Semiconscious

It's just you and me in this bed, groggy shadow. I've seen you!, you know, lurking in the sunlight after one too many mornings... cradling your liquid child, fighting to keep your puffed lips moist, making eye contact with the tiny pebbles in the sidewalk. You close your eyes to open your ears. How you listen to voices far away that you remember when they were in your ear — and who are you fooling, what you write is what you wish — and how you jump! At the first audible sign of movement in your direction, but you soon realized that it was only a leaf, scraping the grass.... so you look down again, pretending that your poor, tired body can't take much more of this unbearable, mundane teasing.

Was it you, then, whose hand reached out in the middle of my dreams, so full of writing? I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there, stroking something beautiful I couldn't even see in my dreams. Why she accepted you, I haven't the consciousness to figure out, but I suppose it's none of my business, as it never is.

I hope her skin was soft.

I admire you, shadow.

Your sweet touch plagues us all.

once upon a time (a title i didn't necessarily write)

do you know what happens to a guy—

who may be a good kisser.

who did write her every night.

who might just make her happy.

he may lie alone—

underneath stars all kinds of yellow,

above memory-stained sheets.

in between future and past.

or he'll reach out—

to erase the words

that hurt them so,

to create new ones

to soften the blow,

or simply to let go.

but i—

will absorb the sun before it explodes,

just to know someone like You,

an' maybe you're right.

maybe this can be something new.

an' i think you still—

Spring is Dead

flower turns to bud

once the petals have softly fallen

but they will not be forgotten

A Rude World

What are you, leathery succubus from hell?

Why are you here, slithery demon of time too lost?

I see you here, every other day or so. Often not by choice. I can’t help it if I’m the last to get on the bus, since I’m usually reading a book, and I can’t help it if I’m the last stop in the city, since that’s just where I am, every other day. When I get on the bus, I can taste the noxious waves of annoyance drifting from where you sit, reading another thick novel, full of the same old words always used to keep you interested.

But you’re not interested.

No one can ignore you, though I assure you, they do the best they can. They put miles of space between you and them. There is no one to hear your disgusted mutters, no one to see you glance at your watch at every intersection. No one to endure your distaste for the human race, or at least the ones who seem to always be in your way.

Where are you going, witch?

The seats were overflowing, when I at last got on. Except for that one, that vile seat to your right. The indentation from your previous victim was still visible on it, too.

—and so I was offered, as a sacrifice, to you. In silence, I took my seat.

(Silence (noun)- 4: Refusal or failure to speak out.)

My defenses were down that day. My brain was fuzzy and reeling. My eyes so heavy that I could not keep them open long enough to know how far I was traveling, and how long it was taking me to get there. Everything was one moment. One fantastic image after the other:

Fourteen months of the same mystery…

“Oh, c’mon, for fuc-“

History does repeat itself, it must repeat itself…

“You’ve gotta be kidd-“

A glowing smile, emerald lips, hair like silk, cold hands…

“God, dammit.”

What are you, cunning lizard of hatred?

You make it so much harder to be in love.

You’re taking away my romantic comfort.

You’re sucking the life out of my memories-turned-fantasies.

With a stupid amount of effort, I opened my eyes to see a woman, pale and cheery, climb onto the bus. Unlikely as it was that she was there to save me, I’d had my fair share of unreasonable thoughts that day already. Hope existed.

The pale woman wanted to sit down, and who can blame her. The seat was raised up, presumably to make room for a wheel-chaired person that I missed sometime during my disturbed slumber. She reasonably attempted to lower it, because legged people wish to sit, and wheel-chaired people long to stand.

She’s a persistent one. After three or four attempts at lowering it (the seat appeared to be as stuck as I was), she called out for help to someone (anyone) on the bus.

“Is this seat broken?”

I couldn’t answer the question for her. The seat and I weren’t too familiar in that regard.

“Just take another seat, god dammit….” hissed the leather-clad witch. I looked her in the eyes.

She was wearing sunglasses. Maybe she had no eyes.

I was not the only one who heard her this time.

“Excuse me?” the peach lady smiled, looking her directly into those eternal, black frames.

“Nothing.” She lied.

She’s rude and she plagues my dreams and she lies.

I was suddenly silent no more.

“She said,” I stated, without any inflection of agreement in my voice, “’Just take another seat, god dammit.’”

