portrait of a barroom professional
i can see your pink yellow eyes staring back from the corner of the bar
i know we're not naming names, but you know who you are
i think a couple times you let me ride in your car
let me in to your house so we could discuss the art
on your walls
too much time on your hands
the ones that passed me a beer and emphatically spoke of your taste in local bands
telling me about the piece you held and how it worked even in the sandy
rivers of colorado
and for a few minutes i thought you an exemplary model citizen to follow
as you peddle the poison watch barfly centerfolds swallow
drink after drink after drink
and you don't cause the job doesn't allow booze to impair the way that you think
those eyes just slink around
i'm trying not wonder if she made any sounds
was she screaming? or asleep? every thrust that you pounded
in that same house where our friendship was founded

pulling the petals off of the rose
praying to god that her memories froze
under the alcoholic vulnerability half slurred comatose

you would boast about it to your friends the next day.

and when the throaty last call sounded
the seed was planted and your plan was grounded
could she walk or did you carry her away?
nestled into your arms unaware of her status as prey

the predator you

talked to me about the lyrical merits of easy e
seemed a little surprised when you found he died from HIV
a suffering end to a life of 'i love pussy And pussy loves me'
some people cried when that masochistic fuck died

the consequences of a life of ecstasy
mmhmm i hope it went quick when you got those rocks off
thinking of the bullets in your head i'd like to pop off
but, violence perpetuates the situation
and i know they wouldn't give me five minutes at the police station

but i am watching you now

and in the back of my head i'm thinking bout how

you had the nerve to call her a bitch to my face
just days after the incident must've took place

but i won't erase you as another face in my book
of barroom bastards and professional crooks
and if you ever have the fucking nerve to take just one look

at my date raped friend again

i'll chop your dick off and find one of your orifices to fit it in
or i'll fuck the bloody remains of your nutsack's now sliced skin
penetrating and giving back every last bit of sin
you did to her
because i told you how this date rapist story begins
but

victimize one more of my friends

and we'll see how it ends

subways
i know you're there
i can still find traces of your scent in the digital air
in this internet mess i still find bits of your hair
i remember the time that me and you bounced through this city with no cares

hands ripping
that towel rack off of the wall

i don't recall anything i said that wouldn't warrant a response
and if you're still around why won't you say? mon dieu alfonse

i'm just checking up on a friend, because that's what we are
my life is kind of exciting, i bought a car
spoke to the largest slam poetry audience so far
i'm joining the peace corp
still working the parking
still finishing up all the tattoos marking
times when you knew me i had less
still trying to pump words out of this wheezy chest

playing with a band
it sounds great
we rock hard

don't make me believe i was just fodder for your art

i'm not reaching out
i don't need help
i don't need anyone except for myself

so put whatever hang ups you have on the shelf
let me know you're alive because you said it yourself

friends wouldn't do that to each other
and now you can treat me like a little brother
and it's pure coincidence that at some point we were lovers

and i don't want another mother

make time to tell me some joy in your life
the last message it sounded like you'd handled strife
in stride, eyes open and very awake
did you know all my journal entries are half fake?

this binary blogs a mouthpiece for strife
and i know soon enough you'll be a good man's wife

but i honestly don't care
so:

don't be timid

don't rhymebite my cyber-bits

we all know cyber voyeurism is for perverts and half wits

and
don't be an asshole just because you have tits

i hold you to a higher standard than most
remember the letters that never made it to post?

it's not fair

because you're obviously entertained

but i must assume you don't care

plasmatic and scattered

i have seen the way they flock to me
cast a net on the nests of open wounds
soul seeking the care and comfort
ambiance of a friend
as a womb
as your confidant
as your bride without marriage
as your teacher
as your pupil
i am strong and breathing with fire
and i am surprised by all of you
those who speak with their hearts and open minds
which i may never have guessed
those who silence themselves
wrapt in the rapidly disolving present tense
and the scents of
mint
and honey
and savory
all the things that came to be
did i sell my soul for savory

blind as my mother
content as my father
worried as my sister
ignorant as my brother

lace up my sneakers and walk

because if i didn't
stillness
and silence

would cripple me first.

i am one.
one missing two.

and in any arms i turn newborn baby blue

but i am peach and my skin is flush
rigid in color and untouchable by anyone

or anything
numb as a sailor in winter with his hands at the wheel

spinning because he forgot how to not

spin the olive circle.

