the accidental dear hunter

we have discussion like head lights
-dear,
i’m enamored by the snarled bumpers
and rusted bolts 
you think make you anymore beautiful
that you look
in your own 

smile.

this trainwreck is a car accident;

those rubber necks
made of fiberglass crack at the sight
of what we’ve become..

(as the engines run
-head on)

one.

if i was a coupe
you’d be a tractor-trailer
-if you were a tractor-trailer,
i’d be too drunk to see you coming
-if you saw me coming,
id be too drunk to see you turning 
while i turned the same direction 
in guessing what the opposite of the other’s next
correction 
wouldn’t be-

we have awkward encounters
where hesitantly stepping side to side in unison 
turns into a 16 car fox trot 

pile up

that we can’t help but to cause
-because scattered across those car wrecks
and shattered windshields,
the most adorning qualities of each driver
can be seen stopping to fill up the tank
for another 3000 miles 

on good intentions;

where at the beginning of the journey
we see the end of our last endeavor,
as a reason to keep on driving 

into oblivion.

we drive across separate arteries 
at the same speeds in different times of the ride

-we drive, because we love the roads;
but more importantly,

where they go.

we drive with our eyes closed;
we ride with maps of eachother
stretched across the inside of the windshield.

i left our last accident early.
i figured i’d arrive early so i’d have time to pick her a flower
- and write a note attached to it that would say:

“i’m sorry i crashed into you last time. 
i just missed 
your touch.

i love you dear.”

or something like that.

she left our last scene late
.. because she was so upset that i didn’t stop
while she screamed it through the glass.

it took her a bit longer to compose herself.

but where i left early, she left later
-and where i stopped to pitty these rides
and to wonder if she was even coming this time;
she began to speed to make up for lost time.

i didn’t mean to hit her, 
she knows how much i truly care
-i just have a fucked up way of showing it.

and as we round the same corner 
from separate ends,
those yellow lines begin to tangle 
and we both just look ahead;
the roads all disappear, and the steal traps where we hide our hearts
fade into the scenic view

-of you.

we run at each other with open arms
-like the sappiest beach scene of your girlfriends
favorite love film

faster! 

faster! 

faster!

.. until we crash.

-i’m sorry dear, i just ..
missed your touch.

tree/ heart /industry

i fell in love with a girl
who lived in a whole
lot of gravity.

she was a neon motel sign
with no vacancy 
and a broken bulb in the beginning 
of her florescent definition:
she read, like,
“NOTEL”
to an audience of voyeurs
and sweaty palms.

i watched her do lines
off things far more phallic then my dick
-while trying to read every word of them i could
before she blew me away,
when all i wanted was to read
her lips.

blondes have more dis(fun)ction.

this girl, fought depression
by applying make-upside down and the hydrogen peroxide
her mother never used to wipe the slate clean
on her daughter’s self esteem engine.

she had died her hair so many times
that her roots
had worked themselves so deep in to her scalp,
that you could see their ends stretched across
the whites of her eyes
every time she’d try to leave the ground,
to get high..

her roots ran deep
as the oak tree in my childhood’s backyard;
the one that snapped my ankle in two pieces
during a game of tag;
no, this simile doesn’t stop there
because when i met you it turned in two
metaphor.

i used to swing from that tree too,
until the rope snapped one day while i was trying to reach
the sky..

she will be my latest
repressed memory.

that girl was the industrialization
of my romanticism.
she painted oil trusses around memories of willow trees,
and added factory mills to the streams
that had dried up years before she started
spinning her wheels in their soil.

i started with a heart.

somewhere under the sheet panels,
tin worker huts, outriggers, box cars
and box cutters
it’s still there 
to help you thrive off what’s under
all that steel you call real.

i’ve sipped this coma
for gallons worth,
hanging on by the electric sockets,
while she’s pulled my plug 
and my lungs spit up profit.

we call it love
until production stalls
-because we don’t have the tools
to build back this momentum;

we call it love,
but 

just as long as there’s a downfall
on sight.

the poet complex

i think about those who’d stand around 
my filthy mound,
and how important i wouldn’t be
to help decide weather i should kill
myself.
i don’t know what i think
-only that i care all about how i look
to myself
through your eyes when i think it.
i’m not even good at being 
a narcissist.

self-made mishap(py).

my anti-drug
is my last overdosey-doe;
my future has trouble breathing
because i can’t move
past;
i snort between the lines
because my sinuses are illiterate,
like the rest of the world
while i’m reading palms
hidden in my sweaty pockets-

i’ll scapegoat
an inanimate object
until the death of me
-which could be
your view of what i think
i should do

right 

this

very 

moment.

my poem is the eulogy
of itself. 
i didn’t write this,
i wrote the version you hated
because i liked it
better,
when you hadn’t read it.

these words are plainly said,
the most complex way to walk around
myself
without let any of you 
know.

so i’ll keep the poems you hate
in this state;
i’ll never leave 
because i claim to be agoraphobic 
from my car window..
because its easier than admitting i’m
afraid.

my relationships all fail
-because i only trust wo(me)n,
and s(he)’s a liar.

