Category: Uncategorized

My head hit the pillow
But my body landed in Narnia

The arctic wind blows across my face and I wonder why my fingers are turning blue
Now purple
Soon to be black from frostbite

As I go to grab my gloves I look down and see
My satin plum pajama set staring back at me

My bare feet engloved by a fluffy sheet of white
As I start to walk around

Five seconds later
I’m fighting for my life in the warm caribbean waters
Blackbeard goes too cut my hair off with a sword I always dreamt of using

I sit down at that Michelin star restaurant Gordan Ramsey owns
Steak, potatoes, a rock, cupcakes, snakes, tigers, sand

And now my pet dolphin walks next to me
Flashes keep blinding me and I realize the paparazzi are following me

My limousine is waiting for me at the top of the Empire State Building
And when I go up the emerald elevator
I see the end of the rainbow

My head spinning
Palms sweaty
I pull the tangled covers off of me and
Head to the bathroom to brush my teeth
My gloves and Blackbeard’s sword sitting right where the sink should be

’m sitting here right next to you,
in the twin sized mattress we now share
thinking about
all of the ways I can tell you
I love you.
Of course, I could say it to you,
and that would suffice,
I’m sure.
But,
when I look at you,
a million other ways to say
those three short words
start to flow from my brain.

Instead,
I could tell you
that you put the stars and the moon in my sky,
and that when we are tangled up in bed,
it feels like the Earth
orbiting the Sun.

I could tell you
that when I look into your eyes,
I see the emeralds and deep blue hues
and am transported to the river banks
of a Monet painting,
leisurely observing the lily pads
in the shade that the bridge creates.

I could tell you
that you are the
bright strikes of lightning
during my thunderstorms—
creating light
in my dark and turbulent days,
and reminding me that
You
are
my protector.

Of course,
I could tell you all of those things,
and maybe
I
should tell you all of those things
But,
when I look at you,
I also lose my breath,
my train of thought,
and I am unable to conjure up the words
to tell you just
how much
I love you.
So instead,
I write these silly little poems
that you will never get to read.
And I continue to tell you that
I love you
And hope that it will suffice

There are places beyond man’s illumination
when the campfire is embers and ashes,
when phones and flashlights rest in batteries,
when the moon has sunk or not yet risen,
when satellites and planes are delinquent.
In those rare, dark interludes one sees
the omnipresence of uncountable glows
and hears the whisperings of the stars.

My girlfriend was staying at her house,
My mom had put out another cigarette into my arm that afternoon,
and I couldn’t sleep.
So I took up the journal my girlfriend gave me and flipped through the poems.
I tried to write new ones,
I tried to rewrite old ones,
but it didn’t feel right.

You came to my door sorta late at night, holding poppies.
“Those aren’t yours,” I said.
“I know,” you said, “But they mean something to you.”
“You don’t know what,” I said.
“I know,” you said again. “But I know she gave them to you before.”
“You aren’t my girlfriend,” I said.

I tore up my poems about you.
We didn’t have a paper shredder, so I tried to do the shredding.
I felt loathing. For myself, for my sister, and for myself again.
“You aren’t real,” I said. “You never were.”

“But I am,” you said. “Look at your wrist.”
I did, there the loops were, over my scar.
The crow landed on your shoulder, the one you screamed at me wasn’t real.
But you said, “I was wrong, Bunny,
The crow was real. The nest was real. We are real.”
“You can’t be here,” I said.

I took the poems about you into the backyard,
and put them into a pile on the grass.
My mother walked up behind me, smoking,
and handed me her matchbox.
“I read them,” she said.
I began to shake.
“I’ll do it if you can’t, baby,” my mother said softly.
I shook my head, lit a match, and dropped it onto the poems.

You Hold air puffed cheeks until jaw ligaments strain
Your Body bloats on fields poisoned by innocents slain

Soldier through the soil torn
Crash upon the rocks reborn
Shore, beach, shadowded glen
Weary miles for travelling men
See through the sky above
Into a world they once did love
Stars strain the innocents slain
Fallen as rusted morning rain
Blood and tin and tractor screws
Heaven’s tireless war meant for men to loose

Sea’s static rage unending sending them on their way
Waves crash they all descend upon afterlifes quay

Travel through the soil torn
Crash upon the rocks reborn
Shore, beach, shadowy glen
Weary miles miled by travel weary men
See through the sky above
Through a world they once did love
Fields that once did bear your daily bread
Soon will collapse under the weight of the dead
Forlorn do they walk as they did love
Love like the living dead
Soon to pile upon the fields above

Sea’s static rage unending sending them on their way

’m watching myself become a casualty of the
Mass graves at the starting line of
a Second Drug War.

