the fall of man

i can feel the words i write,
but only because
i press my pen hard against the paper.
identical indentions bleed
from one page to the next.
they fade.
i like my pages better backwards.
words protruding, 3d,
like coming at you,
but soft, comfortable atonement like
Stockholm syndrome with
two years past.
let it build and
release. build and
release.

A Life and Wail

The road down to heaven unfurls like a serpents tongue,
Cracks in the pavement tell urban stories like the backs of ancient hands,
A crowded corner forebodes change, but is lost in sordid self-righteousness,
Tears burn hot down proud faces, but quickly dry with slivering eyes,
Green amazement splits truth's facade, as pagan saints lay morality across unholy alters,
They sacrifice belief as their martyr,
Somewhere in the crowd a child's velvet hands begin to crack.

paper trees

i create.
my medium has no choice...
for it is mine to manipulate.

Ten minutes ago-

I was caught in

the ten before.

Childless-

Yet still weighed

down by the

slow growth of 

my seed.

Can it be?

That the wind

drowning out 

my thoughts,

has carried off my

presence?

Inhaling foul 

tasting sediments,

exhaling nervous squalls

breaking with a 

perfect off shore

breeze. I swim with

every stiffness of

my muscle. The

cracks and creaks

of my shoulders- I endure.

I endure.

To be slammed

yet again.

I hold my breath

as my being,

forgotten in

the process is washed, 

tumbled, and

pressed to the

ocean floors.

Alone with the clatter of sea shells-

I cling to,

looking for the

light- we all know-

eventually must come.

Neon

Frightful stairwell, blood splash, creak and swing to scattered envelopes,
Metal door, surprise, there are apartments up there.
Planter pots like soup bowls, flowers rim to rim,
Train cars slide on magic rails near carriages drawn by horse.

Head down, steady stride, black coffee too hot to sip.
Bus driver, eye contact and smile, reminds me not to forget.
Book in hand, I watch the same buildings, same speed,
The same stops claim patrons, drop them corner, city, wide.

Afternoon, buildings in reverse, grey men talk inaudibly.
Screech and stop, business district, earpiece cell phone,
Glass towers, valet, red hand to green man, birdcalls,
White—noise, the afternoon sheds a subtle smile.

Tattered fatigues and poorly written desperation, I carry
No cash with wallet full of ones. No eye contact and smile,
Don’t forget your Vets. Those with songs to sing I praise, Elliot
And his cello, songs I know, those I don’t, prelude to my show.

Alcohol, spit kissed gin, tired and lacking sleep. We shoot whiskey
And sip darts, triple black and bull’s-eye red, know our numbers
But don’t have to, paint our picture with the feathered end.
Connect the scattered dots, fill in the crooked lines.

Stairwell gaped, heavy door ajar, a welcome home of stampeding
Third floor—remember little, think of less—wrapped in blurry blanket.
Blink to alarm, tired and lacking sleep, neon lit hallway buzzes
The same color as the night before.

A Sinking Key

I see her face through

The hyper pixels,

Rearranging her beauty

In different shapes.

Confusion-

What am I looking at?

Her mouth moves in spasms-

Her speech delayed by

Compression,

Traveling into the absurd.

Beyond visuals-

Beyond imagination

That only transforms the

Reality into a warping

Alternate world of illusions.

When I press against

Those cold and dead

letters,

A nervous discomfort

stings my finger tips,

As if I were with her-

Eye to Eye,

Standing on the edge of a cliff.

A sinking key,

means nothing but

A distant pearl 

swimming with urgency

to where my blood pumps.

I sing to her 

through the portal

of communication

My voice cracks with

electric passion.

One tear drops

Into the synthetic

connection of two

Non humans.

Not #1 but shiiii

Rip, Rap, Ready

I keep my hand, heart, ready.
Been battered by my machete,
But I’ve finally reached the center of the darkest stalk

I’m caught funny in this eddie,
just swinging to keep it steady
But I use the thinnest section with the sharpest part

Level my head, I’m controlled by words of dead
And I’m shedding all my gettings, every step I walk.

I’ve conceded to believe that I sheath
My best beliefs
Instead of wielding sword and shield, the darkest art.

Relieve me when I breathe
Cause I know I can misconceive
And get impaled by my inhalant when the panic starts.

Level my head, I remember the words I’ve said
I’ll stare up at the ceiling revealing a
Dark feeling, silhouette, and you can bet I play the saddest part.

The worst part? Feeling.
Concealed in my revealing
I’m just peeling at my healings, of my wounded start.

