Look at you now

it is a long one
and who needs to read a man's petty list
of confession

but this is true

every mythology needs a villain
and ensconces some
who have made
nebulous choices
as heroes
while Gods rape to create
demi-gods
because
we are our own evil
and indifferent
creator watching
the pieces at play

in other words

these gifts you gave me
I left in the rain

and now I just have
dirty hands

forever more aware of rhythm when in love

Sunday afternoon
February 8th New York City

we exited the train station
directly beneath the Dakota

she told me where we were
as we stood on the corner

I lifted her in my arms
we kissed and spun around

I put her down
and she
swallowed

momentarily looking overwhelmed
she quickly moved us along
through Strawberry Fields
past a creepy indifferent memorial gathering

people who came there everyday to place flowers
and play songs
and take part
in this loosely organized dry-humping
of a ghost

elsewhere we found
disco dancing roller skaters
a DJ
a lost member of Parliament-Funkadelic
astride his pimped out bike
surrounded by New Yorkers declaring their allegiance
with shared smiles for their favorite city

we ate on the steps of Belvedere Castle
above Turtle Pond
overlooking the stage for Shakespeare-in-the-Park
watched some guy
who was probably from New Jersey
slide down a few stairs on his knees

were gifted with free entry to the Met
where we blew through centuries of art
in less than a hundred and twenty minutes

had sushi in Soho
cannolis at Ferrara's
took home a bottle

spent the night inside
ecstatic and officially
made it
boyfriend-girlfriend

and it wasn't until later that she told me
what had happened where

we had been kissing
and almost dancing
on that corner in front of the Dakota


forever more aware of rhythm
when in love

Not even the parts that happened are real

the wine tastes unlike the last time
she says I liked it more before
the fruit was like you
she snorts

you mean forward
you mean plump and fun
and obvious and pleasing
you mean you like that I'm easy

maybe
she invites me to smoke
towards the end of the evening
to talk about ghosts we greet one awkwardly

this one is hers
they met this summer
he left and now haunts her
cross-legged

calm apparition
introduces himself
unwinds to offer his hand
like any man has a warm grip

just because this illusion
is solid does not mean
his fangs are not
ephemeral

bruises fade
and bite marks cede to flesh
as the living move to correct
small deaths

later
we find ourselves
naked on a rock hard bed
sweaty and unfulfilled protagonist

she says
before she sleeps
that slipping inside loss
is all she feels

that first hint
of flavor gone

life
is very long

no midnight kiss for you

Feeling lost

foolish
bullish
and blind

last weekend's fight
became this weekend's
freak out

ran from the car
to a cab

no way home
as the New Year chimes

some lovers never have
an easy time

Tonight I dreamed a memory

It was 1981
in my friend Rudy's home
when I first became aware of the werewolf
in the garage
of a pale green house
owned by a long haul trucker
in an unfinished cul-de-sac
in Wilmington, North Carolina
I heard his breath
and saw his dark outline
in the corner
of my eye
the shadow of the creature crept near me
as I hid from my friend
crouched behind his Mom's
boxy Buick
it seemed a choice to recognize
this apparition
it seems like at that moment
I decided
whether to eyeball
my own illusions
which is crazy
because insanity
does not come
with
an on or off switch
but there you have it
I chose
to leave this hairy
angry
disturbance visible only
in the narrow corners of my
eyes
and thirty years later
the snarl of this beast
seems to be mine
while not
and trying to see it
head on
is impossible
it lurks in slanted angles
at the sides
of my eyeballs
and I drink
and type
and fuck
trying to fool him
into staring me in the eye
because when you
see your
demon
he loses dominion
but this guy has been clever
and watched me grow a beard and
lose my mind
and lose my life
to sometimes
silent
and sometimes
violent
anger
he wins by being
slim in presence
looming
in the background
quietly
like an infection
leaving
me fanged
and hairy
and mad
broken bearded boy
lost
to self-deception

No words or analysis

I come to
against gnarled roots,

arms in crucifix position,
my waist below water...



Dawn greets me,
unsurprised,

she cleans
the blood from my face.

The roots against me
like the last lover-

there are no thorns
but I wouldn't call it comfortable.

We stumble home.
We recover.

Crossing the door,
we feel the fire.

A voice says, "This is another chance."
I say, "At what?"

