Leaf stampedes howl under our feet

while time ticks face-aching dimples

and rapture abused

.

You check,

no one’s watching,

and I’d smile

.

It was always around 9 or 10,

I’d pick you up from class

drawn by natural ecstasy

and the 8 bus

sneaking all the sweet I could

on long walks nowhere.

.

Or there was that time 

filthy drunk in the backseat

of my dad’s stolen toyota

with my then girlfriend in the front

we tangled legs and basked in

night light dis-certainty.

.

All the night,all the time, all the mystery

and all the things we kinda’ already knew. All

the past, future, and moments un-explainable.

.

Its fun not knowing

while maybe knowing;

.

My veins blush in the face of

infinity, I’m alive.

Swell me silent

Fire my hydrant

Take me off

Slow, now violent

.

Change two fools

Sweat-shop duels

Check the clock

Walk real cool

.

Tear me tender

Wearin’ leather

Swear my cock

Can tell the weather

.

Chop chewy clues

For me, maybe you

Heard it gets hot

So I got the blues

.

Feel my thighs

Twitching fights

Here’s the plot

We’ll let it die

.

Stories scream

Childish dreams

Spot-for-spot

I lost the scheme

Tangerine sunsets vibrantly ring past skylines unreal. Swaying pine inside my gut.
.
As much as I shake, dry off, shake-repeat-shake, golden moments of past void my presence. I ask myself, “Would you even want to forget it?”
.
I need more breezy hair panorama. Just one warm evening that’ll trump these goddamn golden sunsets I watched with you. I need to know oceans, skies, wilderness haven’t told me all their secrets.
.
No, I don’t want to forget, and won’t. My dreams wouldn’t let me anyways. There are many trees and many chances. And if there’s not, there’s at least an end to this madness somewhere.

These days constance and sanity might

be undervalued, or maybe just

with the people I frequent.

.

These days I’m being my own person

and not a pre-written Hallmark

copy-write.

.

These days I make pizza at

3 A.M. alone just because.

.

These days I go out because

I want wind, and’ve figured there’s

a 20% chance it’ll happen.

.

These days I’m realizing

honesty isn’t bad, that is, with

one’s self. But also realizing truth

changes quickly. Beware.

.

These days I’m reading more

poetry than I write, and well,

isn’t that grand…

.

These days I’ve noticed I

have many friends, but parallel

to that, also noticed friends

only like each other chemically

altered, or maybe on the weekend

or something.

.

These days I’m taking it easy, and

don’t care about endings.

I’d write poetry, but have no truth, no picture playing in my head. A physical embodiment worthy of no detail, no landscape.

Once again I write without image, without center. Throwing pretty words together like it means something. Like I’m actually accomplishing anything.

Who in their right mind would think a poem could ever do anything. Nothing but shitty perfume on a hot date. A fools craft, where fools foolishly remember foolish things unreal.

And maybe I should put a bow-tie on my shit, and send it to national collective press, and then someone could look at my foolery and learn something foolish.

No goodnight moons. No ravenous scarlet scarves. No lake-side memoir. No tender evenings at Gatsby’s. Nothing but tears and monumental solutions, sweetened for the fools.

Alone I sit
Drinking potato vodka
Dancing the twist
Embellishing Scrooged secrets
Telling of feelings
I not yet know
Whispering suicidal tendencies
Completely objective from
The constellations we saw
That one time
Completely objective
Of past participation
Now I rumble
Stumble
To shreds
Only to be sewn
Back together
And she don’t want die
Alone
And he don’t want to die
Alone
And I don’t want to type
But have to.

Take me home

to deep-laked pine

riding garden ledge

long since tended.

.

Past city-light

cosmic smog, past

muttering engine

groans, past spare

time idly spent.

.

Take

me home to poetry

read ‘round fire to

minds lost in

stars. To summer

breeze, to winter

oasis. To silent con-

versation, to warm

smiles. To the top of

towering rocks

we lay, jump, run,

scream, whisper,

laughing at any car

driving by.