Yes, I bitch, love, dread,
The inhabitants of my head
But what do they know of the drilling of the kindest heart.

A Drunken Proposition

Okay, we've been giving some good shit here and I think we should do a little more, together. Let's all do something, straight honest, about the city we live in. Story, poem, whateva. Let's do it Whitman estilo and find some love and hate in our own cities we live in. I'll give mine in a couple days. Label it #1, so there's no confusion. If this is a shitty idea let me know.

Walt Witman, Mannahatta, why the fuck not?

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;

I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful
spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen
miles
long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the
villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black
sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of
the
ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced
sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or
down,
with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you
straight
in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and
shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the
most
courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and
masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with
them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk,
eat,
drink, sleep, with them!

To Sit In A Mist

To sit in a mist,

On a splintered

and cracked

Wooden bench.

Electricity in currents

passing through the air

above.

No rain-

No storm.

Only the questions 

that answer themselves

In lies,

In laughs,

In yells and tears.

All for wisdom- 

that mocks itself

with ambivalent

unimportance-

Twiddling thumbs 

Over years of sorrow.

poster boys

It is great and neat what we have going here. I like that everyone is excited about posting shit and getting, if only a few, people to read some shit. But let us keep in mind that commenting on work is the real gem we are looking for. So next time you fucking around on interveb, take five and respond to each others stuff. I admit my own fault in taking so long to do so. But soon we will all be in four different locations around the globe, so lets record experiences and respond as much as possible.

the attic

The rancid smell of his own mind overwhelmed him as he entered, the
odor of the corpses, piled high in various states of decay, yet alive.
He could not stop the vomiting, not now, not ever. There were boxes,
delicately sealed with guilt and fear, nowhere to hide, no more.

It is time he muttered. In just that way, as a matter of fact, because
time it was, and no time is as good as the present. Slowly in a random
way he navigated to a box marked birthdays. He opened it without
thinking twice. It was time, and no time to think.

The boy was anxiously waiting in his bed. Where were they? The rule is
that you are not supposed to wake up by yourself on your birthday.
They should have been there by now, with the cake, the presents, the
hot coco. Singing the Happy Birthday song. He tried to listen but
there was no sound of activity. He waited a little longer, and then
some.

Nothing.

Then it hit him. They had forgotten about his 12th birthday.

He closed the box – didn't need to see anymore. It all came back to him.

Did it matter then? He muttered.

Yes he sighed answering his own question.

Does it matter now?

Yes he thought, it still matters, I don't know why or how, but it still matters.

-posted by umbilikal

Beget

We can stipulate, since memory is subject to failure, that the kid was 8. Joyous as he could be, he stood on the second floor window, with a box full of corners and other small plumbing pieces, for what we can only assume to have been part of that which was needed to improve the kitchen in the now old green house, of dreams of things to come. Green house not only, because it was a green painted home, but also because of its most literal -sans hyphenation- interpretation within this dreamscape.

The child's mom, and the child's mom's maid were on the yard. Why? We do not know, but so they were.

Having received a brand new delivery of milk, in those olden age containers made from steel that would contain several gallons, the child proceeded to dip the corners and [redundancy] other small plumbing pieces - which is to say, in the same matter upon which the tortoise below the elephants, who held the inverted dome upon which all existence resides - and started to playfully toss them at the spectators.

[time lapse]

The mother then came in along with the maid, and in the deepest rage of those who had been locked out of their home by a child, proceeded to show him that these specific behaviors would not be tolerated.

[convolution of memories, yet still applicable to this child, or so we think]

Entering the kitchen area, the mother proceeded to grab a knife and flung it, vigorously against the linoleum floor.

The knife bounced.

The knife hit the child on the knee.

Unbeknown to him, this would become a bookmark in the continuing book of his life. The cut became infected and the child worsened so much that delirium set in. Nuns were brought about to keep after the child's soul.

[fast-forward to the not so distant present]

The child grew into a respectable man - though not quite at the moment within which this story takes place - and he assisted in the upbringing of respectable sons.

Yet there was one day when the now grown child, along with his wife, walked into the room their two sons inhabited, and found the kids to be partaking in parenting of their own. The oldest one, in the presence of his younger brother, was teaching his stuffed human-like rabbit a lesson. What this inanimate object had done, we do not know. But we can only assume that the oldest child had been the victim of phantom plumbing droppings, dipped in milk.

