One

I see this menacing machine on all sides, biting at the grit it can't chew. And I see you there, hiding in the shade of a family room table once used to hold your gin and tonic with some dignity. It's claws are cobalt and of industrial grade variety, and you know this isn't a movie scene for the younger generations.

I'm on a beach where the water never makes it to the shore. It curls upwards and lapses back into a familiar current. The salt catches the air in an ecstasy that can't be measured between the troughs. I see people trying to relate to it's embrace like the sand which cradles their feet is only a temporary solution. They wish to get washed away but the weather is not complying with the rules of a sustainable government.

Empty and open we aspire to be, reveling in ancient reverie.

Sometimes it's that or resort to the sadness completely. There is no way to gauge our thoughts in an animalistic ritual. We can put that aside. Let's mean it when it is said and tear this wound apart with dirty fingernails and a fever for flesh. You already know that they know you know, so it's all covered. The outer face is always ugly, burdened with the years of denial fueled implosions. From there, the walls get closer few and farther between and you will be able to see the machine, in all it's fucked up glory. Look it in the eyes and let it analyze every figment and pigment. You both are afraid of the same thing.

Psychosis

one day you might

wake     up

& realize it's all a    lie

you might not know

what to feel     or

the way in which to feel

your feelings

one day you might

stay     asleep

forever and ever and ever &

there will be a knock

on the     door

  (at the same time)

he says 'hello'

& you nod agreeably

you are such a good little boy

as the both of us meander

down these skeleton stairs

and put things in

the ovens

the dryer machine

or anything that fits

into something     bigger

everywhere we go,

it seems the footprints

are always a step

ahead &

we talk about

being overstimulated

and under an influence

he says 'I don't like sex,

it's dirty and unconventional

and I think it's time I

find a girl who

knows     my     heart

'cause whenever I find a shelf,

I always find a teapot

to put on it

'forget that for now'

I say,

'remember the days

in those torn up summers

where the crickets made it seem

as if all the problems

had suddenly dissolved

into a vivid ether of imagination'?

& now its a bunch of shapes

glued together by a first grader

with no purpose other than

to make sense of it

Continental Drift

welcome to the superficial world. we supply artificial initiatives
for the little boys and girls. we prescribe a predisposition
towards conformity and normalcy and oversee society
with a crooked eye fixed on an awkward guy like a hawk.
and we are the spies. do not question our mission for it is
our vision and our vision is not one that needs revision.
consider it a lesson in lessening your aggression.
we are the operator at the end of every line telling you to redial.
press star six nine, and we'll sell you denial without having to sign.
we like to think we control your mind, but we really control your soul,
in order to keep it whole. and we breathe for you. we give you the
oxygen you need and the food to feed and the blood to bleed.
we give you the courage to proceed.
but most importantly, we are the guilty and the innocent put in a
pressure cooker and left unattended. and what ensues is a war
far more graphic than 1984. and I'm bruised from being used
to a point where I'm not longer confused, just sure.
the circumference goes round and round when you're alone.
all my tense is wet and that won't heal my bones.
I'm inside out and as far as they know, I'm about to steal the show
with a bullet that pulls at velocity like a high ideal.
I will prove I am real by them acknowledging it, for if they don't
I am only collaging in it. I am but a mirage in it. a blank montage
'till I'm finished.

see, my black skin is a sin, but I'm not African. I'm more uncharted,
let's say Finnish. let's say I'm a government whose covenant is to
supply symbiotic and sustainable sustenance without the
suffocating suction of cigarette smoke on your leprosy laden lips.