.

Here we

are home, but this

home is not any place.

It’s in our dreams, in

heart, in the uncon-

scious. Here, for always

and forever.

young punks shooting junk

tender heels wheeling funk

healing lungs drop drunk


now lay me down to sleep


strum scum revolting slums

September squeals shielded chumps

feeling tongues swap prompts


now lay me down to sleep


swamp stomps muse response

from slender appeal stealing spunk

gleaning grunts pocked n’ plump


now lay me down to sleep


frumped fun, blooming bunks

dissenter’s wielding real love

revealing chunks chopped n’ dumped


now lay me down to sleep

I was born in a war-zone,

or maybe it was a military

hospital. Under trees neighboring

Seattle. Under man-made lakes

neighboring man. Under conditions

neighboring insane.

.

Created by questionable omens,

forecast-ed from elder

blood, my future has a chance to 

succeed, and a greater chance

to die in a war-zone.

.

Fortunately, we’re all born

in war-zones. My fate has not

been written. And when the bombs

do finally 

strike, I’ll be safe, far-away 

from any destruction, in the lime-

light of my spirit, gently showering

lovers with patience,

explorers with

adventure, wounds 

with warmth.

I can dress up, slick

my hair back, and kiss

salutations to night-

time zebras. I can drink

fine wine slowly,

conversating appropiately

between quick sips. I can

engage words with a 

noticeably passionate

demeanor, even when i know 

not what I speak. I can do all

of that.

.

And 

when the nights over

and I’m bubbly drunk

with love.

I can get dirty.

.

With messy hair dancing,

and crooked clothes

grinning. With closed eyes

feeling and slated lips

loving. With soft music

playing and bare hips

grinding. Composing the

most painful morning into

a sexy symphony. Howlin’

moans, laughter, n’

delicate whispers. I like

being dirty. I like being

clean. I like you.

I walk through an unfamiliar city alley high on spirit. I pass a man spray painting something on a brick wall, he sees me, then turns back to the wall, and continues on with his masterpiece. I smile, feeling silently accepted, then laugh and walk on. We make it to the underside of Mt. Vernon, and glare up at the surrounding buildings in romantic awe. I climb up fire-escapes, I climb below the brightly colored Howard Street Bridge, I climb on top of Baltimore-city’s elusive white water, I climb on boulders, I climb away from cops, I climb to warmth. I feel my blood thin and my skin loosen. A jungle gym of massive proportions beats heavy inside my heart.

Poetry written in despair

isn’t poetry. For poetry

finds axiom within self,

and doesn’t lament in

jejune sentiment.

.

The true poet,

the poet within all of

us, never stops trying

to understand reality.

.

Not a logic-based

reality, but an ever-willing

aspiration to see one’s soul

as it really is.

.

We get lost in offense; weeping,

blind and mad. Destroying

ourselves, selfishly hoping

an angel will save us. There

is no divine intervention. Only

self.

.

We are our own 

saviors. Our wounds will heal

if we want them to.

Sunshine explorers

bombasting wild nights;

a true American horror

somehow still bright.

.

Un-admittingly straightforward

I’ll still overwrite,

like a gentle warrior

not knowing how to fight.

.

Bashfully armored

in an all-consuming white

I behold the disorder,

feeling alright…

Back in the day I’d drop

sentimental bombs like 

hot cake. Miraculous in

ever-lamenting explosion.

But I burned my-

self. 

.

Nowadays I only

drop poetry bombs. They

fall, and my words scatter

into some sense. some love.

some confusion.

Then go away.

.

I drop 4th of July bombs.

that explode dramatically, then 

fizzle away without

destruction. I don’t drop bombs

in California. No, I hear poetry

bombs there usually result in

wild-fire. If i was the president,

America would only drop

poetry bombs, but definitely 

not in California..