Whether the oldest child had become privy of the father's pre-pubescent experience is up for interpretation. But what we do know, is that the child stood proudly before his mandated maker and offered the following translated reason for his acts:

"the bunny misbehaved!"

Grabbing a belt that may have belonged to his younger brother, himself, or more appropriately his father, the oldest brother proceeded to belt the inanimate bunny wherever the belt may land. An animate bunny would have scurried away, but that's besides the point.

The grown child, accompanied by his present wife, left the room and wept.

We Are Fucked

You are the most selfish. The most selfish. When you have nothing to believe in, the only thing that is is chaos. Chaos...Internal war. External existence is meaningless. Is existence what hell is? ...Only for all eternity? ...Could it be worse? Do you even believe in an eternal consciousness?

"I swear to you, gentlemen, that to be overly conscious is a sickness, a real thorough sickness."

The only way to be unselfish, selfless, is to believe and fully commit to something; anything. But to be free, to be free you mustn't believe in anything.

impossibility

A Just Cause

Sketches in Snow

She enters my apartment, quiet steps, only a slight hesitation in the car when I asked her to if she’d like to come inside for a splash of bourbon. She smiled, craned her neck to the side and peered at the wet, heavy snow falling on the pavement. Inside my apartment, we speak of music. She works two jobs, one with me, the other at a music store so the topic comes up naturally. I scan through my MP3 player switching songs, always looking for the right beat, melody, harmony to both relax and excite.
I’m not sure what’s on my mind and try to imagine what’s on hers. Her phone beeps often, text messages, a casual glance and she ignores the reply. She receives a phone call and indicates, her index finger, she has to take it. I tell her with a wave of my hand, shaking my head, it’s not a problem. I pick up my coat and hold up a pack of cigarettes. She nods and I step onto the front porch to smoke.
Outside snow falls, as if each flake is in competition with one another to reach the ground first. The lights on my porch, a string of two hundred white Christmas lights, illuminates the falling snow and provides a melodic haze as the light reaches for the empty mansion next door to my house. I hear plow trucks rumble up and down the roads, breaking the still force of the fallen snow, they pass, and all is silent again. The burn of my cigarette, inhale, the ash trickles to the ground like snow. Beneath me, boots weigh heavy on my feet. I step and the hollow porch rings out a palpable base note. The air tastes like nicotine and whiskey. I’m tired but not exhausted.
I step inside and she is playing with my dog. Living alone with him, he doesn’t warm easily to outsiders in our domain. It has been weeks since someone has stepped through the front door. The mailman came to tell me a car hit my mailbox, I was excited to hear the knock and disappointed to see whom it was.
I am pleased to see him warm to her, sitting next to her feet. She strokes his head and presses hard through the loose fur on his neck, he’s enthralled, only glances in my direction when I come in. She asks me about the cigarette and I say it was just like the one before. She smiles and I feel like I said something wrong. She puts her phone in her purse, zips it shut. I take that as a compliment, I’m excited to have her attention.
I play Horace Silver, it’s no surprise when she tells me she loves Art Blakey. I fill my glass twice before she finishes her first. I ask to top hers off, she hesitates and says she better only have a splash more if she is going to drive in the storm. When I bring the glass back to her she puffs air out her nose, lifts it to eye level and takes a sip. I filled it too much.
She doesn’t have to finish it if she doesn’t want to. She can have a beer if she pleases, she can have coffee or water or juice, I think I have juice. Just don’t stare at that glass at eye level and picture some ulterior motive. It is a liquid, nothing more; an arbitrary drink that gives us a chance to think of a clever line to avoid transitional silent pauses from one topic to the next.
We could eat popcorn, I don’t have popcorn but we could eat it if I had any. I don’t have much in the house; I need to go shopping. I should at least have some popcorn or chips and salsa. I don’t entertain often, or at all. Jesus, why did I fill the glass up so much? Maybe I drink too much. Maybe the level of “splash” I have in mind has been altered so much from the amount I drink that it has become absurd to everyone else. I shouldn’t have filled the drink that much.
“Thank you.” She said.
“You’re welcome.” I replied.
What was that puff, that breath through the nose? Maybe she was trying to tell me it’s going to be a long night. Maybe at that moment she decided that she was going to have to finish the drink and as a result stay later than she had in mind. What does she have in mind? Why did she even come here? Maybe she wants to stay the night? No. No, she doesn’t want that. I don’t want that. I know I’ve thought about her body and the way she walks. Her hips with each step and her breasts move only slightly. I’ve pictured the way she looks as she walks away from me naked and slow, with no shame, after we’ve made love. She would be aware of me watching her, knowing I know she knows that she’s aware of me watching her; such pride in her stride, such beauty in her gait.
But I don’t want that now.
I couldn’t have that now. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman it would be ultimately disappointing to her. Me, enthralled in such passion for only a few moments and her, only beginning to grow moist, would be disheartened and so dissatisfied I would only appear as a number in her head; another regrettable impulsive choice.
I want her to put the bourbon down. I tell her that if I poured too much than I would finish it. She tells me no, it’s fine. I change the music to an electronic funk band that was recently introduced to me. I make a clever joke about the first time I heard the song.
The head of the song comes in and fades after four bars, a few moments of silence when you think something is wrong with the player, a hard baseline hits and the heart is shook. She chuckles as I grab my chest like I’m having a heart attack. She leans down to her whiskey and takes a sip like it’s a cup of coffee; her hands gathered around the glass, I wish she were drinking coffee.
A long pause then she tells me a story she heard on public radio the other day. She goes into extreme detail and at times impersonates the DJ’s voice. I smile and focus on the topic. I’m not anywhere near drunk yet but I’m getting a buzz on an empty stomach. When she pauses, I ask her if she would like anything to eat. She tells me she’s okay and I asked her if she’s sure; I could run to the corner market and grab some popcorn? No. She’s okay.
