In Dog Years

My belly seethes with spit, and he writhes on
the floor, a blackened crutch whipped in trust
and stink, and my head hurts and my ears rip,
I can smell the end is near; rotting soot, bright
canned failure shifting and stunting, his heart
brilliant like lunar landings in vast vacuums
sacked in bread bags, bad gas and lapsed pass,
but it’s the heat that hurts the most, it’s when
I can’t smile, when I can’t reason with the dark,
the last stance and trance I ever had, the battle
at night, in proof and proves, and nothing will
save him, no metered banality nor rancid meat,
no white coat or salty, sweet tear, we were in
this, until the robe closed, until we crash the
party, cast the leg, bash the art, I held him in
the shower, his body for destruction and abso-
lution, when, in what morning, will the creature
lose? I hold on until I can decide for him, one
cough after the next, I transform from wheat to
chaff, to caged bird, to valued soldier, to anger
and deceit, he’ll never know, purity was his life.

I Would

If I could tell you,

I would;

if I could hold you,

I would;

I would for you;

in every impasse,
a siren’s call,
and I still stall my light for your sun,
your rift a crescent for my gait,
our motion a shattering piquant,
a lighted moonbeam,
guidance guiding;

I would;

I would for you;

when dancing delight dangles so sweet,
and our rapture’s unsullied by torment,
our hands ensconced as scalemail strength,
bound in blood,
guarded as prison,
remember,

I would;

under every cruel punishment,
wrangled and raped and hung like slop,
as birds creep carrion from my corpse,
bleached bounty: a former clarity,
I won’t question the glory,
I stand in the bear forest gluttony,
for you,

I would;

I would.

Moonlight, Like Enemies I Never Met

Here’s a bit of riffing I did earlier. Enjoy!

 

Inside of each moment, a trip through a sick

part of my brain, where the goblins run the

mill, until they’re bathing in their own sickly

puke, I wade along a river of loss, a journey

without any compass or paddle, memories

of each moment I cry, lament for those in a

lapse of reason, alone in dreams, alone in

this sick, but I hold on to the grassy lonesome,

song, each carapace, every granite boat, each

drop of rain, more leaves inside my gutter,

but I never care, and I never cared; I got holes

in all my socks, ingrown toenails, and pasted

teeth, shocking and illiterate, I hate the words

I hear, I hate each gunshot, each blowhard,

moronic and deceitful, I need this rain, so I

can lay in it and die quietly, to clean my pores

and wash my brain, tweak me and reprogram

my heart so that I can feel again and escape,

in a sense, in a since, when before I could

count, and then I felt real and whole and like

a lamb, like a bridge too broke, and I added

graffiti to my face, and I had a hand that held

them, and cared, but since then, no sense, I

can’t make it, I cant make sense without rain,

and I run and run and run, until my legs scream

in pain and I gasp for air, because each dark

closet that I keep my fears inside waits for me

every night, and in a since, I am my own evil

force, my own barking dog, my own sentence,

even if it was spelled wrong, even if I become

crisp and dry, I envy each bird, because I am

stuck to this earth, and even if I jump right now,

I’ll only land where I started, inside each moment,

like a trip and a rip through a sick part of my brain,

where I named every mill goblin, and I grab a

cup to dip, so I can drink the sick and fight again.

Life is Borne of an Explosive

And the boys wore fedoras and smoked fresh

tobacco from their father’s pouches when the

darkness dropped each night in their small towns

and each rolled a fresh cigarette and thought

about Hoovervilles shown in the paper when

each of their mothers baked bread with borrowed

flour and oil instead of buttered love and yeast

 

but each grainy shot taken through filtered

sepia smattering was only crisp because of

the window that shattered in each of their homes

every time their parents fought and every time

the bottle poured more booze and each time

a cat yowled in the alleyway and the puffs of

smoke swirled above the cabin roof’s peak

 

and the owl caught new blood steeped in stink

and grim reliance and each boy remembered

last year and each boy remembered each

other in the grandest of light in the grandest

of times in the dawn of their lives in their

hard set heads and with syncopated dreads

they all lie down in the heat of June and wake

later in a line all queued and smiling again

 

For a complete list of my chapbooks available through Amazon, click here.

Girls Like You

It’s always time for tea, and when I looked

at you, that one time in October, while I

felt discomfited, I thought about black tea

and strange girls, the only ones I have ever

known, trance-like faces and eyes, terrors

gripped inside woven fabrics, mixed mesh

melded into colors – unnatural – tattooed like

bikers, and foulmouthed like trash day, but their

beauty beatified, saints and sinners grow up,

and on my lap I waited for them to return,

for their eyes to discover how you move, how

you choose to live, we accepted it, we knew

it was what you knew, I suggested we part,

after all, it wasn’t right, your object filled,

new found sex, but tea was always on my

mind, girls like you liked tea, and I knew

at coffee in the morning, I would put the pot

on, to see you sip oddly, just like you were,

just like the peace you searched for, just like

the pain that you left behind, just like the

crying faces and eyes burnt by your memory,

lost by your choice, just like this tea, this day,

I raise to my lips, in your memory, in a cup

you gave to me, tight in my fingertips,

tight in my mind, spring free and live again,

let us all dance and sing and love, let us

accept this and remedy the pain, I will make

you tea, I will say I’m sorry, please return

to this place, free from suffering,  we’ll heal and

hold all of your love, dance lithe and try again

Blessed are the Lovers

Whisper to me, I’m slowly dying,

your hushed tone comforts this

everlasting waste, this nitro fuel

laced drink, the matinee in place,

and I sleep inside of your heart,

a wisp of your blood – a soothing

blanket for my cold life,

 

veritas

forbidden, and I burnt the books,

and I took the looks and laughed

at splashing frogs, buttressed by

creaking logs, before you filled

them with beer and we watched

them as they burst

 

in a trope, like,

I have never painted, this trance,

fugue, passive, rancid, travesty

 

we are cupid, we are mermaids,

fueled by harsh waves and ready

doves, I swim inside your throat,

 

hug me like the last, like I am a

brute force-gale-wind, sick math,

I say, sick until the casket cloth

rots away, until my eye colors

drip from my wretched face, but

I always have you,

 

in the remains

of the world, when the electric

eels touch your breasts, I will be

the hand in the dark, guiding you

like braille, standing with you for

the moon drop blood clot Cadillac

knapsack, and we’ll press ourselves

to the window,

 

hoping for one last look at the body,

before the door swings brash, and

the little boys and girls dance wild

on top of the closed trap, once in

life

 

forever in death

Bind, Torture, Kill

Motionless and inept, like a dog stuck

inside of a tunnel, with helpless eyes

we watch, with feeble hearts we wait,

and when the sky isn’t falling, it seems

like it always is, but stay away from it,

confuse your senses, when I complete

this life, I can only hope that where I

go next, there will be no politicians or

media to ruin each day and pollute life

with slander and lies, and corruption

and scandal, while we die like stuck

swine, beaten by brown coats, who, at

once, hold us up and push us down, so

we can work harder and die younger,

for nothing ever, and ever, is nothing,

and then the end comes too soon; bushes

grown high, like a spider pedipalps,

reaching the sky’s blues and brushing it

free of pests; let my longing looks be

a death note in your cannon, because

when you wake up at last, your energy

will be released, and truth’s light will

guide you; like cummings, like trust, I

say, “I will not kiss your fucking flag,”

so in the grave I will lay with my back

to your world, smiling rich like a lich