a
degree.

It's better to back
into you
with all the lights on.

The headlights
swerving
like
doves.

The taillights making devil's eyes.

The **** in the ashtray
and
its
ruby.

It's better to pull into the driveway
while your husband
is
asleep.

He doesn't get up to take
a ****
in the night.

It's better to back into your guest bedroom,
with my back turned,
the boogie man in the closet is a
****** psychologist,
and may just spoil it
if we go looking for him.

It's better to back into the bed,
because I can drink the coffee
in your eyes.

You can sober yourself
over mine
if you want to.

It's better
not to back into
saying goodbye.

It's better to dismantle the brakes
and **** ourselves
over it,
than this constant reversing.

So,
over a slow goodbye
you grind your teeth
because you are no yellow light.

I would like to think
you have thick skin,
but you wear a perfume
like burning rubber,
and I know the backing in
is not your speed.

It's not mine.

Battalions of rust
make war
on the Old Ford pick-up.

It becomes a sculpture
of
sunrise.

Judgement is not poetry.

Poetry is bird-watching
and
quail-hunting.

A poet observes lovers
preening wings,
and holding beaks,
because a beak
does not break easily,
and lovers
only touch each other
with
unbreakable things.

A poet
hunts
and feels the weight
of a thousand wings
as she shoots them out of
the sky.

So paranoia is for the poet.

Pain is for the poet.

Love is the bible.

Fear is the safety
the poet
never clicks on.

A poet does not judge these things
to be true;
judgement is discernment
and for placing value
and poetry is not a
crime
or
a
rose.

The poet knows his arsenal
as he traces across the sky
in the unbreakable mouth of his love,
and falls
by his own gun.

Write every chance you get,
there aren't many.

Write when you
have a quiet moment
by yourself.

Write when you
are
in
the
queue;
life is about waiting.

Write when you are in bed;
take your pen
and
close your eyes.

By morning
you will have forgotten
more poems than you have written
but
you will still be a writer.

Write when you are getting a haircut;
all that hair has a story.

Write while you watch a woman.

Write while you watch a woman
lugging a rolling suitcase.

Imagine what is in there,
what is so important to her
that she must roll it around
in the darkness?

If you get the chance,
write in New York.

New York is writers writing about writers.

Write when the
most
beautiful
girl
turns around
and
gives you
heaven.

Write because heaven is costly;
heaven is elusive.

Write because heaven is rich
and know that you will be there
again.

Write because of anyways, well-****-it-thens, and don't-call-me-ever-agains.

Write when there is nothing
to write about,
there is always something
to write about.

If your writing is ****
feel freedom
instead of
disappointment.

We ****
to make space
for
reason.

I feel like our relationship
was too short.

Too many times did I take
your
******* in my fingers
and listen
for the ocean.

Your stomach
was fired in a kiln,
and still tastes like heat.

In your bed
we made out,
with t-shirts on,
and I slid my fingers
underneath cotton
because I wanted to
play in your belly button
and work the clay.

I know that you like to
Dance in fields
with cotton
on your lips
and talk to God.

Talk to him
in a subterfuge
of light,
and not in the marrow
of darkness.

Our relationship was too short,
because we snuck liquor
into dark theatres,
and left bottles in the aisles
like empty artillery.

We kissed in your car
and never cleaned up.

I had breakfast over at your house once,
and met your mother twice.

And it seems the alpine
was too much for me,
because I never took you to the mountains
even when you asked.

Carolyn,
when I see you
again,
I will take you to Appalachia;
as far from the ocean
as we can humanly get.

Carolyn when I see you
again,
I will not eat the fruit
of the fired bowl,
and will not
think of playing
with clay.

I want a Monte Carlo
with woodgrain
that drips
lacquer
like liquid
metal.

How sweet is the sound
of droplets
of wetted desire
and my chucks
dotted
by the bark
of a melted,
condensed,
glossed
and
digital
earth.

My Alpine's
make bus-drivers nervous,
with their hallways
full of a thousand faces,
staring down
at me
as I crack holes
in the concrete
big enough
for a squadron of buses
to fall into.

My Carlo
should have two things
in bunches,
it should have
the smell of a woman.

