Pill Dust and a Recycled Cotton Shock Absorber/Volume Filler

Observe with me the binding
of means and ends. I
stapled each finger and nailed a pair of palms
to the same plank.
I sat, bemused, in a room with one door.
A room with two windows.
A room with no floor.
I sent my regards.
Then, I took it upon myself
to send them again. And would you
take a look?
Fuck that.
Fall for deceit in two leaps.
There is a pounding in my temples.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
For my next trick I shall saw my assistant in
half with albums on wax.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
Ladies and gentleman, we now present to you
a live execution reenactment.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
When you can hear the surprise in
a voice over the lapse of time
you know that
you haven't marked a gouge in
the totem poll.
I have dawned my tree spurs to
the tune of a whistle torn from a western.
This is all green screen.
All smoke and mirrors wing splint.
Friction sparks fracture.
Friction spells disaster.
I am anxious.
I am angry.
I am spellbound.
I am overloaded.
I am a hypochondriac.
I have walked the plank
at a fast pace and stopped
dead in my tracks to push pin
my abdomen.
Bow your heads.
The brief cough spelled
celebratory but
the muffled mutter of the crowd
spelled otherwise.
There is a bulge in the carpet.
A hump on the putting green.
What we lack is slack,
leeway, thumb tacks and gingerbread don't
pin point our tracks.
These dots dance over maps and
diagrams
in a hot flash sobriety collapse gasp
contract diaphragm.
Bellows grow in bounds,
loud in a power outage.
Words saved by battery labor
and savagery penciled on paper.
I have been growing my nails
and plugging the wounds from my
selfish stigmata.
I plan to still be able to see you
when I cover my eyes.

Shift in Drifts, Ebbs and Flows

Cushions to mattress transfer
happens
in the blink of an eye.
Uprooted.
Replanted.
Awake.
This land mine
trigger is sensitized to
respond to a dust bunny.
Its profitable.
Inadvertently invest
and increase exponentially
your lunch money.
Tooth pick prop the shades.
Two years to this day I penciled in
a week without sleep.
Last night was close.
Tonight I might
find myself
smoking a cigar in the morning.

I Bespeak

I have been driving these city streets

with a bottle of whiskey, a pack
of cigarettes and an urge to answer
a rhetorical question.
I am halfway through my Windsor heating
element. I am smoking stogues in sets of
two, with the windows rolled up. Its great down
here. Imagine: up is up and the reverse is impossible.
This city looks different when its frigid.
This city looks different when your insides
are being simultaneously warmed and torn apart
at the same time. No chaser.
I inhale, swig, hold, release.
Harden my arteries.
Blacken my lungs.
Moon roof release, not to breathe,
but to see the stars and the clouds
and my breath. Smoke and water vapor.
Its beautiful.
If I could blow a fuse or a circuit breaker or a generator or a power plant and
see these streets sheathed in black I would freeze.
Find a bench to lay on and drink my drink, smoke
my smoke, eyes aimed towards the heavens.
And breathe.
And breathe.
And freeze.
This city would look different if we put out the lights.
This city would look beautiful if we put out the lights.
This city would look dead if we put out the lights.
Ive the windows down. Down the hatch. Hatch a plan.
Hatch an easel. Paint it black then paint it white.
What they don't know won't hurt them
or do them any good. Its like it never happened.
I need another cigarette.
And another belt.
All means of communication are kaput.
I'm downing telephone poles and flicking my
cigarette butts into newspaper vending machines.
I don't want to know what happened tonight.
I don't really give two shits about the shit
I have missed.
I couldn't care less about whatever it is that
people are saying.
All I care about
at this moment in time
is getting drunk,
staying whiskey warm,
and getting you fuckers to out the lights.

Bright Lights and Social Standing

Its not looks. Its personality. It
has nothing to do with your smile
or your laugh.
Its friend counts
in four vertical
and one diagonal,
off the charts.
My father cracked jokes
at one of the charmed sisters because of
a lopsided face. Fuck the mirrors.
Fuck the fuckers and fuck the lovers. I
want to be
alone. All alone. The jockey rides
the horse who
rides the bottle.
This is a perfect photo-op.
This is the blood pressure test with
an injection at the end.
I write to impress myself. I used to have a
companion who craved for an explanation. All I gave
was a defamation of character. You
were right all along. Who am
I is you. We find light. We find it to be glow
sticks shipped from
Bigglersville. We find fights.
We find them to be the cure to
withdrawal.
We all find nothing
where we thought something was
cleverly positioned.
Its midnight.
Its morning.
Its December.
Its over
and over and
over again.
Have you ever heard of R.E.M.
sleep?
I believe those to be
the dreams you cant remember.
I pray for tonight to be random.
I pray for the thoughts to access
the deepest alcoves of my memory.
I pray to forget.
I don't have anyone to pray to.