my hips have an autopilot,
that works horribly with my kamikaze hands
-that crash themselves into your body
when all i really wanted, 
is just to hold 
your 
thoughts.
i’m a slut, because you’re a bigger slut.
‘you’re not that beautiful,’
is what my favorite musicians 
tell me to think;
there’s a line that follows that,
but i think i like that part best
-when it 
excuses your perfection
as hideous,
simply because it’s not as ugly as mine.
that, who is different
is a freak;
in this case ugly by way
of not originally being as grotesque
as my own
personality.

but,

i credit this ugly
to the wrong Brooklyn,
Maine.

i found a rust snared swing set
in Brooklyn’s tetanus
gun-shot 
to the back of my
peddling,
i still use to swing as close to the sky as i can,
before i realize i’ll never reach..
just to keep my optimism
in check.

just k(no)w
that every thing i didn’t do
isn’t ever my own fault
when you’re still there to watch 
me undo its doing
and give me the peace of mine
of your piece of mind.

i know i’m:
an asshole
complicated
self absorbed
mature
immature
SO sweat
sexy
hilarious
hard to understand
perfect
older
anxious 

but you:
are too nice
are simple minded
only care about yourself
immature
think you’re so grown up
such a bitch!
not pretty enough
too serious
don’t understand!
aren’t the one
are too young
are too easy going

.. and every poem i write
turns into a love story
i learned after i thought i read the ending
to myself,
because this world is out to get
you;
and you transpose all your problems on to me
-so i eat your kharma raw,
so that i never directly admit
that it was mine 
in the first place.

i’m a liar,
i typically just say, poet.

and this poem, 
was written for:
you
me 
him 
her
the world
tonight
yesterday
today, BUT

i wont admit it
tomorrow.

so when said
apologies turn into 
heart attacks
and i blame you for writing 
this suicide note
with my forged signature
state of mind,
in the footnotes of my stationary
denial

remember,

this was all tru
ly
whatever 
you made it.

autumn leaves

i can’t look you in the eyes
-because they haven’t stopped rolling yet.

my knees took root in the block of sidewalk
stretched out in front
of your forehead-
but only after you moved away.

the ‘for sale’ sign on your body
language
written in braille across 
a no trespassing sign above your eyelids,
swings like a chain-link noose
in winds of change,
without the common cents 
it costs to stay;
rusted from the reign,
its sway grinds itself to sleep
that sounds like screams and the process 
of moving on
all in the same sweep.

the day you moved away
i bought a house.

it looked just like yours
-even smiled all the same,
but when the rain hit my knee
i found a hole in the place that you would 
be.
i caught the drops 
and wished that they were snowflakes,
and tried to fill your void
with plaster 
that hit my tongue
like sleet.

my house was built of cards
between where you stood
and where our house used to block the wind;
it would take a deep breath
every morning when it looked out the window
and had to forget its neighbor-
before it exhaled
my foundation, and every wall i built to hide myself, 
and i’d watch my hard work blown in
the free wind of too many sighs 
like a million homemade kites
strung by one thread of sanity-
without a neighbor to help me

reel them in.

windy days hurt the most;
the autumn leave
holds me
hostage.

my house,
my windstorms and depression:
your home, 
your empty room,
with a guest bed..

your, home.
with autumn leaves.

a bargain love film (synonyms for a cheap pornography)

i played a love film in reverse
-after 10 minutes
the audience asked me if this was a another one of those, 
“cheap pornographys.”

i narrated the piece with two X’s
drawn over my eyelids
and a dagger doodled in the footnote.

(it was a silent film.)

i chose to remove all sound from the presentation.

i felt that it distracted from the lead character
i was trying to portray myself as.

i read from notes written on the backsides of post its.

this way when i set it down,
i couldn’t go back and correct myself
without fumbling over my words
-and looking like an idiot;

i did that to stay in character.

i know that if i saw what i said about the last clip
while trying to focus on the next,
i’d keep returning to edit the narative for the last
while in the current-
there for 
confusing different relationships
in sequence between my commentary and the footage.

“is this one of those,
cheap pornographys?”

right, back to the film.

i skipped over two relationships
trying to justify to myself why i had written my notes
on the backsides of the post its
aloud
and coming to the conclusion that:
“no, this is not a cheap pornography.”

the audience seams lost in my relationships
-the silent treatments aren’t proving to be effective,
maybe i should have let these girls speak
for themselves. i don’t know.

-no, they would have just made the character
of the character that i was trying to characterize as 
myself
look like someone of loose character. 

this is a good idea.

the audience swallows sex scene after sex seen
and re-played.
i’ve now somehow managed to skip through four post its
while trying to explain why there is only sex scenes
for the first two scenes-
while the film skips alittle, “shit.”

that’s from when i was seventeen
-when i was slipped angel dust
and was so self enveloped that
i forgot to think of a narrative to explain
the girl you saw from the last sex scene-

“is this one of those 
cheap pornographys?”

nevermind. moving forward..
or, in reverse, this is the format
moving backward, but ahead in it’s presentation

-oh, what’s the difference..

i’ve now got one post it note with why i can’t be held accountable
for a specific relationship for every relationship 
i’ve ever had, and i’ve come to see i have 
not-
stuck from eye to eye as this silent film
becomes the reason 
why these women don’t speak
right there in front of my eyes,
literally.

lost in every relationship
all at once with not a single woman
sitting next to me as my date to my own premier
because
“woman are all crazy, i’m telling you.”

and i’m basking in the sanity
of explaining why i’m not accountable 
for the hearts i’ve stolen
while accepting i’ve stolen them but disputing
the definition of the work “break,”
alone.

