publications

I am not turned on by masturbation.

My dreams scatter my mind wide open and I am still lying here catching my breath. Sprawled out on the pavement. A man loomed over me, his shadow blocking all vision, and he told me to remove myself at once. “Remove myself at once?!” I slurred in confusion. “Why, I do believe I’m as content as a cat and you’d best scratch beneath my chinny chin chin, dear friend.” He leered and kicked and I pulled myself groggily to my feet, lurched through the masses who rearranged their paths to accomodate my haphazard strides. This is ridiculous.

We are born and we die alone.

I made my way all the way down to Houston and 1st, clung at the railing overlooking the East River. A boy once he had taken me here, held me here. Funny how people who should know more will open themselves entirely to you, lie there naked and expectant while you close them back up calmly as a surgeon. “Now is not the time to be naked,” I would say and cock my head, smoking a dirty cigarette, mouth like dishwater and utterly worn. Those were not the days for sex.

We are born and we die alone.

“Give me a chance,” he pleaded and I could not look away. All my dreams are laced with you and I’m lost somewhere between joy and utter madness.

We are born.

Utter madness. My eyes are starving.

Body be haphazard bones.
We put the rest to rest.
How the rasp of your tongue comes home to here.
How the holy penance I pay is fading every day.
How we are very nearly almost okay.
How the mangled corpse of a dirty university
floods nostalgia through the static of my mind.
Delinquint I am and must thus be found.
So tired and yet so fully inspired come now how
we tore the churches to pieces and skipped all the way home.

(home never existed in the first place)

(i will bring home to here)

.

A town of disrespect
The trains are wrecked
The night is younger then us
Nowhere is anywhere else
You keep to yourself

pull down the soft

Body laced into the air and surrounded by warm sky wind. Just beyond the easternmost cloud is the future marked in time and place. Sailboats web the red sea behind my eyelids and there is fortitude to be found in indifference. Do intuit your whole body into it, the recipe for pleasure is contented leisure and the belief in mm mm good will curdle your socks like a cat at your box. Hey cat, shall we scat along the windowsills and upon the orchards? This is all a series of giggles scrawled onto pages and pages. And these are the ages when the hesistant lines between just our mere fleeting eyes contact wounds, the uncertain multitudes must do be aware of this fuzzy despair.

I just meant I mean just.

Ow, my face hurts.

one is heavy, thus the other must be light.

estrange
2. To remove from an accustomed place or set of associations.

changing.

am i forever being swallowed up while in the process ending each monumental chapter of this life so haphazardly, so without grace? i yearn to be more than merely a smudge of mind matter marring this perperually swiveling trace of a space of a place oh you dastardly bastardly gates! You’re blocking my depths. You’re blocking my ambition I’m a key with no ignition and believe we’re not meant to be shorn and shaven and so full of craven guilt guilt guilty of nothing please let’s not indulge anymore. Conversation’s masturbation and i’m bored with it down to the core.
Yes, swallowed up I am by the raw power of all your individual intentions. This is the path to tired and old. Consequently, must I now blind you with my own barely concealed self so riddled with imperfections? This is my seasonal introspection.

By the light of the moon we are singular.

for the joyful love of raspberries,

and the way garlic sticks to fingertips. Transfixed by almond eyes I became besotted by emotion. In my dreams I kiss girls and push them up against cement walls as though I were starving. Hunger fits its fist in my belly though I continue to eat. Strange the way objects have begun to take on a peculiar depth, as if always before I had seen everything only in two dimensions. Perhaps the deepest crannies of my brain have finally happened upon true reverence, how one must always dig inward and stop this restless sapping search for truth in things outside the self. How extraordinarily liberating.

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you
-e.e. cummings

while the whole moves, and every part stands still

I was awoken by the indiscreet beat of your feet on the street next to my window where the lawn gnomes roam. “ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY GNOMES?!” I questioned with a howl. Hoarse came your voice to my ears have heard the glory of the scritchscratch of your tones, answered by my moans. Speak not in rhyme but solely by design- inch back reveal your chapped lips in the misty midst of this apocalypse and I will hug you all the harder.

Recently and perhaps fortunately I have been fucking my demons regularly, cradling close such warm fluid narcijism. It hurts. Some such things were at first merely cold balls lingering, sticking to my stomach lining. They unravel in the heat of love and truth. But because the heat pushes down between my chakras, because my eyes are wilting and I am translucent, I ache push away snap bite snarl-

-whoa hey now. Do the stars have tails or am I seeing trails? Howling, howling feels so good.

murmuringsurroundsound

In peace would we wonder at the past: turn it over in chapped fingertips, clutch at it like a rosary in the middle of the night, a hair necklace for the mind. And through the silence emerges a whimper, then an inexplicable sob. Worn and crawling back upward toward solace, try to slow the flow of pinnacles, leaps and bounds and heart palpitations. Try to slow. Try to slow. This is the heady feeling of full satiation. There is so much mist.