Beekeeping

I imagine her body is like salt in a wound, it would burn like hell as it purifies me, building a wall between my skin and the diseased world that lies just outside my door. Corpses have it easy, no one acts surprised when a cadaver's flesh starts to rot and fall away showing everyone its true face. But the instant I speak from my heart, their faces twitch with that half-hidden look of disgust behind their eyes. So I intend to keep quiet when I can, and only make eye contact on special occasions.

I look up at the sky, and it's sliced in to eighths, not neatly or even, but jagged and imprecise, and you're nowhere to be seen. Your tongue and fingers were like corkscrews in my eyes, smooth hands in dissonance to a coarse heart. You left a hole the size of a name, and five letters can fill it, nor four, or three. I make an incision, a cut, a slice from kneecap to ankle and pluck out a melody with your tendons, it is a simple tune, ethereal, sweet, and bitter.

The rat stood in front of the church and screamed (spraying disease and filth): “Take! Eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Left and Right! My body is withered, and my blood is dust!”

The people stared in wonder and awestruck disgust at the little vermin shouting nonsense. I started to laugh, and so did the rat. That's when tragedy struck, the rat rose to the sky and fell back to the earth shattering into a million pieces, you see, I dropped the mirror. And now everyone knows the Truth, but no one will talk about it.

I have a sister, her father and mother didn't want her anymore, so I took her under my wing, a sister of chance, but not accident. She was beaten down by Sunday School, hormones, and tight pants in denial, but I won't let her break herself. I tell her to keep her chin up, keep her eyes bright and her wit sharp. She tells me how hopeless the world can seem,

“The world is run by men in goofy hats, little sister.” I say with a sigh.

“A bigger silhouette for a bigger shadow.” She says after some thought.

“And what use is a bigger shadow?” I ask.

“To block out the sun, to keep the garden from growing. But a shadow won't stop the rain.” I love my sister, I do.

I am cursed with a rash, a dull red inflaming sensation all over my body. Formication that never ceases, and fingernails that never stop growing. I don't hear voices in my head, it's just the one, mimicking and playing the different parts, and somehow that's more terrifying. I thought I had a guardian angel, I knew I had a demon over my shoulder. I called her Faith, and I knew he was Rebellion. But as I walked, as I crept in the shadows I saw him again, hovering just out of reach, out of sight, beckoning me to the old Tree. His eyes were so empty, and his teeth so sharp. I had it all backwards, he is Faith, lawful and limp. She is Rebellion, wild and willful. I saw her face once before, but I didn't know her name then. A girl with gold hair and oubliettes for eyes, I know now that she's a part of me, and now I know her name.

You have to care about something to worry about anything. And I was bought to tears by his voice. His face was gaunt, expressionless, he knew what I was doing. But she was soft and warm, I always wondered why she didn't have eyes, I know now, she can't judge and she won't hate. Him, on the other hand, he has eyes that too large for his loveless face, judgment flows in his veins just below the skin. And he grins at me in the dark, and she smothers me in kisses, intoxicating me with safety while he looks on with anger and confusion. She used to haunt my dreams, an omen of unknown fortune, but now a symbol of innocence, a sign of clarity, a standard of goodness, warmth, and love, with laugh lines and graceful limbs. He used to stalk my nights, a portent of my ineptitude, but now he's a token of older days, a reminded of unsure words and loose heartstrings, a memento of blue cloth and alcohol on the breath.

As I lay in my nest, my cage if you will, a little worm of an idea came squirming through my labyrinth of skin and plastic, and bored itself into my apple core. I knew in that moment that one day I would die, and that age old question would be answered in for me in my mind, and I nearly squealed in girlish glee. And briefly the harsh smell of sulfur was detected, but I remembered that one and one make two.

My sister, with all her pale and iridescent beauty, held me close to her bosom, not speaking but making quiet sounds of comfort. I closed my eyes and began to fall asleep with only a name on my lips, and fire in my heart, a little spark of the inferno to come. I love my sister, I do.

Dog Skin

Hurt felt horror fleeting

Her face his fantasy

Home fissure heretic falling

Dark sleek danger slipping

Defiance sleep dust stagnating

Dog skin determination slippery

Radial terror radiating twofold

Rumors tripping rebels troubled

Radical trimming remotely terrorizing

Helpless fell hopeless flies

Her face his fantasy

Hole fracture hell fulfilled

Pale Stone

Pristine ivory and sterile sapphire, and the vibrant clever crimson life-blood, flowing from North to South like an immense and polluted river. Lawlessness becomes lawfulness, when rulers are rampant and the people are pigeonholed. Stripes like the torn backs of slaves, stars brightly reflected in the sea of innocent blood, stretching from East to West like a soiled and stained canvas.

Pale stone and yellow papers held close to your bosom, and our walls are tall, so very damn tall. Some try to climb, but always they fall back again, and return to rot in the dust. And we're proud of ourselves and ridiculous standards of goodness, oh yes, the Few, the Proud. Reciting prayers to a dead God and saluting a burnt flag, oh yes, rise up slothful empire, rise up obscure kingdom, rise up and sleep no more. So those Few, those Proud proclaim as they giggle and seize and foam at the mouth.

If my legs were less muscle and more bone, would you love me? How about if my hair was longer? When did intimacy become neon lights and scared little girls in high heels? I saw my shadow touching himself in public, and no one told it to stop. We measure justice in skin, and truth by the denomination: but everyone knows who is really casting the shadow. Seven percent of my time goes to a crazy little man in a funny hat. A little sympathy here, a little vitriol there, and the whole damn thing keeps spinning in great lethargic circles stepping on the unborn and crushing the dreams of girls and old men alike.

Held high in the sky is the bloody tattered thing that so many flock to in time of need or greed. Fires burn in the hearts of a people grafted like skin in the bosom of a foreign land, haughty, self-righteous, salt of the earth liars and tricksters. Buried deep in the earth are the broken beautiful fleshy things that so many flock to in times of life and death. Smokes wafts from piles of shit and skin burning long into the night, like incense to an insane god no one really believes in. Prayers and veiled threats are the local dialect of Sodom, and the lingua franca of social serial killers and men in windowless vans.

Someone told us to be afraid, so we cower every summer and light the sky up as we watch the thunderclouds gather as we spit watermelon seeds on the blood stained dirt. Hold your hands high, this could our last day together, the Lord comes riding on those thunderclouds shouting propaganda and statistics, a preacher's wet-dream.

Pale stone, like black market ivory carved into teaspoons and cufflinks, and yellow paper stained with non-linear morphological verb conjugation, or is that Salem, the witch-hunts and all? I can never tell the desert and the burning stake apart.  

Acronyms Kill

Bleed black broken and beyond peace

Paled punctured prostrate and left alone

Animalistic annihilation abbreviated and worshiped

Withering worn waxing and primal

Rocks Stand

Willing wild and weary

Her haint her heart happily
Only originates obscure omens

Rebelling regurgitating red raw

Eggs ensuring  elusive events

Reflect

Spectating insomniac

Breathtaking sex-maniac

Reflected psychopath

His mind torn in half

Please clutch crawl consume me

Please burn churn exhume her

Speaking infatuate

Beauty complicate

Reflected virginity

She won't live to see

Please frown drown assume it

Please faint frail subsume her

Agonizing conversation

Traumatizing intervention

Reflected shapelessness

Whispers hidden in her bodice

Please react reverberate with me

Please shun run with her

Tea Leaves

Before the cock crows three times, I will proclaim my love for you. You'll know the messiah by the bitch-slap I give him in the dark. And they'll ask for your autograph, but don't be fooled sister, they're vultures, with only one thing on their minds. They'll clamor and dazzle and sputter and grope at your skin, thinking you're nothing more than a dream in lingerie, a plaything to be broken in and used up, don't let them into you soul, wink but don't smile. You're a goddess, something more elusive that flesh or friction. You're warrior, something more chaotic than lust or love. You're my friend, my sister, something more precious than a name or a pair of hips. Remember, my dear, you're eyes are brighter than a thousand suns, deeper than the foundations of the earth, and purer than the empty void of space, no man will ever see you the way you slip and glide in and out of the ether, only you can decide the true measure of your power and beauty.   

