I. i love you in the winter.
when the sky gets lazy
and your eyes do your laughing for you,
and the color seeps from your hair in the shower.
you would rather drink tea in a cold house,
swept up in one of my scarves
than dye your hair again,
so you sigh to me its fading
and your roots are coming in dark.
its your own fault anyway, but i adore you when you complain.
II. you blame me for your hands,
because they fascinate me when they dry out.
little alien riverbeds, pink and white,
flow red when you play the piano for too long in january.
the keys are sanguine
and stick together.
when you cant play moonlight s
moist
baby-blue
feet
bang, squishing
against the
padded cement,
sneakers filled
with a slush
that dampens
already
uncomfortable
socks,
I walk alone
and spread
about this design
like cancer
in the heart
of the empire
of an engineer,
tiring of existence
and the idea of
stealing happiness
or buying it
with sweat
or blood,
I am a joke
for the gods,
a free spirit in an
everywhereprison,
I walk among
and still without
my fellow man,
he whom
ducks have died
to warm
he whose
work boots trek
sloshing
and riddled not
by terrain,
his footprints
opposite
Aquaman drowned in the bathtub by oldest-boy, literature
Literature
Aquaman drowned in the bathtub
When
the last track
plays
and I close
my eyes,
I see my old shoes
hanging from the power-lines
in las vegas,
their sway unchanged
in my absence,
I see the faces
of junkies
growing numb
into worlds
I have known,
I see
the gutters
flowing
with soda-cans
candy wrappers
and sandwich bags
that have
never
known
a sandwich,
I'll always
remember
the free-samples
of freedom
that burned
my tongue,
scarred my pallet,
and left me
wanting more
of the taste
of the smell
of the escape,
seldom
do I fantasize
about the
ocean
of blood
In the latest hour of the night
she leaves him alone on the bed
where he is asleep and she cannot.
She thinks of him as a volcano, but because they are one
she is the eruption
and scares herself by believing she will one day implode
and destroy them both.
He has the same fear
and sometimes wakes up the instant her body isn't touching his.
He watches her leave, conjuring the words to beg her back but he never uses them.
He wants to ask her where she goes
He wants to ask her why she goes
He wants to ask her why she is going to explode and destroy them both.
Her eyes are like house flies with transluctant wings
and in that they
in my poorly lit
cubicle of a room
where I'm often
living out of my window
and in the reflection
I cast upon it
searching for
a birthplace
upon loose-leaf,
my thumb slid
desperately
through the bits
of christmas music
and talentless racket
mediated by static
until beauty
emerged from
the fuzz,
latin jazz laid
heavy
in my ears
and far enough
through the walls
to solidify
any theory
of me being
weird,
all the while;
the pen shakes
the smoke dances
the neighbors sigh,
the phone rings
the letters lay
the mailman
curses me
in a room
equally
as small,
and outside
just close enoug