She’s not hungry? We both worked for over eight hours tonight and I didn’t see her eat anything. I didn’t pay attention to her for every moment but nevertheless, I don’t think she had anything to eat. Does she want to get drunk? Maybe she was misleading me by telling me she still had to drive home. Maybe she doesn’t have to leave at all and in fact could stay the whole night. She couldn’t, she shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I don’t want her to. I need some time. I need another cigarette, some space.
She stands and I think she’s going to leave. She asks where the bathroom is. I quickly rise and lead her through the kitchen and point down the hall, first on the left. She thanks me with her fingers interlocked in front of her. I rush to my jacket and with steady limbs fling it over my shoulders. I put the fire to the cigarette before I’m to the front door, open it and exhale the first puff of papery smoke towards the tiny lights as the door shuts hard behind me.
I smoke quickly. I don’t want her to think I’ve abandoned her; that I need to get away. I am tearing through the cigarette and I look on the railing where my drink should be. It’s not there. I’m off kilter this evening. I’m out of place in my own home. How must she feel? She gives a co-worker a ride home and is now drinking too much bourbon with him in his living room. He hasn’t even shown her around the house, she had to ask him where the bathroom was; he’s less than accommodating. She probably thinks he’s disgusting. His toilet is probably too dirty, the shower as well. Maybe she’s in his bathroom right now rifling through his shelves looking for some shred of evidence that he’s a loser, neurotic, a loner. She must think something awful, he’s pitiful.
The front door opens, panic, she’s leaving.
She coyly grins, folds her arms, rests her elbows on the wooden railing where my drink should be and says, “What a nice night.” She reaches towards me with two fingers, moves them like scissors. I manipulate the cigarette with one hand and place it between the blades, she lifts her chin and licks her lips. Slowly, she pulls from the cigarette, a long pause in the smoke; the air is cold and silent. She exhales with her eyes closed, “I only like a little bit.”
I take the cigarette back and put it to my mouth, the filter wet, my heartbeat. I can feel it in my neck, my veins swell with excitement. I do want her to stay. I do want her with me. She comments on a book she saw on my shelf, Yeats. She tells me she has a tattoo of Leda on her right shoulder blade and that she loves da Vinci. I tell her I would love to see it. She smiles, “I bet you would.”
Was that smile real? Was she bashfully flirting with me? Did I pour too much bourbon? God I wish I had my drink. But this is one of those moments, out here in the falling snow. Something magical is supposed to happen. She is supposed to turn and lean against the rail on her elbows, stare directly into my eyes, never wavering. I’m supposed to flick a whole cigarette to the trees, my neighbor’s lawn, and kiss her passionately. She shouldn’t take me in immediately but instead take a few moments and then be overcome by the softness in my lips, the strength in my grasp. Nothing happens.
She stares at the snow and I slow my breathing, unnoticeably. She tells me she’s cold and that we should go inside. I open the door and let her in first. What a gentleman, she says. I grin and imagine I’m blushing.
I pull Yeats off the shelf and turn to “Leda and the Swan”.
“Read it to me.” I read the poem.
“You have a nice voice.”
“Thank you.”
She looks at her glass, half full, “Do you think I could have a beer?”
“Of course. I thought I filled it a little much.”
“No, it’s not a problem. It’s just starting to sting a bit without something else.”
How unaccommodating. I stare at my own glass and say nothing.
“Do you have the internet here?” she asks, “I’m in the mood for a story.”
I lift my head, “Yeah but it’s back in the bedroom.
She rises, walks toward the kitchen, turns her head toward me, “This way?”
“Yes.”
She pushes open the door and finds the bed unmade, the clothes I wore that day before work on the floor. “I like this place,” she says. I thank her and turn on my computer. “How long have you lived here?”
“Six months,” I tell her, “It still feels like I’m moving in.” She tells me she knows how I feel, she just recently moved herself but isn’t happy with the place yet. Maybe it will grow on her.
The computer boots up and she slides into my chair. She types in a web address and finds a public radio station in Chicago that airs fiction readings after midnight. I haphazardly throw the bed together and take a seat at the end. She sits with her elbows on my desk, her feet far apart and her knees together. The program starts and she takes a seat by me and falls to her back on the bed.
“I love this program,” she says.
“I’ve never heard it before.”
‘You’ll love it.”
I already do. She sits up on one elbow and drinks from her beer. I take the same position, opposite her.
I feel very close to her eyes. I feel like she can see too much of me in detail. Everything is exposed and I can see my oily pours in the reflection of her eyes. I think I know what’s going to happen but I don’t want it to. I don’t want her to experience me and then leave, if she would just give me some time. She could come over tomorrow night, there would be things here for her to eat, the bathroom clean, a pot of coffee brewing and she could have the choice.
I asked her to come in for a glass of bourbon. How foolish of me. Right then she must have known what was on my mind. She must have made the decision then that she was going to stay the night. I doubt she’s as lonely as I am. Her small frame and dark brown eyes, she moves like electricity and in the wake, curiosity; every man wonders, I have heard them comment on it at work. Every man wonders. She could choose to satisfy any man’s curiosity, she could have chosen them, but she lies next to me now?
I drink from my bourbon, only a swallow. What have I done? Why didn’t I ask her for coffee? She doesn’t want to be here right now. I can feel her. I can feel her wet sex in the transition of disappointment to come. She is already ashamed. Those eyes, careful never to criticize but always observing. Those eyes will not cry but they will never be content, not with me, not tonight, not here.
She giggles periodically, in harmony with the studio audience. I smile and reveal nothing. I tell her I’ll be back in a moment. I take my bourbon and step onto the front porch again, no jacket, no cigarettes. At once the night feels chaotic. Neighbors I never knew smoked were out smoking, a light was on in the empty mansion, two plows simultaneously rumble up both sides of my block, parallel to one another. I make an abrupt decision. I will tell her I just saw the plows run down the road and if she wants to go home she should probably do it now. I will give her the opportunity to leave that I never gave her before.
I hurry to the bedroom, tell her about the plows, the snow falling harder. She remains silent, drinks from her beer. She pats the bed next to her and tells me to sit down; she wants to finish the story.