December Aint Much Better

Vomit.
Now I know why writing is better than typing.
Sleeping next to a time bomb
is why I sob.
Lets sleep.
Her name was name and her game was
365:
everything you want to hear.
Its an "Im sorry" and "I believe"
dry heave.
Yes,
money man,
I have stumbled upon infinite series.
Add and add and add.
Is that the wrong mathematical
attitude
aptitude?
I tried counting steps
and misspellings and
wound up with
a frown.
I deviate far from the norm.
I remember sky watches and
a corn field filled with
giggles and laughs.
I experience time and
eye twinkles that
trickle past.
Please.
I have but one request.
Fill me in on
the need and pin spin to
declare the best.
When you deny the top of the charts
for the bottom of the barrel and regret it
where is it that you are left?
Last breath,
Twenty steps past death,
Ahem.
I clear my throat to clean the scene.
I clean my virus to
bleed clean the reams
of writing.
I fucked up a gross
post
most
grown moss
unforgiven.
All I wanted was an I love
you back.
Two thumb tacks hold
the weight of
a moron.
Sleep while running in
place.

Lines

These lines,
they call them character lines.
I call them canyons
for I lack character.

These lines,
they call them gibberish.
I call them sanity,
for I speak I.

These lines,
they call them almighty.

These lines are
in 6 to 8 coils.

These lines
are lies.

These lines?
What lines.

Never Remeber November

I've been pushing my teeth into my lips. Canines
sharpened on a grinding wheel enter and exit
in snakebites. "Writing too much?" body 1 inquires.
"Right!" proclaims body 2.
The biggest elephant in the room
has us pressed to walls.
We're blowing smoke
and breathing heavily.
I never wanted to want
anything more than a want.
That could prove to be a problem. When I
think, the gears and belts sound like
power steering failure or an automatic car wash
internal mechanisms.
There is a young boy on my corner dressed
like a Newsy
shouting "Extra extra!". The bad news
comes at an even worse time.
Letter to the editor:
"You HAVE changed. I knew it".
I carve another line in my headboard
and anticipate the day I can lay
a diagonal. I push another notch in my
belt and wait for the day I wake up and need
the extra slack. I press another digit. I dig another
hole. I write another poem.
Remember I once mentioned repetition?
Turns out that delirium is on a high test line.
Turns out that sanity is more than just your mind.
Turns out that they won't turn me out in 2009.
Fuck it.
The trees keeping the outsiders out are
still green.
This smiles tiles are yellow but at least theres a smile
to be seen.
Between you and I are black miles and miles but we're as close as a dream.
Fuck it.

In a Relieved Tone

This communication has faded past the point
of flipping a switch. She sways her hips like she never
has when she takes that short stroll away. She doesn't
remember why
she was
crying.
Maybe its a good thing
to be hoodwinked. Close the glove too early
and miss the catch. Close the glove too late
and drop the ball.
Create and destroy.

I send my congratulations.
Please respond with condolences.

Currency

Flipping a steel penny I am consistently calling
and landing, all the while calculating probability and
creeping past odds. People ask me why I keep a buffalo nickel and
a liberty dime in my wallet. I tell them its for
luck. I tell them its because my great grandfather gave them to my
grandfather who in turn gave them to my father. Now I have them.
Really its because you never know when you are going to need
fifteen cents. I once knew a man who stumbled upon large quantities of old
bills. Red seals and blue seals. Silver certificates that read "In Silver Payable to
the Bearer on Demand". Little did the bill bearers in the days of yore know
what would transpire some seventy years later.
Its still got the mint luster on it baby and every flip,
every call,
and every time I beat the odds it is wearing away.
Sixty-five years worth of wear to show you that I never guess
wrong. If I ever find a one sided coin mint error I will sell it
because I need it not. I told you-I never guess wrong.

Dotted Lines

We all have those packing bags.
Au revoir's and white hankerchiefs
fumble out of locomotive windows.
I tried laying pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and
half dollars on the tracks in hopes of
a spectacular derail. I just
wound up with money defaced.

