Flux between a soul and nonsense --
reprise, because another musician wrote this poem.
They'll say (in life),
he wasn't a pretty boy --

We're in business now --
there's no doubt
a shaved head and two testicles
are all we need
to cross the desert.

If only these needles would leave my bed
I'd dream again and that'd be nice and
I'd be happy.

Happy like a beaver building dams in some
eternal forest filled with sunlight
and dust mites floating between trees --
you've seen the pictures.
Happy like that kid Tyson, when his father
hurled him into the pool
instead of bringing out the belt.

I'll build passion from a matchstick flare
and fling imaginary rings of smoke --
catch, or something.

A ghost is haunting this website,
slipping into the continental universe
and sputtering on about life --
don't you know you're dead, ghost?

I think I already told you:
I'm going to shave my head
and set out on this quest --
I'll pierce the evening's skin and bellow,
no, trumpet, my intent
to tear your daughter from your clutches --
fasten a streamer made of life
to her homely dress
and send her skipping into the breeze.

Foundation shudders, an uneasy truce
when all is fair in love and war --

"Shape without form" is the new square --
try and find a peg that fits, buddy.
Tired of the coats and little hair,
talk of track and splitting fair
the proceeds of 'who gives
a shit', last night's gambling
and the weekends gains.
Tired of the frost that fits so neatly
inside a dull man's mind,
tired of being frosted
myself.
Crackle.

The Factory of Lights

In fall, Rome burns colored
lights and dares not turn
its sights on the collective soul --
that which is
is streaming down the gutter,
fallen paper airplanes
litter classroom floors as
teachers spew brand name formulas
while steepled fingers tear
rough edges and
distinction limps
to the pinnacle of mental illness --

Inspiration birthed in
Ashlee Simpson's underpants,
this nation-state exists
to please pointy eyed men
of glass who lick the fat
off raw bones and belch
worms struggling to escape
the rotting flesh.

Pay me to decloth
and I will shimmer gracefully
on midnight computer screens
while a dapper citizenry strokes
fancied dreams that lead to
shriveled glories --
all that is
is bittersweet as praise to God
delights the feet but minds protest
and are dethroned from majesty
to little gnomes
inside the factory of lights
that gives Rome its majestic
delightful hallowed flare,
its racing bikes and burlesque
flights of weathered denizens
shivering on late season nights
aware of nothing but the fall.

Hero

So afraid of stepping on toes --
but then again,
who doesn't like anal sex?
He'll dodge this bullet
using ballerina moves
he learned watching movies
(watching movies
is like being alive).

See her
coated in a fine sheen
of sarcasm and light
brown hair --

Painted lips
and the faintest smile
rim crest teeth
with vampire edges.

Smack on the palm and
in the cold air it stings,
drowning in a spoonful of fire --
beat back excess
maintain less
that's his philosophy
give him a nod.

Unkempt hair and a spirit born broken --
exactly what she wanted in a boy.

Thoughts are poured concrete
as I go about my day:
she leaves careless footprints
in drying pavement --
I have it all --
I am rich, sitting in a palace
made of the finest driftwood,
spoiled in my soul
because God gave me
a second glance.

I won't touch her
with my mind.
I hate the way
her gaze lingers
in another man's eye --

As the sludge flows like blood
down streets packed with narrow time
I'll look over my shoulder
and croak at last:
I never knew
what it was to want,
so I filled buckets
overflowing
and whispered secrets
in foreign tongues.
I never was able to surface.
Please --
clutch my hair
and demand to hear
that you feel the truth howling
from behind my eyes.
But you will only smile,
(as she always does)
and remind me
drowned words
are never heard.

My eyes spewing judgement
and he catches the spittle,
points at me
with his crooked nose --
I'll tell you
who's got the resentment.

As the night grinds on,
sitting at idle outside her house
and his Volvo appears:
"is this something
I shouldn't see?"

The stars are dream seeds,
drifting in unisync, the night-
time breeze leaves me
with a taste of saltwater,
like blood or
trickling anger.

Some kind of age

Shadow found youth flickers
souls across portrait memories --
you know what I mean, stranger?
It's the inside,
underneath the monster
where all that is
is mist --
come and yawn sleepy dreamer,
catch a cold and bring a warm
heart. Stagger down
rustic halls through
silence left over from
last night's dinner,
that's when you'll see
ghosts flicking tongues and
nuns shaking fists through
frosted windows,
angry that yesterday stole
and tomorrow isn't bringing
any presents.

The cold blows through these
holes in my jeans and
licks its wind frosted
tongue across my knees.

That smile is
not real. I can see
eyes underwater and
sleepy with drugs and cum.

Watch it happen --
she thrusts herself against the couch
and begs you to stay,
salting your shirt with her tears.
You can't help but caress her hair --
she turns her face upwards,
cheeks ablaze,
and asks again:
"Why?"

We bustled around the
burning Christmas trees
as dawn coaxed the stars to sleep.
There was no climax:
we ran out of fire
in the middle of the passion.
A young girl grabbed me
by the hand
and took me dancing
as the sun raised its bleary eye
and peered impassively at life
again.

First Date

Over brie and talk of sex
eyes like dead little walnuts
I see half her face is too large,
and a scar runs down her cheek.
Our waitress is a flirt
with almond hair
and a runny nose.

A Typical Evening

Speaking from behind a cloud
of memories and all that crap,
a bottle of Evian dulls
the taste of blood.
Their eyes say:
We've heard it all before --
go home and pray some more.

Then, in the parking lot
waiting for dreams to pop
one of the few
who are so many
quitting something on a Friday night,
(Deus and candlelight)
tells us she can't attend.

So, it's
night in the theater,
and her hand's caress
protects against static
on the movie screen --
She's not my type
but tonight I'll hold her.

Of course in there somewhere
hidden deep inside my chest
the thudding starts
and in that moment of divine regress
I understand that souls connect
for what it's worth.

Sleep coaxes me from the window
as I smother the candles.
Her tap is light on the panes,
her clothes flutter in the night breeze.
Six billion dreams tonight.

the body

the smile iced across thin dead lips
but all i can see is one
jutting elbow, milk gallon white
under the full moon

embers shimmer heat but
the water is pins of cold
on my open toes
i feel the way with my eyes

smear of mud and tufted hair
that's my second sight,
curled awkward around
a jagged rock

a gift of the tide
as christmas fades,
marriages dissolve like
butter on hot toast
or ice in the fire.

this gnawing sensation
of a soul crackling through
my skin demands
recognition and
devours complacency

all i want to do
is sit on a couch
and eat doritos

but fingers reach out
of my mind and cup
my face, tear at my
lips and force
me to speak