The smile from the lady’s face disappeared. Her eyes widened. Her skin looked paler than before.

I, meanwhile, was pulled into hell by a blind serpent, with a wristwatch as its collar.

“Oh, thank you,” it spat, “Thank you for repeating that. God… Let it go.”

I folded my hands, not in prayer, but in casual protest.

“No,” I thought.

And got off the bus,

holding my head high,

heavy as it was.

scribbled secrets (all the animals are dead!)

The local bum demands his pay,
since he’s crooning all of the time,
so I threw him a rusty dime,
for singing songs of yesterday.

These are the games I’m forced to play,
for following only my heart,
and begging for a fresh start—
All those games of yesterday.

Tort’rous dreams of laughing May,
and the silver armor I can’t equip,
and that ocean-buried ship,
the unsinkable S.S Yesterday.

I would vanish it all away,
if I could have the choice.
but I’d still keep your voice—
Oh, that radiant light of yesterday.

I tore down their wedding day,
but don’t feel a bit sorry
for killing the union of Miss Safari
and that foolish Mister Yesterday.

The Last Airplane Poem

Writing has been the hardest thing.
I’ve written a lot about ducks.
I’ve written a whole book.

Oh, look.
Spring leaves turning yellow.
Long hair curling blonde.

Hey, it’sa pond.
No ducks in it today.
They must not like.. you.

What else to do.

Oh, write a letter!
What could be better.

Or how about Nintendo—
Until maybe we can know
where the ducks did go.

“Do they even miss me?” I implore.

But Yoshi doesn’t speak to me, anymore.

My Iditarod

My neighborhood as a child was never a very welcoming place.

My bike went missing out of the shed, and after searching the neighborhood for it, I found it was stolen and stripped for parts behind a parking garage.

The forest behind the townhouse was chock-full of poison Ivy, but I went in anyway. I complained for weeks.

It seemed that everyone on the block was a douche, and never missed the opportunity to call me “Hey, dork with the glasses.” and question my sexual preference.

I fell down the grass hill on my tricycle and hit my head on the pavement below, giving me a tangle of hair that resembled Christmas. Red from blood, green from grass-stains, and a hint of gold from my barely visible blonde hair.

But I suppose you’re done hearing about my childhood. It’s not as dramatic as I write it out to be— so I’m done. Sorry.

I saw a dog. A huge, beautiful, white/brown Alaskan Husky.
Just walking around my neighborhood.
He was causing quite a commotion, though. He was untagged and unleashed, so — of course — parents became concerned for their children. Hell, I would’ve been concerned too. Many parents kept their children indoors, including mine.

I had no problem staying indoors, because that’s what I normally chose to do anyway. I guess it was a good thing. A little girl was practically mauled by this seemingly harmless dog. He could have trampled her; he could have snapped her neck off. Instead he jumped on her and promptly escaped from the clutches of instinctive parent/guardians.
But this never was a very welcoming place. I played Nintendo.

The weekend passed, kids and families trickled outdoors. To barbeque, to swing [on the swing-set], to enjoy the semi-fresh air. I stayed indoors; there was no need for me to leave. There was no sign of the husky.

Monday descended. Oh, the joy of walking through this trash neighborhood every morning. Watching the pitiful raccoons snoop through the neighborhood dumpster and the innocent beach toys tossed about on the neighborhood grass. I walked up the neighborhood hill to come face to face with the most beautiful creature I have seen as of yet.

A huge, beautiful, white/brown Alaskan Husky.
I smiled at it and continued my neighborhood walk. It followed.
I kept checking my back to see if it was still there, and it always was.
Five meters behind me.
Never once did it pounce, never once did it growl.
It sat and waited beside me for my bus to come.
I felt no fear, no anxiety, no worries, and no revenge.
Just the warmth of the animal, and the cool of its tongue.
Our time together is everything I've ever wanted.

And as my bus rode away, I watched as the animal dashed down the street.
I miss her.

