Sept 29th

too small for this place;
a crate around my mind

Coffee and cigarettes
with masticted laments
stuck in the grounded trachea

I've forgotten my name
Letting my eyelids blink
in an empty rhythms.

Bones cracking in this paradim
my toes parading ahead of my feet
in the tentative placement of each shaky step.

So new concept...I am gonna build a poem over a week. It will be complete next friday.

no more than one stanza a day.

So here goes the start
-----------------------------------------

My thumbs at the corners of your cheeks
I cant see your eyes
in this faux twilight.
There is no yours and mine.

Sept 25th

I let you fuck me like a skeleton
with noises seeping from my mouth
not of pleasure but of crucixifxion.
and I became relief for your numbness
taking it into my own body.

You are left free and in the morning
I will still feel your tongue pinning me
to the bed by the back of my throat.

Day...who knows I lost track

Dear Ezekiel
Today is Tuesday
With falling leaves.
Our feet pace the cracked
Sidewalk flirting with the sound
Of our own laughter.
My lips are chapped and cracked
Unable to tell you what I have seen.

A side long glance and you unlock my thoughts
They seem to peel of the nape of my neck.

I had a nightmare
It was you and I spattered in dirt
Your parched eyes pierced my face
As drug needles to forearms.

We fell and we were falling
Off the precipice to the valley
Were only nightmares live.

I did not recognize
your face in that pile of
emaciated cheeks and sunken minds.
All around, broken limbs fell haphazard
off trees like ripe cherries.

And your fingers, dear Ezekiel,
Became cactuses
With each touch to murdered my skin
Yet your touch I called for;
Less numbness,
Begging for more of anything
you had to give.

Mmy tongue melted
Out of my mouth with a silent scream.
Foreign lips close around mine
Regurgitating the propaganda of a dry riverbed.

Have we fallen too far Ezekiel?
In desperation your hand around my neck
Have we fallen too far past the giver of breath?

Taste me again without distance
Taste my mouth with sand
and be nourished by the vacuum that
succeeds as a pillar in my abdomen.

Remember how my pupils
Search your face at the contact of our lips.

The is no rustle of leaves
Only dropping fingernails
Scattered on dry mud.

There is no sidewalk
Only the spirits of fallen men
Whose vertebrae we walk on.

Peel these thoughtless prayers
From the top of my concave
Shoulder blades
For I am to sleep tonight.

Dearest Ezekiel
I had a dream that once we saw light.

Day 22

Jaded is my verb
slicing ripples in my mind
as you use your thumb and forfinger
gently twisting my hair

These hearts beat with rhythms
neither sure or precarious
inconsistant
driving me to the complusion
to throw my body over the precipise
of your lips

spilling over the cliff of lost intetions
and well meaning words

seconds before impact
I give my heart over to
the altar of "never mind...it doesnt matter"

making this hope a noose and not wings
to carry me
opening under me hope becomes and abyss
not a pillar of light

you will not recognize me;
this sagging face
distended belly
transparent skin

Closeted with
lack of nutrition
lack of sun light
my heart and mind
accumulating nicotene
and monsters

Day 21

teach me mechanics
of pleasure seeding

you lips; wet
your hands; branches
running over
the contours of these hips

my mind is a barren field
a 1930's dust bowl

nothing will touch this soil
even after you trample sensual whispers
between the tilled rows

even sounds of false pleasure
descend as the deaf
cry of a solitary raven
floating like fog
over the skeletons of corn stalks

under the oak
we play grown up house

except your bed is real
your sheets are stained
you've forgot my name.

Day 20

Kissinger is a fuck .
no experiments will succeed
in skepticism and ignorance

the legacy you leave, dear sir,
is one of cartilage and screams

hail to the chief will play in hell
as you march towards
the burning casements of bodies
condemned by the Marxist experiment


September 11th;
brief histories
discover that America was not the
first nation to writhe in pain.

September 11th 1973.
La Muerte de Democracia.

Lady Liberty, spits at your feet.
forgive him
for he knew exactly what he did.

Day 19

I lost the paper and pen;
swallowed them months ago
in my fitful sleep.

Expectation burning in
my stomach lining
creating an unexpected
implosion.

Forget
Forget
Forget

one more memory
on half masticated paper
I feel it burn like vodka
on the way down
warning me of latent consequences

Scribbled lines
Dear friend
please quietly waste
your time till you
forget who I used to be...

forget
white out this slip of
the mind
like primer on a wall

white/stark
satiating my slowing
pulse in the silence
of an unmade bed

this atrophied mind
has no strength to hold
revelation
or future

I am not atlas to carry
even my own world
this burden; too much

Day 18

Floral apron
on the kitchen floor
and dolly lost her head

Daddy laughed
Momma swore
and Suzie when straight to bed

Highway sounds drift
an urban lullaby
Pushing the lace curtains
in the back yard window

Penny on the train track
and a shiny rock or two

Daddy chasing melancholy
out the door and down the street.

From the second story
window pane two hands
and eyes watch
headlights jog over potholes.