“yes, YES!
this is one of those
cheap pornographys..
whatever.”

the rat : the writer

i theologized reincarnation
between adolescent angst 
and a mid-life crises thirty years in the making
of a twenty year old canyon dweller
in the state
of mind that has been said by many to be
“grand, er” 

i’ve constructed monuments of my own failure
on each side of this exit way;
while i feed the city of garbage where i play,
i’ll keep throwing sour love songs
tangled in last nights leftover-
dones’
and wish i could see the sun 
just once,
as if i’d even know what to do with it
other than close my eyes until
it was done;

then write some ambiguously coherent poem 
that doesn’t even end about it,
on the backside of a napkin,
who’s backside grins with jovial idiocy,
who’s for-side is a notebook,
who’s backside is a tragic epilogue
regeneratively:

i am the rat 
who packed all his belongings in to a poem,
and bothered to recycle for the sake
of a more conducive environment-

but i’m beginning to see more saturdays
in these rotten heaps,
than fridays to be their predecessors:
TGIF – yes, Thursday Goes Infinitely Forever
between misplaced clocks
in a lot of rusted suffix where the pre-fix
apparently,
is not.

trace my own circumference
until i walk a circle around my own misdirection,
trying to justify the end
of every poem i’ve thrown 
into the construction of this second-hand home
-with out the means
to remember what it is i wrote.

i’m the trophy wife of beautiful words,

who can’t even count to the sum 
of his own accomplishments
without a second hand 
-who can scribe for the first. 

i’ve subscribed to my own literary magazine
of half concluded exposays-
from the first issue in Novemeber of 1988 
up until the presently future day
-where again i’m writing the past
because i’ve already forgotten of today.

i know
i’ll throw this issue away too
-help build a solid foundation for my adobe hut.
my own bullshit makes for the best mortar;
even if its backside starts to grow flowers,
and its for-side can cup a coward,
and its backside can be picked for hours
by its for-side’s half-fully empty coward;

i make two cent’s of every message in a bottle
i recycle after sending it adrift to myself.
i’ve lost it all and earned it back with every poem,
and chanced it every time again
in hope that it will always come back to me

in the very end.
.Or the very beginning
depending on where it starts..
.. or it’s ending?

???

the photosynthesis of a skyscaper-rose

(haiku)

stems slip the surface
a nectar to be beauty
blossoms like children. 

 

a single pedal
dawn of new aesthetic noon
sips in the sunset.

beauty multiplies
one thoulsand arms reach the sky
-roots twist through shadows

blackness fills the ground
beauty blocks the sun with greed
-industry is born.

i’m a whore

 

call me whore

 

when i kiss your forehead

between locked fingers

that open like your legs-

as you climb the latter,

 

your former is desperate

but i’ll be the slut 

because naive as your love

-i wish i didn’t get it. 

 

i could dumb down

my heartbeat, and muffle the kisses

but your glass is half full

of crystal and it’s clear you’ve been drinking-

so while you swallow my words

and i ask what you’re thinking,

look through the glass

that can’t hide a lie through the blinking

 

i’ll love you in the gutter

and lust you at home-

dirty talk everyday conversations

and i thrust through the moans

for.. “more.”

 

but i’m just a whore.

requiem for a dreamer

people look like pillars
and the lights skid across the easel;
and you’re your own killer
as the blind spots thread the needle-
street signs blur in to trees
and the tires burn at your feet;
sirens are the soundtrack
and every one is in their seat..

this is the moment:
police lights drum roll in the distance
and the horns begin to open,
symbols smash the windshield
and the conductors wand is broken!
the symphony spirals into chaos
and the notes begin to stray off-
the pages fold and crumble
and the audience begins to daze off..

man’s 13th symphony:
requiem for a dreamer.

h_ng-m_n

i’m a better liar than liver

-a righter

only in the wrong light

-er fluid motion through forrest fires

i started by pushing sunsets

down the mountain side

like burning tires.