7/1/08

for the worst

plowed fields open their eyes,

while an exhausted mother is wailing,

the calf is quietly feeding, preparing

for the worst.

not too far away, intruding,

sits an old house, built on promises

and up the creaky crumbling staircase

lies two soulmates, breathing together,

habitually holding hands;

for the worst.

the Master wakes first, with His

grizzled beard and triangular glasses,

picking spotless eggs from their mothers,

and still warm, He breaks them open,

filling the kitchen with the aroma of

cheese, garlic and fresh young;

for the worst.

the scent drifts upwards, to the Maiden's chamber,

with Her straw hair and juicy pear eyes,

Her black boots wait outside, so patiently,

where the mule is whipped, and then starts

ravaging the land

for the worst.

unblinking plains hold their breath

while rows of corn stand at attention,

ears grown solely to listen, but

for the worst.

wiry hands working swiftly, He repairs all that

was ever damaged during the Great Flood: Over

and under, and through again, the needle snakes;

Rehanging the mustard curtains, He presses His nose

'gainst the window, and sees a great rainbow in the sky,

He reaches out to it-

for the worst.

sweat lodges in the pockets of Her nose,

while it slowly rolls and drops off Her lovely chin,

while in the haze, a snake slithers close, and leans in

to bite— but nothing can sink into Her leatherhide skin,

That leatherhide skin,

through which no man's words can pierce;

for the worst.

the barn door is slowly closing

and the mustard curtains have been drawn;

the stove's been longed turned off,

at least till morning,

when the mother hurts again;

the Maiden reaches over, to the

Man of Her dreams, and whispers,

"you've been good today"

and then the lamp goes out.

and then their lives go by.

for the worst.

trees have never leaned so forward as I

(sun burns even the shade
you know, an’ I want to feel
it. Burning. your skin.
try to keep up.

the honks ‘n horns of renegades

have kept me
off my feet,
which serves my world greatly
since I’m worth to meet
but hard to keep
Delicately:
do away with your double layers
of choking clothing
an’ let the hairs
standing, breathe
onto mine, so that they may
smooth over and their legs
May, stretch;
out from the roots of the
tree, the wind torments. the
tree that we built

a House On,

have you found one?

a House, On?

to arrive~to depend~On?

kick your shoes off
or I’ll kick.em off
for you,
but the honks that storm the alleys
do keep me awake
to cower in the glistening rays of the shade:
so assured! so absurd! for YOU I tower.
over the battlefield of mangled memories
an’ broken faces,
lips forming to a final kiss.

oh, they will not get one.

an’ it’s not because they’re ugly

or ‘cause’a the god they choose to look for

but because they

have my pity,

‘n pitied lips are never too sweet)

(trees have never leaned so forward as I

unwatered

restless as the grass
may grow, an' twisting
naked
under leaves, I woke
to find my past begun
but only for a month
or a day

how did you find

that North-born magnet

you've been combing
through your hair—
these South-shot eyes
are digging, but not taking
any prisoners
to the Western bay

trivially as these
bodies warm,
the Spring is cloaked
but bursting
into tiny tasty dewdrops
that stay on your cheek
until my fingers
glide them away

the dirt is only sometimes wet
since Wetness dares escaping
to the future, twisting
naked,
but the times
beg for blindness,
an' freedom, too,
will have its way;

though the Spring seems quite
Parched
it will all be okay.

learning to deal #7

my, my, the fog!

it tickles.

before it.

swallows.

--> this way home

oh, oh, the tapered headlights,

taking us one way.

aching for another.

<-- this way home

yes, yes, the mist,

that's come again.

watching our fingers.

seeing where they wax,

where they wane,

where they point to

our way home.

learning to deal #6

I think that if mermaids

could wear skirts

no one would ever again

go out to sea

I think that if angels

would walk among us

they would cease to visit

our panic'ked dreams

I think that if demons

should drag me to riptide

I'll plug this nose

until the breaking waves

break

learning to deal #5

went to the boxing match today.

forever vs. some kinda truth

I woulda bet

but someone slipped their hand

into my pocket

and now I've got nothing

for betting

learning to deal #4

what would I give to be retarded?

to lose responsibility over myself,

and to make it so

that others may feel like

they're wasting their time.

to not worry about this from right.

to not have to live up to the past.

why, I would give up pain.

learning to deal #3

I think of ocean evenings an

carpeted rooms that have

fireplaces

an other things that matter

but aren't allowed to.

what do they think?

