untitled (a poem for the first and the last).

“write me a po-em,” you told me.

and you wrote me a poem with the
tease of your whitepaper lips as they
shaped words for me that i could not
remember. you’ve always loved my
writing and you read every time that we
kissed.

but the beautiful pictures are
gone they are scared of your
flesh and your hair and your
teeth when our bodies make
soft little passes and there go
the words, you stole them in
your
throat
are
no

i am sorry that i have no more beautiful words left
for the nights on the phone that we speak. but
these days i’ve been trying my hardest to talk
myself out of

falling

 

out of

 

talking

 

with you.

letter to a sweetheart, soldier, dear.

something golden in the haze of your eyelashes
something sweet in the taste of your skin, and mine
something secret in the slope of our tangent lines
something childish in the way we never really talked
something nervous in the tremors of your shaking voice
something blue in the sleeves of your shirt that i wore
something sad in the stars that obscured our breaths
something funny in the way you asked me how many

it’s been twelve years, and i still count the stars,
waiting to hear you say, “good enough.”
six million sixty, six million sixty-two, six million sixty-three…

slow dance.

We were waiting in line for the water fountain the first time we talked. We had not yet spoken although we were near each other in the club because she had mostly been grinding other guys. “This song always makes me so sad,” I said.

“Me too,” she told me, and her eyebrows were living proof. “I feel like crying every time…I think about him.”

“I picture a wide icy river,” I told her. “Thick with glitter and the sky was a paper poked through to let in the light. The blue crystal whale was half out of the water, and he had one sad eye, it was ‘Wonderful Tonight’.”

“That’s really sad,” she said honestly. We drank and then rubbed asses with strangers.

rosaries and karma beads

inebriated cows sprawl the water trough
puffs-puffs-puffs they)
if i paint you a geisha, will you paint me a face?
and if the stable caves in i guess you’ll lose money
salted for food i forget how to think and
(i love you for(n)ever, please flutter away)
sometimes i dream of nirvana, you , see , i
wake up crying my lashes thick but you know i
i never sleep even pills can’t
                (fuck rebirth! why am i always your farm animal?

you and me (a three part suite)

( I )
my voice is suddenly insignificant
scratchy like an old record and
thin when we talk on the phone.
it sounds like chocolate milk and
peanut m&ms and flapping paper and
it reminds me why you left me.
every time

( I I )
i think that you are slowly killing
me but it’s okay; i’d rather die a
lover than live lonely every day.
it’s sad that you don’t love me
but i guess it’s just your way,
and if you’ll let me love you
then i’ll stay another
day.

( I I I )
so you can put your words in my mouth,
and your teeth in my tangled lips;
i’ll put my heart in your hands,
please, please, please, please;
don’t fuck up again.

do you remember the day we died?

night mourned for us on the eve of existence. the sky split atom seams so infinitesimally that oceans cracked on the world’s rim, opening up a void that swallowed the spring-born litter of leaves and cried “die motherfuckers die.” the void was cruel, the void was ironclad shakes of pillar salt and garage band pepper carving x’s in our wrists.

a phoenix singing “i calculated the slope of mankind and it was” it was undefined, so steep it verged on vertical. a phoenix bleeding tears in hopeful patterns across the crumbling earth, he saw our panicky eyes and smelled death in the air. the vultures circled high, waiting to tear our marrows but the phoenix he hugged us with his scarlet wings, our undeserving.

night sang a beautiful elegy, almost as if she were our friend or father (but never mother). we tried to catch her voice in the conches of our memories to take with us beyond but the tones were too cold to the touch and we had to let go.

we had to let go and relinquish the feel of air on our faces, and in our lungs,

when the water fills our lungs i’ll blow you bubbles to live.

so the whole world doubted noah, he
laughed last, but he laughed alone;
with two goats, two cows, two chickens, and
his sons on drowning thrones.

it wasn’t overrated

, and it was beautiful the way you could tell. ever considerate in such matters, you scraped the scenery for something new, maybe exciting maybe friendly-sweet “in the name of fun and sex,” a useful god to worship with our pearl eyes and flutter-fingers (a weakness just below                    the waist)
 
balmed lips warm-soft darkness, yours, you kissed my neck lightly, shedding black holes – never too long in one place, your supplicating hummmmms made pilgrimage to my waiting mouth and not-too-s-l-o-w-l-y quickenough to match my hazy “expectations.”

pure fucking joy!!!