Ouroboros

It's at an end.
Welt sticky sap sapping syrup remorse remade regurgitate my facial features

It's fire or fury or little things with beating hearts and shiny eyes

Scab raw rash red ridiculous bleeding blazing bronzing her cheeks and her chastity wasted

It's water or worry or thumbnails and pixels set like stones in the tombs of the Pharaoh

Cut horrific haggard heroic hedonism terrorizing terraforming transcendental virginal mouths

It's too soon or too late or a hand held too long against her breasts and a finger forced too far down a throat

Amputee dancer struggling with broken dreams or a loveless man with a needle and nowhere to be in the morning

We're all little dots that won't connect or tired old dogs that can't see anymore

Laugh initiate invisible intolerable incandescent secrets slipping slobbering over pale skin

It's glass or smoke or blue eyes half-closed against the light of a dying sun held aloft in the sick sky

Screams loudly loosely laboring lunacy unspeakable unrepentant unknowing of what's coming next
It's hair or milk or blushing little cute faces with no names and no fathers to keep them safe when they start to swell and swoon

Cry corruption coherent confusion coagulation grand gorgeous grotesque little empire heaving and hurling curses

It's age or regret or a little lost girl who weeps and sniffles and just wants to go home

It's at an end or it never began but we all stand and watch the wall come down

Your hand is in mine and the heat beats and washes me clean in its splendor

It has its beginning. 

Wink, Beat, Plead

I'd lick your wounds clean, if only they were skin deep. But, then again, age of consent is still some years off, so just sit there and cry yourself to sleep, the law is very clear about this sort of thing. She gave me half of something she was meant to keep, a bloody dripping precious thing, I can't turn her away, not now that she's exposed her truest self. I clutch the thing in my hands, like a father holding his newborn daughter, I must be tender and strong and warm and rich, there's only one her in this wide world, and I'll do my best to keep her safe.

I am standing on the summit of an icy and lonely peak, and below me I can see an ocean of blue and green eyes all peering up at me with eagerness and admiration, but they can only see the shadow of what I am. Possibilities permeate and writhe in this thing I call a mind, little shocks of gold and curls of black and every so often some hushed words or quite promises. I drank myself to death, and much like the phoenix (though with less dignity) I rose from my pile of bile and stink to live a new life in a new body with new purpose. Our fingertips touched once, and I remember the look in her eye: Surprise.

Punishment: with long teeth and sharp claws is lapping up the blood of my afterbirth, yet as I look I behold nothing, and nothing stares back at me with a smile and a hiss. Grinning I take inventory of my heart, three-quarters empty, and a fourth is bleakness and smoke, or fog, or spittle, there isn't enough light to tell for sure.

I had an idea for a novel, but all the characters had one eye and no teeth. The words stared back with such baleful glances that I was forced to burn the pages in the campfire, now no one will know why I did it. I buried her body under the stones where we used to sit and watch the leaves change color and fall, gliding downward, to be held on the surface of the creek, like some queen's palanquin paraded through the streets of long dead city. In the moonlight I was made a god, a fleshless, bloodless, loveless creation of unrequited love, the son of myself and no other.

I'd show you the world, if only you weren't blind. But then again, you could still hear the music their suffering makes. I always wanted to ask: How does wearing a mask feel? Now, I know you don't wear it often, but whenever you do, it scares me. It looks like your face, but with no life in it, and it reminds of chilly day when I spilled hot chocolate on myself. Your hair too is reminiscent of a pair of glasses I used to love, eerie. Then she gave me half of something, hard and clean and cleverly carved, and I cherish it with my dying breath, a truer, purer friend I've never known. There's a few of them left in this world, little girls with pure hearts and clever hands, young women with sharp minds and kind eyes, youthful boys with passion and a desire to learn, and I'm just an ugly little worm, but I am a lucky bastard to call them friends.

I am sitting on the stump of an old tree by a river, and in my hand is a half eaten apple, in the mud at my feet an ancient sword is piercing mother Gaia's flesh, and next to me on the pale sand is the bleached skull of the woman in the blue dress I saw in a dream. But dreams seems to turn sideways and mutate into nightmares in the blink of an eye. So I pray in a fervor, I force myself, I struggle to wake up. With a snap my eyes open, wide and bloodshot and full of wonder at the new day that awaits me.  

Bible

There's a clear crystal spirit living inside me, and she lets me forget who I am; just for a night. And she helps me become the man the Devil created me to be. They say: “Like father, like son”, but where do the fatherless sons fit in? Divisions and dichotomies, turned inside-out, upside-down, painted black and white, set in stone. No one will look up at the stars, they're too bright for their little eyes.

A man once said we are one, so they killed him. A woman once said there's one true god, so we cower before her. A boy once told me he wanted to grow up like me, so I told him to forget me. A little girl said she was my friend, and I was inspired to be better. She changed her hair color, and he grew taller, changing, evolving, growing, learning, but never ceasing from being themselves. And this is why it is so baffling to me the idea of His/Hers, I never knew which one I hated more. I have no friends that are men, and none that are women. My friends are my soul, and my heartbeat, and they're simply human.

I come to a fork in the road, where Truth is enforced by a sword, and Love comes with a cost. They're wearing weapons close to the skin, never letting themselves out of the their skulls. You can see their glib god peering out of their shattered ribcages and pristine tax-returns. They handed me a bible and told me to follow along, but their goosestepping was too much for me. Everything they said was laden with poison or confusion, or nothing at all. I went home and thought long and hard about all the pretty girls I knew, and nothing came of it. I went back with flowers in my hair, and all I got was a stern talking to about the virtues of masculine bleakness. No more color or floral patterns for me, I learned my lesson well, so I never went back there again, never again to that place they ironically called Holy, or that kitchen with the little closet I used to spend so much time in, I'm never back to Hell, but Hell keeps clawing it's way back to me.

If thoughts of her were wine, if they were whiskey, I'd be drunk. If thoughts of her were pain, if they were ecstasy, I'd be numb. On all fours and braying like a mule, I ask her hand in marriage, or her boot in contempt. She spits in my eye and leaves me to die, and I am nothing but ever grateful to her for freeing me from my fleshy and heteronormal prison. Everything they need is in bold-face, or italics, and it's always underlined and tattooed in the flesh of some twenty-something young thing who regrets her choices and wants a new start. They proclaim love and freedom, and sell bumper-stickers in ten packs. I am trying to make a point, but her face keeps swimming into my vision and clouding my direction, one moment it's moral fire and fury in a flurry of prose and style, the next I am in corner weeping like a child.

My life can measured with fingers, by the pack and fluid ounces. My loneliness is ash, and my angst is alcohol poisoning. I won't wait until the body is cold to hold your hand. Sawdust and echoes, not of sound, no, not of voice, but echoes of feelings, fear, fires, and loss. His face was iron or marble or ivory, but not smooth, no, not jagged either, but heavy and dark. Full of passion but not realization, I stood there drinking it in, trying to understand his meanings and his power, but I was unable to accept his words. So we let it drift with the snow, away in the sky, hopefully he will remember me in Heaven.