I leave when I

hear the word

whore

an when I don't

like being looked at.

when does she leave?

learning to deal #2

purple blotted hands stretched out to meet

pearly white an soothing feet

to form a lotus flower

but we lost the power

to keep the garden complete

learning to deal #1

eyes like a newborn child

a river heart, raging n wild

the dawn won't come

until we've earned some

of this love, so tender and mild

mouth of a cave

Some men follow lighthouses.

I am not a sailor.

Sailors are dirty mermaids, with hairy legs and matted hair. Even in their quietest hour, they are forced to listen to the thud of water clashing against the hull; of pelicans diving into salty waves; of sirens tens of thousands of miles away, singing their songs. Always going somewhere, like a snail on a road, off to some speck on the orangeish horizon. How grimy the sea-goers must be. How perverse... to be surrounded by water, an be so unclean, sweaty, smelling of sex without arousal.

Some men, they lose themselves out at sea.

I will never allow myself to be a sailor,

and my children, too.

I am more of a caveman.

Not like my ancestors were. I don't build fires an I certainly know how to talk n sit up straight. This isn't about history and it never was, never will be. What's then was then. But they had the right ideas. I always had the feeling that man belonged in caves.

We'll get to woman at some point. They're there, in the forest, somewhere,

But for now I stand rootless.

An though it's damp an dark I can still find my way

(it helps that there's a glow comin from somewhere),

Trippin over roots, stumbling into raspberry bushes, looking only dead ahead,

until I stand in awe at the mouth of a cave.

Some men, they make pilgrimages.

I will not pretend that I'm not a pilgrim.

I lower myself to my knees, waiting for something, waiting for anything. And then, it did come. A great urge built up inside of me and erupted, compelling me to move forward, to touch! the cave.

I started with the edges. Those soft, voluptuous edges, full of color... with the ability to run dry at any given moment, and then pucker and starve, begging for treatment of any sort... yes, I ran my fingers over the gentle folds of the edges, noting every slight indentation, calculating any sensitive spots that might be prone to hostile intrusion. They are, as they have always seemed to be, virtually flawless. Seamless beyond compare. With an incredible amount of self-control, I closed my eyes, and took a step into the cave, leaving the luxurious edges behind. Under my breath,

Never give yourself over to the cave, completely.

Next, the razor sharp thorns that must protect the cave. I pricked my hand on the foremost ones, gleaming so boldly and bright. I made sure that my blood didn't stain them. They seemed so important— an they were, but how could I have known that without any of these things, the cave would've ceased to exist? Every piece is integral; including the pearly spikes so prominently lined together, like art at a museum. I walked slowly from work of art to work of art— admiring the attention to detail that the artist gave it, admiring their intent and the amount of work that went into it. Very impressive, I would think.

And then, the moist monster. The cave breathes. It's walls refuse to stand still, they retract and contract, in unpredictable fashion. They ooze liquid, so that the dewy floor of the cave grows dewier by the second; thick layers of grass in the late springtime. That floor, lives. That floor, writhes. That floor, is stronger than you. But despite its wetness, and its brawns, it is beautiful.

Nothing in the cave ceases to be beautiful.

Some men kill the cave.

And others, kiss it.

cats in the summertime

Woke up to a rooster crowing somewhere— maybe over by where the llamas stand idly in dry n golden fields. Woke up with cat hair on my tongue; furry animals must’ve been pressing against my lips. Through the slit of my emerald dream-catchers (some call them eyes), the dry n golden sun filtered through the bamboo shades like bacteria that heals. If there is such a thing.

I felt something cozy against my blanketed body— probably some feline creature, just like I felt the last three or four times I was there. It didn’t feel like Bagheera. No, he’s much more tougher than that. Leader of the pride. It wasn’t his fraternal brother Will, because he carries too much fat in his furry breast, and certainly not Peaches, who carries fat even in places you never knew existed. Carmello, he doesn’t know me well enough, who knows if he ever will (if he would just give me a chance!), and Carlton is probably too busy trying to get the hell outta there to spend time on the ol’ couch— if only he knew what it was that he had there. Henry’s tongue is covered by bristles of pinecones, and for that reason alone he licks everything in sight, praying for those bristles to fall off— no, it was not him.

But what of Belle?