 

king of the hell

-icopter blade-

runner walking down the vein

i’ve offered

 

.. hope i can sustain,

these suicide note-

ices i’m only crying

werewolf-

like little boy blue

-burry fields of vine

tuned rope to hang-

man like misspelled quotes.

i’m too old to fall

my suicide wont come with a note,
because i’m not sure i’m really going to die
-but i’ve been thinking,
and i have to try..

past the ciggerette boxes
that cement themselves into their own vomit
on tar ridden feet-
and peddle smut to those niave
enough to
breathe.

i was a still born adolescent:
re-birth of talons and beaks that screamed
in siren-
city limit pilgrim
with a box of sidewalk chalk

-we loved to trace our friends,
then as we all stood up it looked as if we were still
dead.

they don’t bother lieing to us
around these parts-
lies are for those who can afford them
and when the truth is two cents shorter
than another couple pennies 
to distort it
-you learn early
food stamps wont get you much for comfort.

too bad no one every got full
from stomaching the truth.

when the sun hides
you can almost see those balls of gas
way up by where
every bastard in this citys’
dad lives.

in the suburbs they’re called stars,
but in hell those are just too far
-you learn to settle on finding constilations
in the smog drifting through the moonlit
veil.

i wear the park bench 
like a mothers love
because mom isn’t home-
and i figure 14 2×4’s and 16 bolts
account for more love than what 1 woman could give
-i mean, do the math.

sum’thin like that.

when i was a kid my favorite place
was on the top of the monkey bars
-to sit and let my feet swing,
tease the sand-

but as i sit here now
the playground caves into itself.
the slides and awkward giggles
slip into a narrow pit that filters off a cliff
through the ribs of an hourglass.

-it was my favorite spot cuz
i could get down.

but as i stared at my toes
everything else blurred-
and all i could see was everything to every side
falling away!

i used to be able to hop down
-but the longer my legs grow the higher these bars 
rose.

i can’t get down anymore
-i’m just too old and afraid of heights.

these days the sky looks easier to touch
than the ground-
and the more i kick my feet 
and realize i’m never getting down-
i see it’s because i’m too old to fall anymore
-it’s time to climb.

if i commit suicide,
you’ll never find my note-
because if i commit suicide
it was nothing but an attempt
-to reach the sky.

“grandpa” (n)ever went to ‘nam?

round a square of warped wooden legs-
a knobby kneed grandfather
who was too old to ever let his grandkids
actually sit with him;
grandpa hasn’t been the same since he thought
he was headin’ to ‘nam,
god forbid he has a meal with us.

need all the supplies they could get back then
you know,
-specially kindling.

“grandpa” was our dining room table

-grandpa sits on his hands and knees
scrubbing vomit for bullwhips
in a pretty spider monkey suit-
where the tree’s are made of war veterans,
and every last one of them owes
us another breath;
the obedient ones were evergreens
until the greatest depression
left us in short for the color
of peace.

they wear their bark
like a drentched mut trying to both
shake mites,
and send those water drops off its coat
in such a frenzy 
no one would have noticed
they were soaked from head to toe
in their own 
tears.

grandpa never went to ‘nam
-he just plays dress up so he can show naked
at the fake tea party 
to double as both jester and audience.
he’s pretty good at laughing at himself
-just like everyone else
who went to ‘nam is.

last time i saw grandpa
-he challenged me to a game of battleship:
winner takes all.

dammit old man. 
i’ll burry your shame once and for all.

he said A14 as if he actually knew where
“A” could be found in the alphabet
-why not land on M16 or AK47 grandpa?
i’m sure you know those a little better
from the days
when you dressed in midnight 
and lead fox trots with empty shells
along the beaches
wear the fell from daddy’s head
DON’T YOU GRANDPA.

not you “grandpa,”
no, you almost went to ‘nam
-not like this terrorist.

yes-
you sank my battleship,
but i already drown your family in the ocean
-i guess you didn’t know how to spell that move did you?
maybe if it was written in vietnamese and backwards
like your stupid head
you could have grasped it a little better, too late.
they’re dead.

just like you killed daddy.

he spilled the saw grass across his forearms
and spit out the flames 
on your waterless shit brick villages
to try and save you
kind,
-that couldn’t even return just that.

yes, i loved her too-
but daddy’s gone because of you
-and the day i seed your bastard eggs
through another rotten womb 
is the day i’ll end your life
with its own umbilical cord-
before 
i let this forrest burn.

“grandpa” almost went to ‘nam

but not him, no,
-grandpa is ‘nam.

the end of every poem

i’d be shallow if you could actually cry
.. if something more than sand
could tip 
(h)our glass
to the point it truly was half empty,
no matter if you stand on your tippy-toes 
and pier down as if you really thought it was an acurate depiction
to glance off the top of my shoulders,
and claim we’ve filled this ugly mug
with anything more than a few droplets of something
that resembles sober.

as if i really knew how to swim anyways
-you just wanted someone to test the waters
before you pretended to drown.

your greatest weakness is a poet
-mine is the literate;

if i could actually read my own words
i’d realize what it means to you
when i fall apart in your glass palms-
and count down to the end
while thinking that your math is strong:
everyone knows poets
use the other side of a half hearted mind-
but my reflection wears disguise
like you’re trying to play along,

stupid
me.

my relationship status is:
narcissism;

i’m good at reading palms,
but when you hold my hands
and i cup your face
-those smile lines contort the page.

maybe i’ll love you along,
or maybe this is just another heroes tales
i’ve used as a napkin
to wipe away those tears again-
either way

i’ll let it happen.

don’t think of me as an asshole..
i’m the poet you’ve always quoted-
i’ll help you fill your journal pages
so i can steel
a moment.

