I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish

I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish
dancing on floor made of
cracked and splintered bone
skin stretched thin
scarred pink and white
two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
one sat down, gently
with grandpa’s big smile
The heart slaps along
write as a vulture;
The ants are back looking for their food
and I don’t see them until they wind
And beauty slathers itself
on rusted sheds
cricket legs
a field of dust and weeds
And beauty slathers itself
on rusted sheds
cricket legs
a field of dust and weeds
you know you’re alone
but that little blue ball
Bukowski’s little blue bird
still hops
I don’t want to smoke
and I sneak away
to coffee shops
and think about smoking
Now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
of musicians
both living and dead
I know a great writer
but you don’t
her greatness is planted
in not knowing, not
snow buried, re:
whites, grays, haze
Trieved to a
Saint slobbering Bernard
Oh, rolling tongue
thick fatigue
lolling numb
“I’s” and “Me’s”
My eyes glaze, I lick my lips
and dream of your apocalypse
I called it names to which it spat
‘til desperation made me scream
I know not, love, for what you dream
we want to see beauty
and we’re the same
with different words
so I choose carefully
I tried drinking
Like Hemingway
But the loneliness was unbearable
Teddy bear
picking seam
removing fluff
piling up
Teddy there
And I want to find words that aren’t in a book
And I feel too much pain will allow me to look
And
I write them out
So plainly
Too quickly
The pianist’s fingers bleed
for the raised voice
recognition
of barfly’s and
passersby
Follows
Gravity
Mixed
Literal
I tried drinking
Like Hemingway
But the loneliness was unbearable
A train not even crashing
No explosion
Just quietly retiring
Off the tracks
And if you let yourself go
you’ll bloom in a shimmering galaxy
of golden hair
And I keep pressing down
And I think of a pianist
And I want to make music
And I hate the things my fingers leave
And I make noise
And the pianist
Presses
Amazing Grace
The sky is mottled with pregnant clouds
Contractions of wind huff harder and harder
Trees protest throwing down leaves
And still I stay outside
I’m 35
We know each other’s vices
We’re driving to the deserts of the Midwest
We’ll see strip malls
gas stations
fast food
On our way to beauty
And now I’m closing
my eyes
and breathing in the pillow
she
leaned on
Finger through tar race chariots of fire
One view, two views, three views, four
One like, two likes, then no more
You, the conjuring of muses
Baring a bounty of abuses
Betraying only grace
And I can’t look away
Bow rips
Sheep guts scream
Bow rips
Audience roars
Speculative hypothesis
Speeding ticker tape
Brought to you by Skype
Hairy knuckled apes
Wearing masks
Hiding flasks
No more smiles
Wandering aisles
Pain, pangs, sharp, dull. Internal buzzing, humming, thumping, drumming. Moon lathers, shaving, slivering, chiseling, waning. Time
To give one thing for another.
To create in the mind a picture of what could be.
To act with another in harmony.
Let it be
in the silent scream
of a shooting star.
The echoes of rejoicing muted by the island’s sands. Drowned by waves of realization that we are sound itself reverberating off of infinity’s pretzel-ed pipe.
The castles moved straight,
the horses made hooks
as the black and white shapes met their fate.
When skunks didn’t remind me of smoking and mint was just for candy. When a quarter was more valuable in my piggy bank than in my pocket.
I have a hot temper
I am confident in changing a tire
I tremble when jumping a car battery
The question of my last breath is either sober or whiskey soaked. The continuous monologue in my mind reaches the end of its reel. I am not making sense but its my senses that make me.
Forever
is the theory
of love
applied science need
not apply
furs blur
cotton tails fly
shells drag
Heads stir
Tear down the bricks
Tear up the flix
Tear down the walls
Tear up the dolls
Tear down the malls
Tear of the curtain to see all the tricks.
Adventurous fingers
traversing dunes, peaks and valleys
pushing in territorial flags