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.

A Lesson

You see that girl over there? No, not that one. THAT one. The one with the low cut shirt, the tight pants, and free smile. Admiring the curve of her ass, the bouncing life of her breasts? Oh, I am sorry, are you made uncomfortable by such language? Alright, let's back up. You could say something nice about her hair, or her lovely complexion. Use all the compliments in your awkward “gentleman's” repertoire.

Let's do a quick recap here, what are complimenting her on again? Her breasts? No, her lovely hair, right? Her ass? No, no, I am mistaken, you are simply entranced by her lovely skin. I am picking up a pattern. Have you even looked this girl in the eyes? All these nice things you want to say her, and the obscene ones, we both know you're better than, all have one thing in common. Can you guess what it is?

Flesh. Skin. Body. Not one mention of her soul, her heart. Because all those things you want to say, all those things you're thinking just translate to: What's this sticky stuff on my hand?

Try this: Pretend she's a person (I know this is a revolution of thought, but just bear with me), pretend she's a person, with her own dreams, fears, aspirations, hopes, likes, dislikes, quirks, damage, beauty, potential, and flaws. Now let's pretend you are also a person, with your own dreams, fears, aspirations, hopes, likes, dislikes, quirks, damage, beauty, potential, and flaws, now ask yourself, what would you want to hear, what would make you feel loved? Someone complimenting your ass? Commenting on the tightness of your abs? Or, maybe, just maybe, what would really make your day is someone saying what a nice smile you have, how well spoken you are, how interesting that project you're working on is.

She's Vibrant

I let her into my mind

Like smoke in my lungs

And I let her play with what she thinks I am

I let him into my skin

Like a needle in my veins

And I let him tell me what he thinks he knows

And he's violent

And she's vibrant

And I'm just absent

I let them into my mouth

Like whiskey down my throat

And I let them give me what they think I need

I let her into my heart

Like a melody in a song

And I let her take away what she thinks she needs

And they're reluctant

And she's vibrant

And I'm just fervent

Fingers

I've got my own cross to bear,

Slowly fading into absurdity

We'll stand on the edge of madness

And laugh until we cry

There is no poison here,

And our cornerstones agree

I make little cuts on my thigh

And pretend my blood is the sun

I stare dumbly into your eye

Dirty flesh duality made into one

I approach the mountain and kneel and raise my bracelet

Proclaiming in a voice clear and sharp and loud:
“This silver fingered goddess of mine pulls my blood like a magnet!”

I've got my own dreams to fear

Quickly withering into insanity

We'll dance on the bones of an empire

And cry until we cannot breathe

There is no poison here

And our cornerstones agree

You made little noises in my eyes

And you pretend I am close by

Your apotheosis will not christianize

Crystal skin glitters up in the sky

I arrive at my home downtrodden and hungry

Requesting news in voice low and sullen and lost:
“This silver fingered goddess of mine will start such a fire in me!”