OSRO

Oil impede wither

Oil impending regret

Standing ignore jitter

Standing ignition object

Recoil invisible reject

Recoil inverted inject

Outrage illusion intercept

Outrage intuition contracept

Origin elusive ecstatic erudite

Origin entropic little composite

Secretion empathetic ever always

Secretion emulate irrelevant feature

Revolution erratic ever frail structure

Revolution energetic emancipation

Oblivious emigrate from empire

Oblivious emphasize further features

She Cried

Synthetic analysis puncturing solace

Premature reaction to a decision unmade betraying loathing contempt and disgust

Icy gasps Morse code indistinct S.O.S.

Permanent adolescence making for hushed glances and fingers gripped around my heart

I fade away into fiberglass and leather secreted guilt holding steady

I'll never come home again

Above Her Fingertips

It feels like murder, even though she urges and directs the knife. It feels like betrayal, even though she mixes and begs for the poison. She said she wants the dragon to live inside of her pride. She told me: “I want to suck the marrow from your bones, tomorrow from your eyes, the blood from your lips, and the youth from your hair”, but she doesn't know I slew that dragon already. Manifold my delusions, yet each one is clinging to the hem of her skirt, and while she's firm beneath it all, I can see her withering, and the pain and joy sing discordantly until both our ears bleed. She's smooth to my eyes, like a lily, but rough to my touch, like sandpaper or peeling paint.

She's standing, or dancing, either way she's blurry and out of focus. I reach out to her and feel her under my fingers, she doesn't flinch or pull away, she presses closer, bending my fingers back to the knuckles. She smiles, or grunts, either way it's silent and still. I embrace her in my arms, she doesn't struggle or recoil, she presses further, putting her fingers to my lips. The door slams and I am woken up too soon, the dream is dead, but I still feel alive. It's sudden, but not unexpected.

As a slave she has no face, but as a friend she doesn't have a name; so I make a mask for her, and pretend her name is simple and pleasant, and her face is pretty and young. With needle and thread I give her back her honor, with chalk and duct tape I make her famous. Progress is slow, but I am not gonna give up yet, not with her soul hanging in the balance, small as it is, I still think it is bigger than mine. I split myself and in two, and each half grows on its own. I breathe in my thoughts, holding them in my arteries, letting them poison my blood.

Her hemline, a no man's land, is prudent, yet striking. And her eyelashes are a cat-o-nine-tails, just for me, yet as we wallow she slips away like smoke or a snake shedding her skin, moist and transparent. I can't hold her too tight, or she'll suffocate, she can't kiss me too much or I'll start to like it. I drift in and out of Want and Need, the mirror watches me, tears in her eyes. Resilient pupils and stronger irises watching unimpressed as I stagger and wander within my own wet-dreams. She sits in the corner, hands folded, dutiful skin showing, her jaw set and her lips quivering. A necktie made of bowstring, and a brassiere crafted out of barbed-wire, the height of fashion in wartime. Don't kid yourself, friend, the war isn't over. We've all got ditches full of Hers, and the bodies will keep piling up.

Halfway between Over and Before I am caught stabbing something soft and yielding betwixt my thumbs, and you will all swoon at my vocabulary, for so sheepish a wolf you've never seen. An image of the father, yet not divine. An image of grace, not fallen, yet incomplete.

It's a golden day, but not even the sunlight can wash the blood away, it sticks heavy to my shoes and her eyelids, obscuring any chance of beauty. She's coy and submissive, but she still manages to get under my skin and burn through what defenses I have left. Such a pathetic little corpse I am, rotting yet still kicking. She's pale, or I am sick. She's pretty, or I am drunk. She's naked, or I am lonely. But we both know I am gonna regret this in the morning. Slimy skin mingles with smooth flesh, emeralds with tears beading in the corners, her face flush blushing bright, I hold her down until she tells me I am the only one for her. And I sob until my mouth is dry, and she dissolves under the weight of the rain, and I'm left alone again.  

Sacrifice

I gave myself up to a pagan goddess

With flashing teeth and smiling eyes

Our hands gripped together tight

Her breath was pure as a pale sunrise

The blood of lesser men and liars

Still flows in my meager veins

But I won't spit out her coy fire

Trickling inflamed lines hold me

She gave herself up to a lonely boy

With a heavy heart and unsure hands

Our souls meshed together in that night

My breath was pure like white sand

The blood of unkind men and mockers

Still flows in her gentle blue veins

But she wouldn't leave without color

Ecstatic dances freed her soul

Hydraulic Therapy

Pulsing breathing breeding never feeding

Two rise up and three fall down

Steaming waving leaving never weaving

Two rise up and three fall down

Lingering fingering stinging never learning

I hold myself in static wide white and dark

Hiding finding sucking lying never staying

I hold myself in static wide white and dark

Polyamorous dystopia leveling what we saw once before

Syntactical errors manifesting within simple headlines

Geography refusing refuting systematic reclamation

Revising elating fellating never smiling

Only resurrected for propaganda aid

Fethishizing realizing mobilizing never grinning

Only resurrected for masturbatory aid

Signaling figuring triggering never sleeping

She sees me broken in shards in glimpses

Freeing searching creeping never reaching

She sees me broken in shards in glimpses

Monochromatic fixation romanticized as patriotism

Tyrannical supermodels holding congress above us all

Necromancer re-engineered as warrior princess fair

Teething biting licking never tasting

Fallen is Babylon the great, fallen fallen

Speaking reeking leaking never hearing

Fallen is Babylon the great, fallen fallen

Flinching pinching mincing never reacting

Four ponies trip down the hill

Gripping spitting gritting never loosening

Four ponies trip up the hill

Symbiotic union rent asunder thusly forever

Unfathomed heights give way to her dreams

Narcoleptic seamstresses arraying the emperor's finest

It's an Easy Kind of Fire

I am cold, and it's wild. I am so alone, and it's holistic in its embrace. I told her I'd show her my teeth if she showed me her lips. I said, “This is my home, I welcome all brittle bones and stones”, but she wouldn't drink it down. So in fit of childish sophistication I tuck her tightly in her bed and whisper, “Sleep well, my lovely little one. Don't worry, it's an easy kind of fire”.

Memories come like frost; slow, chilling your breath, and destroying fragile things. Her skin is gasoline, and my fingers are matches. They say when ivory meets sapphire then my hunger will be satisfied. They say once I put my seed into her, there's nothing more I can do. She bit off my thumb and ring-finger, and boiled the bones to make a broth, I think we'll put in my mother's iv.

There were two sisters, one was a woman, and one was young, and they loved each other. Their love was strong and wild, like a chemical fire in a meth lab, but their father drove them apart. And after many years they stood over his grave, drinking vodka and sniffing glue. The young one held the woman close, and bit her ear. The woman put her hand up the young one's skirt, and their father rolled over in his grave to get a better view. Now no one ever thought much of their childhood games, but now the sight hits too close to the mark, and now everyone in this small town is terrified of a little love.

I am warm, and it's refreshing. I am awake, and it is bright and irritating. I told him we wouldn't stay long, I told him “I am shedding my skin for you, the least you could do is sing a song”, but he isn't alive anymore, and I cannot bring myself to bury him yet. I clutch his corpse close to my chest and whisper, “Sleep soundly, little prince. Don't worry, it's an easy kind of fire”.

Dreams rise and fall like empires; getting fat and bloated, stretching themselves too far, spreading too thin until they burst. Her teeth are flint and steel, and my tongue is dry bark. No one told me that scars can change the way you see the sunrise. No one told me that when you rip it out, it doesn't grow back. He took my imagination and heart in his fist and shoved them into a blender telling me not to over-think it all, not like the boy-lovers and men without hair. I think we'll give the mixture to our children.