The smell of her
stale mouth
that lets loose fumes
in grated vents.

The Carlo's
smell should rattle me
like fences
that jingle when I brush against them.

Secondly,
my Carlo
should
be serious
and black.

All black.

I want my Carlo to have
opals for headlights
like the smeared *** of a firefly
or the eyes
of a panther.

My Carlo should be so beautiful
that it takes me back to the forest,
to the forge,
to the hotel,
to the hospital,
to the altar,
to a place of peace so loud
that I could take it between my fingertips
only to break it in a purr.

Andreya,
will you marry me?

Will you let me make
nests of sticks
and bubblegum
wadded together by spit
in your arms?

Please say yes,
I have drifted
into *******
of your voice,
and spurn the day,
when I  cannot hear your voice
that rips my heart
to
peices.

Black girl
with eyes
like coals in snow.

Black girl with super-dark skin,
that just  
makes
me
cry.

Black girl
with long
curly hair
littered with light.

Black girl
with lips like slices
of wet wings,
lips thin
as
happiness.

Black girl
with hazelnut eyes
with a grey
bent.

Black girl that knows how to make
me so happy in the cold,
with her closet-full of words
that can make a ******
think of warm weather.

Together we meet
in the woods,
at the cabin front-steps
taking turns
twirling
each other's cheeks,
touching each other's
lips
and I just want you to know
that there are no dreary
days
ahead,
even when it is cold
and we have to hold
each other
to hold
everything
inside.

Because we might just burst;
explode
in a thousand limbs climbing like spiders.

You could take
thunder apart
with your teeth.

Lightning
doesn't know
the light
of
your
mouth.

When we finally talked again,
me and Gnat
were cordial.

I was finally happy
that she
was
happy.

She said,
"I really am in love this time."

And it felt good
because
I'd known she'd finally
found it.

And that the verses
of my poetry
couldn't reach her,
like the symphony
of the exquisite
symphony
of his
could.

I love Gnat,
because
she is in love
and
happy.

I find happiness
in the fact
that a girl
I constantly ****** over
is now in for the ride of her life;
a ride full of ups and downs
highs and lows,
but a love
that can resist
a rollercoaster.

I am finally happy for the love
of my life,
and they don't tell you in the movies
that you can be happy for the love of your life
when they're in love
and staring down the
barrel of eternity
not thinking of it as a gun
but
thinking of it as true
real
love.

And that's what Gnat has.

And I'm so happy.

I have taken
too many shots today.

one.

two.

three.


four.




five.

And I was gone.

Cheap **** on my mind,
drunk as ****
at six at night.

I stay drunk.

And I hate myself,
so that's why
I stay drunk.

Where is the little marshall?

Where is that kid
full of romanticism,
and hope,
because my mom's
had me watching
the way we were
and
dance with me.

I tell girls the truth,
and I guess so many times
they've
heard
it
as the opposite.

But my heart is full of that ****,
full of taking in love
and on the assembly line
of my
arteries
trying to hold them,
protect women,
keep them from guessing,
becuase all along,
my romanticism
wasn't *******.

It was a process
of my mother trying to make me into a man
that wasn't him,
wasn't my father.

So yea,
my ****
may sound played and irregular
but me
caring for you
is nothing
but
regular.

I can't lie to a girl,
I can't fib
on my heart.

Because romanticism
has been there
from the
start.

My mother is to blame
for
my shotty game.

Game
is when you're trying to ****,
and
I can't knuck
with that.

I tell girls how I feel,
truthfully,
even if it sounds dupey.

This poem has turned into another love poem.

I wanted to toss
something,
I wanted to feel
your body
like
palm prints
on my windowshield.

Write
"I HATE YOU"
all over me.

I can take it.

I've got thick skin,
but my heart
is shallow;
you could touch
it
before your fingers
grace
the pleather
of my backseat.

I fake it alot.

Some girls think I'm macho as ****,
but really,
at my creamy center
I **** them
like they are splinters.

Just trying to get it out.

So let's back out.

What's a splinter
to a whole human?

Nothing.

Nothing but an irritant
that itches,
when the computer
is on a high-wire
glitch
and these girls climb telephone poles
thinking
they're fixing
me.

