ENDING A THEFT WITH A PREPOSTION

I've grown used to having things of mine being taken away. accustomed to the absence, and the ashes can attest. seems I'm always taking stock on one hand, and losing sleep on the other. "Keep dreaming." you can fucking have them. gladly be the Insomniac if sleeping meant this. and everyone knows loss in one form or another. everyone is secretly being fermented by their own tiny burglaries. their own private bitterness. at some point in your life, someone cracked the safe, and made off with your loot.

Dylan Thomas Told Me Not To Make A New Year's Resolution

I could easily give it all amiss and flail off into the negative degrees, my fat & pocked ass jitterbugging in the winter night, like a load of buckshot seeking shelter in ballistics gel. I could wish a universe of unaware beings a decent night; a paradigm of perception having nearly zero to do with myself. I could hope that Carson Daly was more adept at being the harbinger of a further 365 days of hardship and toil and hoping that being a white person doesn't quite suck so bad, despite the current prevalent hip-hop culture saturation. I could continue to love my little girl the way I do; placing her needs before mine, but yet being a wretched father. But, who the fuck am I to ask for such things, when there still remains Third World Countries in the world? What right do we have to complain? Fucking First World Problems... 

And, by the way, what the fuck happened the The Second World?  

  

HIJACKED BY YOUR OWN GHOST

it was earlier than he thought, when he was hijacked from a truly surreal anthological collection of dreams, by a sudden frontdoor tattoo. guess the whole piss, purify then prim thyself procession must wait. the frontdoor would've creaked like a phantasm, save that it'd been oiled a few months prior. and, speaking of spectres, the face his eyes met once the holy threshold had been broken, giving way to the unholy light of day, could've only been described as such: gaunt around the jaws and eyes, like some sensual demon yet, with the cheeks of a cherub, innocence insurrected by hunger. now, it was the eyes which clued him in. those eyes were mine, he thought. not as in, he desired them, but that they were his own eyes. a lazy jade green, like a mid-spring day, cluttered with insects and spores and wispy grass nearly dessicated by the sun. frame not exactly slight, because the shoulders wouldn't allow such physical geometry, but more like the desciption of a traditional youth would represent. and finally, as the eastern eyebrow, and western smile both jutted up to the sky, respectively, he simply knew.

"I think about you often", I said. 
"I know you do," he said, "We hear it quite a bit."

X-mas Dinner at the Oblivious Benefactress' Home

I will wake up in the morning into a world that belongs not to me but to my child, and all children. I may not be sober, but I will be present; regardless of my absolute repugnance toward the day, and everything in which it is associated. I will commit to the task at hand, else I be relegated to the fiefdom that is Douchebaggery. 

Gifts will be opened and merriment will be had. Supplications made to (their) God, and all will be well.

Just as long as they don't direct their fucking

judgement towards my disbelief...   

exquisite corpse (please take part)

She and I were to be married, then the storm took her, and she tried to take me with her.

"You have the ring, my dear?" he asked, as the priest came near.

The waves crashed upon the rocks below. The surf and the foam, somehow given ethereal voice, as it climbed up the cliff walls. 

"Of course, my love," she answered.

Yet, somehow her voice came to him as more than one, and one as all, and he was struck dumb. Regardless of sunsets unobtainable, he promised her horizons. Sudden gifts of gravity.

The ring was a perfect match to her finger, and her dotage was a perfect match to his ego. 

when they discover my corpse [written 2002]

one hand clutches a wilted megaphone; the other, wrapped around the throat of my elusive conceptual ghost. my unanswered questions lining the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. my eyes, fixed on a point off in the distance; like Pike saying, “yep. we should be there by tomorrow.”

my legs buried in couch cushions, remaining torso bathed in the frenetic glow of infomercial 0blivion. ropey iridescent drool aiding in the escape of my half-baked last words: “all work and no play make Jack…wanna lay waste” shudders offer the only punctuation.

surrounding my pyre, the doubt-stained carpet is littered with the tardy trappings of escapist dogma. cold empty bottles & cold unplayed CD’s. (even in death, I feel thirsty.)

my obituary is choked with mixed metaphors. my funeral is cancelled, due to creative differences. the eulogy, postponed by exhaustive rewrites. 

personality obfuscations cloud the forensic evidence. “he’s not dead, he’s just apathetic.” 

(giggles shatter the mourning air.) 

oubliette blues; 10.6.2014

cicadas can still be heard, always in trees far away from where you stand, as if they were almost as confused about the order of things as we are. just once, maybe they could play their jittery concertos closer to home so we could, at the very least, have a conversation. attempt to suss this shit out? 

“give it a week”, says Ol’ Man Gutter, “your balls will be too frozen for you to care.”

wind the chord around and stab it through, just like your tired entrails do. 
is Thelonius Monk mocking you from the grave? makes perfect sense in this current nail-gnawing atmosphere. difficult to tell which stutter is digitally accidental, or surreally intentional. 

all the while the world outside remains flat. like blank printer pages. the kind I give to my daughter, so she can make worlds of them, with her chalks and markers, because I am too flat like the world I’m trying to offer her. 



given the choice, yet not able to choose. sometimes the moon is that much brighter when the torch is taken away at the last possible moment before the hike through the fucking dead forest begins. shadows make the rocks and pitfalls look like raw diamond-edged adventure. cannot take me hostage here, I go willingly. regardless of the stumbles and the scrapes; the laughter drowns out the pain, and the blood writes the pamphlet. 

[I am a flower that only blooms during the day, hidden and afraid at night, and she is the sun’s rays, beckoning my petals to open.]