you can be my ambiguous 
warning letter-
that just can’t keep its hands off of heartbeats,
because i’m a poet before a reader,
and those palpitations make better endings
then new beginnings.

i’m sorry, truly
-this is the (heart)est part,
but will you help me write 
the ending?

i’ve got another poem
to start.

wolfparade

he rolls his tongue like a bullwhip
through the grooves of her curling spine-
her toes crumple 
-eyes sea red
as an ocean coughs up the moans
from the agony she wore between her legs
to fill the sky
for another son-set
aside.

jigsaw stares 
and his jaw bare-

she shows her teeth
-her pearly off-whites
to the giant negro of her eye:
the midnight sky.

they spit civil rights 
into latex resevoir tips-
hate crimes with sheets and slipknots 
parade across the bedroom floor
with the promise of a kiss.

she grips his nappy head
and lifts the veil between her legs-
his fingernails flee the scene
and rape the gashes on her inner thighs;

the bed gives out-
the blood for her to curdle
in scream ripe enough 
to dare and dream!

her eye’s roll back; the room fades to black
and blue hats with filthy voyeurs on their minds
grip their pants in anticipation-

it’s not snuff, it’s just enough!

his hips ride the Amastad between puddles
of blood, lust, cum, and whiskey trade
as one last thrust drives through 
her underground, and rides her tracks until the two rails meet
at the same place to a difference destination-
and the blareing sirens rip through her throat
as the air horn rides the crooked sound waves like a prostitute
and the blue hats bare the badges
of their guilt as the zippers split, foundation rots
and jaws all drop as they witness
the climax of two trains of thought!

her eyes rip open her own eyelids and suck the flames
of his forrest fire-
as her neck gets caught in her tethered wrists!
as she bites at the open air for a taste of 
breath;
and her sulfer ridden eyes swollow the opaque
glimpse of that rusted cross- 
covering its eyes
above her bed!

he pulls his shackles and eats her lashes
as her eyes bat burning desire-
glistening in the reflection 
of that crosses blistering ashes.

the hate in this lust
could fracture all of us!

he hand slips from his head-
holding his last straws in the air like a trophy
as his tethers tighten and her lips turn blue!

the blue hats sit on hind legs
with saliva dripping off their fangs
onto those curiously shaped billy clubs and batons-
they’ve been waiting for their chance all along

.. even voyeurs like a happy ending.

her eyes roll back on last time
-the sky turns black and the stars burn out,
his hands go limp and her legs walk away 
from where they locked mandibles
for that walk along his spine..

the wolves throw their blue hats,
as the sheets blow through the air
while the billy clubs accept new members-
the streets fracture, the curbs grow cold
-the backs of buses explode!
the wolves, worked up so sexual
race the clock beneath the sheets!

until, it all.. stops.

the sheet grows still-
the stench spills from out of the covers
like fire hoses-
subtle grins form in the silhouette of this climax..

the blue hats brushed under the mangled bed frame,
with the sheets worn like a badge of honor
-one with out serial numbers or the idiocy of selflessness.
the wolves don’t wear thier sheep skin anymore-
only the voyeurs coat of arms;

the thought of more sex- or, 
sexier,
weighing heavy on the mind.

the brutally honest truth of truthfully being, done.

(haiku)

 

gonna kill myself
this isn’t a metaphor
i’m dead serious.

-atti

realeyes, you’re not.

just because you carry straw like brick,
i can’t be held
accountable for our accidents;
you draw your conclusions
with the eraser head,
and i’ll keep tracing what i thought i remembered
before the lines
redesign themselves around my neck.
your pupils are still dialated in the memory banks
you held hostage
for the sake of knowing 
if you could-
your mask is filthy,
worn like it were adorn in praise,
like those eyes could actually tell the truth;
but the day those cardboard cutouts
spills like dominoes across your toes
.. realeyes, you’re not.

five minute pornography

this pornography gets me going
-with every clip
another falls and they’re only wearing skin
behind the bed of glass,
that acts as the covers 
they’re not actually under
-unless this picture of lust is so transparent
i really can see right through.

every touch
i pretend its us:

-that filthy voyeur,
with his eyelids rippling;
the climax to the film
never quite became
-enough to wrap his jaw around
the silver linings of cloud 9.
an arsonist is left in the dust
with under achieving passion
misleading
in to the palm
of slut.

their love tumbles off their backs
with the switch of a scene
-slap of disgust, nudge of a strap.
squirming in there, naked
-two sets of lips 
and a set of shriveling lungs
for each to bleed out of their mouths
as hollow screams seep through 
their pale white masks
in act one scene two-
the decieving of:
love. 

back against the walls
-between each translucent moan
the ceiling topples over her smirk
and the two of them fall.
in a split second moment
-you can read the script lines 
across her never open eyes
-until you hold
that brief second in disguise;

-not the originals given,
but her own revisions.
the screenplay she’s saving in her kisses
for the one who’ll listen.

between her broken flowers
and the stentch of winter midnights
-the bloom has died
and the tide has lost sight
of it’s guide within the moon
-so the waterline rises between her thighs
and he breaks her heart some more
with another quick disguise
-he read that script in her face
from the gut like an utter professional
of the upmost gutter 
with grace.

i’ll watch with one eye closed
and the other ignoring through my fingers
as i remember a better stage.

this pornography got me going
-the most beautiful moment
in the introductions of a pornography only.
i’ll watch the first five minutes
-where you can read the love
between the body lines 
of the passionately explicit,
before she gags on the editors notes
and coughs up the back hand 
of a directors dirty secret.

i watch five minute pornography
for six minutes at a time-
just enough to hear the subtle cries.
i watch five minute pornography
searching for love-
behind the hollywood that’s giving it up.

hers for his vandalism

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways 
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks 
that didn’t take away 
the past.

