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?