Daily

He takes pride in my misery
It’s simple

I was lying on the carpet
Soft and unobtrusive

But with those eyes
The ones like a lover
Only one kind

I didn’t move
For hours

The sun shifted
And glared at my resignation

I reveled in the pain
From the bright and the green
Of the carpet

Which saved me
From a number of joints

And biting my nails like some neurotic
Sunset whore


Monuments of Disaster

Monuments of disaster, like wedding albums
Stone pillars of the wounded – still bleeding

Alive in concrete
Heartbreak of halves of halves

Summer storm pushes its weight down on urgings, igniting all the parts
That rush and plunge and burst in a hot deluge – we are soaking within

Blood has no where to go but around and around – pushing through veins
Wishing for collapse, like leaves that fall in mid-summer

The life is so incredibly long, challengingly wrong,
So you wonder about the color black –

Big desert floor doubt cracks keep swallowing you up into the opaque
Blind searching, grabbing at anything resembling flesh

You look for salt licks, but only find more wounded
The tongue wilts, nothing good to say

Nothing left to be discovered when everything remains eternally unknown -
The puzzle fell to pieces

We simply bathe ourselves
We want to purify the idea of something so intricate and horrible

As tearing out the heart
Of a kind creature just so you don’t have to hear yourself cry

Everything will then finally disappear and you can fly away – again
Oh, the disturbing wanderer

Why can’t you pick a ground and drive that stake into the rusting root?
You’re never worth your weight in trash

You’re dying your face and they only wanna see what’s underneath
But you don’t even know what that is!

What sort of being reeks such havoc in calm waters?
The sort created in Chaos, created by Chaos

The master of tortured dreams come true
Of the disappointed and half-assed

Of the cursed and the crimson – forever a barer of such bad, bad news
Everything in love will be lost

Nothing will remain in the chains of such steely skin
Dust that’s as white as snow blows away without a trace

Always the ephemeral fucking flower
Always the end


Again

It’s the same ache again
Like it’s passing
Life is paassing like a dream with those big holes
The ones that leave you wondering
Why
What did it mean
Why so intense again
Why the vivid colors
Is this a drug
Is this real
It feels so damn real
Everything has sounds and smells and those colors
It makes the ache ache harder

Yeah, it’s passing
It’s passing faster again
Without getting to see them
Only pencil sketches of where they once were
Nothing ever got filled in
Outlines without centers
Like unjelly filled donuts
Like bellies without babies
Like Tahiti’s atolls
What did it mean
Nothing again
The mountain sunk
It always would

No one ever apologized when it went
There never was a speaker
No souvenirs to take with you
You don’t go there in pearls and furs
You only get holes
So do they
It is the only thing real
That feels right
Yeah, that’s right
She squinted her eyes to remember the dream

Where were they today

The passing was so fast

It makes the ache ache harder


Drugs Only Cure Conversation

I watched another movie about heroin addicts
and immediately began to miss my old loves.
Avoiding the distant stares, he cleverly fell asleep beside me -
leaving me once again to dream of grand cities, new strangers,
and the fleeting chance of escaping these small town doldrums.
I thought I might go out and find one, an addict,
to discuss infatuation or the slip from grace - curiosity or hopeless abandon.
This heart had trouble beating from too much time spent brooding,
the slowing reflex from a fix of lustful yearning.
If he knew the truth, he’d wake and take me away from these nagging old fantasies -
we’d find the next subway station out, keep moving,
make something new out of the old.
But always more work than play, he just moaned and rolled over.
 
I got up for some orange juice
hoping for morning like a kiss from an ex-boyfriend,
slightly overbearing and familiar,
but only found a half drunk beer and some ketchup.
I wanted to smear it, the ketchup, across my heart
and wake him with a gun or syringe. I wanted to find grandeur with death,
to provoke love with blood, instead of languidly living this concrete romance
as stale and drab as old ketchup and flat beer.
He’d told me about how he’d learned to be a good lover
by being broken up with six different times and I knew all the woman were right -
fucking murdered infatuation.
So I didn’t wake him with blood or licks or scrapes.
There would be no enticement for another thirty-second experiment
on lust and dissatisfaction -
I merely sat back
thinking about heroin and the addiction to old loves.


A Caustic Caution

the big city is nothing
but another place

the big dream is nothing
but another day

the big success is nothing
but another job

the big love is nothing
but another person

the big performance is nothing
but another action

the big idea is nothing
but another angle

the big promise is nothing
but another conversation

the lackluster of this corroded stovetop is going to
need a big new flame

or from here on out all of my dinners
will be freezing cold


Some Friend of Mine

I kept meeting the person I’d become in strange places like the sparse kitchen cupboards, in the big bags of empty beer bottles by the front door, and under half-decorated Christmas trees with no gifts or fruit baskets. Her face peeked out, looking at me with a ridiculous, abashed grin.

I kept trying to avoid this person like a distant cousin I had nothing in common with, and didn’t care to speak to about the death of our grandparents.

Many days I closed the blinds and turned off the phone in hopes of avoiding her persistence to hang out with me. I didn’t feel like hearing her voice or seeing her face – all she ever seemed to do was complain about money.

On special occasions I was able to escape her sudden appearances and hang out with the person I use to be – she was a much better companion. All she ever asked for was a late curfew. All she ever wanted was for it to snow.

We laughed together. We reminisced. We talked shit about the person I’d become. We danced to loud Cuban music, tried on each other’s pretty dresses, complimented our figures and long, luxurious hair. Sometimes we’d even go on a cruise together on the Baltic Sea, take a tour of Beijing or a scuba-diving trip to the Caymans. These were good times.

But then there she was again, the person I’d become, waving at me from my old, dirty jeep. She stalked me, this woman. I’d be minding my own business, drifting along, and then suddenly there she was, staring at me from the dressing room mirror in another shitty discount store.

Oh and the look on my face every time I ran into her – such disdain. And I was forced to hang out with her because I’d been taught to include everyone - not to be a snob. But the times we spent together were a total drag.

Her clothes were outta date. Her skin was blotchy and pale. Guys didn’t look at me the same when I was with her. I felt her inadequacies and foolishness rubbing off on me.

Sometimes I even found myself pronouncing words the way she did, repeating phrases that she said. And, man, she really rambled on and on about how she had lost all her money to men and her back hurt and her thighs were getting a little soft and she could really use another vacation and on and on.

I kept trying to hide the fact that I was constantly rolling my eyes at her. I’d say things like, “Listen up, honey, stop being so hard on yourself, sit down, chill out and read a goddamn book. You understand a great deal of philosophy so why don’t you put a little of it to use and shut the fuck up.”

Then she’d mope and say, “I know, I just blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”

This is the point where I’d do everything in my power to ditch her and call up the person I wanted to become. We’d hit the town in search of power, energy, movement or, at the least, a decent conversation. We often found ourselves in amazing times, dangerous times, groundbreaking times. I couldn’t get enough of her.

Our days together were fleeting though. She was always busy making other plans instead of hanging out with me. It must have been this inaccessibility that made her so alluring. I missed her when she was away; she was my best friend.

When she was gone I was forced once again to hang out with the person I’d become. There she’d be, knocking on my door, asking me if I wanted to go get another goddamn beer at the corner dive.

Out of boredom I would usually say ok, but secretly hoped all the while that the person I wanted to become would call from Argentina and tell me it was time to come on down and meet her for a dance.

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