I could throw my chips in a basket and give them to the
basket cases outside the casino on my way to the races.
I could donate bottomless shoes to their muses with
blood on the laces. I could watch them walk through
the innate until they find homeostasis.
but why should I care - I'm just studying faces in this realm
I call reality on a day to day basis. the sun sets and reason erases.
the sun rises and I'm starting with traces. the only thing that I control
is in my head and I've never seen such places.

why should such silly follies matter when the mass populous lives
in a metropolis so convoluted by intruders fashioning sutures
into the future that the present is hesitant to bother?
there are too many authors offering pleasant manuscripts
on the resonance of an atmosphere you've yet to lick.
and my residence is one of evanescence, like an essence
that is too incessant to settle on ecstasy.
to you it's an epileptic effigy you will attempt to transfix
while I'm taking notes on the ancient sanskrit.

the thing is - you will never know me if you never ask.
and even if you did, I'd be drunk from Everclear in my flask -
trying to get away from the injustice and it's mask.

because I don't want to get too close to the heart of the matter.
I might end up consumed by my own flattery
not being able to charge my own battery.

so I'll leave it as it is, and find something else to do
and let them figure out that the sky is no longer blue -
for it makes me sick thinking I am part of you.

screw it.

a conversation with my dream self

I.

I saw myself in him, the subtle wrinkles

set in a brow that's done cheap labor

for big dollars this whole time.

I was sleeping and he was awake,

and whatever tunnel we came through

must have been opened for this reason.

he looked at me fervently as if waiting

for anything but an explanation.

so I opened my mouth in a way

that seemed to put the corners

of the cosmos on my inner cheeks.

II.

will death find you too? or are we

more like an oncoming of spring

bare trees and all? you should know,

you are like the spare change

I never get to cash in, or the dirty snow

by a storm drain on 34th. you resemble

everything I could never find the use for,

and are strangely ephemeral. you are

a band-aid that I rip off in the morn.

if you only knew what pain I endure

removing your adhesive, you would

have found me long ago. but you're

thrown in the trash along with the

plastic knives and I fear he context

is too scrambled for me to discern

which side is better for my image.

III.

it's not over when the sky turns

white in anonymity. it's not over

when your fingers become

tiny missiles pointed at the stars.

did you know that we already know

each other? I still watch over you

when the sun hits your blinds

in the morn, and tell you stories

as you drift towards me. you are

a dwarf star holding the pain

inward and when the time comes,

will burst into documented identity

where only your surroundings matter.

for now, take them as they are,

'cause they will do anything for you

as long as you're there for them.

HiDef

dinosaurs on tall grass.  what the

fuck are they doing?  waiting to devour

or be devoured.  did they climb mountains?

did they learn to fly out of spite? I want an answer

but I want more than answers 'cause I

want to be the one answering.

I make the art inside of me.  no-one knows

better to say I don't.  some of me resides

in a former era with carnival mirrors

and plastic bags.  is it too much to ask

when I say give me a woman who

has smooth skin and a jagged heart?

I'd rather not scan the ocean floor

for some remains when you can

find washed up ones on the beach

though I've thought about it

and even the bleach

is out of reach when you're a

leech stuck between the toes

of an unfinished poem

Headspace

dig me an apartment way underground

so I can feel the dirt around me

& stretch my limbs past

ninety degree angles

I can finally quit smoking

even if it takes the fire

from under me

hang pictures of outer space

on the glossy black walls

and write some poems

bout the mice

who feel the need

to live off what I don't

I am tired of the sun

telling me I'm yellow

and running my own groceries

just to wait

in a line that does not move -

it gets replaced

with the next patron

who feels such satisfaction

for securing

a primal need

but look at the whole picture

& they're more a mob

pushing for a center

so trafficked

   (there is room but nowhere to go)

& when you're done

I am never leaving this place

even when I really leave

it will be like I never did

that's the only reason they know my name

take fourteen

I was born in an undulating ceiling

& there are no supernovas

from here on, ma'am

see, there are jail cells

which line this linoleum garden  -  hey,

doesn't it remind you

of that movie with Jean Harlow

where she doesn't quite

make it to the end?

in those times we could admire

without the NSA playing

walkie-talkie secret agent,

interrupting pizza deliveries

our future selves will be

reminiscing on

when our voices

got lost under flat water

& misinterpreted sunbeams

the era of amnesiacs

taking anesthetics for fun

though I will admit

you get used to the lack

of color from being immersed