Faces as stern as a corpse,
eyes glimmering
mint and pristine.

In a dark corner
I drink black tea
from my lover’s cup –
My eyelids fall
like the lid of a coffin
as I listen:

A thick fog of gossip
The stink of talk

A slice of shine
severs with the edge
of ascendancy.

A deep knock on planks
blond hair flops and spreads
like a beached jellyfish,
legs stark and gnarled.

An ellipsis, the screen
is a backlit semblance
of a silhouette

A mixture of pops and ticks
a hissing behind a shadow
close to a breeze

Down hallways
the smell of water:
a chorus of whales
in the late dark
beyond the glow

Only mistakes stain for years
and shape the earth

Only light through a hole
the more holes
the more light

Only twitches of synthetics
and synapses
and the glow

Mat of overcast
solid and heavy -
I am trapped and waiting.

Winter wind –
A sharp gust
taps dead maple branches together

Winter sun
pulls ice
to a point.

Glaring up,
bright yellow breaks through,
leaks from a shell of clouds.

Breathing again –
the fresh air stings
the wet grass

Sunshine envelops with warmth
illuminated trees
darker underneath

Sharpening shadows
heavy upon the pavement
a solid patch over the road.

If a girl was not
crossing the street,
there would be nothing.

Old windows
old eyes –
the sky is marked

On dark flooded roads
there are no cars
only rushing waves full of light.

Still alive, smoke
draws arcs that rise
grows out of an ashtray

pills
there are so many
liars

Man walks out of
A public restroom
biting his lip

The swallowing night
burns away
by the streetlamps.

A trucker’s goatee dances
as he chews,
peering into our windows.

There is a natural grease
Coating my eyes as well as the world,
Helping me easily slip
Into soft sleep,
Plummet into a solid dream.

Gather 200 people
To push the earth so it mills
On its axis with madness
Until everyone has lost
A year of life.

Do not shake machine. Shake hands.
Grazing the walls with my palms,
I tend to leak between cracks and fingers.
How big is the gap between two sets of eyes?
Nothing means everything anymore.

Spend a night coughing
Behind a stranger.
Do not speak or make eye contact.
Do this often with different people
And develop a glaring affection.

The hand strikes
Every notch fixed
With a balance of space

2
Riding my bike down streets and sidewalks, I saw a young boy walking along the narrow top of a short stonewall holding his father’s hand. And while holding his father’s hand, he fell down and hit his head on the sidewalk. Further along the path a little old man with a long white beard jumped to one side, shrieking, as I passed by, but I would have avoided him. I wonder who should feel secure.

father and son
smiling, hands tightly locked
behind a demolished wall.

3
Waiting through hours. In New Orleans by 2:11pm on the Wednesday before the New Year. We’re all tired after crawling through long hours on the road. We’re all excited to be here. I’ve already seen skeletons of abandoned houses in the wrecked neighborhoods left after the hurricane. Our room is high up in a skyscraper and looking out of the window down at the city is like looking into a video screen or watching a simulation of reality. I’m tired but I won’t be able to sleep until I witness this solid, city, its hard concrete walls, streets and sidewalks, and its fragility.

Crude messages
scrawled on walls and sidewalks
in reckless spray paint.

4
I crashed my bike into a bush by a sidewalk. Cars drove on at the intersection where I paused on my knees. The concrete scraped some of the skin on my left palm off and the wound stung. There was blood. I stood up, fixed the chain on my bike, and rode off as the adrenaline ran through my veins in torrents.

A hot trail,
The sun leaks from a wound
At the eastern horizon.

5
At the restaurant, I reach into my pocket and drop a handful of dusted rolled-up dollar bills on the counter. The cashier and I stare at each other for a stretched moment and much like a wide-eyed dull gorilla, much like nothing, he clears his throat and hands me my receipt.

Listen buddy,
Just give me
My tacos.

6
The wind was rushing with the force of an endless train. I climbed up a loose ladder to reach the Pagliai’s Pizza sign: “PANCAKE BREAKFAST AT THE VFW 10-2”. I removed most of the letters, while holding on to the sign to resist the hazard, and set them on the narrow platform where I stood. The same way that kids run off laughing, the letters blew away, scattering and cracking in the parking lot, and there was nothing I could do. I only needed to spell out “VEGETABLE SOUP”.

Running pests –
I chase the letters
Of the alphabet

Spray more of it,
Manipulate the air.

The screen and I share a stark adamant gaze
Eyes of salt water
Eyes made of white grain

Red lines wavering warm
Around cavernous blackness: staring

Into sharp cerulean high pitch
Switch to color blocks

Or the chieftain’s serious profile mugshot:
It’s not funny.

Chief displays the hunger of someone
And I am weeping as I should be.
I need to blink now
According to schedule.

Stirred into the platinum mass
I spend my curiosity pacing
Through revolving doors made of intangible glass,
scuffed boots smudging the smooth floor.
People shift in endless cycles like moths
beating against each other by the streetlamps,
like black and gray flecks on the television.

2
Premium reception has never been easier.
No compromises. No limitations. No conventions.
At last, we have siphoned the effort from making memories,
removed the clutter of passionate rat kings.
We have replaced the frenzy with empty space.
We have sealed stars with an innovative lid to lock in the astonishment.
For a low expense, the clearest dark can be delivered
to your choice of cavity free of danger and chance,
free of venture.

Get laid immediately or get sedated or cut these open
But it only ever feels good for a moment.

Some don’t understand how much filth and rain there is
They are not convinced
They don’t think
It is past six
It is not early, it is late
and don’t you forget that.

This is important
I can’t stress that enough
and there isn’t enough space
there is structure.

I took a walk and saw two birds fighting
This kid I know, he is a fight
He doesn’t wake for simple pleasure
Those accepted conventions and cute sitcoms are placebos
Don’t you forget that.

Poor little city mops wear a lot of greasy t-shirts
and almost nod off by the stalling clock
and miss their mothers
and only want the feathers to expand as they flutter

I can’t sleep because of all the colors
Swimming in the thickness of values
Trying to dodge lapses of thought
I keep my red-hot confidence locked in a jar
and set my stomach on fire
and seethe while the authorities spit warped judgment

I don’t want to speak with them
I want to talk to you
on the telephone.
and as I blink my pink eyes, I become a god and evaporate
Consume this and fuck mediocrity.
and what is that medicine smell?
Get it away from me
I’m going to go take a piss and be disgusted.