spin spin.

spin the new circle.
spin and become one
to become two

to become one.

every me
every you.

every me

carry
every you.

carrying me away

don't do it son
she said sternly reminding me
of a discussion we had earlier about suicide
and how now she was telling me about how i was telling her

"i would never forgive you if you killed yourself mom.
never. it would show you were weak and easily bruised.
and i know that's not you and whoever you were was taken
by a dead woman who once was strong."

she said the words we spoke had power to affect each other's fate
and mine had that day
and now that you're listening you have to understand

don't do it again.
you're worth more than the sum of your black market sperm
you will not do it again and you will thank me

the vessel for the next generation of you
will be blessed and sacred and warm and not
pppppppplastic and turkey basted and isaac you're giving too much away

the apple of your eye almost fell out for fifty dollars that you drank

to forget
the kicks and cries of an infant born and bred as an excuse?
i hope not
i hope to hear
i hope to alleviate my fear that i was not so naive as to have committed a travesty

trying to slip the next chemical generation in under the gate

trying to forget i have discovered a loop hole to the human existance and reproductive cycle
permutation
and creating another generation

do not conceive.
do not conceive.

tired of cheating the system.
didn't want to share this much.

but i felt i needed to.

surrogacy terminated.

yall dont wanna mess round here boy

who's got the chainsaw? pappy got the chainsaw.

trees bleed too. (ahem-no trees were harmed in the making of this photo.)

four wheelin.

stealing souls.

high velocity-no can holders.

slow velocity- can holders.

americanarama

noone knows

awesome

sanchos-awarded with one whoopin.

nobody remembers taking this picture.

the seed.
kicking and screaming i'll say hello from a distance
and four shots and fifty dollars later you were concieved
on my bathroom floor
with the promise of no responsibility
no commitment
and no memory of me
the seed born free from
conspiracy of government agency
i'll give you a life
i give you another generation to hold
i become the surrogate
like all my poems say
and spit my heart and all my seed
to make you free some day
and with the hope and fear that i'll see my eyes
on a face downtown
i wish you luck

may you change the world someday.
you were conceived under loving gaze of your parents

and myself
and another kind soul

the full moon.

chin up.
you will change the world someday.

(these memories mine{d})to fuss and gaze in glass - 'we all sound insane on the internet'

letters from grandfather box volume XXIII
black and white photos
letters hid the following throws
--------------------------------------
journal
_____
captain-grand director of eccentric journal maintenance
[locura-each and every bit of this]
hints:

*bold*-denotes gravitous enthused chantlike speech by bass chorus with percussive quality.

o de persephone-
...pulled her aside and explained-



"everywhere the shadows meet
and the smoke would
make spirals echo
the path of her feet

every time her

idle
heart
beat

i was reminded my step on the cliff was less certain"flee my own will
i will run from that truth

because i was "wrong"
about things for "so long"

and i was
"wrong about myself and not you"
i was"wrong about me"
"not you"

"wrong with faith"



-------------------------------------------
and a knock on the door
makes way to the sound of small toes
shuffling on carpet
and oil lights extinguish inside
the house in the iron belly
in the middle of our frozen earth

in shock and asleep

in hope someday
the sun will
hit the brick roof of that
house
all
over
again


this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a
movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie. this is a song. this is a movie.


these memories are mine.

can't decide if i really believe that everybody is looking for something.

winter makes you want to be close to those around you.

i think i am afraid of touching anybody

i know i am afraid of being touched.

don't touch me.

por favor no

estoy lleno de vinagre y orina.

although unoriginal i felt that this piece served well as a transitory anthem for everyone who is parting ways this season. people graduating, people getting married, people having kids, people moving, people dying.
it seems like sometimes the world is this cold to shake all of the weak energy out of our proverbial trees.
there's a fierceness in the cold reality of winter.
but it's also beautiful.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING.
by John Donne


AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.


Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 51-52.

bender number done


in praise of push everything away

frozen winter muck fucking up
the blue jumpsuit
everybody says
"i bet you are warm.
who gives a fuck
how trashy you look"
bending myself in half
bending myself apart
winter cold breaking skin
on my fingers that start
to pick it all up
put it together
in a warm shower
the squeaky clean lack
of a five o clock shadow
coffee and sugar
and study for finals

pass the exams

get shit faced pitched
out of head
slightly gone

pick up the pieces
get ready to move on