Woodwork

I am attempting to drop
back into the woodwork at her
request. Soles of the feet
to the knees,
then she comes a knockin'.
I'm working for knees to
the teeth here. Teeth to
my halo, but she comes a knockin'.
She comes a poundin'.
On nights like these an
apparition can really appreciate a
drunken slumber.
Shes got one hand laced through
my thick hair and the
other hand set for leverage
on nine letters that compose one word.
Teeth to knees.
The back of my eyelids tell a story. Its validity is
unknown, but its probability is high.
It is a hasty escape and a
hesitant return.
Knees to soles.
She spits the truth
in the same fashion as me:
lies.
What would be all the more
riotous would be if she kerplunked her means of
communication in
the toilette and then
rinsed it off in the sink.
Or if she pissed on it.
Either or would apply to the
joke I am applying and either
could occur in her location at that time.
Soles to chest.
Splinters fly from the jackhammer beat
of my ticker.
What is done can be undone
in the most uncomfortable of fashions.
I know that in roughly a gross of hours
she will be in contact to tell of her wonderful
week.
The candy and kisses and presents and laughs
and flowers and movies and even dinner perhaps.
I long to be privy to such information.
I yearn for nausea.
I beg to be the unsuspecting victim of a pitfall.
The sticks are poems
and the leaves are letters.
Chest to teeth.
This hole covered over is the woodwork
and its got no bottom.
When its gone its gone Babydoll.
Its long gone for a long time coming.
Teeth to eyes.
Eyes to halo.
Back into the woodwork,
for you.

Appointment Required

Day three is
oil funnels pressed to tongues
in a test
of pressing luck. The major
problem is stream of influence
insolence.
Question and
answer. Its fun turning down those
who need the denial. Its a blast not.
Ask not what you can do for yourself,
but what your school of fish
can do for you. Live and let live
your lifestyle.
I quit.
I spit my internal organs
in the sink.
I quit.
I lit a wet fuse.
I quit.
So should you.

A Night Cap for the Confused

These lines
are lies.

These lines?
What lines.

Relearning to Reword

One letter can change completely
what it was you were attempting to portray.
And it will.
And it has.
Unless I am the mistaken one.

Take the one extra letter predicament
and lets apply the first two fills
to a different situation.
Take, for example, gunshot
wounds. None is plenty. One is
much too much.
Take things meant to be put out of context
out of context
and you've got yourself a double negative.
All is well.

I have mastered the art of the sleight of hand
(léger de main in Le français).
I use smoke and mirrors,
camera tricks,
fancy angles and
anglers to distract from my true intent.
I am conniving.
I have a poker face at my disposition.
I have the ability to save face at my disposal.
I am not detailing an inward description.

Spirits were high until this morning. I find it
disturbing how fast things
change around these parts of the heart.
This smile is hung slapdash,
with gaps and corners botched.
It looks tacky,
I know,
but the before photo was atrocious.

Close the curtains.
Lock the doors.
Its time to relearn the alphabet.
A B C E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Whiskey and the Worlds Smallest Man

The forewarn preceding introduction
painted the us as forlorn.
I think the word used was "scumbags". I think
that made a first impression before an impression
could be made. I couldn't care less. Maybe
we are the scum. We make crude jokes. Chances
are we don't like you and the reason is
because we don't have to. This gaggle of
gentlemen are my chums: Musicians. Drunks.
Poets. Writers. Rappers. Artists.
We are the hangmen.
We are the horsemen.
We are knocking on your door armed with pitchforks. We
want you out of this town.
Its you or us and
we're not fucking going anywhere.
Theres still whiskey to be drunk
and cigarettes to smoke. Theres stories to be
told and laughs to be had.
Maybe being a scumbag ain't such a bad
thing.

Condolence for the Confused

These lines
are someone else's.

The Spun Spin Syndrome

I want to drink
until I am ninety percent alcohol.
I want to stab the
family traced I.D.
to the forehead of
the bartender.
I want to do a lot of things
I have yet to accomplish.
Capishe?
Its all about me in 2008.
I'd kill to go to Cleavland,
down the driving.
I'd kill for this
state of residence
to not be Pa.
I want to make back
alley blow darts
with pins and
you hair. I want to soak
em in my poison and
shit in everyones sandwich.
Lets talk happiness.
Lets talk slumber through vibrations
and mom talk.
I dropped my jaw back in
05 and have been waiting for a phone call,
letter,
line of some sort.
Find me a late night peddler.
Find me someone who ain't
afraid to burn holes.
Find me someone who ain't me
and never will be.
I want to give shock treatment
to my fillers
between weekends.
What is your unit of measurement?
Mine
is the mind.
Mine is
the waste of time.
Mine is the the four
fingers doused in slime.
I have fallen into a steady regressions into tonight being
the night before last night's night before that.
Shoot me.
Pop out the star with gun shots.
Longing for a kiss
replaced with 28
missing space.
I told you I was going to shoot.
I told you I would trip over loose laces.
I told you
that at the tenth pace
I would run
but before doing so I would take aim
and curve ball the
pistol as hard as I could
directly in your direction.
I am sick of rambling.
I am sick.
This is a play ground
merry-go-round.
This is a triple dog dare.
I will cut your tongue out
with a letter opener
and save the stamp in
a baseball card collection
book.
I won't ever look back.
I wont ever look forward.
Today is the day
of poison.
Today is the day
of passion.
Today blows
everything to come
out of the fucking water.
Look up and see the abyss.
Look down and see the ground.
Same story
different smile.
Why have you forsaken me?