When really you've boled
a hole
in everything
and climbing poles
gets them farther
from my core.

I'm a romantic, even when girls flip. I choose not to dip
even when it's over,
the home planet of love knows a thousand rovers,
and they all leave tread-marks
in yesses
and not
nos.

The yesses of coming back
and back
for more
moon rocks,
because no jewel
can make you
more confused.

So when the planes
march across the sky
in a cluttered
night,
I stumble over
marlboros
and trip
over the hope
for tommorrow.

The hope
that I could someday return
to the reaches
of your farthest
star.

It's such an escape
when I feel
your loving embrace
your tiny body
with
its
gargantuan
gravity.

I've never hugged
someone,
the way I hugged you.

Put me on the back
of your warping love,
because I could fall anytime
and the atmosphere
could rain in acorns
as I look for the dropping sky.

I'll always fall
for your games,
and I'll re-enter
with a broken heat-shield
waiting to break my neck
and teeth
and heart
over the heat
you
yield
in uncountable
atoms.

In the smallest manner
I pander,
trying to get you back
over messages
travelling like radio waves
across a galaxy
with a black hole at its heart.

The beep, beep, beep,
can travel forever
uninterrupted,
but when it hits a raw body,
it falters.

So I'll let the knees
of my heart,
bend at the altar
of your far-off blob
of life.

Temper tantrums everyday,
the baby
I have become
is the same one that
pukes up mommy's love.

See,
lil ma
got me
on the switch,
she questioned my intentions
thought I was up to no good,
but all I wanted was a single parent love,
something
that could withstand pain
and nourish
a broken heart
like mine
all by its lonesome.

I just wanted you to see the other
side,
because I spend to much time
on mine.

I dictate how mean I can be,
but as always
we got into arguments
and consequently
you took the baby
between us
and held it away from me.

Not a baby
of flesh,
but a baby of love,
morphed into an adult
of
scorn.

So now what do we do
with this wild child
in our midst?
do we throw our hands up?
or do we put our middle fingers down
and hold each other's shoulders
like lovers should?

When I eat my words
I eat them
with bitterness.

A whole
grape
of wine
couldn't encompass
the
sour seed of my soul.

I make promises
over the phone,
that I love you,
that whatever I did wrong
can be made right.

Just like those withered
scuppernogs
I think,
I can climb the vine
again.

But there is no
remedy
for a broken heart,
except pain,
and letting go.

So over dried tears,
I tear myself apart
over the thought of you.

Even in the burgeoning
night
full of fat storms,
I am malnourished,
and waiting by the phone
while my friends go out,
for your call.

Love isn't right,
or logical
or even compassionate.

Love is hateful,
but love
is
also love,
and the well-spring
of humanity
stems from that deep
acquifer
embedded in rock,
where you are the
drill
and
I am the spring-loaded
limestone
full
of
nourishment.

So bae,
come back someday,
let me climb the steel stairs
of your blue eyes,
because I've been out
and
about,
and other eyes have found mine,
but they have found nothing.

You have found
and mined
everything,
and I don't love them for finding nothing,
I love you
for your scouring
and
discerning heart.

So dismember me,
make me human,
I'd rather die mortal
than immortal
and
inhuman.

I think
your back still arcs
like a feather.

But I still called you *****
from time to time.

When you put your eyeliner
on, I thought of different dreary places
where darkness could reside
peacefully.

Dream catchers litter too many of the beds
we have occupied.

When I hear about your new best friend,
I want him to know that you
know how to pull teeth out with your tongue.

The creamy bowl of the clouds
laundered the sky, pulling pollution
against the washboard of our love;
and your legs were always open underneath the table,
waiting for my fingers
jaundiced by nicotine.

Sometimes u didn't know if
no
was the right word.

No
was the right word.
it would have retained
both of our
sanity's
even in vanity.

It seems that
no
is the better kind of stain
than
yes
and all of its incumbent pain.

No
would have been better
than twenty-five feet of intestines
being tugged constantly..

Better then
the peeping heart
and
broken warbles.

Better than matinees.

Better than
runways
and
leaving landing gear
on my heart.

Better than
love itself.