We were two brothers, and we were both boys, remember the summers and autumns we spent being knights and red-blooded patriots in the old yard we called Wonderland? Remember your sisters, and their teacups, and how we made them feel like they would never be harmed? Bandits, and sheriffs, that's what our afternoons were filled with, and sticks and little piles of stones and paper, all for us. No one could touch us or our dreams, no one could understand them like us. But then you grew up, and got too busy polishing your boots to talk with me anymore. You said I shouldn't sleep so much, shouldn't think so much, shouldn't speak and wink so much. I still clung to who you were, I still saw you siting in your sisters' room plucking the strings of your banjo while we talked about the current tax code. I know it's all gone now, never coming back, but take courage brother, me and her will never fall out of love.

Crows

Although one might say that the crows deserve their due
I prefer to sit and talk with you, and to whistle away the hours
I much prefer to look into your eyes, it is such a lovely view

Although one might say that Reaper isn't so bad
I prefer to live my life without his shadow over me
I much prefer to breath in and be thankful for what I had

The Oracle

My face was bleeding

All the demons were sleeping
Those dark secrets that I was seeking

Where never meant for the worms a-creeping

The oracle stood up and flashed me a smile

Her red lips dripping with blood and bile

The oracle opened her mouth and spoke

Her sunken eyes were bloodshot from the smoke

Her words were like knives in my chest

She began to dance and to beat her breast

She screamed a scream of ecstasy

Her body fell limp in front of me

This One Time

I remember this one time

When your moustache blew off in the wind

And I remember this one time

When a penguin stole your unicycle

I remember this one time

When I stabbed you three times in the neck

And I remember this one time

When we were both tripping balls

And we stole a firetruck and crashed into a Hooters

There was a fire-

In my pants!

I remember this one time

When you were pole vaulting

And I kicked you in the nuts

And I remember this one time

When I held your dog under the water till the bubbles stopped

Oh, I remember this one time.......

But we both agreed to never talk about it again

And I remember this one time

When you really liked this girl

So I told her me and you were gay together

I remember this one time

When we both got tattoos of unicorns on our chests

And I remember this one time

When we swore we were the reincarnation of famous poets

I remember this one time

When we drank dirty dishwater

And then we puked our guts out

And I remember this one time

When we would only speak broken Korean

Burn

Build a bridge, burn a bridge

Find the queen, and kill the witch

Build a bridge, burn a bridge

Cheat the poor, and damn the rich

Build up a man, tear down a man

Kill him dead, and watch the light go out

Build up a man, tear down a man

Take his truth, and fill him up with doubt

Build a bridge, burn a bridge

Find the queen, and kill the bitch

Build a bridge, burn a bridge

Cheat the poor, and damn the rich

Quatrain #3

If you are going to cry; please shut the door

If you are going to die; please mop up the floor

If you are going to talk; don't be such a bore

If you are going to walk; don't make it such a chore

The Hunger

The dead body is stricken stiff,

The dark like the womb is warm,

Gaze greedily upon the slender form.

The left hand is shrouded in shadow,

The solitude like despair is crushing,

The bright face is not even blushing.

The man is kneeling before an obscene shrine,

The lifeblood is slipping through his fingers,

The emptiness returns now to linger.

The secret is kept deep inside,

He is preparing his own hell,

Retreating deeper within his used up shell.

The hunger bites back,

The desire cannot be satisfied,

His mind cannot be fortified.  

Wall Builders

Hold the hand of the like minded

Spit in the face of all those blinded

Hold Truth close to your Hearts

Let your mind go as the sound starts

Simplicity and elegance are the bricks in a crumbling wall

Arrogance and innocence are the materials of a larger fall

Gather yourselves together in haven of safety

Lock yourselves up in a warm prison of purity

Look on in silence as the dead begin to live!

Look on in wonder as the dead begin to breathe!

Look on in grief as the dead begin to survive!

The Flood waters rise high and deep

You are all safe, safe inside your keep

The Sun comes out, the waters rush away

The Sun comes out, and the dead live today

Come out of you hallowed and saintly halls

Why must you rebuild your crumbling walls?

Let the dead live in peace, and let the living die

Let the dead learn the Truth, and let the living die

Come out of your strong castles and out of your high towers

Go out into the muddy fields and dead tress they are full of flowers!

Don't go back to your wall-building

Let the Light shine through!

Don't go back to your wall-building

Let the Love come through!

Lazarus Isn't Home Right Now

I revolve, inverted. I evolve, converted. She arches her back beneath me, and cries out for mercy, I curl my fingers into her scalp and dig in, whistling a song my mother taught me. She's so fragile and temperamental, but then again don't dreams always slip between your fingers? She pries open my ribcage and fills me with poison, and lead, and fire. Where once pearls were now rubies glisten. Where once gold flew free now shadows obscure. Where once eyes sat now resoluteness holds steady.

One night to live a daydream, and poof when the morning comes again, everything will be as it always was. Poison is my only hope now, and numbness my truest friend. I find my reflection confusing. I am a spineless vertebrate, supporting organs tied together with blood and bound with skin and shame. My thoughts are all desire and hunger and lust and loathing. She envelopes me in softness and suffocates me in tenderness and yet for all that I know I will leave her broken and disused, disposed, unloved and unwanted. I am nothing, but another scar for her to bear.

I am like a little boy who was bitten by a rabid cur, and now refuses to pet a puppy. She stalks me like a different kind of predator though, not a hound, not a wolf, something slimmer and more precise. Like a snake in the gutter, or a rat in the attic, I jump in fear at the smallest noise and I am never at ease. The smell of them gets in my nose and I can't focus, the sight of them sets me on edge and peace is a pipe dream. So I'll sit with my good friend Jackson the III and pretend I am someone else, someone without my silly problems.

So she lied, what I can do about it? So she took off with the precious little I had left, who's gonna help me get it back? I heard a myth behind the mirror of the day that the Devil and Satan made a deal. The Devil said, “I'll wager I can make men suffocate themselves with their own skin”, to which Satan replied, “Not if I can get them wondering where their hands have been”. And so this is how I know I am not a God, and this is why she stuck me full of pins like a voodoo doll. Just sit back and relax, they tell me, that cold sting against my throat? Oh that? Hm...definitely not a knife, they grin. All those little spot and drips on the wood and wool? Just my loneliness seeping into my home. All that smoke and scribblings? Just my voice and muzzle getting out of hand.

There's this symbol, that once stood for something, something real and heavy, but now these street-walkers wear it like a badge of honor. If you try to speak to them in way the symbol maker spoke, their ears bleed. And yet people wonder why I am so angry with pink skinny jeans and slim black tank tops, and these ridiculous earrings. So I wore it like a bull's eye, and now everyone thinks I am one of those slender mouth-breathers, all aghast and slack-jawed rubber-necking revelry, isn't Europe across the river? Oh wait, that's Illinois, how silly of me. Pistols and training bras, oh yeah, it's Saturday night again, someone hold me down. I am dragging myself kicking and screaming back into the closet, I can't make up my mind if I like it on the outside after all. I swear on Odin's one good eye, the next girl to ask me who the good looking guy with the guitar was is gonna taste cold steel in her womb via my eyes.

I take a handful of nails, to be specific four and five, and I take this hammer, to be pedantic a thumb, and pound them into her chest, his eyes, their toes, our ears, and my erogenous zones. Can you hear the music now, Frances?! You might ask yourself: “Gee, Louie, this is all well and mighty interesting, but what does all this have to do with the girl with your fingernails in her scalp? Not that this little tangent ain't powerful intriguing”, I would tell you to fucking listen for once. Can't you see the connection? There is none, and that's the connection. Sound familiar? Didn't think so. Okay, here, one and one make three. Make sense yet?