I along with another army of others,
Given to hedonistic desire
Brought on by a lack of restraint and control.
ponder why we lost our souls when we gave them to our
desires.

We build empires in honor of Loki.
We make sacristy an overthrown majesty.
We built gods in the names of our lusts
So we could worship our sins, in trust
That they would keep us sound
In lies that seem profound,
But are traps and snares
sprinkled with spoonfuls of sugar.

It hangs like flesh rotting off the hook
Waiting to be cooked,
Rubbed and buttered,
Eaten and consumed.

The Antichrist is the creation of man
As we are the creations of God.
We build her
So that it is the mind of man
‘ganist the mind of Christ,
We could overthrow Him
And be free from the consequence of sin,

Death:

A Mannequin suit of flesh
With Hollow eyes that walk and wander like an
Empress in transgress’.

The truth does not fulfill our lusts
So we made idols in our own image,
And being made in the likeness of God,
We defaced the trinity in simulacra, and pretended that
God was never there,
Caught in our own snare

You see
I would love to invite you over to my dirty little house on the edge of los angeles underneath the dying
palm tree
on a hill of dust and sand

but unfortunately I have no room as I have too many characters
here residing with me;
sleeping on the couch,
and underneath the dining room table,
and on top of the washing machine that is adjacent to the kitchen as it rumbles through the night
doing my laundry,
and my roommates’ laundry,
and my roommates’ girlfriends’ laundry too

No, I would love to have you come over to my house in los angeles,
with its blue stairs leading up a hill into the darkness of the night
but as I said I have no room;
and my roommates have been kind enough
to let these character share our space for a time and I cannot impose upon them any further
But let me know when you make your plans and buy your airline tickets and I will see if these
characters are still with me then
or if nally I have saved the document and turned o my laptop for the night.

The bedroom is on fire
and you’re reciting scripture–
amidst that ashy candlelit mirage
with hands gripping onto her charred
remains
sacrificial lamb strewn across the tile
waxy skin melting off bone,
finger to wick
planting petrol infused kisses upon
disintegrating lips
through drunken words in
worn-down confessionals
where you were told to sculpt your
spine like a pew
in which people could sit until urges
were forgotten
to contort your back into a table-top
for Man
to rest their hands on, where they
could pray until you’re
worthy of God’s love

to let them eat your body like bread
and
drink your blood like wine
until there is nothing left but
communion of the pieces you once
were
scattered about the gasoline-doused
flooring
you remember becoming Hansel and
gretel on your wedding day
only to leave her figmented crumbs
and a mouthed amen and i do behind
stained glass

We must cultivate our garden” – Voltaire

I’m sorry
I can’t nurse your wounds
my morphine poison dart frog saliva
was wasted on papercuts
and you come to me missing a ventricle and
I-
can offer you nothing
I leave you fallow
because I must tend my
pain
and so I tend my own self
[in rock soil]
like a serpent mound
C u r l e d around my aorta
while you lie [next to the river]
and flood with emotion and why
I-
can’t tend to you
is a mystery to me
it’s a mystery to you too
but I lay here and pick rocks from [clay]
and pick rocks from [my flagellated back]
and roll neosporin on [my elbows]
and resuscitate my halting rhythm
I plow deeper among salted earth
and I am

CARTHAGE
and I am the wind driving off
the [plains of Zama]
reeling from the Third Polemic War
pilum driven deep in solar plexus
under Saharan solar flare
because as much as I wish this weren’t true
I know that it is
that it is true
that it’s true that
I-
am not cultivating my own garden
but tending a briarpatch
pruning Russian thistle
and deadheading multifloral rose.
I-
am not growing a garden
I’m digging graves two feet apart eighteen feet long and four inches in the ground
to bury my heart at [Lake Trasimene]
when I could be gardening
but I won’t allow myself near enough [the plot]
The plot
of an unwritten novela
Anyone attempting to find
A plot
in it will be shot

so bury me

Have a baby.
It’s selfish if you don’t.
Raise the baby.
Even if you won’t
Be able to provide for the baby.

Have a baby.
Who cares who the dad is.
Care for the baby.
It doesn’t matter it’s
Your own father’s baby.

Have a baby.
You have a duty.
Nurture the baby.
Causing mutiny
Between mother and baby.

Have a baby.
You’ll regret it later.
Love the baby.
Even if you grow to hate her,
She’ll always be your baby.