Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Do Not Trust Anything You Think You Trust That You Can Think

It's the fucking eighties again, and
everybody's a haircut
and a sociopath and
the biggest asshole.

Twenty Nine Hours

There's an asshole sort of sunlight that
intrudes through the cheap blinds
that attempt to cover my bed
room window, and it's
six minutes to eight a.m outside
and it's constantly a discordant
heartbeat inside, and I did not
sleep all night nor do I want to
sleep now, and I'm considering
staying awake for another full
day but I'm always nervous about my
heart.
Fuck.

Heartbeat of The 21st Century

When did I stop being able
to hear silence?

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Night

I feel sick
not tired

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Fuck

Some
calibration of a
sex and a food stamp
kind of loving god who
is an ugly jesus who
is
cleft lipped and
too smart for
his own good and
probably a
jew
with
his own
ideas and
his own poor money and
his family wanted some
doctor but he ran
and
he ran and you're
some kind of white
girl who
took him in and you
embraced his
whatever
and

What does it matter?
Let's
enjoy
anything

Am Many Things

Am a block of ice, am
a pear,
am a cold palm,
am coal, am
hate, am your
cousin naked under some
hot shower that makes you
stiff and sick,
am slick hair, am fruit
Am a motor vehicle
in the nineteen thirties I
am a stiff grey suit and
a
hard man
I
am jaws
and
so much
clenching
I
am
so much spite I am

so many things a
cloud
pardon me then

Some Fever

Whose caution was a lamb, whose eyelids swam with
blurred star paths until the entire night was
just a field of two five five
Whose mother had a mother,
whose bones rot now,
whose eyes fill but never re-
lease their weight
Whose story is a
bible
Whose bible is a black
heart
Who lived for a question hope-
lessly unanswerable called
art
Whose filthy skin is a guilty
landscape, whose sex is a sin
and another sin
Whose fingers work the devil's
deeds whose needs are needs and
needing, a hunger until teeth
break or fall or until a
tender female
shudders her teenage
fragility and some moment of
trance is shattered and sick
reality resumes like a
car crash until
a black glass of coffee is
thrown
You're lying awake in bed or
sitting quietly in your
doctor's office or at a red light or
in bed or you're somewhere deep
in your chest or
you're falling thousands of feet
per second in some
un
conscious horror or
you
are in some line
at some carnival in
some summertime
in
the south and
some pathetic
cliche is breathing too loud and
you're rocking and
wrenching your hands and
you're sweating
you're
sweating so
heavily
and
you have
no
idea
where you are or
how you
came
to
be there.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Sleeping Spells

When I want to hold your
hand and bury an ax
between your
breasts all in the
same breath.
And as I inhale
and you
stare,
there is this
sound like
scotch tape tearing
from its roll but there's
no sound and there's
no breathing
And then I flow
into some
other layer where
there's only pressure
on my skin and
womb sounds and
to you,
at the kitchen table, I
piss myself
but I'm
not there.

Balled Up Fists

Just so you know
I'm prone to
spontaneous bouts of
being unable to cry
for five years.

Which Is Really Just Surrender

Is this floating away a
natural symptom of my age?
A phase?
Or is this state more
permanent?
I worry that
certainty comes only
after compromise.

This Way

One day you
wake up and your hands are
hammers
Introspect,
there is no noble savage here, never was,
no I became this way.