The sparks fall on my naked shoulders but I am not burned. Prognosis? If you said I was dreaming, you're in the wrong house, buddy. If you said all of the above, you're on the right path. So two rats are in a boat, and one turns to the other and says “I never got the chance to kiss my mother goodbye” and the other keeps humping the corpse of his sister, because he's a goddamn vermin incapable of abstract thought, with only needs and the means to meet those needs on his mind. So which rat am I? One and one make three, friend. Incidentally, the rats are white. Maybe that will put it into perspective.  

Little Prophet

Little prophet, tender little drummer boy, I know was I not a good father to you, and a worse brother, but I'll try my best to be noble friend. And though you have left the jungle and all its rhythm and passion for the melodies of your mother's wishes, I still hope we may one day make music together. Someday when you're older and I am wiser, we will sit and talk, and laugh and remember. But don't blame yourself, never blame yourself little prophet.

And when you escape that dungeon, on that day I will be here for you, with a smile, a cigar, and a cup of Joe. And when you get away from that prison, on that day I'll be here waiting for you, with tears in my eyes, and a freshly tuned piano just for you. Don't let those apes, and lizards, and fiends command your heartbeats and dictate your leisure. Don't let their failures and their anger under your skin, my son, my brother, my friend, my dear sweet friend, if you could see me on my knees sobbing brutality for this nightmare brought upon you by the misdirections of my own flesh and blood, my own eyes see what your world has become: cowering from a coward, and bruises in penance of childhood.

You tell me you wish to join the crusades, to bolster the lists of faceless names chiseled into rock and marble. You tell me you want to fly like the spirit of vengeance, to uphold the patriarchy, to wave a flag and lay waste to the sand and stones of some land you've never even heard of before. I know what they'll say about me, I know, I know. Listen to what they tell you, but take it all with a handful of salt.

Remember when we spent our time in far off lands we constructed? Come back with me, leave those jagged shapes and meaningless words, and come with me. I know it all seems so solid right now, I know you can't understand what I am trying desperately to explain. But in time, my friend, in time.

I wipe away my tears, they'll only confuse you right now. But let me say one last thing to you, little prophet: The world doesn't need another angry boy with a gun.

The Moonsprout Song

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

My very pretty friend

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

I'm with you to the bitter end

Sunflower, Sunflower

Known you my whole life

Sunflower, Sunflower

You dainty little light

Now, Moonsprout lemme tell ya true

I ain't never met a girl quite so special as you

Now this don't mean I want you lying beside me a-warmin' my bed

It just means I'll beat down any fella what harms a hair on your head

Now, Sunflower lemme tell ya true

I pity the fool what picks a fight with you

And if that jerk won't leave you be

Well sister if he's got a beef with you he's got a beef with me

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

My very pretty friend

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

I'm with you to the bitter end

Sunflower, Sunflower

Known you my whole life

Sunflower, Sunflower

You dainty little light

Now, Moonsprout lemme tell ya true

You got bright eyes so blue

Now this don't mean I wanna make ya my little goddess

I could go on but honey I digress

Now, Sunflower lemme tell ya true

You ought to be proud you're one of the few

Now this don't mean I wanna hold your hand

It just means you got a special place in my heart please understand

Now, Moonsprout lemme tell ya true

I've got a lot of memories good times with you

Now, Sunflower lemme tell ya true

I hope I am always friends with you

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

My very pretty friend

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

I'm with you to the bitter end

Sunflower, Sunflower

Known you my whole life

Sunflower, Sunflower

You dainty little light

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

My very pretty friend

Moonsprout, Moonsprout

I'm with you to the bitter end

Sunflower, Sunflower

Known you my whole life

Sunflower, Sunflower

You dainty little light

Raven Song

She traced in crimson my body's form

And in her embrace my virility was reborn

She placed my finger between her lips

And bled sanity from my fingertips

And we took in the milky moonlight

As we danced to the raven's song

And we saw the stars aligning in the sky

As we spun to the raven's song

Three Haikus

I will tear your flesh

Into syllables and verse

And you will love me

I will burn your soul

Into syllables and verse

And you will love me

There is no God in

Heaven, because I am not

rotting in the ground

Quatrain #2

Immobile and immortal, beauty begins her dance

Immortal and immaculate, love begins his war

Immaculate and insoluble, desire takes her chance

Insoluble and insufferable, hope opens his door

Quatrain #1

Sometimes there are no words

And the miles can seem like years

Sometimes nothing can be done

And your face is left stained with tears

Beheaded Bride

She's got no name

Because she's got no brain

She's got no name

And God's to blame

She's a wonder to behold

So tall so slender

Skin so pale and a heart so bold

I am indebted to my beheaded bride

She's so damn warm on the inside

She's got no name

Because she's got no shame

She's got no name

And God's to blame

She's a miracle of science

So young so pretty

She's so damn out of balance

I

am enchanted by my beheaded bride

She's so damn warm on the inside

She's got no name

Because she holds the flame

She's got no name

And God's to blame

She's a such pleasure to look at

So frail so fragile

She's never at home in her habitat

I am dedicated to my beheaded bride

She's damn warm on the inside

The Mariachi Band Drugged Me and Stole My Clothes

Smile, stutter, and don't forget to leave a good tip, those are the rules. But I've never been a team player. I like to pretend she dances just for me, but I know she only dances because her father never loved her. I like to imagine her skin was created just for me, but I know she only gives it to me because she doesn't know what it's worth. So I feel like I need to give her a gift. And this gift of mine is an offspring of my imagination, a child of my little black crayon. I give her a little man to keep her safe, and I give this little man long arms and long fingers to keep her warm, and he has a simple face to show her kindness.

Ancient words grant me solace, and the bleak cement is my only friend. Midnight has come and gone and I still dance around the fire, though the embers dwindle and the smoke is thin. She shows me her inner clockwork and her steam, but I wish she'd give me access to her dreams, dark as they are. She offers herself up, like a sacrifice, telling me the numbing of my pain is all that matters, I will not let her erase herself in the name of kindness.

And the priestess tells me there is the ghost of a little girl in my kitchen, and face with no features on my ceiling, but he's just alright. And she tells me that there is also a demon in the corner and he watches me sleep, so I give him a good show, wink. So I sit and watch my old life burn away, acrylic ash, and colorful fires dancing away as I suffer from delusions of existence. I do a cartwheel and lie in the grass laughing until I piss myself. Then I sit up and vomit all over her feet, and the priestess tells me not to be ashamed for what is in me. She tells me I am walking a fine between brilliant achievement and wretched chaotic lunacy. She tells me that there is nothing loose in my wiring, and that all these others simply spew lies and half-truths.

And this little one I know, she went from gold to scarlet and back and forth without ever losing her way. She commends my voice and raises my spirits. And we made a holiday of fantasy, and a game of idleness. And this slender one I know, she went around in circles and to and fro without ever getting dizzy. She fills my belly and tried to help to let go of the burden of stagnation. And their mother is always a friend with a word and ready to listen, never flinching. This little one I know made a covering for my song and a pattern for my voice, and the slender one dances to my songs and their mother offered me a home and a second life.

There's one that speaks to me through pixels and colors, not with sound or voice. But she's so much like me, I have a hard time seeing where I end and she begins. I told her I am not a good man, but she still comes closer. I told her I'll try to keep safe, even from myself, and still comes closer. So I light a cigarette and breathe out in to the ether, hoping one of the hundredfold gods might give me a sign. She frightens easily and she won't back off from my eyes and my teeth. I melt her down and put in her a syringe, inject her into my veins, infecting her with my blood. Her screams are muffled by the pounding tempo of my heartbeats, I use her up, and spit the residue on a church steeple, one more broken girl in a pile of bodies. She's so young, was so young, this realization hits me like bricks, and I am getting dizzy. So young and so dry, this isn't what she was supposed to be. So I make her a solemn oath, a pledge of allegiance to her breast and her soul, she can sleep in my shadow and take comfort in my mind, but only if she promises not to kiss me again.