No answer.
It might have been my imagination.

Dawn chuckles
and feeds me.

Night drapes about us
but it is only dark outside.

Drifting, I think,
"Maybe this time

the dreams
will differ."

'Sno angel like you'

The coins and cards fall before
she slips.

Her grip upon my hips having
been denied,

she lands in snow.

Mistakes leave outlines unlike angels,
and tire treads look like tired faces.

I drive free.

I leave
the cards, the coins,
and her

behind, but

she is still there
in the mirror.

Free now,
its another night lingering
between fingers...

the cards and the coins slipped.




One magic act
will resolve it all?

I think not.

Because we love you

I know she has good drugs
and her guys follow her
like insistent satellites

hooked
in stone-eyed orbits

my guess
she figured out
long ago

this is how you lead them

have the highest tolerance
and the best drugs
in return

you get to pick your rock star



watching her and the Drummer
thinking
how cheap my wife is

no
matter
the cost

Clamshelled

I'm staring at a picture of candles
rendered in blurry black-and-white and upside down.

I imagine them to be glowing skeletal fingers
from wax dummy remains.

It's spring.
It's April and I should be happy.

These last few days,
life
has felt like a lung

filling

underwater breath.

before an afternoon of 99 dreams

over pancakes
I admit
my paranoia
infests
my personal
relationships

even the bacon
wasn't good.

the last night at work and at home

listening

chords like
characters
chiming

I say
I charmed my boss into a new job
I argued with the new chef

wine
smoking
moving near to far
laughing and
silence
laughing laughing
a few more silences

wine and
words
wine
and words

and we put to bed the week

The difference between the moon and the morning

2613523

as if fingers
and kisses can mend

she needs me to touch her
and I am tired

waking alone
can be like
slowly dying

we meet
at the end of our night

not quite secretly
but boldly neither

animal in bed
shy mornings

collects her scattered clothes
off to work

I begin
writing

stop and think
maybe this is love

this acceptance of what is wrong with each others lives
and these simple actions we use to make it right

or at least
lighter

the old bones crack in agreement
while the birdsong mocks the lack of vision

but I keep typing

the next time you meet

It's weird meeting people
and they try to position themselves as someone
that matters
that's in the thick of where it is

listening to him tell his stories
spinning the legend right in front of you
"that's the tie that Boy George tried to buy from me"
and
"they always stay here when they come through town"
and there's more

and at first it's okay
it's entertainment
it's shits and giggles
then

it goes on all fucking night
and the next time you meet

it's 2am
and you're trying to convince him to let you open for his band
you're apologizing for pouring the sake all over the floor
and thanking him for the tie
and saying
"yeah, I'll definitely be there next time"

and you leave smiling
you leave
and sing along to a great song

(was it House of Cards?
you don't even know the words)

the next morning
hungover
work
and then

a nap in the afternoon
the arrival of a hitchhiking friend

and she's a stunner
elegant angles and elbows and
just dipped in beauty
and she gets in

the laughs are easy
and the conversation
comfortably hovers

and she seduces you
it wasn't hard

and you surprise her
you satisfy her

and she stays longer
and she comes more often
and she charms tenderness out of you
and this time

its 8.30 pm
and you take one last look

a look like a long
deep breath

and you sing gospel songs
all the way home

your voice husky with faith

unfortunate architecture

here's a bit of an accounting
the last thirty five days equals

nine doctor visits
one marriage
one honeymoon

one cracked back causes
one slipped disc

one is fired
one wants to quit
one new part-time job

a lot of pot
a lot of wine

one blessing
two houses
three beds

one sick dog
sick twice

two cars fixed and broken
one terminal diagnosis

one couple
one love

all in all
one month of our new life.

11/09/11 EB's

the younger guy talks on

originality,
truth,
veracity

as hallmarks of great art.

art, he insists,
must
be worthy,
without any consideration

other than a pure need
to make art.

the older guy
keeps drinking.

Thoughts on 9/11/11

one year ago yesterday,
before a judge,
with some kind of friends,

swearing about love,
signing a contract,

making a secret mad idea legal.

no lovemaking ended the day.

passed out drunk and in a black,
blank
state,

like every night of the honeymoon,
like many nights before and since.

it should have ended in the snow,
after another nightmare evening when,
for the third Sunday in a row,
I left

everything white and quiet except for the screaming.