The story ends, “Can I have another beer?”
I go to the kitchen and get the last three of the six-pack.
“I like pale ales.”
“This is one of my favorites.” I place them on the desk.
I sit, she stands and approaches my computer, pushes the chair out of the way, bends at the waist and eagerly moves the mouse, scanning the screen. I can see the milky flesh of her back as her shirt creeps up, she makes no effort to cover herself, just itches her leg.
“You have a lot of stuff here.”
She pulls the seat out and sits down. I want her back on the bed with me. My head feels thick and I’m desperately alone with her six feet away from me. I look at the walls in my room, only one Warhol print adorns them and I feel repetitive but unfamiliar, like I’ve been here before, out of place and unfamiliar. I’m opposite of everything in this room, the olive green blanket, faded oak dresser, the open door of the closet stares at me like a mouth, I want to walk inside, her to come with me, to be transported to some place new and nostalgic, I want to fast forward to a hundred times later. I am cold coffee poured over wet snow; so obvious.
She asks about Mellow Miles and I tell her it’s a compilation of some of his stuff, I got it from a friend, I only put it on there out of sympathy. He was excited about it, thinking he found something new and when I told him it was just a compilation he felt ashamed.
She looks over her shoulder just as I say ashamed. Exposed and disgusting, I want her to leave. I want to be alone. My stomach growls, I’m drunk and stupid. I gratuitously ask her if she needs anything, she’s fine. I bounce my leg and bite at my lip, peeling away the soft pink flesh of my mouth. She watches me, I don’t look at her, I just stop. She sets her beer on the desk and walks to the head of the bed. She crawls and sits cross-legged on the olive green blanket. She takes one of my pillows and wraps her arms around it. She tells me she’s cold and I retrieve an old afghan from the closet. She asks about it, she’s never felt anything like it––it’s rough. I tell her I can get her a different one and she says she likes it, “It’s just different, that’s all.”
I move to the bed, closer, she throws part of the blanket over my legs. We sit cross-legged, facing one another. She put on “A Love Supreme”. I’d like to thank her for playing it but I don’t. Closer to me, her small scent, she overlaps our bent knees. She asks me if I’d like to see her tattoo of Leda, I tell her she doesn’t have to. “I don’t mind, tell me what you think.”
She pulls the afghan from her legs and turns her back to me. She crosses her arms and takes the bottom of her shirt, pulls it over her head like only a woman can do. She’s wearing a black spaghetti-string tank top that clings to her small body. I want to touch her. I do touch her. I touch the tattoo on her shoulder blade. Leda. It’s a study of the head da Vinci sketched. I recognize the picture as brand new. I’ve never seen it before, never like this.
I reach forward and kiss Leda on her shoulder blade. She straightens her back, reaches and touches my hair with her fingers.
She is overzealous, grasps too hard, too quick. At once we slow, I lead the dance, remembering the steps, resolving, a firm grasp on her back. She recognizes, succumbs for a moment, and I know––harmony. I fold my hand like a beak and press the flesh––nape of neck to collar bone, fine hairs and her hips flutter like gray wings. In the sad color of the night she is knowing, desiring to be ravished.