Refracted light blinds me against the pale sky and dancing stars. Compared to a dream, nothing feels as real as it should anymore. My shadows are skewed and misshapen, constructing a form that is both strong and appealing. Severed from solidarity, and turned inside-out, my mind becomes scaly and cold blooded, and so I remain ever as I was and as I've never been. Right hand stained crimson, and the left hand blue and icy, and neither one are instruments of creation anymore. Destruction and reduction are my favorite pastimes it seems, but I am trying to claw my way out of Purgatory and into the Autumn sunlight.

I stand naked for the world to see, but no one is looking, they've all got their noses in the pockets. So I scurry and scramble trying to reach Nibiru before the sun sets. They throw acoustic guitars and harmonicas my may, and when that doesn't work, they start hurling hymnals as I pass. I don't slow or turn my head, I just hold my head high and speak their language by blowing raspberries at them as they toil in shadow and neon lights. They grasp at my ankles and pull my hair, but I will not be denied my apotheosis. Finally after one hour and thirty-five minutes I ascend into heaven, passing Elysium, and Valhalla, as I glide ever upwards into Paradise.  

Silhouettes and Wet-Dreams

I peel back the skin, and grimace. I used to think I was beautiful, but this molting has gone on for too long. I fill plastic bag after plastic bag with the remnants of the man I was. Photos carefully organized, text messages quickly erased, and blushes awaiting command. I comb my hair back at spit at my reflection. My heart pretends to beat, and I pretend to breathe, and she pretends to smile, and he pretends to love me. I am caught half way between dream and stone, clumsily clawing my way up, ever upwards. I sit on the curb and make a show of being a man, I crouch in the bushes and piss like a dog marking his territory.

Pictures meticulously taped to a brick wall, so sturdy, and yet so fragile. I wasted so many weeks, so many days dreaming of a face I'd never see. One bit of paper smells like pleasure, and another is bland premature blackmail. I use to think she was safety, I use to think she was pristine, pure, and full of pleasant words meant only for me. I went to bed with flint and steel between my legs, and no one can put out the fire. The little one, that little girl that calls me brother, she said she wanted to meet my porcupine and my lizard brain, and they both arose with passion and dirty thoughts in their little minds. I slammed the door in their faces, and tried to talk her down from the ledge, but I worry she can't speak my language. She holds so tight to the idea that she pretends is me, a stern, handsome knight in shinning armor. I refuse to hurt her, even though she begs for me to push her down the stairs. Can someone so empty as I feel really say they have friends in high places?

I am caught between an illusion and a nightmare. Gold fills my nose and mouth, and my knees are so weak. I can't get up out of this chair, I can't rush to her side, but I am cursed to hear her screams as cuts her own flesh and muscles from her pretty little bones. I can hear the blood dripping on the floor, and I can hear her breathe growing shallow and slow, tears fill my eyes, I can't save her this time. I wrestle with a dragon and he spits venom in my face, it stings but feels good. She's clouded from my view now, wreathed in fog, but no, she is smoke now, ethereal, elusive, ephemeral, and she's always with me, making me cough and sputter in awe and reverence, she was so beautiful. Such lovely curves, such lovely....teeth. I am holding fast to the idea that I never had skin or bones or muscle or hair or eyes or anything else that might be aroused when it touches her. It curls around my waist and winks at me, this dragon is such a tease.

Ha. Ha. Ha. He. He. Hoo. Ha. I paint my face, pretending I am just fine. I am getting drunk alone, pretending I am not a drunk. I remember this one time when she danced with me; awkwardly. Almost immobile, stiff like a corpse, but still not cold, that would come later. I touched her shoulder, and she swore she'd get even, so I dropped my pants and winked at her, and she stared in horror at the dragon still curled around my waist, damn thing won't leave me be. I take the scalpel and hammer in hand and play surgeon, I try as I might but the dragon bores deeper into me, and he starts to change form, and little fireworks go off behind my eyes. She meets my gaze then, and realizes she left the stove on, and rushes off lest she become an accidental arsonist. So I am left there with my pants around my ankles and a dragon doing slaughter inside me. I wear the noose she made for me around my neck with pride. Is it mauve?, I ask, smiling. She rolls her eyes and grips my manhood between her forefinger and thumb like a vice and spits in my eyes. I reel back, and being to sob. She uncorks the bottle and drinks it whole and smashes it over her children's heads, and laughs.

The little one, that little girl that calls me brother, she rises from the grave at last and I embrace her in a fervor of relief and desire. Her hand slips down my pants and slap her across the mouth, immediately regretting my decision to let her love me. She doesn't cry or run away, she kisses me then, and I taste ash and remorse. She tries in vain to remove my shirt, only to find I am not breathing anymore. She leaves me then, and I open one eye to watch her go. I love her, and she knows it. But I don't want her to get my smell on her, she's worth more than a pound of flesh, more than the world says she's worth, worth more than I am. Carry on, little sister, carry on and never look back.

Silhouettes and wet-dreams are all I have to keep me company now that the little one, that little girl that calls me brother, has left me in the dirt. Well, those two nightmares, and my dragon. I catch a glimpse of something outrageous out of the corner of my eye, and I run in a panicked frenzy. These aren't the droids I am looking for, but I dig up old flavors now. Let me get back to the point. Remember when I was your beau, and you were my Muse, and the sun rose and set on our little empire? Such was our golden age: tears, laughs, spilled hot chocolate, and that damn dog sniffling and slobbering about my feet. We walked up and down the high streets and the low creek beds, hoping no one thought we were being too forward. Remember when my hand first touched yours? Only took my fathers worst nightmare made real to drive your flesh into mine. Funny things scruples, they're like a sack of rocks tied to your eyelids, never letting you admire what you find most appealing. But I digress.

An eye-blink and you changed your mind, once you were content to not let me touch you, and the next, actually, you never let me touch you or your soul. But such chaos we wrought, pinning little idols to the walls of your brothers hovel, never letting him forget that we remembered where he hung his coat. Remember your fathers jokes, remember his eyes? Ah, well, I shouldn't bring up old scars, better to let it all lie, like narcoleptic hounds...with fleas.

They say to me, wasn't she more fun? They say to me, wasn't she far sweeter? They say to me, didn't she feel more natural? There's nothing natural about what she did, nothing normal about the life she led. But I can still hear her voice sometimes, when the wind blows in the empty streets at 3am, it makes syllables and phonemes a lot like the noise she used to make. Hollow and cold. Like rocks hitting tin, I still try to dance to the beat they make.

Oh, well, here goes nothing, I ask her to dance, and she smiles and offers her hand. Not the first time, not my first time in this river, but I am still afraid of being carried away in the current. She laughs when I step on her toes, she doesn't strike me, or take me by my balls to teach me a lesson. So I try harder to impress her with my grace. Like an elephant in a ball gown, I am bursting at the seams, she doesn't seem to mind. There's this myth about a sort of Bermuda's Triangle in a woman's eyes, a place where horny men go to die. Well I say, let them rot. If they're unable to truly accept a girl's grace and civility, they don't really deserve it in the first place. So me and her make plans for things others can't understand, I lose sleep in her words and in her father's eyes. And those that are unable to appreciate beauty warn me to be careful. Such pity fires up in me for them, maybe they've never had a real friend. But me and her continue our quest for a world without boundaries, scribbling maps with black crayons and speaking languages that we make up as we go, those fools out there, they can't stop my sunrise. And her brother graces me with his candor, and then is gone again. And her sister settles in for the long haul, all fire and innocence, crafting idols for me from clay and sweat and sugar and dreams.

