My
Emotions
Are a mess
I've been lying
In bed
thinking of the lies
I tell myself
To get an ounce of rest

I think
Of whether I am only
Lusting after your body
Or Somebody
That I can sink myself
And my being
In to and
****** with

Oh sweet nectar
envelop me
Over and Over
Never stop...

Or if I'm
Caring for
A heart that is connected to the wrong valve
That is trying to pry itself away from
My rib cage
To find it's other half
It's you I'm sure-
Wait

I want your thighs-
No I want your smile-
No I need your lips on mine-
No I want your hands interlocked with mine-

NO
May Zeus be doomed for eternity
So he may too feel what he has done to me!

A puzzle piece
With no shape or form
I am
A mess of emotions
Lying in a bed
With no rest
In sight

Until it clicks
I want both
But both are never coming to me
Never from you

So I bore holes into my ceiling
Feeling
This non-existent tragedy
Befall
Wicked Ol' me

my world is bleak
each breath is empty
my limbs are numb

they don't feel your touch
your caress upon my arm
each gentle pat on the hand

life has turned vapid
leached of all usefulness
dead and alone in the corner

my limbs are numb
yet here you are
poking and prodding

for a sliver of hope
that I may feel again
unhindered by life's casual boredom

thanks are many to give
but dry up on my tongue
crack each taste bud

not for pleasure or whimsy
but necessity
for if I were to speak soul truths

the earth would shatter beneath our feet

It eats me alive to think
i was given this life
and nothing will be made of it

i waste away hating myself
and wait for the day when people say
“What a shame. Think of what could have been...”

The truth is
this world is not made for us all
and some people are destined to be nothing more than background noise

Ah,
the attention I paid
you paid
I meant
these were the last lines

Worthy one, I paid too dear
truth to tell, when no truths were mine.
Seek.
I sought.
Ask.
I asked.
Knock.
I knocked.

Enter into the joy of the being who governs you.
Whose kingdom we have made ready,
into tu corazon, eh.
Where a man's core is, there's where
the dragon guards the hoard,
until,

the hero in your mythtical meander

Wise ***, as an actor in my play, is your roll real?
Am I mad, or are you a mind
I imagine answering me
because you saw the
angel with the sword?

Jesus. Really, that was the door I knocked on.
He opened.

And long ago, a quest was taken,
is my first answer a lie?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Every gaijin's first koan

The answer found in the sound
of one hand clapping is
in the sound
each makes
as each claps

swish, swing, and a miss,
that one hand was not clapping, or
the other would have helped.

Clapping calls for both hands,
to clap, neither asks the other,
stop me from failing to
clap
instant
instantiation
imagination, see the sound
made,
the effect one hand
clapping with another and
meeting
in the middle of the motion
makes
the sound of one hand clapping
The intention to make this sound
calls another hand
to clap along
so,
sing a song, appraise the worth
of knowing the sound
balanced against making
this sound of one hand clapping,
keeping time
to swishpering shuffling feet
dancing in the sands

a value scale must balance on a point,
weight and worth must meet
at that Hermetical metal river side
Twixt all of this in all o'that.

point made and taken.

Is this the meta game?
Your next koan.

What is the measure of worth?

you leaving didn't hurt as much as the realization that you
were no longer here to comfort me about you being gone.

I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station,
Breathing in the *****-scented air,
Breathing out clouds of steam,
A subway train rushes along,
Not stopping,
Biting at my eardrums,
With the painful percussion,
Of thousands of people,
Silently screaming,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The air fanned by each subway car,
Rushes against me,
Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings,
Into my nostrils,
Along with the air,
****** through the iron gratings,
Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks,
Carrying the odor of a *******’s festering sores,
And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers,
And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern,
And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway,
Turning $20 tricks in an alley,
Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs,
And . . .

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

. . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup,
And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut,
And putrid lilies lying in a gutter,
All assaulting me, forcing me backwards,
Until my back presses against,
The grimy once-white tiles,
That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine:

God is dead,
Bake a ****,
Whitey *****,
**** the *******,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The train finally passes,
Its red eyes receding into the dank,
Dark tunnel beyond the platform,
The screeches and screams slowly die out,
Their echoes ******* behind them,
The smell,
Of my,
Warm
*****.