I would like to think myself modest and claim that I would never be worthy of Belle. She is, without second guess, the most beautiful girl in all this kingdom— small, of course, and white, which isn’t surprising (for me). But she is more. She has patches— gorgeous, sporadic orange-and-black patches — that grace her elegant frame. No, Belle would never wake me! She’s too good even for the others; she hides. All day, in the closet. Immersing herself in clean laundry never to be worn; she probably sleeps. She’s an elusive beauty, Belle. And yet, it felt like it could be her!

Restless with curiosity, my lids began blinking furiously, until they lifted for good. I did not dare to look down, right away. I resisted the dry n golden rays with one of my hands (seeing as the other one was being trapped ‘neath someone or something). I forgot to breathe, an often, so an invisible vacuum cleaner was stuck down my throat, an cleared my lungs n heart of unnecessary debris that sleep may have brought. The coffee table was cluttered, with stacks of books and coasters and ashtrays nearly completely full. And beer bottles. Not mine. I looked over to the wall— the wall brimming with every movie imaginable, every band worth listening to, every TV show we could just watch over and over again. I love that wall. I love that wall much more than the driveway, which I now watched with an unsurprising look of mild disappointment. That hot, empty driveway. I much preffered looking at the wall.

Or Belle.

(I looked down boldly, then, to see my anonymous nighttime snuggler.)

Or you!

How stupid the mountain air has made me! It must be the altitude; in my sleepy stupor, I had forgotten the wonderful fantasy I was living. Yes, I was in West Country; yes, we were there, together— with nothing to do and nowhere to be. Yes, this was life! Your tranquil, white face looked up at me, as I grinned stupidly.

It was a silent morning.

You stretched and pawed at my tummy, while I laid there, remembering the summer before (an you were in me but not with me) and the summer before that (probably the same, I bet). An for a second I started wondering out loud where we could go from here, but I was rudely interrupted— you licked my cheek, and gave a small smile, so where did I go from there? Off the couch, the makeshift bed we had been sharing, shuffling into the bright kitchen. Reaching into the (nearly) empty refrigerator, an instinctively grabbing a glass jug (nearly) empty, I call out to you. No reply. I shrug: it’s the summer, for god’s sake, so I pour the dry n golden liquid into two glasses. I walk back into the room, an see you sprawled out on the floor— as if the hairy carpet was heated, melting your insides, just like your tile floor back at home. You probably miss your floor… tired, poor thing, I mutter. You look up lifelessly at my offer for a drink. In fear of dehydration, I put the lemonade to your lips, and you drink unwillingly, using your tongue to taste the sweet and sour drink. I lift you up, off the ground, an we sit (together), listening to the distant sound of birds. I stroke your hair, telling you all about the strange and wonderful dream I had the night before. The dream went as such:

“yeah so I was in some park, probably Yellowstone or something, and there was this giant geyser there. It didn’t seem Old and no one knew for sure how Faithful it was, so I dunno. Anyway. It wasn’t doing anything. So I stood there, for like 6 months, just waiting for that baby to blow. But nothing was happening, and I was starting to get kinda restless, so I went up to it, and looked down that hole. Eternal darkness. And I think I lost my footing, or maybe someone pushed me, and I went and fell in. So I was falling… falling… and you know what? I think it would’ve finally blown. I think it was gonna release those hundreds of gallons of water, and there’s no way I would’ve hit the ground. I would’ve been pushed up, and up, and into the blue sky, and I would have been just fine, floating on the mist until someone catches me.”

You woke me up, though. So we’ll never know whether or not it’ll blow.

As if you understood this, you nuzzled me with silent affection.

I couldn’t help but kiss you. It felt so right.

Then I heard the car pull into the driveway; I heard his footsteps on the sweltering gravel, until finally he came through the door. He looked tired.

“Hey, dad. How was work?”

I looked down. Sitting next to me was Belle, curled up in my lap,

so beautiful and silent.

So I sat there, listening to my dad talk about work an other things,

while I tried to ignore all the hard things,

like cat hair and dry n golden tears and you.

ashtray kids

smoke filled car turned on

windows rolled down slightly

breathing lightly

shouting just to be heard

crushed bottles in the door

they taste like some cancer

like some poison prison

could they be the answer?

box layin' flat on the floor

smells like fish filet

but I won't eat it today

since I think they can feel

sickly wheels remain in place

putrid air turns into venom

where is the doctor?

should we tell him?