Done

And so when you are finished

Searching for the perfection

Promised to you by a group of leaders

Whom tell you every day out right

That they are lying to you

When the girl on television with impossible

Physique under a pound of butter cream

Foundation standing with no bearings

Weakly on her own...

When the hairless mole rat six pack

Or perfectly predatory hairless pecks

Stop making you feel as though its your job

To look daily like a photoshopped

Airbrushed multimedia project

If you are finally finished dipping your drool

Into a gallon carton of Mocha Swirl

Java Cup emotions

Drool from the most extreme show on television

Making miracles look like painful

Mutations to the body you call home

And the life story you call your face

If you are

Done

Then I will be here waiting

To walk you through a world of moving on

Freeing yourself to a status of humanity

Exclusively

And taking in the wonders rarely offered

As well as those always present

In this

Already too short

Life

Echoed

If screams

And keels over into fetal positions curled tight

If wincing lemon faces ripped from lion faces

And listings of higher powers

"Jesus Christ God Oh My God!"

Can somehow result in the birth of something infantile

And totally new

But not always human

Then the babe would be lovers

Across time

The cries let out from the greatest lovers

Most powerful in their passions

Most passionate in their powers

Sow seeds of lovers' moans

To be harvested when, again, in time

The same caliber of romantic thigh twitching

And eye-rolling is created and echoed

Let the kings and queens of the past know

That a cornucopia and bountiful feast

Is taking place in our bedroom

On our sheets

While our movements knock

Shakespeare's sonnets and Dickinson's letters

From your nightstand

Know Better

Something inside of me

Knows better than to

Second guess the tingles that creep

Up the back of my arms

When you answer the phone

With a hello

Spoken through a smile

Secrets, Secrets

Never, ever, ever tell me

That you feel the same

Please, despite your gestures

And soft poet kisses

And arms capable of wrapping the entire military industrial complex

Up into a bear hug

Despite your tongue reaching for swirls of cozy sweatpants days

Hidden somewhere in our familiar kisses

Do not tell me how you feel

Do not let me know

I am forever in awe of making sure

You know exactly how I feel

And creating masterpieces in the honor of the off

slight, shot in the dark long shot chance

That you might feel even half as safe

And correct as I feel when I am wrapped up in you.

I need the mystery.

I want to be forever in the dark

Where we can mold our bodies together

While I forever ask you

Read it again

Read it again

Read it again

Blasted

They shot a missile into the moon today

One rocket penetrated the moon at 7:30 our time

The second waited, starring for four minutes until it collided

Reawakening and recreating all the dust and chaos

Of just four minutes earlier

I look at my list of tasks piling up like warheads

And make a list of what all reminds me of you

A paper about a poet you introduced me to

Researching our fate had we been born different times

Would you words still as sweet rest on my shoulders?

And responding to a nation

Awake at 7:30 our time

Watching with telescopes a tiny offensive penetration

Of a virgin chunk of rock

As though they didn't know

Or didn't care

That the moon created us

That the moon is our bedroom chandiler

As gentle and precious as a time zone

Or a national border

Or a distance between earth and the moon

Myself and your chest

Myself and my pillow

For sleeping under the moon.

Stretching

I miss the colors of your bedsheets wrinkled in the bends of you

Whenever I lounge around on pajama bottom days

I miss the way your torso hands the conversation

Over to your thighs

Whenever I walk miles with heavy backpacks

In directions that are not toward you

I hear you brushing your teeth in my dreams

But I wake to find myself much further from your bathroom

Than across the hall

Still I throw the backpack to the ground

And stretch my legs

Brush my teeth

And slip into bed

Knowing that every once in a while

I will slip perfectly into your complimentary

Curves and bends

Agreeing with your body

And soak up moments to miss

2:25 am

I cannot write a poem high

I said

I’ve never been able to

But I lied for the sake of argument

Which is something I try not to do

And I know I shouldn’t

But I do

And you should know this.

I know my truths are safe here though

You said you don’t trust

Art born of intoxication

My mind is recovering

And stopping slowly

The many years I’ve passed

Worth of intoxications

Brain dead highs and lows so bitter

I freeze cheeks just to think

Searching for highs in wrong things

Not even drugs

Binge eating weekends and lies to my parents

Skipped agendas and responsibilities hidden away from

Like ass-up ostrich immaturity

And I worry myself asleep

Most off-days

Wondering if my time has come to go or go ahead

Slip on a K-Mart vest and gain a special blue glow

Or sell it, pawn it, hitch it, suck it, and sue it all the way to the

Big leagues

Recently I started searching for answers in a chair

Without sugar or video games for a week

Just to see if I could stop crying

And throwing fits

And maybe start cleaning up my pencil box

And sharing with the other kids

But there was always a difference between hearing my father say ‘throw you into the deep end’