dostoyevsky, dumb, drunk.

you are unintelligent. or at least you should be more intelligent. you are unhappy with everything around you but it is you who put yourself in this place. this place you hate. you are a stupid man. a grown up naive boy. do you not think ahead? even spontaneous action requires anticipation of what is to come. a process of creating. creation. you were left behind because you sat down.

Moving arms like angel wings
create figure eights impossible to grasp.
Whirlpools expire into the sea.
Kicking legs slowly,
head heavy tilted back,
lips above but ears below,
where the music is,
He listens.
His own heartbeat...
steady but heavy,
like a hard rain but without the comfort.
Too cold.
The heat comes from
the life within.
He creates more figure eights,
knowing his heat
could never warm the ocean.

See me-
I close my eyes,
Allow the space
To wrap me in a black fog.

See me-
Only when I close my eyes.

Over the years
The seams on the perimeter
Of my sockets
Resemble the callosity of time,
-Inescapable
-Non-sensical

A paradox

Following the beaten path
Looping infinitely
Into the retarded

Anxious panic,
Beneath the path- following the root-
Lower and lower,
Attached to the anchor dwelling in my pit


That which permits meaning
To mystery,
Ignored emotional forecasts,
Relaying half tropes
And semi signs.

I look into my own by the reflection
Of yours,

A metamorphose

Transcending certainty and stability
Into a euphoric
Volatility
This weed seems to
Sprout from
Inside
Out.

blah_v1.0

striped shirt, from what i recall it's a rugby shirt, blue, white, burgundy... sorry america... i don't think i could predict the future in my dreams. it's grandma's house... second floor.. having gone up the half of the helix that makes up the narrator... oh yeah.. and there's a lemon tree that commemorates the successful completion of the duty given to my parents by grandma... moving on... namely .. me moving closer and closer to the bars that shield what would become the various numbers of kids to play on that outside floor entrance... well.. here's one thing.. it's taller than the second floor... for some fucked up reason.. something to do with planning to develop business space that would later be tainted by the schizo who went out of his way to stitch my brothers head back together.. long story.. his son was fucked... and i'm glad the first one was a miscarriage... that allowed for me to become first... and there's nothing like being first... specially when you're following after the big first... you know.. the big one... the disappointment.

i peer in between the black metal bars that contrast against the matching sauvignon of the walls... and even though burgundy is not sauvignon.. grapes are grapes.. and fermented they get you closer... everybody knows this... so there i am looking down at the baby lemon tree.. and before you know it .. i transcend the continuum of space... nevertheless... i assume the fetal position and in a feather like motion wave back and forth ... only to softly land ... upright... amazed... empowered... from there on addicted to the drug on the mind.

i guess i was dropped on my head... fact... no seriously.. fact... but what is the meaning of this dream.