Mostly just not yours

too perfect she says
you say all the right things
there must be something wrong

as usual
silence answers first
her words dangling between us

are you crazy
is that it

I laugh
perhaps confirming
perhaps not

she shifts nervously
naked mother of two
with a secret lover

giving kisses to a man
she does not know
but wants to discover

almost from somewhere else
I hear myself saying
well I will never marry you or another

that
silence
again

up on an elbow and also nude
smiling from lips to eyes
I continue

they tell you love has a path
from teenage lust and skyburst hearts
to dotted lines and a shared house

and I tried twice
and I failed twice
and I learned

it is not for me

the silence
this time
is not as loud




she exhales and stares upward
pleased
by my short speech

my compression of romantic failures
into a singular non-answer
is a mad man dancing on the head of a pin

truth
as spectacle
never fails with new lovers

Orpheus tried to warn me

I said to her,
"Beware
of what you invoke,
it will come,"

and though
I would never be heedless
enough
to summon Ted and Sylvia...

that second time in St. Marks Bookstore,
the first time

I understood free jazz
is the sound of
lower New York City,

I purchased The Birthday Letters.

I read her passages
while walking backwards down 3rd street.

She leaned close and felt
the words ping
like stones across my ribcage.

Both, knocked silent.
Those words sweetly rung,

and I swear I heard a harp
plucked when I bought cheap sunglasses
on the corner,

and we kissed where
John died in front of Yoko
while Neptune watched,

and for whatever reason
I remained fixed

on these epic tragedies
of lover's gone to Hell,

and John she shared,
and Ted she did not,

but the second time we reconciled,
she bought me Plath's Bell Jar,

and I wondered
was she
trying to sabotage us,

to drive us into a ditch
or poison us in a corner?

Then, when she left the third time,

scorched Earth silence,
awkward threats,
and artistic titans
stumbling as background,

and our thing-
ultimately mundane.

The worst ending either
could summon.

Late night morning star ship

We took two yellow pills
shaped to resemble

Bart Simpson's head.
This funny little ecstasy...

she sang for me.
We danced.

While we twirled
around the room

my head became
clear.

I said:
will you be my girlfriend?

She kissed me: yes.
We laughed.

Our own private Prom
on a New York Sunday night.

Bar dumb

sweaty meat faced girl next to her
brother wearing a black jacket
hair photo ready facial posture

she talks loudly about
shots shots she didn't call
shots she must want a

shot now she talks of
wieners acts embarrassed

and mentions she likes double
ranch dressing
on her eggs

she takes a double shot of bourbon
leaves
strutting

jowls and all

Bird begets flame

she dances on stage
drunk and listless

face like
a diorama

is there life in there
has she fled

her friend I kissed
took to bed

she watched
silent

invited me to a CD release
party

banjo playing and she sings
like a twenties refugee

plucking
strings
at the foot of my bed

laying next to her
still smelling her friend

out through the garage door
I didn't follow

went inside
silent

took a shower

she called
mostly remained silent

only in music does she seem
present but

not when dancing
when singing

she taps a beat
she starts a song

otherwise
she is all bone

her friend comes
and collects from me

while she just
brings lyrics and guitars

talks to me about
old songs

kisses my face tenderly

I want to love her
she just

bends her head
opens her mouth

gets lost
in old songs

gone gone
gone

another bird
in the fire

Kept Kafka in the corner

In High School,
I occasionally practiced
dressing as a poet,

thoughtful sweaters
and lots of hair,

listening to
lots of bands

with dead
or death
in the name. Meaning,

black t-shirts
most days.

Camus.
Dostoevsky.
Hesse.

Reading alone.

I drank
two Dr. Peppers
and ate

two scoops
of ice cream
every day,

sat in one of two corners
at lunch.

Usually laughing
or arguing
with

my three friends,
the girlfriend
and some occasional difficult other.

Had a faded ride-to-school relationship
with my second-in-Charlotte
best friend.

Had a nightly habit
of dancing
in my room

to Jane's Addiction.
And in Junior High School,

I gave up
Dungeons & Dragons
and comics

and wrote love poems
as a means
of anonymous seduction.

I also
got glasses
and learned how to masturbate.

