Chasing cats with sticks
we both have wings
in our cruel childishness
in a summer a few years ago.
Now pining and muttering
rhyming between trees
in the humidity
in our self-assuredness.
We looked down at a charred circle
with rocks around it
with tree stump seats around it,
it’s a little more surreal during the day.
Sometimes i don’t even walk far enough
to make my house out of sight.
red and blue filters
until my eyes hurt
it doesn’t know what to look at.
I am not a father yet, but a creator.
My father still calls me son because I am a liar.
We still go to church
but i think i want to make the pastor jealous.
Wholly spirited shouting in my head,
wearing 3-D glasses and a leather jacket
leaning against a wall.
there’s not enough dopamine to go around
standing slumped nearly slack fingers
begging for choices.
Twisting my arm
putting a gun to my back like the leaves had to try for the fall.
wet grout some places
the light is struggling to reach the cold overnight mattress
of faux stone littered with dust
except a spot where a haphazard pile of clothes had been
and the footsteps moving to and from it on their own,
tap dancing around me.
there are cabinets in the distance,
probably empty bottles with messages
inside answering machines
and two pennies under
one of the wooden storytime containers
that my confidante
left there to mock me,
the too honest Abes of my generation
in a poem about Clichéd mornings on the kitchen floor
when it was just me and my misery
shouting at crowds for company
until they see the isotopes in my eyes
that they want reflected in theirs.
they showed up at my door.
and i scratched another notch
on the tile in the corner.
cut incorrectly, my own diamond,
wrapping memory loss around my fingers
and lashing out at inanimate objects
with my brass silver plated knuckles.
i pulled my face from the rough adhesive
and felt the indents and lines on my face.
i wondered what bullwhips were like
an put my hand down my cheek
to my neck
down to my chest
a small incandescent bulb bursting
over and over under my palm,
under my skin,
supposedly under my ribs.
Shards in my lungs
exhaled in a blizzard,
my throat ripping itself out,
I left it.
Tongues of lace brushing at my neck,
I didn’t ask for tiptoes but she did it anyway.
It reminded me how many hills I’ve crossed now,
trying to see over, my telescope had a compound lens.
She might have glowed in the dark,
I knew she had night vision.
I was scared I’d leave fingerprints
until I found her in the cradle of my form.
She happened all at once
with her own electron cloud nine
that made sure dust had no time to land.
-Gnawing to bone my jaw aches like i craved fighting meat stuck in my teeth
-making metal of my hand
finger pneumatics clasp prizes
resting amongst each other
and they slip through to mock me
on their backs behind glass
as my hand is strapped to the ceiling.
until i put a coin on a string
and my fingers turn to metal with flesh over them
that grip to crushing smiling candy
eyes popping out of wrappers
and dripping out of seams
and into the crevices of stainless steel knuckles.
-Those won are dropped to seep into the carpet ground into chewing tobacco for unwary visitor tourists loving the exotic fucking tastes and smells that you can’t get off your upper lip no matter how many times you wash your face and regardless of how many cigarettes you smoke in between until you gag and pretend it was the carcinogen you intended. Stop going with the imagery. This is called release.
He has smokestacks exhaling guilty until proven innocent
until no one can tell where the storm clouds begin and the smog begins
he is seen floating in the midst of a maelstrom
he hates it
he hates it
no one will give him a reason to
bus stop skies
in the color of your eyes
I’ll stop looking in the mirror
when I see a real person there
and when you destroyed my faith
I stared into my plate
my ma asked “whats wrong”
I said nothing’s ever wrong
Because I can’t afford
the life I can’t have
the stars twinkled embarassed
cuz you wouldn’t stand next to me
Then I held your hand
and you didn’t hold back
you fell out of my life
every fucking night
we walked by the lake
and you smoked while I watched
there was nothing else I wanted
that no one else was flaunting
Because I can’t afford
the life I never had
the clouds covered the stars
I covered my eyes
Backwards through my life
through a summer
looking down at my feet
and seeing yours standing next to me
then dropping through the sidewalk
and chalking it up
as another fucking boy
with a deathray in his hands
hidden under the bed
in a shoebox full of pictures
he wanted to look
but had nothing left
Might as well castrate me now, cant encourage that.
Maybe your bawls are better off if they’re cut out
Very likely. Keep me from bathing in public.
Only since I think you might practice social grooming
As in I only groom if others will watch me, yes.
More like I’ve outgrown the scruff of my neck and you’re trying to paint it back on.
But are you begging for it
Asking maybe, but I have too many grey hairs for my knees to bend.
Not asking, begging. Done involuntarily, a helpless cry the victim cannot hear, to be assisted by the nearest vulture, ignored by those who held the leashes.
As they approach a concessions stand and order two ice creams as first will inevitably be lapped up when it falls.
Using the fire hydrant as a font for the baptism he waited his whole life for.
And we have arrived at the Venn diagram in chalk washed off because you just bathed me in public.
Children don’t play in the hose but choose to roll on the cement and stain themselves with tar
Pasting on feathers to become vultures.
Dropping their leashes and the pretense of paying admission.
Ripping tickets for repentance after leading their loyal possessors into open manholes.
Pits of peaches raining down from a tree bearing only skeleton fruit, an empty womb, a promise fulfilled, the whale songs chiseling into glass rods resting under a piano bench.
And he straightened up, maestro mastering the fallacy of his baton, engorging his ego and elating his audience as the bricks in front of him sang with blood and skin, until the caterwauling ceased when the barking started and pinned their arms to pillows.
Crying rivers of sweat into the mouths of bent lovers, homes, cities of broken glass whistled and hummed an elegy to midnight prayer
The conductor, now frozen with slitted soles as electricity flows out from him, does not bow, because he did not write the serenade, and he marched offstage, tripping on the stairs so that he had to look over his shoulder.
Velvet capes draping milky, satin skin in the dense fog of a forgettable mourning conspire together on subjects relating back to their apprenticeships. Stains from wine spilled by a brother blot out any and all tears and blood stains created by his dependents but not by those who stole their identity.
As they mapped out existence, the murder mystery was lost like the visions of rough versus smooth skin that were trenches and hills on their topographical minds but they could not decide where the globe began and settled on the tunnel vision of love as a treaty that solved nothing. The grid cage fell over her and she pushed against the walls of her cell as he did, reflected across the axis, tethered and battered, reversing the spiral on each other, and he wondered if she would try to pin him.
The palm of my hand was a blossom
dying at the edges
and I didn’t have the man power
to have a conversation
when I decided to experiment with flesh eating viruses.
ringing out the bells of my hands
sounded like dog whistles
so I wore gloves and yelled
things I didn’t want to say
but was cornered into the words
until feet stamped and slipped on condom wrappers
pre-lubed to make it easier to push in.
It seemed like something was missing
and I knew it would be me
when I started shaking
and my aim became unclear
like I clutched their throat
until my wrist was sore
from turning pages
and ripping them out
when they were in the wrong place
so we collaged them together
around leaves and lit the ends
to be more menacing
like black beards with neck beards
for reasons I’d think up later.
I still smell daisies like someone threw the blinds open mid-day in my dark room, and i have trouble getting the bricks from my chest.
She needs the room. She NEEDS it. I can’t say no. I don’t. I shuffle out, drawing short of sticking snail eyes out from between bookshelves that i realize I’ve already desecrated.
I turn my head too much looking for spiders that are never there, and i see too many faces that aren’t there through windows that distort the smiles of the nothings into grotesque crescents that promise me with flypaper beach whispers grinding into my eardrums that they will be caustic and dissolve my brain while my hands shake trying to comfort themselves.