I figuratively use the word literally: because I literally had a demon in me. But it was passively leached from my veins, with no struggle or fight, and it can never come back. I squirm on the carpet like a man with chlorine in his blood, and she looms over me, head cocked to one side like the bitch she is, only watching my agony, offering no comfort. My mouth runs dry and my skin is wet with sweat, and still she just observes, imbibing my pain like whiskey and my screams like vodka. She smiles a half smiles and poof! She's gone for good now, I hope. But the other two, no three, no four, no five, not six, no seven, no eight. The eight of them all are there now, helping me up and asking if I need a glass of water. They're sturdy, solid, little glimmers of God. I have two eyes but only one heart. And home is the shed it inhabits.  

Ovaries and Soap

Clear skies, they boast. Bright sunrise, they proclaim. Yet, connection, depth, intimacy, and all those old black and white photographs, they shun. They say, they spew, through spittle and spineless sophistry, settle, settle down, take a deep breath, take a long walk, settle, settle down. But I am split right down the middle, and they don't know what to make of it.

She gets so excited, and starts to dance with herself. And she can't get the smell of herself off her own skin. And I don't have the heart to tell her that her hands are bloody. She looks at me with those damned little sapphires, and there's such eagerness and youthful bliss in them. The neck is my favorite, no teeth, no eyes, no moisture, and no depth. But it's always so eager, and so electric. She isn't gonna like what she tastes when I finally give her my heart. She touches me where no one is meant to touch. I am worried about her and her strange gait doesn't lessen my pain. I am too far gone in my own shell to be anything resembling a stoat-the-baw, but yet again I loose sight of my own tongue.

They place chains about my arms, and plastic to cloud my eyes, still muttering about the miracle of the gold loop and the transient power of that THC rich construct they call: Picket Fence. I finger the fingers of the woman I love, and the man in the moon spits in my eye. Then I roll out of bed, and I can't help but claw at my skin. I look at my nest and feel a little light go out as I see the empty untouched place were she once dwelt, though then again, she never even knew my name. I slip on the curdled blood congealing on the floor, and I spit and swear at the floorboards, it's never to early to regret a bad decision. I rummage and search and track down some soap with all the enthusiasm of a man given the right to choose the means of his execution. I kneel, I kneel, I kneel. I can't remember what I was planning to do, then the metallic odor is thick again, and I vomit, there it is. Memory comes sliding out of my maw and onto my hands, the poor little bastards. Oil and ridiculous shades of pink fill my eyes and I start to scrub.

Her laugh is thick in my ears, and my thickness writhes, and withers away. I went to the flea market, once, and I still itch. They all tried to sell me their daughters, those poor little birds, oh how they sobbed. But they wouldn't even let me touch their sons, and so I stopped to think about what my lizard brain really wanted. They show me rows and lines and mountains of fair skinned nude little bodies, that they think will prick my interest, but my prick isn't interested. What's so great about a body that can't dance? Who wants a brick wall for eyes? Sure, sure, I'll admit, gold hair is nice, and blue eyes still haunt me to this day, but I've see those things used as weapons one too many times, and I'd rather grasp a dark haired soul if it meant I could really talk to her again. And ironically enough the market-men think I am the one without a fire and a taste for flesh. They're thoroughly convinced I don't swing that way anymore, silly little men. Don't they know I am more than bone and skin? Eh, it's no matter, I won't frequent their stalls, I won't have to face their hollow grins in this life again.

Let's connect the dots. When I was young She was always at my side, hair like sunflowers. Then when that red nightmare came upon her, and her heart began to beat in five/five time, she left me. So I staggered to another golden haired friendship, and this one remains with me still, though held back in a half-meant-to-be embrace. But then another one came strolling up from the riverside and from the rocky flats of nowheresville, she had grey eyes that never really saw me for what I was. So, she too, was taken away by the fury of her own beating heart. I am left with these burns and scrapes on my scalp and chest. And they wonder why I reserve my wrath for that which I find beautiful, silly little people. But then came those others, some of which I cannot name here, since it would endanger their erratic endeavors. So, I remain with those that do not say they love me, because actions speak louder than words. And I'll remove myself from those that say they love me just so they can lobotomize me into submission.

They jeer, joke, and jibe at me, because I refuse to let the beast run the show. They make claims, and draw up conversations like making a pair of shoes, and laugh at me for wanting to see their faces. So I am a small, little, weak thing in place of a man. Why? Oh I've asked them so many times and the answer is never forthcoming. They mock, molest, and mutilate my reactions, telling me only an animal relies on instinct. They can't see the irony in their regurgitated words. And they call me heretic. Because I am willing to listen to my own thoughts, and follow my own road, they label me radical, they libel me slanderer. I almost go blind from the irony. Because I am willing to take a chance for love's sake, and unwilling to reject that which I find beautiful, they make me out to be an insane little boy wearing his mother's clothes. So be it, I am not going to resist their illogical arguments, I'll just pretend I am deaf, that'll shut them up, I hope. Because as I knelt there on my knees scrubbing the blood away I found something, something buried in the crimson coagulated filth, something they'll never understand, I found in that puddle of shame and regret, in that pool of her face and her tears, I found myself. And I decided to let him call the shots from now on.

Black Crayons

I want to scrawl, to crawl in the dark. But they say one for all, and none for me. So I take a step back and try to breathe. There's nothing erotic about this auto asphyxiation. I crane my neck trying to get a better look in the mirror. But all I can see in my eyes are headlines. She embraces my thighs, because she isn't tall enough to reach my heart. She kisses my loins, because we can't see eye to eye. And she bleeds, not from her veins, but from her eye. And I lean down to wipe away her tears, and my hand comes back smelling like the grave. She wants to go home, but we burnt it down. She wants me to say I love her, but she bit off my tongue.

My teeth, my lips, and my eyes are all set immovable in my head, a face that won't react to the cold or to the wind. Lightning flashes out in the West, and I wish it would strike me. The storm came and went, and I wish I could follow it. She feeds the clouds, and engorges the fog. Bitter, bitter is the taste of her on my lips, though she has never pressed her flesh to my teeth. Salty is the taste of my shame in my mouth, so I grumble and complain, staring at the blank walls. I reach my hand deep into myself and clutch my totem, that fragment of reality to tether me to the unhappy world. I withdraw and recoil into it. Betrayal, that abysmal reversal. I remove my hand and open my palm, this little black crayon will guide me back to clarity. So I scribble, and revise, and conjure mighty sonnets to the One who has no Name. I am a nothing man, and I know that I am meant for something more.

I stare up, wishing the rain was acid to burn my skin away, letting my soul ooze, and drip, and slither free into the ether. But it sits, and abides, and remains in the withering hulk that those strange women call a body. I tried breaking my bones, but they wouldn't budge. So I sat on the pavement hoping no one knew what I was. I am reminded of a haze of glory, a simple little light I once huddled around, a lover in my arms. I struggle to recall what she called it; God? Remorse? Rejuvenation? Or did she say it was us? So long ago she spoke to me, I am afraid I have lost the memories, like a raindrop in the stormy sea.

I checked the mailbox, only to find full of emptiness. I return, slumped, and down-cast, and ready to rot. But, damn, she's there waiting for me, with a smile on her lips, and a fire in her fist. She wants to dance, but I tell her I broke my legs, she sees through it, but won't press the matter. So we sit and speak, and reminisce, and refuse to cry. She puts her arm around me, and sighs with comfort, I stiffen, refusing to believe what I am feeling. She looks up at me, and her face changes. I stagger back, and I put my hands up. I am done with these lies, these nightmares, these Are-Nots. I made so many mistakes, but I am trying to learn from them, she won't have my saliva, or my hair, or my warmth ever again.

