delta

delta


the curling tendrils of dawn wrap around my throat- choking me and caressing my face, whispering to me "boy, the morning is so lovely, won't you wait for us? won't you stay up with us and smile as the sun cleaves the horizon?" and i am a sucker for sweet talk so i do not resist. i fight the dichotomies of living alone without being alone or sleeping without falling asleep or spending time in the waking hours without growing lonely, and my mind in the blackening hours of unconsciousness turns to the archives of what has happened over and over again.

and i cannot help but wonder what she is doing tonight or how much she is drinking as of late and who she is fucking like she fucked me over. i am wondering where she will bury her dead and if she will mourn and weep the tears from watering cans or if she will take firm root in the dirged dirt and wither over and die in the hands of her dead, dark, diseased shadow.

and i wonder why the train tracks came to such an abrupt halt, the rusted wheels grinding to a still and when the heavens parted and i saw clearly. and then i come to find it was little more than pretty words on paper like my birth certificate or high school diploma- ripped open and sucked dry by vampire promises and peace treaties. and morning horrors like the midnight moors of zombie-eyed reading and humming alone, and smoking at three am alone, and jabbing my finger with a needle to keep away from sleep

because sleep is the enemy; it will cradle you and sing to you and rock you softly- and will spit you into waking hours of an empty bed and empty room and empty life with a porch you smoke alone on at three am and a needle you prick your thumb with to know you're still awake and a flask full of bourbon for emergencies only and the molehills of laundry and the mountains of books and the gentle hum of the empty fridge singing the praises of the night, the liturgy of sleeploss in the hours of the death of the love that never was.

unfinished

when the impulse of silence
has grabbed you and held you in rote
and all the little raindrops
are drilling in your insight

will you see the chronicle of
the angry hand of jealousy;
the sand of your smile
black and roughly messy!

but there's never too far
a little outcrop
of tall-standing crabgrass
and the smell of fresh cob.

the dancing dragonflies
with baked apples and cinnamon
and newly caught cat-o'-nine tails
and tables laced with lumination-






NOTES: i almost never rhyme, ever. despite it, mostly. but there's this artist, Joanna Newsom, whom is absolutely stunning and breathtaking not only with her music (and absurd yet charming voice), but with her lyrics as well. listen and read along and be prepared to be amazed.) and she simply inspires me to write silly things (that rhyme).


i will never finish this. that's the whole point of stream-of-consciousness i suppose. hehe

aftermath

aftermath


i didn't actually get
to sleep until about 6
in the morning, or so-
rocks were tumbling in my head
and my bed was
not enticing in the very least.

the television served for enough distraction
for about three hours
and then i tried sewing
but something about the repetitive
puncture and pull,
puncture
and
pull
of the needle,
striking and pricking
my fingertips
seemed all-too-familiar
and i started
tumbling rocks again
so i could not focus on sewing any longer.

so i tried writing
and sat down
but the words
look so foreign written down
and so dead, lifeless,
and devoid of all care-
vampire caterpillars crawling
across the screen,
and i was starting to get cold anyways.

so

i tried to
drink myself to sleep,
but i only succeeded
in making my face numb
and my eyes glassy.

so i'm embracing the late hours
and writing a letter.

dirty pockets

dirty pockets


i am the
rock you find
at the bottom of shallow creeks,
slick with slime
and algae.

i can
be used just fine as a paperweight,
and i can skip
across the water
really well-
leaving ripples with each step

or i can make a nice coffee table
conversation piece,
or a good luck charm.

but the problem
with being a rock
at the bottom of shallow creeks,
slick with
slime and algae
is that people don't bother
to scrape off the algae and
let you dry out

because who would
ruin a pair of pants
for a rock
at the bottom of a shallow creek,
slick with
slime and algae?

i don't know either,
but that's
the kind of person
i want to take me home.

roadtrip

roadtrip

we have been
talking in circles
like
a long roadtrip-
and sometimes the car sputters
and sometimes the speed limit isn't posted
so we can go as fast as we want.
but eventually
we have to come home,
even if
home is somewhere we found.