out and about with the school kids.. i'm older at this point... if anything.. measured in time units. we are all in the pool playing.. but hey.. in what would clearly end up being a precursor to the present me... all this fun has sparked an appetite... the other kids warn me... a dog may have been luring around your bag... breathing in colonel sanders original recipe... this is in hindsight.. i could not comprehend the power of a racist from the south then... regardless.. food is good.. food is what would seem to please me... subsequently i consume the aforementioned, yet well seasoned, chickencide ... the original recipe. me being the kid i was and the fun i experienced.. i share it... what? a dog was sniffing your food yet you proceeded to eat it? what!!?? a football drops.. i guess a soccerball... it's white and blue... there's a bunk bed... that's where my brother and i sleep.. i sleep on the top... yeah.. i can be authoritative.. back to the ball.. this time as it drops only to transfer the momentum of a healthy kick.. aimed at ... what i can only assume.. judging by the accuracy.. my stomach.

i drop on my knees... it's not that it hurts.. it's that i can't breathe... and it does hurt... somehow.. blank... blank.. blank.. i could try to remember but who the fuck gives... i'm on top now.. no seriously.. i'm back on the top bunk... sleeping... i guess i cried.. i dunno... can't remember.. won't remember.. i've gotten pretty good at this thing called selective memory...

i love you mom.. and if only i could put in perspective how my dinosaur figures got in the pocket of what i guess could be the third pocket in your levi's... they were wet... you were hurt... i can't recall.. i can.. i choose not to.. see.. i told you.. selective memory is my thing. the nightmares evolve... i start developing detachment... diane fossey.. you're the devil... but why did digit have to die?


live moves on.. the senses need to be numbed... selectively... i like being lucid.. but i also like being able to float down the gap like a feather.

