i was told to have a festival within me
a sort of unexplained hoopla
but inside me it is stoppered
and nothing good is festering
progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,
g, wake up early, love life
i cannot channel the spirit that will
help me look forward to paying bills
it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,
with no beating of the drum
nothing to smile about, really.o for it
i have undressed a thousand times
but i still do not know myself naked
why should i, when all i have done
is plaster my image on to a canvas too good
for the likes of my oozing pores
i could scrub out all that is earthly within me
and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth
bound to places, times, memories, maggots
so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should
gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia
i thrust the impressions i have of myself
underneath fervent currents
and carry on,
dirt in my cavities,
dust in my eyes.
i’m a mess these days
and these days are melting away
like candles on the back porch
in the heat of july
it’s only june still
i’ve leaped ahead of myself
i’ve made notes and revised
and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early
it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,
it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :
who will die, who will die in july
father, step father, friend, feline?
who will die, die and die,
somber, arid july?
hey if the stars were aligned
in ascending order of righteousness,
and if my birth chart wasn’t a nightmare,
do you think we could hold hands
and gaze up at them?
maybe kiss a little?
if i were squeezed out through the vagina again
and plonked into the hands of fortune,
do you think maybe we could plan things together?
maybe even dream of it?
Rumi said that there is a meadow
where a meeting is destined,
i wonder if that place is meant for us.
oh but wait,
excuse me sir,
in this meadow,
is the grass mowed evenly?
is there a clean place to sit?
will there be time for us at all?
i’d look down at heaven
when I’m done being a sick
what is above heaven
winds and storms of the invalids,
but not a sign of shame
no gorgeous mask.
my throat croaks
then my mind replies
The winds rock the boat
but the sails are christened
If you think too much,
I tell myself,
Dingy dusty corners
were once places
where the specks danced in the rays
fluttered to the ground
and sighed deep
a permanent sort of fall.
If I were to gather the specks
in my hands
they’d be stained
and I would start to dance
until the rays pierce
softly through my excitable flesh
spread across my palms
cutting through light and places
dingy, dusty figures
Do you believe in your worth
when someone picks you up
from side walks and alleys
and dungeons of guilt?
Is there a way to steer clear
of the singing mermen
with their glistening chests
undoubtedly sprinkled with
laughter and gold?
What age have you reached
where you see and feel
only the froth of the beer
not the rush to your head
even if you’re still an early twenty?
What other words exist
to describe a fallen bird
with a clipped wing and a bleeding eye
and a passion for song?
After the panic
the madness, our madness
hold me tight
choke it out of me
strangle the fear right out of me
lines of blue blur around my neck
the room goes from small to smaller to fade to black.
is that soft suggestive breeze
that utters itself
through the mouth
of a friend
who means no harm
Mind the gap between his
two front teeth
as I lean in to kiss him
out of habit.
A force stronger than
the tickle of a breeze
“The kiss, it’s only in your head, “
whispers the wind,
“Memory is just as suggestive, no?”
Memory trickles down into my skin,
embeds in my nerves,
gets to every tip and follicle
Mind the gap
between his presence and his memory
As you lean in to kiss him,
the fog engulfs and
you fall right through.