And him actually throwing me

Wait for me to decide

Before your decision

And your chances of a contact high

Soar to Petty concert comparisons

Luna

As I stand tired at my sink

Washing the night sky

The twinkles of fork prongs

And curves of little dippers

Extend themselves as for me to get a handle

On the night sky

But as I approach the moon plate dish

I realize I cannot

I wax and wain and circle the

Full bright orb

Getting nowhere with the stains

The stars and fork prongs

See that I'm distracted

The rush of nighttime post-shower

Pre-sleep soft skin sheet kiss

Leaves a stare and a freeze

I am breathless

Powerless to the night sky

The dippers float back to heaven

The stars ride soap bubbles away

And the dish

Runs away

With the moon

Elixir

I’ll tell you why I chose the elixir

Given my choices

I’ll explain to you every bit of what you need to know

And even previews of what you want to know

I will spill out newspaper clippings and tell-all novels

From the collapsing sopping wet cardboard edges of my hover ville

A gun to set my pace

Traipsing through early morning sunrises

In turkey neck flannel and budding raw masculine sexuality

Patches of stubble

Stink of changing hormones and nervous urges creeping

I could have used my gun with the men

As the winter morning gas station Marlboros and day old reheated coffee no creams

Invited me to take the four-wheeler out

And shoot

I chose to run from the truth about weapons

That weapons killing are only half of their issue

Weapons, more importantly, give the shooter a choice

And I never wanted to be given that choice

Do not burden my ATV shocks to carry that weight back to the campgrounds

My gender sent me a basic postcard to come play in the early morning fields of

Choosing the final chapters of whatever was in sport

My dickmates asked me early on to decide if what I had was a weapon

And I swallowed the inevitable fate of a terrorizing childhood social dilemma

To stand proud with no weapon but a favor

Request

An empathetic extension

But never a pain

I was offered once a noose

Woven so completely for me

Convenient and martyred with fray only where dramatic

Scores of enthusiasts inside of a world we all see everyday

Contribute to everyday

Live in everyday

Share everyday

But never really physically enter

Interweb Media System Communications

Anyway, scores of them

Carefully downloading and extracting the contents of a custom fit noose

There are many reasons to offer someone a noose

Each of them carefully crafted boxes with lines drawn on the inside

And instructions where to stand written backwards

On the sides that are off limits

Come inside where the rain cannot seep into your make-up eyes

Raccoon eyes are out! Hello?

Enjoy the ideas but never the desires

Step to the side and fill out the form

We’ll let you know what its your turn

Eyes on your own personalized paper

And while you wait

We’ll be fitting you for your noose

I was never one to read

No point in lying

So I stayed in the lobby with a noose

And hormone circumstantial blues

Until some friends of mine saw me in the window

And I saw no reason not to leave for a bit

I had time for a cigarette anyway

I didn’t bring my noose

With me

Then one morning I woke

And found on my nightstand

Well, almost knocked over on my nightstand

Because I am not a morning kind of person

This little elixir not tall enough to be poppers

With Alice in Wonderland labels

Fuck the Dumb Shit

And

Seriously

Now I walk into rooms full of nooses

Watch men shoot deer from the schoolhouse windows

And wait for my next weapon of choice

Be it ninja star catty wit claws tossed by angry gay men

Like ultimate Frisbee in the quad

Or dumbed flat and insistently rough armor shields from aged enlightenment seekers

I watch and weigh my options

And the weight of my load

Because life is far to heavy

Carrying too many weapons

Besides

I need to maneuver with ease

I am still wandering hallways and shores

Trying to find out what exactly constitutes

The dumb shit

Major

I keep dehydrating myself

Because it’s good to need something

Other than poetry

You know what you need,

Poet

You know what you need is overstatements

And understatements

Not bank statements

It seems as though what you thought you in fact needed

Will sadly bring you no more than you have

How wonderful would it have been

In the event

Of this American capitalist (stay with me)