and there are forks in the roads
and the map isn't very useful
since either you spilled your coffee
or i spilled my tea
onto it
(but it was
probably
the combination of the two).

and sometimes
i want to just toss you the keys
and leave- and
start hitchhiking back
to my little apartment
in the suburbs with
the garden right outside my bedroom window
and the painted iron lattice work on my porch
and i figure that
you can finish the trip yourself or
pick up some hitchhiker if you
need someone else to drive while you sleep
but then i realise that
we both rented the car,
so it's probably better if we both drove it at least.

and sometimes i feel
as if you'll leave me at
the motel one night
and drive away
in the middle of the night
(probably because i
was snoring,
or because there was someone who
would make a
better roadtrip partner
than i would that you met while you were getting ice
from the noisy, chilly,
leaking bohemoth of an ice machine).
and i'd wake up-
or worse, run to the balcony and see you
drive off, the
brake lights red in the twilight.
you'd probably leave a note,
but
it would still suck
because i'd at least want a fair chance
and i'd still have to call a taxi to get back
to my little apartment
in the suburbs with
the garden right outside my bedroom window
and the painted iron lattice work on my porch
and it would suck if
you got a flat.

and still other sometimes
i wonder
if we'd drive off
into the unknown wilds
and discover new things like
what your favourite colour was
(you never know,
it might be the colour of the sunset
across the window rock, az desert)
or my favourite ice cream flavour
(i think it's vanilla right now, but
for all i know it could be
something erotic, like "guava"
but only from an ice cream store in the middle
of chicago).

and sometimes
i just wish
i could just pack up
and
go
with the car idling
in the driveway
and you honking the horn,
in front of my little apartment
in the suburbs with
the garden right outside my bedroom window
and the painted iron lattice work on my porch with
the brake lights
red
in the twilight.

mars ain't no place to raise a kid- in fact, it's cold as hell

mars ain't no place to raise a kid- in fact, it's cold as hell


the roads are slick
and mirror traffic signs
and headlights and
neon storefronts.

the buildings and houses
look strangely
alien at night;
out of place and invading
and welcome under pretenses
of cookies and milk

and i wake up abducted
in a
suburban split-level apartment
with my spaceship parked
outside and
the television on.


NOTE: title is a line from Elton John's "Rocketman"

barefoot in october

barefoot in october


i like walking
on the warm, black asphalt
barefoot in october.

i like
the feeling of the gravel
and grit
getting stuck between my toes.

i like tripping
and taking a layer of skin off my feet

and i like skipping on the warm, black asphalt
amidst the stinging pain,
barefoot in october.

litany for unrepentants

litany for unrepentants

hell is a
mobius Autobahn
and you must walk every
glass-and-rusty-nail-covered mile
barefoot and alone.

hell is waking up
in a sweat to a
cold, silent bedroom
with
no
body
around for miles.

hell is going to sleep
in a bed the size of a room
and a house the size of a country
and there is only your ego to share your pillow with.



NOTE: "hell" comes from the hebrew word "sheol", which means literally "grave". hell is not a place of literal fire and brimstone or some guy with horns and a pitchfork in red pajamas; it is a state of being purely alone with yourself for all eternity. it is death, separation from everything else but yourself. just you, yourself, and nothingness.

100% by volume

100% by volume

since you've left, i've turn to alcoholism
as a rebound girlfriend.
we have each others' numbers in our phones

but she's disgusting
and a manipulative bitch, i'm sorry to say it,
and you were so much nicer.

since i drove away, i've taken to smoking
far, far too much
which you really have to make an effort to accomplish

since you can't smoke anywhere these days.

since you let go, i am letting go
of the precipice
and plummeting down to
where the tourists rent burros and
people take pictures.



notes: wrote this a couple months ago, actually. no, i'm not turning into an alcoholic. :) it's imagery, mostly. i don't really even bother buying alcohol; the most i have in my apartment is a bottle of knob creek bourbon and a tiny bit of jack daniel's whiskey. don't forget that G-d is a great superhero when you're falling into the void of loneliness.