Not much has changed.

All sold out

whenever she says I had the strangest dream
I cringe and listen to my cereal get soggy

she waffles on without consent
waiting for the whoa to come

staring at the breakfast table flower
I pepper with a timely huh and occasional yeah

thinking about anything other than her
wacky night time brain fart

if she notices
it doesn't matter

an actress needs a stage
and craves an audience

I realize watching her make love
to an invisible camera

the bare walls must be easy to fill
like my silence is open to interpretation

no wonder she loves me
the who does not matter

For you, Anne

can you imagine
the lady in the silk shirt says

if this passes there could be a
six to twelve month wait
for MRI's

the man with the bow-tie
across the table
comes to life

that's horrifying he says
where do they think this money comes from
and there has to be some accountability

a couple of sages share a nod

bankers you see
know about money and responsibility
unlike my cousin

a twenty year old with a three year old
no wedlock
a job at Wal-Mart
and asthma

raised in a declining series
from house to apartment
to trailer

told she was emotionally retarded
at the age of three
now in charge of her own family

her boyfriend couldn't drive
but he wasn't trying to leave
her or their daughter

this young couple
one night on the highway
trying to reach the hospital

the asthma so bad
she couldn't breathe
and he

couldn't drive

Crystals for breakfast and angels for dinner

She dreamed of herself
as a fairy, tattooed it
on her back

a fairy
on a mushroom
blowing bubbles from a pipe.

She had a religious experience
with LSD
chanting on a table

an angel had whispered
angel language
in her ear

I know
I know.
I know

it's tempting
to want
to believe

in a divine language
delivered
amidst an ecstatic
electrical storm.

Long form location

The Blues were
always
in the back
of my
mind. Waiting
for the
times when I
felt the
electric
sadness
that exists
under
Southern ground,
in the
Southern sky.
have you
noticed it?
the shock of
pain and
memory
that hangs
about us here.
we know
the devil is
lurking
waiting with
pitchfork
punishment,
know that
sin is just
next door,
or at home.
we know
salvation
is just
a gospel
song close,
a prayer
away.
the charge of
lightning
in the summer,
dancing
up above
in the
cathedral
of sky,
such blue sky...

Never forget

she's gone crazy on me
working seventy-five hours this week
yelling at taxi-drivers at three in the morning
walking home in the rain
fighting with her mom about moving
crying insensible
more mad plans hatched in the morning
New York City sidewalks speaking
saying we should get married
in City Hall after bequeathing
the purity of our thing
to the emptiness of the World Trade Center feeling
that lies in her memories of what happened that day
and April 8th is Kurt's day
after fifteen years
all day Nevermind-fest with the new crazy chef
she recruited with her sparkle and sass
she's told me this five times already

being together yet apart is stressing our devotion to loneliness

Another artless poem

Absence she says
makes the heart grow

fonder for others
she giggles

on the phone
right hand close

to her mouth
comforting a friend

who had found herself a lover
and been caught

and was now separated
and struggling

her husband lying to the world
wanting Christmas together

wanting to hide his shame
his humiliation his anger his pain

even though some may not admit to this
without our woman for a man

its all falling
apart

Men know
our woman makes us

great
in this World

its why we fight wars
and write poems

its why we go forth every morning
wanting to conquer

anyway I think
it doesn't surprise me

his lying

if he stops to consider
his loss he'll see

everything
crumbling

he'll have to admit
another man won

his wife
is gone

something/everything
irretrievably

lost
now

he will find it harder
to enter a room

head high
chest out

humility is for monks
not for lawyers

and tears
for when you admit to a broken heart

clearly
he is not ready

to forgive
or forget or move on

I don't think
she

heard me
thinking this

I don't think
her friend

is ready
either

2 kids and a mini-van seen with a squinty eye

She's detached. Sad faces surface.
She mostly ignores what
people say. Strawberry
blond. Big-eyed.
All the right
bones.
Two
martini smile.
Pale and glowing
skin. The kisses almost
like thanks. She doesn't like going home

on the rebound.