Truce and agree-ance actually holding more than noodles

But soup

It is a lie, however

And it seems these dreams of yachts and custom made clothing

Implied wealth waving invisible from the concrete as though

It is assumed rather than created

Are never fully realized any more than a Rom-Com

Montage makeover

Because time and reality clutter this world

Void of utopian basics

Bogged down by the truth

And the humidity

My god the humidity

Reminding summer days they are alive but not all well

But I was raised in a swamp

Jumped from my lily pad

Flew through the air

And landed in another boggy balmy humid swamp

I can take the humidity

And you know you are more than okay with it, Poet

You know you love those overstated saber-toothed giant woolly

Painfully real brutal truth-tastic nastinesses

The nights filled with tears and screams and whinny complaints

Set to unfortunate realities

And tasks at hand

You complain about the humidity

But you love being shirtless because of it, Poet

You love your insistent candor and fistfuls of wit

So perhaps dreams of arid dry heats out west

And safely tangible disposable hearty suburban kitchen islands

Filled with junk mail and credit card statements

Are in fact not at all what you really want,

Poet

Perhaps the ugly, bitter, sweaty, whoreish, brash, brazen, seductive

Seedy, underbelly truth

Is that you need something no one else in this world needs

Other than poets

To suck barnacles from the underside of life’s biggest great whites

And scream in joy at the amazing ride zipping through thirsty under currents

For the bargain price of lamentation

Everything for the sake of study

The study of sciences

And arts

But mostly just vain arrogant selfish needs

How dirty a little truth to discover, Poet

But you need rough whisky shot purging animal noise sweat stained

Craziness

It’s perhaps the only explanation you can understand

And the only thing you can fully explain

Slice

I am sick of these poems

This demographics warfare

Night after night

Mic after mic

Across the country

Labels collected and struggles hoarded

In the battle of 'who's more repressed?'

But before you rush the stage

With hisses and fruits

Hear why my poem is that of the ugly kind

I am sick of these poems

As I am sick with these poems

Each of them bargaining with empathy

And playing to a crowd

With an optimistic faith in common sense

And humanity

And each of the perfectly placed punctuations

Begs for a slice of my heart

Directly proportional in size

To the amount of disparities and demographics

I have no choice but to give into them

As each poetry lives to tell a story

Of pain and longevity

Waiting in line to a room full of heart butchers

Ready at their slicers

Only one voice could possibly be missing

The voice of the room

Whole and unified

Fighting sighs and indifferences

Giving way to a struggle cliche-d into the

Hippie term 'revolution'

Fuck it.

Call it what you will

But it's not Armageddon

It's simply the poets Collecting our Works

To understand the level of empathy we

All seek in others

Is too in ourselves

The underlying passion is an adventure

Seeker with a hound dog scent of camaraderie

I am sick with these poems

My own tally-marked demographic novels in tow

Bring to me what I'll bring to you

Immigrants helping rape victims

Children of abuse racing for the cure

Inner-city victims of the deepest strands of racist tensions

Plowing through the rover-red-rover lines of language barriers

Gay feminist vegan Pagan naturalists

Devoting more time to the halt of genital mutilation abroad

Than they do to their own PETA-driven causes

The penniless building monuments

To the women who got the vote

See each other

As the poem in your hand

And heal the sick

with

these poems.

The Gambler

And so at least I know

It's me

That is feeling, climbing, explaining

Circumstance and indecision aside

I am this now

There are givens given

And hypotheticals discussed

At the seminar of 'What Next?'

Oddly placed in Vegas

Gambling and affirmations aside

I am standing, smoking, looking

At all the tables of play

Knowing it's me

Who has a very clear decision to make

To take over as Showgirl

With the deepest positive affirmations

My titty tassels can elicit

As I strip down to strip down

I realize, life is null and void

N/A

The sigh of relief is comparable to Katrina winds

And my stage name is born

There are no answers

What is-s

What was-s

And what will be-s

But no right or wrongs

No answers

Just questions

And I stop yelling at the microphone

Stop blowing dice like my life depends on it

And start shaking my fringe

And showing off a new look of pretentiousness

Because I wonder why people are attracted to men that treat them like shit

Not because I know they are

Swinging tea-bag insults in your bifocals

And thumping to the mirrored disco balls

As multi-faceted

And reflective

As any given noun or situation

One can imagine

Too smart for your own good

Thinking yourself dumb

Breathing

Smoking

Staring

Asking

Giving the disappointments and teases

And picking money off the stage like third world

Toddlers pick trash from land fills

Why?

Good question.

What does anyone lower himself?

Is it because we are raised to see our standards gleaming

High atop the landfills and mountains of history books

Pages screaming of struggles for indignance

And the very concept of a standard of living

Eat pac man gulps of our existence

For life

And the assumption that we all lower ourselves

Just to bend over to the ground

I know my dressing room standards

But life is hardly ever back stage

Its down center

And the lights will rise

When the horse races are over.

So I ask the lights

My questions

And gladly stretch

For my next bends to the floor.

Gestate

There's a rambling staircase
Creaking shrieks with every quantitative step
Every bottle of potential and kinetic
Starting and pause
Forcing bold decisions and outright statements
Similar and replicated in the twisted
Mangled inner self importance of every
Mid-block Maslow sparkling mysterious
Diamond shine pyramid
It begs for an understand of the dialogue
Of chapters void of need; dead-centered on character
Development and evolution
I sit atop the railing
Legs dangle to the sides
Do I slide? or step
Unable to mimic or mime a mime
I see-saw between chapters