Thum-thum the thumb-drum, BLUM + BLUM + BLUM! My tongue is a cherry plum is dumb, dumb, dumb.
The sky is pissling little happy bright-bleeding stars like softis pillows rum-bumb-l-ing sply, the streetlamps are bending their joyest aerobics and there is candy earthed under my teeth. Every ex*pan*sion of my rone-bony hands births a B^U^R^S^T of confetti and apples, my heart is alive! God I love you, God doesn’t exist, I love shit, we’re alive!!!! Sing it in toon with the cymbal, YAY//YAY//YAY//say, is that my uth-brother’s other balloon? So red and sweetweet +*+*+* punctuation birth happy birth song, this will be is our longest party y,e,t, and the babybluebird villagers are loving each other up like tongue depressors and cotton puffspuffspuffspuffspuffs.

this is, the life.

sometimes i wonder if i’d be happier
with a nine-to-five husband
whose steady job would feed my three children
(perfect ones, of course, with braces)
and i’d parade the house in apron drapes,
wielding a spatula instead of a pen.
i’d fill my head with recipes like           
            “how to bake the perfect pie”            
            “how to raise healthy children”           
            “how to counsel adolescents”           
            “how to lose fifteen pounds!”            
            “how to have a healthy sex life”           
            “how to be successful”
and learn to live like a normal human being,
carpooling to school and accepting diversity –
being, basically, boring. 

because when i think about it,            
          maybe this shit isn’t worth the thought. 

untitled (a metaphor)

some days i wish i was your band-aid, for
i am wrapped about your little finger already;
but not as nearby, and you will not
let me try to heal your wounds.

( departure stings )

anesthesia > synaesthesia

razor-teeth biting sweet
sweet ether.       i
cannot feel a sound or
touch the bitterness 
                               [stirred w/ sugar]
swirling circles in my 
                    fuck-with-my-mind eyes.

…but the laughing gas closed them green,

so this one’s for the kids.

He was sitting alone in the old movie theater and it was so dark that he could hear himself breathing. His arm was around the seat next to him but she was not there to curl up in it. He pictured Jacob’s lips on hers and knew then that it wasn’t long until he finally went and fucking did it. There was his shit back at home.

Then the images started on the screen again. They were beautiful, changing, pulsating, dilating, glowing, spinning. They burned themselves past his eyelids and made him remember what he had loved.

So, that night he did it.

i wrote this on a plane

i see it already – fading checkers
from my curled blinks(blinks    !
and horizonless stares)
memories etched in limestone they will
                                    crumble        soon.
(it was so sweet
when he hugged her;
a second fleet
of pre-nostalgic     entropy, sad

as beginnings always are)

captain castanet’s cap +.+:+;+,&^*-

Tucked into the pinkpastel bottom of a Wednesderday mourning, sat plump Pumpkin Spice. He was self-medicating.

He plastered the gauze to the pudge of his body, wrapping his curls in medical tape, snipping with scissors at every roll of childish chunk. His eyes were wide, practically popping out of their rosy sockets, denotated as such by the light web of pen markings that traced his face “cut here”. In the shiver of the sun he was shaking into pieces and reassembling, all while the choir sang with disinterest. Carrot Cakes and Chimi Changa walked by holding hands, but they didn’t care.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” Pumpkin Spice was saying, his voice a delighted tremolo bass that shook the sky until cheap earrings rained like wine. He was crawling back into his skin, he was tucking himself back together with liberal applications of adhesive, he was forgoing ibuprofin for direct shots of whisky, Oxycontin, Viagra, Ritalinnocence. “Shit-shit-shit!” while his teeth marched down his unraveling arm all in line like a school bus, he gulped his tongue back into his jaw, twisting his legs back the right way: the sun was beaming light like this *#*#*→! and Pumpkin Spice was laughing, “jesus motherfucking christ.” An explosion;

In the dark light Oyster Cracker laughed, deviously. His voice was unsettlingly deeped. “Pumpkin Spice had to die.”

“How was your summer?”

It was sun on the glass of my summer hair
and plastic slings between my toes –
a mirror, a mirror, reflecting my stare. 

It was flecks of heat and ice cream despair
(but how much is feel, and how much is know?)
It was tangles and knots in my summer hair. 

It was dancing in rain and “I don’t care”-s.
Soaked shirt, and skirt, and basically clothes –
a mirror, a mirror, returning my stare. 

It was childish pranks and murderous glares.
It was kissing your neck in the starry glow.
It was hands combing through my summer hair. 

It was out-of-body, it was summer-bare.
It was happiness dying, itching to grow –
a mirror, a mirror, reflecting my stare. 