The Truth is SImple

The Truth is Simple


She drags her open hand over the stale carpet. In one direction a hazelnut brown shows in the thin strands; the other direction, coffee with cream. After a few passes she extends a finger and with three straight lines draws a somber face on the floor.
She asks me what’s wrong.
I tell her nothing and she wipes the face away.
In front of us the fire pops and the burning wood breaks, rests into place. Cast iron tools rest heavy on a rickety stand––the brass handles are hot––an oven mitt I bought at a second hand store hangs from a small hook a few inches under the brush. Light from the fire dances on the hot steel; the tools sit motionless, content, as if they were enjoying the heat the most.
Her hands are in motion again. The light flickers on the carpet, her skin, and she draws a question mark.
I draw air through my knotted hands pressed to my mouth.
She rolls away from me, sighs, “Fine”.
She tells me it’s hot and pushes the quilt off her legs. Her grandmother gave her the quilt as a birthday present when she turned eighteen; hand stitched, intricate, the patches that have worn through to the cotton mat have created a new pattern, a new design revealed through age.
Her grandmother’s hands: arthritic, careful and gray, worked slowly over the stiff cloth. I imagine her rubbing them often, rubbing the soft flesh at the base of the thumb, adjusting her tri-focal glasses and attentively returning to her task. She told me once, with pride, it took her grandmother a month to make the quilt. Her grandmother told her on her birthday she “wouldn’t feel a bit a cold with that one.”
Tonight she kicks it away. I look again at the worn squares, the new pattern, where the heat from the fire burns my thigh. I disregard what I feel and the fire pops again; an ember is projected onto the mantle and she tells me to get it. I crawl forward and brush it away with my hand.
“Did that hurt?” She asks.
I shake my head. I slide back and rest my elbows on my knees, cross-legged.
In the kitchen behind us I hear the iron lid of a pot popping as red potatoes and salt boil low.
She complains again of the heat and moves further from the fire; she rests her back on a couch we bought on credit. I told her to wait a few months to pay cash for it but she insisted it was a good deal now; she rests on the couch bought on credit.
Behind the couch, a large square archway separates the couch from a cedar table my mother gave us as a wedding present; it seats six, ten with the leaf. Last year I wrapped the archway with mahogany molding; I stained it with burnt umber and lacquered it. I borrowed a chop saw from her father and he told me to use a miter joint. I nodded and thanked him for the saw.
The wood floor is still in good condition from when the house was built in 1963. I wasn’t born yet when this house was built, not by a great length, “You weren’t even a twinkle in my eye,” my mother would say.
She purchased an area rug from a yard sale. She giggled as we moved the heavy table to lie it down, “It will really bring the room together.” I laughed as well.
The corner of the rug, the one nearest to the entrance of the kitchen, is tattered by frequent tread. The original door to the kitchen, dual hinged and dangerous without windows, was removed before we moved in. An old shoe cobbler lived her before us, the original owner. He told us of the door and how much he despised it. He hung glass gypsy beads from the doorframe and insisted we leave them; his wife loved the chaotic sound of the clattering glass. He nodded his head and his eyes squinted when he spoke of her, “like chimes indoors,” he mimicked his wife, dead six years, “and I get to be the wind.”
When we moved in, before the wedding present of the table was delivered, we ate cross-legged in front of the fireplace with no fire. It’s the only room on the main floor of the house with carpet.
One particular night she picked up take-out on her way home from work; bass and wilted baby spinach from Charlie’s. She served it on her mother’s china; her mother’s china that her grandmother gave to her mother and her mother gave to her; the china came with us in one of the few boxes we could fit into our cars. She crossed through the glass beads and in the chaotic shuffle a strand fell. The beads clashed with the platter and chipped a corner of the milky, white edge. After a string of expletives she was furiously stripping the beads down; moments later I heard her crash the aluminum lid of the garbage can outside.
Through the doorway where the beads once were, in the kitchen is the refrigerator we purchased on credit––there are no good deals with a fridge full of rotting food. It’s a chrome refrigerator and matches nothing in the kitchen, in the house for that matter. She insists it matches the other appliances she intends to purchase.
The dishwasher is next to the refrigerator. The sink is cast iron and sits heavy on the old, white tile of the countertop. Above the sink, plants hang in baskets and the dirt spills over and stains the grout in the white tile. I clean it on Saturdays but with little fervor. She suggests we move the plants outside and I say nothing; she scowls and returns to what she is doing.
I retiled the floor when we moved in; twelve inch ceramic tiles. The grout is cracking in spots; she wants to put in linoleum. I enjoy the cool touch of the refined clay on my bare feet; I feel natural and somehow connected to this home, the work I’ve done. On my days off I wake early and walk through the grass in my yard. I pick old pits embedded in the lawn from a dying peach tree; this Saturday I might tear the tree out. It looks attractive in the yard. During storms it cracks and apposes the thick, gray skies. I might leave it until summer.
In the spring I plant a garden. I pull weeds with my fingers. She brings me coffee or beer, depending on the time of day. I use a shovel to turn the dirt, pitch and throw; I move earth, remove large stones and dark clay. I pull old roots and stems from a dead raspberry plant entwined in the chain link fence next to the garden. I wear thick leather gloves and feel the strike of the coarse, red thorns only occasionally.
The shed, just outside the French doors on the back of the house, where the cobbler moved his business when the city improved the taxes of his space downtown, stores the equipment I use to keep up the yard. Inside there is a tool bench with a vice bolted to the thick wooden table. Rakes hang horizontally above the bench. The lawn mower rests opposite the bench. The shed smells thick of turpentine, wet grass and dry glue. I imagine the cobbler with his tools firmly in hand, driving holes through leather, stitching, sewing, doing repairs late in the evening under a poorly lit lamp.
The French doors in the back of the house have mullions and are drafty. She tells me I need to weather-strip them. In the morning, cool air creeps into the kitchen, touching my feet as I grind coffee for the French press.
Now––water boils low in a heavy pot on the old gas stove, quartered red potatoes cooking. Once, I fried the potatoes with onions; I ate them with ketchup, she tried one with her fingers and refused a plate. Tonight, we boil them. Foam gathers under the lid that pops up and down as steam hisses. I hear the popping lid as I sit in front of the cracking fire.
She creeps away from the couch and adjusts the worn blanket until a square with cloth still in tact is on my thigh and rests her head on it. She stares at the flames. She doesn’t complain of the heat.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and she says nothing.
A few moments later she asks, “Are you comfortable?”
She glances back to see my answer and I nod. She looks back toward the fire.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she replies.
“Nothing?”
“We talked.”
She adjusts her shoulders and I’m aware of every movement: her hand on my leg, the breaths she takes through her nose, her legs are careful and motionless; her body steady and rhythmic with each breath, I watch her.
“You talked?”
She lifts her head from my leg, her body from the ground. She kisses my cheek.
“Come on, the potatoes are done.”
I only hear her steps when she reaches the wood floor, passing the table. She shuts off the burner and the steam dissipates with one last pop. She retrieves two plates from the cupboard and we eat the potatoes with cracked pepper and kosher salt. She is right; the potatoes are cooked perfectly.