Some faces pass you by, some don't

She has a face she depends upon

2100789

make-up to define

rouged lips
eyebrows drawn
hair dyed

no feature left to chance

maybe it looks good
(two-dimensionally)
in the mirror

that color
cheek
and that much black around
each
eye

blond
burnt into brown
now

wavy gray

overly white skin
trying to hide
her broken veins

after a while
she's come to think
this repetition
of color and form

outlines
her
meaning

In his imimicable way he left you all exhilirated and exhausted

2605755

trying to find balance
between anger
and whimsy
ain't easy

it feels like cheating from
the beginning

but here it is
exactly
when needed

"cruel to be kind
in the right
measure"



it is sad
to think of art
as dialectical or definite

while both
are best defined
simply

both at best
reflect
the infinite



I hate to say
"you look like"
because
I hate to hear it

Christ
the mundane
have fucked ears
which fake listening

most
have no
idea
what to say

except cliches
when faced
with someone
like me



the thing is
there is
no trick
to proper perspective

it is there
without need
for digging
or doctorates

in plain words
the human condition
is gorgeous
and disgusting

rich with longing
suffused with dread
deep and dark
and dreamless

"stars
are stars
and they shine
so hard"

well good night,
sleepless.

The Lord Types On Skeleton Keys

handless bones on your face in the morning
waxy skin cracked by the dawn

after the blessing of an angel's presence
there is always a curse

a countdown
a clicking ticking sound

as flesh tightens and crumbles
and becomes subject to counting

dust gathers about you
and beckons

earthen words on plastic keyboards
won't save you

racing hearts find the finish faster
after all

sometimes a blessing
is the end

34 four year truth

we spent every weekend night
driving
my dad's red Taurus

company
gas
credit card

looking to get lost
hoping to end up somewhere
surprising

or at least
alive

but it never happened
we always ended up
back home

disappointed by ourselves
and our options

being young and untraveled
I thought
everywhere was this mediocre

happily I report to you
I was wrong
but fuck

this town tried to swallow
us

did it's best to make us
SUV driving bankers
right wing subtly racist suburbanites

Christian
zombie
vampires

for a long time
I thought
the whole world was lying to itself

it was one hopeless fucking cage
full of deluded imbeciles

living at different addresses
comforted by the same lies

it seemed
it was either the mini-van
or the ghetto

no hope
no hope
and no surprises

it took three thousand miles
and a few drugs
to realize

traveling
ain't
a fool's paradise

Pre-requiem

Cut between
French and Latin rhythms

the words crawling from the singer's...mouth
counting down

backwards
1...2...3...

she moves beneath me

we kiss
until 5 A.M. thinking

that...inside her
I feel like light

while wishing...
we were nearer

'til morning
comes.

then.
it's weird again.

I might listen if you were beautiful

Incipient, they say it's incipient,
like it's about to happen.
Boom! Biff! Pow! It's no
longer coming it's
here it's you it's your
identity it's your cloak
it's a sigil you have hung
about your neck it's the analysis
given to you by some
Oprah fucking reject
An insipid machine-eyed retread
A flash-forward happenstance
No matter, no chance
it's almost never tied to
(never never never)
tied to
you
is it?

Some sort of swan song

It's called a studio bed
Even though
Not much happens upon it
I think of it
More
As a monk's
As it
Is meant for one

Making our sharing
That much more
Intimate
And uncomfortable.

two X's two X's two

I long to know the velocity of you
she says she
says
with a lisp dripping
spit on her
dress
downward turned head
too many
days and pills
and strange pillows that smelled
of lilacs and sweat
she says she
is
attentive to every inch
of him she
texts
with pictures and promises
a visit and sex
like
porn
stars fuck
but without dialogue
close while
touching from a distance

Left

Then,
Morning,
She'll make him breakfast.

She's been buying groceries for two,
He knows,
And he loves her desperately.

Then,
Evening,
He types words for her.

He has yet to lose this habit.

Three thousand miles,
And eight months apart,
Still remembering:

a rooftop
by the river

a cloudy night
cold

huddling together
under a vent

high
and hidden
and warm

this is the where and that is the when...

Later,
He still dreams of her,
And wakes

Knowing that the truth
That buzzed between them,
Was felt by everyone.

It pulled those others in,
But in a way,
It set them apart,

Two lonely people
With hands kept carefully
Across their hearts.

Twice you asked, twice you know

she
flutters

being alone
suits her

in notes
secrets related

she sings
daily

it's
okay

I kept count
for a while

now
I don't know

the seasons for
this broken bird

'Could you find me, would you kiss-a my eyes...'

