the neighborhood stomp.

chuckle. chuckle.
let me tell you what it feels like to crawl inside your skin & his.
i have no skin.
naked nerves, breaking the barrier of sound & light.
at the same time.
nausea. explosion.
every one says you'll be the man on top, but fuck the top.
the top is where the good guys get recycled & asked to settle for third & fourth times around.
forget it.
i want mine & only mine, or you can have her.
with the eyes & lines that do their best to hide.
duck duck goose, every one.
you're it & the time is sweetly thin.

sunny in november.

it's days like today that i want to crash the gates.
shake the sand from our eyes & tear out into the world holding onto nothing but your hand.
awake. alive. real. & untouched.
the champions of our world, undefeated & afraid of nothing.
a vision sparks & the view from here sputters & hisses with a tinge of static interruption.
a flashback. a dream. a moment. a beginning.
you are mine & i am yours.
elemental, like crystals in a cave.
it roars out loud like a lion but so much louder that lions it cannot be.
we sink & sulk, wax & wane, flex & bend until our ears have grown cold & hard to all familiarity.
re-naming our souls & drawing new maps for our deaf feet to follow.
& we wonder what it was like, days like these, & the sputter & the hiss are there.
the colors & smells & wind are there.
& you are there & i am there.
i am yours & you are mine.
our hands sweat & our stomachs feel like they never knew how to stay inside our bodies.
touch. taste. see. hear.
speak.
a lion, loud & brave.
speak.
the last of the 5 & most desperate to be noticed.
speak.
it's too beautiful to be quiet.
speak.

under a warm blanket.

god, the energy is disgusting in here.
i stare at the moon, full & awake.
i stare at my face, hollow & awake.
i stare at my hands, shaking & awake.
it's dark & quiet & the world is sleeping
& you are sleeping & he is sleeping &
she is sleeping & babies are definitely sleeping.
a few birds are chirping.
surely just as confused as i am by the static
in our hair
& feathers.
god, daylight sleep like only the daylight can.
dead, expired, eliminated by darkness.
& in the morning, kick down my door.
scream at the top of your sharp, bright,
lovely throat.
& may i find a way to hold onto you
until we all sleep again.

it's wednesday.

i shower in the dark.
lay on my back for 37 minutes
& let the water leak up my nose,
stinging my sinus cavity.
close my eyes & ask the questions
i normally wouldn't ask with clothes on.
what do certain voices sound like when they're whispering?
how hard would life be to live without forgiveness?
do baby kangaroos realize how easy they have it?
i dress.
put on the things that make me feel human.
confidence & self in some dirty pants
& a mesh t-top.
i bruise my heels from here to there for several
hours, searching for a connection to this earth.
waiting for gravity to stop me on something
white & fresh & whole.
then i sit on my beaten in, cracked leather sofa
& put my feet up amongst old beer cans & cigarette butts
& i write.

origins.

what do street lamps do during the day?
they stand idle & erect like soldiers having a quick
sleep in between shifts.
they hold old shoes & the wires that string across
the sky in aimless direction.
they shamelessly wear our advertisements
& “help me find pinky”posters
without a scoff about what it might do for their sense of fashion.
but at night, they go to work.
like werewolves, suddenly turned on by the moon
& her army of crickets & shadows.
alive, they lead you block by block
on a trail they’ve laid for decades but have no idea where
it really leads.
they offer up their pockets of safety
& create 6 foot diameter havens
that are perfect for lighting a cigarette
or kissing a girl.
they watch this city until it sleeps
& then watch a little longer until they too can sleep.
street lamps.
I wonder if that’s where the idea for batman came from?

sack of bones.

