Comorbidity
I dreamed about her again last night,
curls tangled up
in chubby fingers-
drowning a faint smile
with a laugh so hard
it could bruise your heart.
She remembered being born-
face pressed like dried flowers
in an old scrap book.
Between her shadow and the light-
a road
etched in hallowed dirt
led me to a body
she couldn't seem to leave.
Sunsets, gray hairs,
addictions and curdled milk-
tiny moments like thumbtacks in a map.
She traced the scars on my back
as if they were her own.
Vegas, 1999
Two kids-
asphalt and sand.
We stopped at a gas station
where I bought you a diet coke,
a bag of pretzels
and a key chain that said
"Sin City: Leave a Winner"
You kissed my ear
and made me feel normal.
My foot barely reached
the gas pedal of that lemon
with the cowhide seat covers.
You threw up on me;
desert sun,
one too many wine coolers-
you were sick
on the freedom of it all.
Broke,
Drunk,
Believing the boulevard
could illuminate the darkness
in each other's hearts.
I hated you-
the way you could just drive
without a map,
to distract you from
dirt roads;
the ribs of America,
to cradle its heart;
two kids,
asphalt and sand.
But it was that moment,
when you looked at me
miles from the city limits-
A halo of neon
outlining my head-
"Someday you'll look back on this
and laugh"
As we pulled off the road,
I kissed you
and I knew
that it would never be funny
to look back
and remember
how normal
you made me feel.
Ab Intestato
Today I watched the wind destroy
a flag outside of my window;
I pictured my own skin-
tattered-
a shredded piece of what it meant
to be exalted-
a beacon against martyrdom-
a slave to the sweet brevity of
greatness.
Hanging there;
a limp square of fabric-
unable to stop
the punishments meant for bad flesh-
the swift lashing
and the disregard of passers-by.
But this-
this was always the meaning;
to save our ideals by first
destroying them.
And now we see it;
the volatile fire we constantly
kindle
till there is nothing left
but the wind to fan it-
nothing left-
but these scraps of cloth;
clinging to a blackened rod.
Borderline
I tried to forget
the English language once.
To undo
what was done,
I filled my mouth up
like a loaded gun.
From a barred window
I watched the world
lift it's heavy eyes
to meet the gaze of
the sickly child
she raised.
The water rose,
and the earth dipped down.
And the only word
was the dreaded sound
of screams and sirens
the birthing
of holy ground.
I never intended
to bind them here-
to this place
where words are more
than sincere.
From the skin
to the bone,
and from the crown
to the throne
I watched
as the world
bled to death
overnight.
Chthonic Burlesque
It was your eyeliner-
licking round edges
of a peephole-
that I could look through
and see the underworld.
You were iron in the rock
and bruised fruit in the bed.
But beneath the lights,
your legs
wrestled with the air;
a daughter product of
the divine travesty.
It was your mouth-
forever set in white and gold-
an archaic smile
meant to disarm me.
But I lost the battle
for my wretched soul
at the fields of Asphodel.
You held my orphic head
against a sequined chest;
and weeped
into my deep set eyes.
It was your voice-
a lullaby
buried deep in the dirt,
A song to soothe an insatiable
need
to pick wild flowers
from the mounds of graves.
Quiet Hours
The fuse blew out
and the church just stopped.
In the darkness,
I learned to listen
to the silence of a December afternoon.
Choir girls can be so still
when not expected
to sing.
We drank aging wine
from unused urns.
We were high on blessings-
an inner understanding
like two dancers
living inside each other's bodies
until
we were spinning so fast
that we appeared
one beat behind.
But the lamps-
set the quiet vestibule ablaze.
You
shut your eyes so tightly,
tears
settled on your lashes
and would not bleed.
In the light,
I learned to see
that silence
is indeed
an annual epidemic.
Last Stop
I stopped caring
where I was headed
when I reached the end of the line.
I knew that there could never be
a stop to suit my needs;
to support an unhinged weight,
my detachment from the herd.
I stopped worrying about my worth-
2 bucks to be used up by a city
that never has to stand on its toes
to touch the face of god.
I stopped believing
there was an exit to discover-
a miscalculation of the maps;
a stop
to cure my disinterest in convergence.
I stopped caring
about my destination-
only the journey
could keep me hungry.
Could keep me-
waiting in sleep for a glimpse
of my own ailment-
subterranean salvation,
a failing memory of
a city, where the tracks exist
without the trains.
Creatio Ex Nihilo
The corner of my eye was acting up again.
It was making me believe
that I could see my end-
not so far off
from the way I once began.
Cold bones
and the taste of death
still burning my tongue-
I took my last breath
while I swallowed back
another round of prayer;
so sweet,
violets, fresh dirt, the air-
But;
it was just the corner of my eye acting up again.
Forcing blood to that spot
where tears scar the rim-
red and raw;
my last moment to feel pain-
caught
the cry as it ruptured
the veins inside.
My eye
has no corner now.
No haven to hide in-
There is only a constant white dot
to confide in.
I can see no end now-
only the start,
bloody thighs, empty eyes-
a faint beating heart.
Cool Kids
Cool kids pop their gum-
pulling and peeling-
a sticky routine
of destruction-
the obscene
"pop"-
of a beautiful moment
disguised-
disfigured-
disengaged.
Cool kids write lyrics to their favorite songs
on limbs and shoes-
a black sharpie that never had a cap,
because words mean more
when they're bold and direct-
when they numb a pain you've never
had.
Cool kids fuck in bathroom stalls
but that's not where they
exchange their vows-
carved onto a baby skin-
marked,
because it's martyrdom.
Marked-
just for the secret sting.
Cool kids die when there's nothing else to do,
accidental-
instrumental in
some greater scheme,
a pawn-
a pet
of this "pop"
culture zoo.
Cool kids don't believe
in the blood
that they spill-
a scar can only prove
that there was once
a wound-
clean,
controlled
and reasonably silent.
Silence, Stare Down the Ill
Silence-
silence, fill me up with all you've heard-
the morning banter cracking off the train tracks like icicles,
shattering on the concrete below.
There is music in the clanging clatter of iron and electricity-
bounding down the wooden slats-
Silence, tempt me into some quiet ravine-
devoid of teeth and ears and dirty snow.
Silence-
silence, don't turn from me-
lend me your bottle- your scarf and hat.
Lend me your patient whisper above this throng of metal and
melting tact.
I am but one poet against the winds-
and noise is what I know.
Silence-
silence, stare down the ill in me,
the sickest part of my head-
This unrelenting stone cold lamenting flushes my face
with blood and cheap purpose-
Cheap wine to warm what's been frozen for years.
Silence-
silence, bury me alive in your sneaky little tomb-
four walls and the fasteners-
After all, this lump in my throat is just a cork for the rot.
The Builder
Pre-tensioned,
As if I will break at the thought
Of this weight-
This slab on grade-
This beauty.
I am rooted here-
Reinforced to my spirit
By these rigid bones-
A place where there is no need for a skin
And so
I scrape it off-
Sand to tip the scales-
I bleed for what I build.
My infrastructure is in crisis,
Bent backward
Like a serpent
with no head-
moving across the concrete
with no direction;
a slimy trail-
a blueprint:
as if to say “keep building”.
Satiate
You like to get choked.
You like to get your mouth
Stuffed
with a dirty word.
Somewhere –
lungs collapse.
Somewhere –
lovers are naked.
Somewhere –
a river brims –
but I cannot.
You are a broken woman
with a crooked hand mirror for a heart.