Love often feels
like lost-at-sea,
drunkenly afloat.

They don't tell you that.

They fool you using
moldy movies
and suck ass songs.

Well here's some truth
and don't worry
this ends well...

loving someone
involves working
at maintaining levity

like a ballerina
landing
with a sense of humour.

You have to sneak
secret glances
and watch

when she has no idea.

Old haunts, nothing new

The sadness sits on my shoulders tonight.

It feels sweet and heavy and there is a fucked up romance to it, a bit like singing a song in the rain.

I walked home from the usual, head down, slowing my breath to hear my thoughts, missing drink and hating my need to imbibe and my inability to stop no matter how dark, how far, how fucked it got.

Most of the night has been spent waiting for the Word to arrive.

"It's not a religion
it's just a technique..."

The romance of the bottle, I have pursued and cultivated.

I have pruned friendships and loves accordingly.

I have decorated my apartment as a church to its holy fucking thrills while knowing it was nothing more than a stilted romanticizing of self destruction.



There is only God he says
eyes not looking for mine
the Devils are all
inside

with that he asks
for a few dollars
then wanders off
singing



some of the bottles held candles
which lit drunken meanderings
across each body
I brought home

no matter how many times I asked
in the morning
they would never tell me what happened

I was left with stains and shame
and faked remembrance of names

was I brilliant or limp
only the bottles knew
and those mute totems
weren't offering

Being out of the trees seeing that it was really a bunch of Goddamned weeds

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this morning when
she texted HATE YOU
I returned with AWWW POOR THING

last night she called the cops
(not on me)
she cried shook
drank screamed

when she left at midnight
the relief lasted
until morning this time
I don't believe

hope or meditation
or fucking prayers
will help
us

everyone will tell you
they will
be there
forever

they will raise your dawn
with promises and arms
drawn across
hearts

already
aching
for
the next one.

she texted YOU ARE THE MEANEST MAN I HAVE EVER MET

and I don't doubt it.

The circle is the cycle is not the point

magic moments seem to be encapsulated by parentheses
suggestions of sepia flashes of light
things ablaze and angled

knowing memory makes things glow
and bend and take on
odd shapes

but memory is not
reality

and I dreamed of a woman lost
a woman gained a boy who
seemed happy and a man
unhinged

and except for this persistent unhappiness
it's
all

missing

wobbling
towards the infinite future

away
from an emaciated past

Sometimes a confession is not

tackled atop snow
twisting my back

screaming
wrestling in the front yard

2 a.m.
trying to leave

the quiet street our only witness
the white powder our canvas

she had been drinking
when she took MDMA

she had been smoking pot
and singing off-key

her teeth striped
black

grimaces leave
lips unsweet

thrusting with insults
begging

weeping unkind tears
to fool me

later

finally free
after shoving her off my car's hood

now having to live
with memories

knowing only the silence and the snow
witnessed the ending

the shame
the guilt

the bruises I showed no one
the bruises I left behind

no words
can ever give this meaning or redemption

we sinned in that house and on the lawn
and I have left out almost all of it

or at least anything
that blames

me

"Mystical Visions And Cosmic Vibrations"

Friday
Cafe Pick Me Up
off Tompkins Square Park
$3 double espresso
$2 sliver of brownie

scruffy NYC hipsters surround me
every one using a laptop
serious
working

another reminder that
the City rarely lets you rest
it's go big
or go home

slip on my sunglasses
head down Ninth thinking about St. Mark
and all the poets and prophets and madmen
who make the Village home

this must have been where the Shamans met
in old Manahatta

2593037

And now for something...

(Expand blog to see video)

from another generation.

I don't say this cynically, but all our modern art forms seem...exhausted, diminished.

I was downtown and saw 'kill your idols' printed on the back of a store bought shirt.

They have mohawks and fauxhawks.

The past seems like a husk and the present seems like a thin meal.

Something is going to happen.

When?

It might have already begun.

I like to think it has

in each of you.



My writing has shifted.

It has become a real horrorshow.

Wanna know why?

I used to run home trying to outrun the hellhound on my trail.

Something 'fanged and hairy and mad' wanted my blood.

He would chase me home.