Sleep well, baby girl,
maybe daddy will be back
to fix dolly in the morning.

Day 17

Trade your tongue
for 8 balls
and your mind
for tarot cards

lets go play
with past
memories
and future scars

The devil's made
his nest in heaven
tricking church folk
to eat stone bread

each pebble
a small indiscretion;

she slept with him
he smoked with her
and the reverend still drinks gin

Lick clean the spoon
of false perfection
and beg to taste some more

you will worship your own worship
you will adore your own adore

the devil's made
his nest in church pews
smelling of slippery
wood polish

Every Sunday
they sit with him
to deal a new fortune
and polish the
grain of their own
empty minds

prostrate to
each other salivating
with piety and facades
of lost interest

"Come, oh come Immanuel
and ransom your captive...."

Day 16

Placid face
pressed to the bottle;
a student of tequila

take you drunk 'cause
you're home

no final faces
will see how you behaved
last night

this was the last time;
the last night
i will call
those haunting
seven digits

please bring me the last
remnants of my self
you keep in the shoe
box in your closet

re-gift me the last shallow
laughs that we shared

I will forget your name
and the contours of your face
as the music inhales me.

I am sure

so sure that your last
tongue of decency
has broken off and rolled
under your bed.

You are a train wreck
to my thoughts
true magic bullet
the 606 arsenic
between my eyes

no one else will
know about how you
lost your keys
and cried about your
grandma when she died.

I made you tomato soup
and you clutched the small
of my back;
my shirt extracting tears
from your deep brown
desert eyes.

my gift was grace
for those thousand failures
of both of our minds;
those moments when
I left your bed
less than myself

But we were never
swans or porn stars
for your imagination

this is me
leaving you as less of a woman..
less of my own human

Too much self respect
for your tastes
I am sure.

(not really sure how to end this poem)?

Day 15

The moon like a pinhole in paper
bled down through the fog;
it was past bedtime in the
compound
and the stars asked for our songs

We were but one mass
of 4 bodies keeping warm
on the concrete back yard.

I held them like goslings under my arms
and my blanket.

Their pockets filled with notes
on lined paper
No me olvides
No me olvides
No me olvides
No me olvides Tia Britta

The taste of six hungry chocolate
eyes and songs
book marked

page 147; they will all grow up
they will a leave
only this moment is certain

Nunca te voy a olvidar.

Day 14

the stigmata of nowhere presses to your trachea

sit in this scapeless horizon

were any sound though welcome,

will never come

Let your ears fold in on your heart

playing with the line between rational and elsewhere

make no mistake this will be your undoing and your doing.

Day 13 For Rinko

"Can I please
have a cigarette?..............
Someone give me a GOD DAMN cigarette!"

Echoes bounce down the steril hall
Neon florescent
and the hospital gown tassels are draging
on the ground

"Its good
to see you
again martha...;
so soon too "

Martha mae
martha mae
round the wheel
old and gray

the wheel chair squeeks out
on the white linoleum
martha mae
martha mae

"Did I ever tell you what my name means
child?"
Marth means bitterness.....bitter....ness

47 years
even the hospital bed remembers this
name and the wrist restraints

Back for
another
round of rescue and
steril bandages.

Day 12

Come to me with
A pilgrimage;
the thousand lead dangers
Falling on your rugs
Presence is a relative draped over your shoulders
Reminding you that some scarfs
Are too heavy to wear

Day 12

The threads on your purple hat are unraveling
In the picture on my desk

Dear boy
Your orange shirt sets your
Copper skin on fire
The neon lights of the office
Reflecting in your eyes
Your shallow gaze
Glues me to this moment
as a swift kick to the chest

I remember your bare feet
In the knee high grass on
the foot hills of the Himalayas

your lungs were green
as you ran laughing
past my own labored steps

you were my innocence

off the mountain I placed my feet,
a child of Sherpas and the fog of
new beginnings

Day 11

The wanton smell of former burnings
the fall is riddled with the dead and dying
the smell of the last shallow breaths of the earth
before no one remembers what spring has in store for our hearts

My hair falls to the west bringing
with it the epilogue to the final taste
of your hesitant tongue.

The only voice; the the counsel of birds
deploring that we seek comfort between the
cracks of the floor boards
with the sound of the taunting wind.

To die is gain bringing this untold story
to a close as winter will bring the fullness
of gestation beneath the thin veneer of
lidless clouds.

Day 11

Cast your atonal phrases upon my ears

as your mind unravels like the roots of this bonsai tree

I will decoupage your words upon my arms

as tattoos to a the skin of a peach

Cover your mind in my own lost elegies

falling from my fingertips like drops of dishwater

that stain the front of your shirt.

There must be something you have left to say

there must be more to your facial expressions

then lost reflections of yesterday.

I would have kissed your cheek but the smoke

made me nauseous and unstable

like a small child between fever.

Tell me when will you make your plight to me

asking for new secrets and old remedies.

Tell me when will your mouth trace me

in the script half truths and full lies.

For now our bones plead in protest

Of our standing in this torrent of smoke and fear.