there's just some people that you know in
this world that can only exist in one realm,
that if you saw them outside of this place,
your heart might explode & you'd collapse
dead on the ground like a sack of bones.
i stare at this man everyday.
he shakes constantly behind the counter
at the gas station where he sells me my cigarettes
& dispenses lottery tickets like crack to the masses.
his hair is thin & greasily matted wantonly to his
wrinkled head.
he speaks softly
& i can almost see the smoke escaping from
his lungs & fighting past his ravaged throat
with every word.
he drinks a mixture of cheap vodka & whatever
syrupy soda his gnarled fingers can get to the fastest.
i've watched him leave a long line at his register
during a one-manned shift to procure such a cocktail.
the need is evident.
he grumbles at exact change but grumbles harder
when he has to count you change.
i've seen him smile once or twice.
his teeth aren't very flattering,
but i would expect nothing less.
he would never guess it & it surprises me
to even write it now, but he makes me smile every time.
he's the color & life in this all too perfect cardboard cut-out
we call society.
overlooked, under appreciated & certainly not ideal.
but on a palette, he would be the paint i run out of first.
i was thinking of you when i started this rant...
oh yes...i would collapse dead on the ground
like a sack of bones.

red red ruby boy red.

there are bugs in my skin
itching, scratching, & ooze
a festering smell taking over this room
comas to be had & silver dollars for the taking
a gentle summer breeze strong enough for my breaking
with a bead on your head
as i begin to draw faster
cold steal & smoking hot
make for a copious crashing disaster
beating words to the death
& a slick fever pitch
my fingers come down
no time for a stitch
i was born thirty years ago
we've been building ever since
a smoldering cyclone
of hownots & where whence
slow down the ever clock hand
a groveling pig
take up mighty shovels
in dank hostels we d


2 hours 26 minutes later
i wake up with a fuzz in my ears
& a sludge oer mine eyes
the light bulb has flickered out
& the bugs seem to have found
corners for the night
i picture picture flash
& wrestle with the cat
saunter through the paces
viggity viggity vinyl scratch
sleet no sleep
escape this man boy bliss
cocky little twanger
trading copper for a kiss

the things i didn't want to have to say.

friends. i hope you read & enjoy. i write for me first & you, second. i've always found great comfort & satisfaction in expressing, emoting, painting, dreaming, venting, building & entertaining with my words. i feel it's not really worth writing unless you plan to share it. i don't often edit & i never re-write. the first time is the right time. the way it was intended whether i can bare it or not. i've struggled as of late to be public & intentional with my voice because i really felt that it was taken from me. i apologize for thinking that way. it was, in fact, hindered & frustrated by some people taking advantage of it & misconstruing it to fit inside a very odd & irrational box that only existed in their closet. but i can't let fear & frustration cut out my tongue. my words are a life-source to me. an identity & a staple. so with that i say, please read but know that what i write is for me first & you, second. read it how you like but read it under a lens of art & creativity. i hate that i even have to say that. to declare my art as art. i'd rather have skipped this post all together & just sat back & do what i do, but unfortunately in this venue, context is a forgotten rule.
love. peace & god bless your mothers.

 

lightswitch reflexes.

we crept out of our skin & dove deep into the trenches of all the twisted influence of our own separate worlds.
naked nerves exposed to the chilling wind of her mouth & his exuberant conversation & fantastic jaw line.
felled in one dramatic swoop of perfect happenstance.
so fragile were the legs of our expensive, cherished stilt-legged resort that we couldn't even blink our eyes fast enough before we saw it swallowed whole in the great wash of a 7 lettered sentence. 2 words.
& as it should be. fragile, that is.
we held all the world within the welcome mat.
& once inside, the fire burned so hot people couldn't stay too long for fear of burning.
there's skin missing from my hands & the tips of my fingers are hard & numb.
feeling.
gasping for breath somewhere under the callused little hammers, 10 in all, that crush & chisel out a meager explanation of all i can never seem to say.
"welcome home".
i hate the sound of that voice. resent it. loathe it.
a perverted, dark, ugly version of a voice much like my mother's.
one you never forget because you heard it from before you could see.
familiar. organic. god forbid, natural.
this is not natural.
i tell that voice to go to hell & say this is not my home.
my home lies in the trenches & out of my skin & twisting around in our separate worlds.