His shadow outpaced mine.

He was biding his time.

Until

He caught me.

Then

He lived behind my eyes, in my hands, in my breath.

He left behind hunger and bent bones and a bloated frame.

The demon took me and he yawned.

Do you know why?

He knows a scary truth.

There is nothing special about my suffering.

Not a goddamned thing.



Scary truths however

can set you free.

(Expand blog to see video)

And now for something...



from another generation.

I don't say this cynically, but all our modern art forms seem...exhausted, diminished.

I was downtown and saw 'kill your idols' printed on the back of a store bought shirt.

They have mohawks and fauxhawks.

The past seems like a husk and the present seems like a thin meal.

Something is going to happen.

When?

It might have already begun.

I like to think it has

in each of you.



My writing has shifted.

It has become a real horrorshow.

Wanna know why?

I used to run home trying to outrun the hellhound on my trail.

Something 'fanged and hairy and mad' wanted my blood.

He would chase me home.

His shadow outpaced mine.

He was biding his time.

Until

He caught me.

Then

He lived behind my eyes, in my hands, in my breath.

He left behind hunger and bent bones and a bloated frame.

The demon took me and he yawned.

Do you know why?

He knows a scary truth.

There is nothing special about my suffering.

Not a goddamned thing.



Scary truths however

can set you free.

StCyr

Last comment 4 minutes ago:

now this one I adore.

"activity is killing the actor"

it uncurls like dust whirling
from a sharp point

to a furious spiral
to falling down

her hair scattered
soon to be swept

you think
as her lips approach

you see every crack and sore
sure you do but

the horror doesn't stop you

a whimpered no
wouldn't stop you

at 17 your question was
why am I hollow

now you know
making loving to a woman

you don't know
quiet

you don't know
without trembling

the clicking click clack
of your thinking

dreams blur this way
teaching nothing but teasing

this woman moans
grateful and with heat

cracking lips tracking
hungry mouths pressed bone-to-bone

you give
and the emptiness

yawns
beneath you

as she sways sweaty
her freckled ass stains the sheet

the worst verse of this evening
has not yet been reached...



just turn off the lights
it will be easier.

Rose slices

sometimes
flowers
look like
razors
on
razors

beauty costs
even the lonely

This is about one of you / This is about none of you

Dancing like lovers
gracing a stage,
she dipped and brought
his body to bear against
hers; with

his ear now near her lips,
she whispered,
" I know you're hiding,
there's some darkness
that keeps us apart. Let
me in, man, let me in..."

(dangerous kissing) In bed,

he laid awake wondering:
could she feel the heavy,
fluttering
beat of his heart? But
wondering was one thing


...he couldn't open up.
It felt like a proper
and an astutely
primitive response. That
which is hidden cannot
be stolen

you see,

there were omissions,
events shuffled and narratives
composed.
It was a deft manipulation,
an unfortunate prison,


and now,
trapped as a character
in his life's own play,
he had no choice

but to finish this act
which seemed
to have no ending

and less
and less
relation to meaning.

Sing your life

It's hard to write about love
and not forfeit
at the onset

it's a failure
we've all seen
before

it's hard to love
and not fail
that's

what makes it so hard

the idea and the desire
is so common
it's

what makes us human
and divine
one of the few

truly transcendent things
you can do

Sunday forgives Monday for me

I remember this one dancer.

She would count
"7,34,17'
while dancing.

I don't know what it meant either.

She seemed to have
total faith
in this casual re-ordering.

she keeps dancing
she keeps dancing

I kissed her once.

She whispered something about fingers
and dancing on needle-like
pinions

offering thirteen reasons
for abandoning faith
in reason.

Beautiful
mad
brilliant and

dancing
dancing
dancing.

The father and his Arabians

she approached me after Art History

tall
thin
leggy
blond

with a hawk nose
and big eyes

we went on a date
a party
at some sketchy friends of hers

it
wasn't a great night
but she was beautiful
and I was young
and not afraid of being shallow
and soon
every afternoon
skipping class
at my house
windows open
loudly making love
to her
soft hair
and sharp bones
then
watching movies
lazy on the couch

and one night
we fell asleep
after
and I learned a lesson

you never make love to a farmer's daughter
in the fields of her father.