Down on the cold basement cement
Barefoot and bleary-eyed
You call to me to make a decision
Watching the grand staircases of Titanics
And theatre halls in my peripherals
I compare and gestate
Screams from the basement door
Remind of errands and chores
But your voice beckons a decision
Slide or step...
I wrap in the options
And gestate
I paint imagery of gliding para sails
Drifting down staircases like the ruffles
Of sea foam fishtail cocktail ensemble
I drool over thoughts of mountain climbing
Hippie granola ambitions
And I call to you push me
Up or down
But touch me
In the direction only your eyes can know
Are the most
Beautiful

Collapsed

Domesticate me.
Pour me into a bottle.
Shake my ingredients and rethink my recipes.
Because gently and tenderly I rethink my own
I toss my inner monologues (and admittedly dialogues)
Into passionate little girl holiday snow globes and watch the petals dance
When a gentle smile breaks its way onto your face
And the sunlight from a day we have seen nothing of
Glides into the darker corner of your eyes
And shames the shadows of the room
For haphazardly attempting to emulate the dramatic darkness of your hair
When I discover a new concentration of color, a freckle, a mole
A sleep sheet crease taking hotel stays on your back and face
I am reading a book that is changing my life
I am uninterested in the daylight
Nor the moon
Only the slowly faded dances of time and placement of light
From right to left as the day passes
And I feel content knowing your position in my arms will change
Only as circulation is lost and cramps creep
So we change our forever embrace and lazy collapse
Sighing occasionally like tired beasts content in winter
I am with you unproductive and unchallenged
However busier and deeper in thought
Than the most hectic of school days or think tanks
Fallen like a golden gown of a golden queen in a golden age
Limp and lifeless but somehow with more grace and presence
Than when before I was draped across a beautiful bare back
Collapsed and gentle
Breathless for hours, constant in space
It is but nothing for me to plan my days around inactivity with you
Seeing as I have no clever illness nor disorder deemed official
By the pharmaceutical wizards of modern medical masterminds
I can offer only a poor mans apology
As blame is a virtue of the richer
I can offer only an apology for not throwing my emotions upon the nightlife
And arranging symphonies to be played out of rooftops
Great dinners to attend in the honor of our engagement
But rather hours of lethargy and sluggish behavior
But I beg an explanation
Draped and collapsed
Fallen and gentle
Touched in soft breath by the days progression
My heart beats so I’ve run the deepest marathon
Into the height of the Andes
Stripped of all oxygen and pacing
Regardless my stubborn appearance
As a person of hummingbird premature heartbeat
I feel still too weak to experience much more
Than experiencing that of you
And I
And sheets
And pillows
Cigarettes and wine
And conversations
Finally someone I am more interested in than myself
So interested, in fact
I spend little time explaining a thing
You deserve more, it’s true
Scores of novels and pages of tutorials
On the inner workings of who it is holding you
And I’ll uncover more as I go
Peel as you see fit
But peel as you lay
Collapsed and draped
Inanimate and domestic
In charge of whatever
Shaking my holiday globe
And laughing at the shadows in the room.

Scene Selection

I have felt the ticklish breeze
Cross over my face and run through
My hair like rye
Seen the credits role and waited
On the repetitive
Unglamorous
Menu screen
All the while waiting for a sequel
I am listening to the droplets
Forming stalagmites
And standing, guilty, in a puddle
My life is changing
Skipping forward
Chapters at a time
Sometimes
And patiently breathing on chaotic mountaintops
Sometimes


The main event:
Reoccurring and threaded
Ever so pleasantly
Through the pages
And templates of my everyday
However
Would be that the best of howevers
The gusty bustling
Cluster fuck
That I have come to know so gently

Sometimes its just moonlight
Tickling the curtains
And cold January breezes seeping
That cause your forearms to goose bump
And just seeing that transition
The proven breath of life full action
Run across your skin
Makes me jealous in ways that cannot be blamed
On infidelity nor electronics

But of skin cells
Holding tight
To hold you in
I want inside
Or you outside.

How unfair to ask death or sex
To a person incapable of controlling emotions
Damn me all to hell and back
But I want closer.
And isn't that the ultimate scream of the lover?
if nothing but...
I am at a plea to not just watch your freckles
Dance as you laugh and keel
And pull back in a confused and scared place
Of moving right back into a belly laugh.


No,
I don't ask to watch your beauty markings
And perfectly places symmetries experience
Life
I ask to experience that
Life
With them.

Sunlight comes soon enough
To melt the hearts of winter.
What happens to the fern, ever green
Through winter
But an even greener bloom?
I am grateful for your greenery

I am not satisfied to stop.

So squeeze me, for lack of
A better word.
There is rarely a better word anyway.
I am struggling here to find the placement
Of sounds as we stand.
So
Shut the fuck up
And squeeze me
Until I melt into you
Or we die there
Together.

There are two outcomes:
Death or sex
Unfair,
But asked of young lovers
Impatient to get at what’s good for the getting.
We have both been bad.
Only the good die young.
Squeeze me
Until I am your freckles.