April 1, 2008
Americans cannot recognize their incompetence.
France is stuck reeling of its own fecal odors
The whole world’s tugging the universe in, and we’re all stuck smiling at kids.
Alice is sitting on a tin room looking for someone to eat.
Vulgar beggars walking below can smell the blood on her lips.
Steady, ready, grave the gauges, feel the reel of a real trip.
America falls through a crack in the ice.
France is sinking, don’t reel her in.
The sun burns atop the middle finger, balancing to kingdom come.
A world burning, a cannibal learning all the traits we overlook.
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April 1, 2008
There’s a knob on my brainstem, take my hand and turn it for me. There’s an engine somewhere in me, find the key and turn it on. I want to come to life. I want to be real. In my head, I can feel a bit of static whirring before sending me into waking life. My mind sees to much light, and I go to sleep. I whir back on and come to life never knowing who turned me off, or who turned me back on. I wake up and pass inspection. I come down the stairs and I turn to my room to qualify for quality time. The kitchen smells of rosemary and a spice I can’t identify. I smile when I find I am unplugged and free to roam the world with senses intact.
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April 1, 2008
The dogs got eyes in their paws and they can see that you are coming through the loosely flailed particles. Their eyes are fucking infinite and their ears are a modern-day epic. They claw at Christ’s side like they crave the water that flows from him. The dogs have come to play. There’s no policies, no prophesies, no more bullshit to hide. There is you, there is the dogs, and there is the quizzical flash of who fed them last. Did they leave them enough, or are they still fixing to feed.
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April 2, 2008
We stood there in a dark room. The eerie dark from an after midnight eat-in pizza place. We kept on standing submersed in the darkness that accompanied drunkenness and the darkness that accompanied light-headedness. The room was tiny, but there was room to move around. We were cozy with sufficient room to shed our skins, room to fuse into particles, and room to return again as one. The partition between sides began to fade and falter under the prism of intensified sunlight through smoke. The room sort-of glistened in the dessert. Our bodies slowly beaded sweat as the afternoon sun baked us alive. Stuck in our dark room in the middle of the dessert we let the plastic knob that clicks the thermostat from hot to hotter.
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April 2, 2008
How’d I get on the floor? I was standing and thinking a minute ago. How much time’s passed? Do I look okay? Do I feel okay? Hold on, it’s hard to know. I’m short on feeling. Comprehension’s out the window. I’m confused and comfortable here on the floor. In the kitchen I am sprawled out on the linoleum sheet that covers the bones of the floor. I sink in, and sweat. Heavy sweat is now collecting. I feel laid out on a stone street in the graces of eighteenth century London. Twist head side to side, and focus. Jump through altered time. This space is a quantum jump. Lay and you shall find a peace in sliding through near-solids. You become dissolved in the beat of an eyelash, and gone in the blink of an eye. Your sunny rays melt my wax. I forget that I’m not outside. You beat me down and dragged me up to realize where I was sprawled at dead on the kitchen on the floor.
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April 2, 2008
I was happy and satisfied.
You were sulky and you were broken.
All the pictures I have of you are wiped of smiles.
To them, it’s a dirty thought. None of your likenesses seem like you.
They all seem strange.
They are some foreign affair plucked and transplanted across seas.
All of your pictures still like you, but on the jaw there’s something else.
Not a single smile all through the house. It intrigued me so I searched my things.
All the happiness flaked off and left you dry.
You are defeated because I have seen the look in the pictures.
I have seen the isolation, the desperation, and the depression creep up to greet me.
I was happy and satisfied, and you turned me to what I am not.
I should have never sacrificed for you.
Let me alone now. I need to think.
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April 2, 2008
There’s a light on across the street, but I am focused on the piss-rain, the bloodstain, the bleach blot. The parking lot’s sprayed pretty with lots of chemicals. They spray them everywhere, and we forget trivial things. That leaves more room in our brains to focus for work. What color is the side of the house across the street? What type of chemicals are they spraying? We ask silly questions that don’t further any more investigation. We are simple and quiet, and we spin about and leave. As we pass through the doors and realize we’re being deceived, a sharp odor rapes us from the air vents. Rusty chains of memory fall, and we forget where we just left from or why.
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April 3, 2008
For a dream, for a second, I realized how much I missed you.
Then I faded out into grey. I let the reel run, but I wasn’t having fun.
I was out getting ready for the day.
My eyes hurt a lot this morning, and there were caterpillar highways of red.
A million miles away from these roads, I heard a whisper tell me I’m dead.
Well so much for the nighttime, and so much for the sleep, so much for the cancer that tries to devour me in my sleep.
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April 3, 2008
The lost video of a teenage temptress burns up my screen.
The TV’s on fire. Smoldering, swallowing, flames lick the screen.
No victim outlives the source of all the pain and anguish.
The video plays and all is caught in screens that don’t let love trickle through.
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April 3, 2008
I heard I died in one of those dreams you had, set to background music by another dying man. Me and Alexander died. Me and Alexander died. I just wanted you to know, that I’m alive even if I died in your dream. It’s always good news when it's more than no news, even if that news is sad.
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April 3, 2008
I never want that fucking call that tells me they did everything that they could.
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April 3, 2008
The police went door to door pleading for help from perfect strangers.
They dumped the cans filled with trash looking for an answer.
You’d think someone would have seen something, but lips are sealed tight.
Throats are collecting dust.
There is no spoken word that is soft enough. There is a search out there.
It is a search for a killer. Welcome to this city. It’s a nice city, filled with nice people.
It’s generally safe, and we love when people come here.
It’s a city where someone else has been murdered.
Now they put a girl’s face on the television screen, because she’s the one who died.
The police are still out there going door to door.
I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.