.. provocateurs aren’t supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears 
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you’re your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing 
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn’t try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we’ve
not the color wheels to frame 
your oval maze.

you’re an ugly duckling 
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you’re the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher’s 
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was 
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4’s under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you’re hideous;

you’re not art.

a 9mm noted the crescendo

the dead walk, the living sit with breath gone
they’re stricken with splitting rim shots were sitting in
-giving in to temptation, rippling waves swim
the dead song still drifting in on the rogue creation
of black market notes playing rope on black artists
throats in white pages, the day the track harness
a vile of true bass heads and sold the new famous,
i bought the grooves laid in blues plotted grave 
as the modded bass grew too vein to clot the vien
and the ego of the music bloomed in its own hollow grave.
i bought the staffs, and hung from them too,
counted back the days until my tongue turned blue…

but i still remember
the day the air was fresh;
i still remember
the day we began to forget.

Beethoven’s 8th symphony delays into noise
-roaming notes break infancy bestowed into boys,
battles of violin presumed coy as the stage grew violent,
the flutes join in and the audience assumes silence,
cleff notes confuse line ends for death toll to chime in-
a symbol claps, as the baritone slits his throat,
the audience lifts in whoa, as the tempo’s crash,
their temples thick in pulse, the conductor climbing!
the orchestra races to the breaking of their bindings! 
music sheets spill all shriveled in-provisational,
blooming screams a trumpet in on the safest note
-destroy the music, new noise for youth of a sudden
the bass rapes the snare the clarinets solo bludgeoned
-the obo holds its psalms the conductors palms folding open!
his wand snaps in three/forths, the song slows again
-as the melodies last crescendo marks the final climax
.. as he flips the vinyl and his smile climbs back.

and it spins, and it spins
and it still spins some more.

realeyes

her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris
like a velvet exhale,
loaded questions – fired guesses;
her gaze was the suicide marriage
in the distant veil 
beyond the dead man’s grave.

back hands in reverse – even worse poker faces.
they made love in a house of card
hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days
-they made lust in a house of card
sharks and falling spades 
swollowing every papercut, he made
her concieve the abortion
of his rotten egg.

before she batted bullets
there’s was the soul that folded;
before he shot his mouth off;
the day irony went and pulled it.

the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining
across the wedding bells and ivory sighs.
the bride dined on rape 
as the honey-moon grew full of ego.
she reached for stars
to help her find her way to heaven
but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.

her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight
that when her eyes split the terror blind
rubies rained from down her eyes…
and spilled down into
her decaying chest
-to form a rosary between her breasts.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies.

picked every shard of fragility up
and made an art of plots to kill
-benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart
shaped vase 
she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save
as the blisters start to raise!

guilty murder, filthy burners
-faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter
to guide his slut wide eyes.

her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers
as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes;
while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes
and panting land mines
to find their way back in to her closet.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies, she murdered rats
she never hurt a man,
she never met a boy-
who could look into her eyes
without collapse.

this isn’t poetry.

last time i wrote a poem
the sink spit me up,
while my belt loops sat alone,
waiting for the notches around my throat
to let go.

the footnotes at the bottom of my heart
beat more readily,
than the body of my work.

i used to think it was poetry
-before the lines turned themselves into a noose
and haiku’s that read like bullet points
started to back fire, 
through the backsides of a few ambiguous
water lines, 
that were just shallow enough
for me to try and drown myself in.

i used to think it was a pen
-before it made a better weapon.

a few metaphors and three broken women later-
this isn’t poetry,
it’s a battle cry 
that started as tears and went to war with itself,
and never realized the field 
was never actually a place to step-
but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.

everyone wants their signature poem
-it’s supposed to mean i love you;
but this poets love stinks like lust
behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch. 

one too many rest their heads 
on my barrel of monkeys from your back
fired into the last place you’d expect
to be dead.

i used to call this art,
because i didn’t see pain it made.
my own splinter ridden veins where the page
like a mask without the eye holes
to see who they bump in to. 
this depression wasn’t meant for display,
but the day my scars stumbled into your arm
you wore them like the neglect
to which you had always set the stage.

search my poems for your answers
-because i don’t have them.

i used to think i was cutting my own wrists
with the margin of this half finished poem,
until i watched you bleed
-and assumed you knew what to do
if you had the will to reed.