I take a journey, across empty streets and decaying bricks. I take a trip over and under what men say is real, and I can't see the reason why so many flee from it all. I like it here, and I think he likes me. So why should I pretend I am something other than what they made me into. Smiles are like little crickets, making noise, but doing no harm. So I take it all with a grain of a salt. She wouldn't want me to dwell on the negative, she doesn't like it when I refuse to watch the sunrise. I really try, I really do, but she wants something I can't give her yet. Her eyes are all pale glass and little dreams. And I wish she would just kiss me once and for all, at least then I could pretend to sleep. But here I am still wondering why she looks at me the way she does, doesn't she know I am a madman? Oh well, what she doesn't know is bound to kill her.

Surprise, I was the hangman all along, and no one saw that coming. So they pay their taxes, and read their bibles, and point at laugh at me and my dreams. So daring, so ecstatic, so lost, or so they tell me. But, I can't abide their empty words anymore. If I wanted to freeze to death, I'd masturbate in space. They can't catch what they don't believe in. So me and my eyeless bride will laugh and dance, and flip the bird until our fingers wither into dust. And no one knows the Winter like I do. So spin and twirl and pretend you know what you're doing, and you'll fit right in.

And again she tries to embrace me in her static grip, and again I spit out what she tried to feed me. This other one reminds of me of Spring and Wonder. This other one knows what's best for a man like me. Broken playthings are dangerous to scorn, you never know how far they'll go to feel whole again.

What's this? Oh, it's my reflection, funny I looked like a princess. But that is a radical notion, men aren't supposed to want to be whole and free. So I make a public apology to the world, but he's not paying attention, the war demands all his fury. So, while I am hiding in the shadows I grip my totem yet again, and close my eyes visualizing a world with only me and her in it. And it's a freaky, off-kilter place. But I know she'll appreciate the time and anger that went into the crafting of it. I know she'll respect my dreams. I stand up and arrive in my new kingdom. She didn't want to join me, so I let her stay wherever she was in first place. After I am gone she starts to drool a little and loose sight of her own name. So she opens up her heart and grips something that lays within her rosy imaginings. She sighs, knowing it's time for a new beginning. She reluctantly strips down to the bone and stands for all to see. She doesn't care anymore, she knows what she has to do, so she reaches in with her left hand and pulls out her own little black crayon.

She makes worlds, and dictates eons, so fragile and so enduring. Jealousy weals up in me, and I spit it out. Then I see her for what she is, another sailor on the sea of dreams and insufferable questions. We'll meet again, on some forgotten shore, on some half-remembered island, where no one can tell us not to spell words the way we think best. Her and me we're blood brothers, blood sisters in a war without sides. So we can make love, and giggle at sophomoric jokes, and no one can tell us we did it wrong. Fragility is really the best path to lasting strength, didn't the carpenter say as much? He was on to something, but I think we really need to run with his ideas, and not be afraid where the truth takes us.

A rainbow spanned in a box of crayons is nice, a whole plethora of possibilities to explore. But both me and her know which one is best. So take this as a formal invitation to join us on our quest for humor and truth. Sure a full box of crayons is lovely, but we know you'll make the right choice and just chose one to take into the far off unknown. Cheers, mate, see you on the other side.

Beware of the Dog

Whisper, whisper, and hiss, hiss. Blood and blood, and thick piss. I wear black to feel strong again. I strut and stroll, creep and crawl in the dark. Breathing like a dragon, and seething like a lion. Pretending I am ghost, or fouler yet, a man. And this little star hovering above my nose, she doesn't play well with others. And this sinister thing clawing at my waist, he doesn't know what to do. So I gallivant, like a drunken knight who can't remember where he tied up his horse. Getting farther and farther away from myself and the smiles of those I love. I pass empty tombs and houses full of rotting corpses. No one waves goodbye, and no one nods as I pass. But they sneer, oh they grimace, and they grumble, and they spit, and they cuss. Then again, perhaps it is just my own thoughts echoing off the tin and brick, and skin, and hair. But wait, haven't I walked this road before? No, she walked it with me. No, no, she didn't. She's dead, I killed her, and she'll remain in my skull, bouncing about like a child throwing a tantrum. Scrapping and biting at my raw nerves, and ripping and gouging at my teeth.

I tighten my grip on the idea of her, and grit my teeth against the heat of her breath. Heavy hands and a loose tongue, that's all I have to offer, and she closed the door in my face. So I vomited teeth and flowers, and still she threw rocks and screamed at me. So I turned my collar up against the wind, and went back to dancing with that insane little super nova. We waltzed, I think. We danced, I remember. We kissed, I pretend. We fell in love, so I tell myself. But the gruesome truth is I slipped and fell from heaven leaving her alone with a little man who laughs at nothing.

So she blames me for what her life has become. And I keep trying to tell her that she's dead, but the bitch won't listen to reason. So I tried to speak nonsense, I tried to spew chaos, and she wouldn't have any of it. She asks so much of me, and I have so precious little to give. My manhood has become the widow's mite, and my eyes are Judas' thirty silver pieces. I gave myself a little kiss, and betrayed my own blood. But she's still the one who cried “Eli, eli, lama sabachthani?!”. I am going to make some promises, because I need something to break, and my mind cannot take much more abuse. So here a little and there a little, I am going to lance and drain what is left of my heart, damn, it's gotten so cold in her mouth, but damn, she looks so good with red on her lips. At my zenith, I can see everything, but at my zenith, I can understand nothing. If Lucifer fell from heaven and from grace, where will I fall to?

Earth and dust? Dust and dirt? Darkness and half-remembered dreams are where I will abide forever and a day.

She tried to bite me, so I sewed her mouth shut. She liked to glare at me, so I plucked out her eyes. She isn't what she used to be. So I am asking myself, what do I want to grow old with? A pile of flesh and hair with little beetles for eyes poking out. Or something more real? You can only say I Do to yourself. And until death, nothing can part you from your name. We aren't meant to drool and leer at skin and bone only. We are meant for more, I think. We grow old with a name, a laugh, a smile, a color, and a sense of something deeper than our own shells to keep us company as we drift in and out of the technicolored dreams we conceive.

Dance, dance, they scream. Run, boy, run, they imitate the snarls of apes and the hisses of snakes so eerily reminiscent of my old voice. To quote a porter of some repute, "I love the friends I have gathered together on this thin raft."  But do they love me, I wonder. I make myself a fool too often, I think. But I try to muscle up and hold my chin high, isn't that what man a does?

But I find myself stumbling around again, to and fro, like a ship on stormy seas, I cannot make it home tonight. So swivel, swivel, and swerve, and bob and weave, and trip, then I lie there, looking up into the sky and I start to laugh. My vision of the cosmic dance is clouded then, it's her face and hair now filing my eyes. She smiles and offers a hand to pull me out of this stupor, I hesitate, I have grown accustomed to the daze. But the concern in her eyes is too real, so I reach up and take hold of her ivory flesh and my heart starts as she lifts me up and out of my nightmare. She stands there, all wintery light and lovely shapes, looking me up and down. I know my pants are torn, and my shirt is stained, and my shoes are nowhere to be found. But then, to my utter shock, she giggles. In a sudden burst of something I've forgotten there's a finger at my nose, a brief tap, a quick jab. And I am awake, awestruck. Doesn't she know men can't feel anything, doesn't she know men are at the edge of beast and sanity, doesn't she realize I am just a man? But this simple little gesture reminds of me something, something I can't quite place. Then she turns and leaves, and I remember it know. I race after her, and take hold of her shoulders and shadow. This is what friends are for, I recall now. She brings back to my mind the ancient wisdom written in blood and bile on brick and cement: BEWARE OF THE DOG.