Diving Bell

Water is filled with ghosts and history.
You ever think about that-
All the treasures and achievements and people lost and scattered on the floor of the world?
Quietly gathered and waiting,
Now accustomed to the weight of water and its endless motion
And, just,
The sound of everything...



I don't think
Atlantis is about a land that used to be above the water.
I think
It's about the memories we have lost to the Sea.

Imagine-
The wonder of a bottle of wine,
Three hundred years old,
And still something you could drink,
Maybe,
Withered and faded,
But still alive,
Edible,
Interpretable,
Like another time
In a bottle,
An intimation of immortality.

keep puling the shadow donkey's tail
smells like smoke
and like everything else

won't last

Backstory

she drinks to sleep
she drinks because the bottle
makes a good protagonist

she drinks anything
naked before the mirror
exposed bones and jagged cheeks

her back says fuck me
her eyes wide do not concur
she drinks in the morning

she drinks to her sins
while trying to avoid them
every bottle a totem

she drinks promises
scorns soft landings with sharp slurs
counts men like sheep while sleepless

she drank her dream's blood
like vodka she thought tasteless
uninspired still thirsty

she drank daylight's bones
looking to lose a night's chill
until liquored up morning

she passes out cold
quiet and without warning
she drank life in sips like gulps

swallowed as a bride

She smelled of sweat and loam

she found dirt with her fingers
on your leg

she laughed and didn't care
how would you split this she says

her smile angled like an anchor
sharp while plunging downward

to her dirty dingy lap apron
ass half-cracked visible thong

she ashes and swallows turtle soup
in a haunted sweaty hotel room

teardrop sweat stains on the carpets and walls and covers
dingy dignity at best her knees bleed

she takes the twenty
and leaves

'There's more to man than the liquor and the lust'

2583888

she laughs as she scratches my chest
eyes below my waist she says

you know you're kinda Bowie
scratches a lot harder

a red line below the waist
turns her finger right to crash into my hip

I involuntarily arch and smile while
asking

what do you mean

like Hemingway
a few words mean everything

"take the guitar
and leave the girl"

I venture one kiss for the lips
one for the neck lean and one for each leg

look her in the eyes and soften

the devil always carries change

ever wanted someone to just destroy you?

ever felt devastated by long-distance love or
disassociated
emails?

listening to sad songs
angry
crying
driving and yelling

all the fools
the assholes
this rage...

breaking glass thoughts
fire on the brain
cracking bones on display

this flesh is as weak
as this spirit is transparent

as the transmissions are lost
static is all that's left

Fame is a game and you are beautiful

why should I doubt anything you whisper to me
all of your breath on my neck seems true like kisses from relatives
like what confusing touches mean like thinking of a means to an end

shut up she says

off stage I hear violins shuffling strings heroic strokes
like lips strumming after mornings that you claim
you forgot


good night whispers and insufficient promises
she touches your face and thinks she is
lost looking at your flesh go blank

mornings of consistency fail to inspire you to kiss
girls you have never met
xoxo

simply not relevant
anymore

wax melted wings

it sounds like the bottle lead her to Christ
like crystals lead her to talks with angels

gem-like barlights shining like a revelation
inside a train station mind

she cried one more time as
words and songs and God failed her

dancing broken glass as her head collapsed
her eyewear bounced against the ground

her vision narrowing on sparkling shards
moving towards God in a bar

her heart stopped
whiskey soaked hands gripping a sticky table top

alone and no clarity offered by God or crystals or songs
just another folk singer in brown

just another forgotten strummer for the lovelorn
just another plastic visionary for the quarter bin

but some
still sing her songs

just
not her

This is something I found written in the back of a book.


July23,2001

They say you seem like someone
from a movie
thus they call you 'Lance'
with a tinged

swift switch of the eyes

lust love hate
flash

'You're humbler." he says
after telling you about
Genghis Khan's
righteous wrath
killing forty million

all said as a challenge

some people are mirrors
others see
two-dimensional versions
of themselves

counting
to none

I don't know what it means
but I like it

Savory Rose

she says you
speak unlike anyone
I know speaks
a beautiful sentence
and I know she
means it
she speaks with eyes and voice
and nervous
hands
a loved
but broken
idol
meaning

honey you are fucking
angry
young yeah
not
too late
never marry me
but for me
be a believer
listen