still writing
-i’ll take your life away,
while reaching for your breath.
these poems aren’t made for praise;
they only frame regret.

i’m the martyr of my every word,
followed by myself as the rope tightens
before a crowed town of my own emotions-
each one standing as its own person.

it was all for me,
until i started to see the strangers 
scattered across the executioners veil.
it was all for me,
until a few decided to watch-
and they didn’t enjoy my death
as much as i did
-because the parts of themselves they had put in me,
swallowed the axe much slower
than i really took the blade.

that broken heart doesn’t entertain you
the same as it does the reader,
but i still write it into the story
because this isn’t poetry, it’s the overly dramatic truth.
so keep reading until your stanza ends,
and the next begins with another name-
and you can’t enjoy the read again,
if the last poem hasn’t already pushed you away.

so, ask me to write you a poem,
and i’ll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you
-because i don’t write poetry,
i kill off pieces of myself, for myself,
regardless of the voyeurs 
with hands over their eyes
watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.

don’t ask me to write you a poem,
because i’m running out of pieces to kill;
don’t ask me to write you a poem,
because i never will;

this isn’t poetry.

jesus christ shot the towers

the nails sipped his palms,
poster child of folded hands
gift of martyrdom
-hang your crooked thief,
feet float from the only child;
our gemini death
brings a world to its two knees;
another to feet.

run on, run-on..

the golden goose skips the page
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light 
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-

disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;

you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives 
through tears by better name:
alcohol;

and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers 
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against 
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber, 
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left 
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.

run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation 
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.

keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-

this story has grown boring;

better yet than happy, 
is the death of a hero for an ending-

keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.

art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion… 

sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.

the end.

trying to catch a circles tail

yesterdays regrets,
never forget tomorrows
-will become todays.

0 to 60 in 1.5 children

our mangled bumpers
twisted grills and love of speed-
it may be two fast.
the breaks did not work
-no turn signals, switching lanes;
burning rubber.
horns blur to sirens;
your steel cage womb becomes tomb;
we were almost (t)here.
i’m almost neutral,
but way two automatic
-as i popped her clutch;
rubber split around my gasp
-and transmission falls.

aspire to hide

juggling black eyes-
when opportunity knocks,
i just try to duck.

island of the sun

atti?
Pique

the helicopter blades split the silence honor made
-hell in water grass on fire violence on her way.

Our arrival was based off of survival, instincts gone primal
there is no trial, just a poor judgment of one’s wrong denial
this village seems dead, but what the demands said
was to unload lead, a forecast of red, a command led
by the thirst of threat, our Ak’s gave birth to bullets
a questionable mission, ‘build submission worth it’

the dawn burns higher tired eyes quell the somber,
asleep in My Lai, the feet quiet all the toddlers lay
in bed, where the soldiers sneak by the fellow fathers
behind the full force fleet of bombers over head. 

we enjoy the silence of ninety Vietnamese targets
dropping from helicopters to slaughter these bargains
a boy’s scream from the side blows our cover away
fully loaded clips begin to flow at a thunderous pace
here I stand, confused now more then ever
fearing man, and the abuse I pretend to better
putting innocence through a mantle,
Charlie Co. onward, slowered step orders made,
shooting in a sense we can’t handle.
as the mags breath open up caskets for play.

Impossible to escape our clutches, so just try
a mother stood up to save her young, but died
once it started, we became heartless enraged
defaced by influence they discarded the cries
unable to remain stable, in the darkness of daze.
a target mistaken when the martyrs uprise. 

chalkless, the bodies traced eachother’s graves
below full reign clouds the bullets sleighn down-
lovers remain bones, trench full of clay mounds,
the children built this damn, clot the summers wave
round the mortar of blue civilians who fill in land.
the sun wraps his tongue on the blood red backs
-the dead slung back, the live… don’t exist
hope exits the sun, the back’s dry up an crack;
before the soldiers hate subsides,
as they realize just what they’ve done…

born a world apart: an island of the sun.

i’m just a fucking artist

holding an empty stomach in my hands
so it can’t fall any farther than my heart,
that landed on the cellar floor,
i can’t help but to cry at the scenes
that roll by-
with my hands too full to cover
the staring eyes
from just what they’ve been waiting to see.

i sit in rubbernecks 
holding slow motion memories of the accident
in dusty palms,
awe struck at how close 
the road to where we were heading was
before my shrapnel slit the rubber
as we slid to cover
under the lips that twisted 
with the moments rupture-
and the bumpers mangled around the framework
of the bridges
that stripped themselves across the rivers
that dripped from your eyelids
beside the slivers that i wore
like a metal of honor to cover
the bleeding from my sores.

and as that twisted heap 
of you and me
rippled in the salt seas-
the fires tripped the spark
that started the entire 
scene.