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April 4, 2008
I’ll turn you on, and turn you over.
I’ll make you vomit while you’re sober.
I’ll creep under your skin with ease.
I’ll manifest as a sick disease.
I’ll slither slick just like a snake.
I’ll come to get you for goodness sake.
I’ll tune you out and I’ll soon be gone.
I’ll be a ghost that moved along.
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April 4, 2008
Hammered. My brain is living fake.
The crystals shine in the sun outside.
The tests show nothing and I guess that’s good, but I still think I’m running out of time. What time is it? It’s 3am. I don’t know why I’m sitting here.
My brain is living free, like a fetus in the dark.
I don’t know where I am going, and I don’t care.
I put my words down with care and calculation, because I have a feeling I’ll soon be gone, and I just want my thoughts to live on.
Am I paranoid or well prepared? Do I make you weak or do I make you scared?
Leno’s not that funny when I’m smeared on stabilizers.
I just feel like a fool but its okay. I hear fools are cool.
I’ve got phony accents, burning incense, and a space cadet feeling deep inside of me.
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April 4, 2008
I just want to live in a tiny home about fifty yards off the beach, with no one around for miles. I want to be close enough to town so that I can go and immerse myself in socialization, but far enough away that isolation keeps me company. I want to put my feet in the soft white sands and look out at a vast stretch of ocean. I want to write down my feelings, my observations, my life, and just hope that when I’m die people will take them to heart. I hope they'll remember me.
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April 9, 2008
I’ll drink this sweet elixir if you say it will heal me twice as fast.
What’s half of forever? Is it what’s left of the time on a deathbed?
If time ticks slower for those most wicked who will take the good parts and tear apart the bad? When will the bombs in my head stop exploding? I am a landscape of solid gold.
Tear me apart piece from piece until all that’s left is a skeleton.
A smile-smeared skeleton dressed in army fatigues and a nameplate.
Oh, dear Castro…the time left for you drips like an endless faucet.
It is constant in the dark of night, in the lava lamp of sunrise, and in the golden stabs of pure liquid sunshine. It is a love light that someone’s left burning for you.
I guess even mean old Fidel has flames still left burning.
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April 9, 2008
Blood vessels burst and scatter lives like buses used for market bombings in Gaza.
I burn down dull like the flicked end of a square.
My hairs are twisted on end unraveling from my shortened little cabeza.
I can feel small cracks where the hairs split and floated away from my scalp.
The harsh smell of my lungs slit open on an operating table wafts through the room.
A fear of death creeps into my tiny insignificant head, and I see a light I didn’t know existed. Suddenly my skull lit up and light shone from the base of my scalp.
I stared at my blood vessels strewn about in the reflection and I turned to stoned.
A stark granite face stuck into my looking-glass, and I whispered, “No one’s home.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and tilted his granite jaw line.
“A goddamned shame,” he whispered back. He took two steps back into the mirror, and I blinked for a second. I blinked for a moment, and he was gone.
My jack-o-lantern head flickered in the dark that still entranced the bathroom’s mirror.
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April 10, 2008
If I ever leave this place, I’ll do my best to fix my face.
The only thing you can see by looking is a thousand broken pieces.
Our house of cards has toppled and burned, and there’s only you to blame.
If I ever leave this fucking place, I’ll finally be perfect again.
Just one day out of life is all it would take to heal my wounds.
All I need’s a mason jar filled with fireflies and promises.
Promise to hold my hand when we’re quiet and alone and I’ll be yours.
You can seal the promise with a ring around my finger that will hold me to your solace on even the coldest nights.
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April 10, 2008
The sounds of broken glass and rain falling smother the Pink Floyd under its roar.
I can hear the rain letting up outside on the patio, and now the whisper of a genius is coming to life proudly. All the people outside are searching beneath clouds for a place to stay dry if they wish to continue without the weight of water on their backs. The mothers and their children are flocking to keep together and the winds seem to blow the little children further and further away from them. Some shout, and most panic. It’s a high-octane day with all the grit and glamour of tea with the Queen. My feet are slowly floating off the floor and slamming back down with the force of moon boots. Far off, I can hear the thunder clap and a nightmarish siren wail beneath its breath. The cars are mistaken if they think they’re any match for the deals that Mother Nature hands out. The hanging planters are rocking consistently back and forth with the cradling winds. A sea of empty faces stares the world down with bleak attitudes and utter distain. Curses and malevolent wishes are offered worth to the forces that are as they try to make their ways through everyday life. I smile as I sit here feeling very little short nothing. My spinal column clicks back and forth with the thump and flow of every bit of music. It serenades my viscera with heat and purification. The guitar chords are loud, and the room is lit up like a rusted-up highway diner. Lights flicker on and off outside as no one’s sure quite what to make of this. I sit in my personal highway diner and contemplate what I should do with the day leaking before my eyes. Do I sit down and crack open a new set of shallow watercolors, or perhaps open my eyes and let flow the sounds of life as my soul sits by and idly waits for some signal or sense of purpose.
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April 10, 2008
You’re my angel, I’m your demon.
Come to feed me and I’ll frighten you dead.
Pistol grips singed into sweaty balmy hands fuel the rain that spits liquor with rage.
Underneath my broken chokeholds everything still turns to dust, and rain keeps falling to my dismay but everything will happen if I like it or not. One more chance to come forth and master all the wells that bring the praise. One more chance to slit the throat so gently of all those calling for you moral remains. Smear the liquor on your body and feed the demon that’ll frighten you dead.
Smear the blood upon your forehead and fill your veins with a drug hot as lead.
You’re my angel, I’m your demon.
Entertain my thoughts and revel in my desire.
You’re my angel, and I’m your demon.
Let me get you hot in my creeping fire.