Good Day to the Confused

These lines
are in 6 to 8 coils.

Late Nights for the Confused

These lines,
they call them almighty.

Repetition of Nights A trought Z

This tablecloth has seen
torrential downpours in a scene
of pathetic.
Its quarter after the
start of a new day.
I have seen loopholes
time and time
again.
I have grown in self judgment,
but the pushing
of the limits goes towards me
not fitting through the net.
Its an ego boost
Its mirror to mirror,
but I don't reflect.
What the problem is?
Unsolvable.
Its surface area and
arc length.
Its one minute left.
Its love.
It fits through the net.
I despise memory.
I smile and its taken as genuine.
Thank heavens for emery board
and dental bleach.
Thank me for
you and
your indecision.
Thank you
for me.
I need to recharge.
I need to sleep off this
opposite longing.
I thought I needed a five year slumber,
but I know I would wake up to the taste of
your lips.
I need to be awake.
I need to recall every blunder;
every mistake.
I need to not need.
Goodnight. Good morning.

For the Love of Mickeys

She told me I was handsome
Awe inspiring in my own respect.
Talented. Gifted.
Smart. Knowledgeable.
Caring. Careful.
Fun to be around.
Great to talk to.
Great at listening.
Great in general.
I thanked her
with a kiss to the top
of her hand.
She smiled,
and said
"No, thank you."
She thanked me with a kiss
to the top of my hand.
For the love of Mickeys,
I propose a toast:
"For friends".

The Hyraulic Pressure of Steam

What does it take to make blood boil
inside veins.
Is it me,
breaking the sound barrier?
Is it you,
breaking bonds or
breaking a sweat?
Break routine!
I want to be pressurized.
I want to hear the kettle scream.
I don't want to be famous
or observed.
What is "awkwardly aimless"?
Why can't you be
more reserved?

What does it take to make blood boil
inside veins?
Is it me,
in free-fall.
Is it hyperventilation?
Or is it you?
Finding a clearing
is tough.
Find me a cure-all.
Find a mind your own.
I want to be seething.
I want to hear the whistle get blown.
I don't practice good evening,
toothpick propped my eyelids.
I want to be seething,
while steam breathes through my iris.

Good Evening to the Confused

These lines,
they call them gibberish.
I call them sanity,
for I speak I.

Happy Pessimist

I am a pessimist.
I expect things to crash,
burn,
fail,
because,
well...
They usually do.
I told you.
I am a pessimist.
It wasn't in the disclaimer,
but its going in there now.

Truncation of a Wingspan

Ive been flying in strange, erratic patterns
resembling a circle.
The end point B,
is the same as the starting point,
A,
just with a different name.
The results are the same.
The scenery is the same.
The air hasn't changed.
The grass isn't greener.
I don't deserve to fly.

Snapped Twigs, Breadcrumbs and Booze

I drank whiskey to melt the snow
where I stumbled.
It was my guarantee
to find my way back.
I just wound up getting drunk
and forgetting where I was
going.
The sun scortched
the borders.
Its all that much closer
in the winter.
Horizontal cycloid rolls
in fast forward.
I sat
and watched
alone.

Car Battery Terminal Test

Riots after sunset,
before sunrise,
I pivot on heels.
Quiet after running
the DNA through agarose gel.

Saliva.

Stealing a strand of hair?
Simple.
Stealing what dried up from breathing?
Tough.

I ran tests.
I ran them again.
I ran myself into the ground.
The results?
Unexpected.
Test again?
I don't think so.
I want to scream fire,
cigarettes,
and booze.
I want to scream out the thoughts of
you.

Good Afternoon to the Confused

These lines,
they call them character lines.
I call them canyons
for I lack character.