runaways with broken matchbooks
black with ash and snapped 
in half would have done
if i had just learned to breathe
when we became such 
hardened arsonists;

and below the bridges i set fire
i’ll keep catching wire 
waiting for the hook to take me in
-even if it’s only for a minute
above the surface of cinder,
that i wish would just burn before the rain
mats down the ashes 
just enough to hold a shape of way to walk
in the stalks of disillusion
too high pitched to walk this broken strip 
of music-

tunes too deafening
for my ear drums to beat along with;
and as the mallets begin to forget
right from left from wrong to fucked,
an offbeat heart started to forget the steps
-as the ringing in my ears
split the house of glass i had built
around the tears;

the shards spilled like the water
that had started to kill-
without a gasp to last the sills falter;
every bit of glass left its kiss
below the surface of my calloused lips
before they slit your balance
and we both began to slip-

that single handed mantis 
praying for a gentile standing
didn’t have half the chance he put up
on the very landing
-that didn’t happen.

shattered benieth the histories
all the scribbled dumb fucking metaphors
can only pretend they don’t remember
where they came from-
every abstract nothing finds home
the second i open the wrong door
and you’re still there

-only, you’re not,

and i can’t feel in metaphor
before what’s real begins to seethe 
through the bullshit
and the sailor knots that choke the fuck out of my stomach
shake hands with my broken fucking heart!
and i want to feel hurt through burning bridges
and images of falling glass shards
but too quick do i just fucking hurt
before i think in art.

there’s no art to break-up,
and the metaphors that play band-aid
to the bullet wounds 
can’t wrap themselves around
the fact that they were made.

i’m only and artist
because i can’t really be honest,
and you broke my heart
but only because i was being an artist-
and the paints still monochromatic
because red is all i use-

cuz if i let blue be itself
i would have been able to keep you

-but i’m just a fucking artist!

xgutterxchristx

brass knuckles and studded head wounds
chew the guts of busted pews
-where the stares split the prayers
that now reside under the cellar stairs.

the vomit spills through her fingers
onto the flimsy pages,
until it soaks down to the cover-

it’s been a long, 
long fucking night. 

under the reek of rotting cattle
that stained the chain holding her rosary beads
between her pushed up tits
below the slutty biker jacket
-where the body of Christ could sneak a peak,
the alter bit her knees 
as she touched the velveteen
and she grinned her tar filled teeth.

the crucifix sat on the floor face down
-he doesn’t want to see us like this,
so he can look the fuck away.

her knuckles wore more scars
and rotten scabs then her dirty heart
did beneath the tattoos on her crass
-one too many broken edges from just the right
amount of stabs to the back;
better to let the vitals blister over 
than let them eat another dagger

-sorry Jesus, 
this one aint yours.

she takes too many sips of wine
to handle the next set of prayer,
because she cant cross her legs
unless the beer bong 
and last night’s fuck subside.

her knees still in the music-
beat the shit out of each other
as she tries to stand 
another movement-
her stomach spits the mosh pit
across the confessional
and hell fills her steps.
as the combat boots rip the tiles off the floor
before her bullet belt
fills their heads with a vision
of true religion!

-and as Jesus eats the asphalt
her boot looses tread
and his head slips off the curb
before her jagged words rip apart his head;

his hair sweeps his pale white face-

and as she spits in it,
his tears smear the paint that raped
her mother and slit her brothers wrists.
dirty brown baby under the tread,
another curb to crush-
one for the punx 
before body of Christ was beaten,
til’ it bled all over the streets-
and washed away unmarked graves-

that dragged with them the mask 
he wore as he hung the nation
in blind faith drowning below the slave ship!

and he gazed at her gutter mouth,
bound with steel and barbed wire-
car tire tread for a weathered face
that wore like ’slut’
on the stage of a neo-nun
-that had begun to lead the way.

w.w.j.d. (when would jesus do?)

below the broken glass
that sipped his scotch until he was pretty
enough to fuck-
a bible caught the tears 
that trickled down an empty wishing well,
and stumbled through a prayer;

as the ice cubes dull the liquor
he licks his lips
before diving off the rocks
into a pool of vomit.

the gold glitters in the blood splatter
that stains the pages
with the prick of every finger-

face down on a stripped mattress,
with a headboard decorated 
in the talons of frantic prey
-the nightstand dressed in pages
that burn in the dialed pupils of self destruction,
just as easily as they do 
in the arms of blindfolded children
flying too close to hell-
Icarus with wax wings meld from the body of Christ
and feathers trimmed from the psalm of life;

only to find fire and brimstone
beats paper thin hymns.

and as the pillow swallows him whole,
the crucifix above his bed
weeps-
nailed to the splinter ridden 
quarter panels of this motel 6,
his tears only fill his glass 
until the water from his eyes turn to wine

that makes it easier to die.

the funeral was held 
in the middle of the dessert,
where the cactus plants handed everyone in attendance
a stigmata for good faith
.. and a single cloud sat in attendance. 

one heavy headed cloud
hid the head of a bashful voyeur
-dirty eyes and soiled pupils
filled with masturbation
that trickled through the pews;

another fetish
below the thorns he wore with lust
and nails that pinned 
a rosy cheek on the seams of rolled up cuffs

-the bible still catches dew
from the glasses
of collapsing ice cubes in the climax
of his pews;
press your hands together
in your leather suit,
your fallen tether tightens 
with a watchful eye below the noose.