Sunday, April 17, 2011
You are lunar flora: prickly pear cacti which fill craters steeping in a celestial marinade hailing from the Horsehead. And should you stand beneath the sun for too long, the land which surrounds you would recede into the dark recesses from whence it came, and the soft luminescence of your eyes would suffice to lead your way.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
a message with a knife
And you walked back to your car
dead leaves flying backward
you drove all the way home with
the emergency signal on
singing the same song
your parents played
the night you were conceived
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
residual cherubs on your cheek
How often does one pass
a leashed mut
on that stretch mark on the thigh
of lady lone star
In what manner do you display
allegiance to your
In what vein?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
People tell you
you've got the hands of an architect
Do you fancy the space around walls
at a professional level
or do you dabble
like an amateur pornographer
devouring each mediocre column with your eyes
like an A-cup
waiting to be enhanced with a nipple tassel
scrutinizing each paint swatch like a tit in a crowd
wondering who the fuck would assign a name like
Aphrodite's Menses to a hue that resembles
but you sit at your unused drafting table
and spend hours
staring at your hands
You listen to a voice
for so long that its sonic appeal
And you walk to the park and sit
by the tree beneath which you
Eyes welling up with wet cement
you try to recall when
the novelty began to slowly whittle away
And how long the transient splendor
of novelty even existed before humans
compulsively hammered a word onto it
Did there ever exist a time in which
the things that initially felt good
remained that way?
Death is her pillowcase
her lingering perfume that pervades
the musty space of your apartment
the disgusting condiments she would
always insist that you'd stock up on
"Who the hell puts Worcestershire sauce
on a tuna sandwich,
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
"Gosh, nature is so incredible! Isn't it? I mean, look at all these rocks! They have this amazing scent. It almost smells like a really nice men's cologne, but it's completely natural! Nature is amazing!"
"Um, I think what you're smelling is probably laundry detergent. There's a coin laundry across the street. You'd be surprised by how far that scent travels."
"When be dat bus at?"
"Oh, 'scuse me, sir. Hi. Just a tip: You might not want to mix tenses like that. You'll find that when connotes Time while at connotes Place. One should choose the former or the latter lest one send the listener into a mottled linguistic frenzy. These are the logistics of the English language, you see. Do you read me, sir? . . . sir?"
"I don't have many ambitions, nor do I harbor any large-scale dreams for my future. And truth be told, I don't think I'll ever intend to."
"Then how is it that whenever I see you, it's as if it is always on the best day of your life? You seem content for a man without any dreams."
"Oh, but my life's a massive mosaic of 'em! I'm not a dusty, unimaginative machine. Every day is another dream and every night's aspiration is to wake up. Waking up always seems to suffice, too. I only wish to continue on this dreamtrain, to ensure that it doesn't derail, y'know? Am I confusing you?"
"A little. How about I sleep on it, and get back to you?"
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
in a delayed orbit
around each eyeful of almonds
two salty caverns
This brand of torture is as exclusive
swift, comparable to
a mere drizzle of honey;
But not in a healthy way