It was singing off-key in the library stacks.
It was blankness and slackness as I turned my back.
(But the sun on the glass of my long black hair
was a mirror reflecting your summer stare.)

does electricity think?, i once asked you. it thinks, ‘zap zap zap’

there was no surface electricity
when our lips touched
no forest of sparks to burn our messy hair
just heat and warmth and absolute comfort
and sweetness, tongues faire connaissance

( and electricity, inside
our facial skin . )

I laugh at inappropriate times.

The silver line bus back to South Station was an olympic game of sardines. There were no seats to be taken when the bus stopped at Terminal E fifteen minutes late.

I pushed my way to the front and managed to squeeze myself into the luggage crevice between two back-to-back seats. People gave me funny looks. It was okay, I wanted those funny looks; I smiled cheerfully, silently, unwrapping my iPod in self-conscious quietude.

I shuddered. Cold, air, conditioning, and, packed, fish, bodies.

It was a feeling. The feeling of clammy emptiness gnawing at my brainfreeze; that behind-the-eyes wooden dead feeling, a supernova of exploding beauty that leaves you in stillness and only hits you seven years too late.

I clenched my shoulders and laughed alone because

                                                          I was almost crying.

a poem to her

it was silver rain drizzle on blue clay the day of the funeral
it was gray in the kitchen where mother placed forks in their drawers
it was sweaty-hot purple the club where the soul-king sang fortitudes
it was walls ribbed all thick with the drip of pink powdery paint
it was fat master locks of green steel that i clicked as your eyes
it was terrible devastate white frosting edges of solo cups
it was tangible red pouring light from the shine of your lips
it was gold in your heart, in your heart, in your heart, in your heart

so life is a succession of thin, colored slices
and photographs with no deeper meaning :
for the first time, i am content
to swim among them and float inside their promises

hemingwayward.

ernest hemingway loved to watch icebergs
they silence-t-ly glid;;
only eighths of them showing
lev-leviathans hid ::

i will show you full icebergs,
in glory and shit.

{ i-l-l-i-c-i-t * t+y+p+o+g+r+a+p+h+y }

The following is a conversation between the Apostrophe and the Semicolon held through the passing of notes during fiction class. The Semicolon’s words are in bold, and the Apostrophe’s in plain type…

Ow.

Ow what?

I’m dying.

We all are. Of what?

Old age.

I die of snrknthziness.

I know…but that’s a pleasant way to go.

There are letters rushing in through my ears. There are letters in my eyes. They spell LOVE, FUCK, and DEATH and they untumble * whirl //

You think you’ve got it bad? Well there is a third day sock, stuffed into my brain like a parasitic yeerk and it’s making my eyes see yellow because I dropped a contact into my fan.

My first name was “the unassailable shitness” and that shit was a sexy bitch. My new name is “Shit-Puppy”, alone. Three is sixness.

Three is sixness only in an Imax theater or way tripped out on household cleaners. My first name was Yassir Arafat but then he died and when he died I died.

I skip stones that spit bones that rip time, time, yeah. In the dark room where the radio plays particular colors the boy’s eyes reflect fire, yeah, yeah. Cher Anasazi nazi. If hands go too far up skirts they eventually reach heaven or collide with the sun and are burnt, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. The boy’s eyes leak sirens, stars, bloodsugarsexmagick and shit. Yeah yeah, yeah yeah. Yeah.

The unreciprocated is quite frazzling. Hands up skirts yeah, but no, what if they aren’t skirts but cheap cloth gym soffe shorts? And you traveltraveltravel but it’s not round trip, it’s not mutual, and there are two examples of such awkwardness.

I am obssessed with prettywords. Obsssesed. **Supining? Pasaaaaaa. Unresiprikatiomartyrdom, self-martyred, dumb. Lips pissle. Lips wish to respond but are occupied in elsewhere teeth. What if they are not hands but are —–stars

If they’re not hands then it’s the rainbowfish drip of cinnamon-glazed goo and I love pretty words too they are the pretty pretty orgasm of art, no? and the lack of reciprekashun is somehow disjointed dazzling with a deeeep darkness like the pits of cherries. Japanese. Maple Trees. ♥?or!@^

Written floweryily. Illily, ill I lie, silly shit. I would write you in Elvish but I do not know the way. Isthethis day.

No the day is over. The day ended when I died. The day I died was the. It was The.

Nosferatsunami, Nosferatunafish. Tsunafishsandwich, sand-which, sit on a dish.

Ash nazg dürbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatil, ash mazg thrakatuluk…..fuck it. Aquafina crystalline meshmerized? Oh. Oh. I see. I see through the bebe dear bottle. I see my puggle. Her name is PUGGLE.

pingpingpingpingpingping. The nobody singssssss.

1/2 Asian?

Saranghae, ajoomah.