and antiques. and U-hauls. and Walt Disney. and noise.

our ears flew us around like Dumbo, 

   as we tried to remember these promises.
     that piano in the living room, you know the one. 

       antique mahogany, withering away
          from all the wrong sounds.
it wanted Bach, Chopin, Beethoven.
  instead, it got rage, betrayal,
    and the slow, heavy racket of a moving van.

The Cadillac of Cancers.

You watched me eroding 

through your hazy periphery,

with Canon in D Minor sliding

through the speakers.

Exhalations.

Heart jumping hurdles with no saddle.
I slid through book shelves, rode
the hours of time
barebacked.

And was hurled off of time's spine
into a concussion of surreality.

I'm not a smoker, I'd rather
take hits off of your CO2 anyday.

Lies, yard sales, and the lack of a clue.

The key to life? 

 Beats me.
The only key I own, I found juxtapositioned between
withered blades of grass at a yard sale in the summertime.
It was silver, or at least tried to be. 

Old, in my young hands. 

I picked it up, and brought it to the owner
of this yard, asked for a price, a bargain for this "antique."
He told me to take it, and was shocked anyone with
a shadow would offer to pay for such a worthless
piece of tin.
I thought of it as an adoption of some sort.
I wanted to foster that worthless piece of tin and
shower it with love and attention it never knew.
I put it on a string and tied it around my neck.
Told myself, "If anyone asks where the lock
to this key is, I'll calmly mutter 'In my lover's rectum...'
smile mischeviously, and walk away."
The key to life? 

 Beats me.

Anatomical Religion

Thy body is a temple, and I am an orthodox creature.
I remember when we'd spend days at a time worshipping
one another's mystic realms of flesh,
finding new paths to old places. 

You'd trace the constellation of beauty marks near my right eye with
your fingers and land a kiss on the Big Dipper.
You were Haley and my pupils were a single, long-awaited
comet. It had taken sixteen years to surface, plunging
through each atmospheric plane like a suicidal scuba
diver. I knew how it felt to be "In Danger." 

You were the James Dean of my adolescence, 

my rebel without a single cause.
I understood nothing of your nature, except the feeling
I'd get when you'd expose the palms of your hands
sprinkled in the rarest form of vulnerability.
Who knew it lived on inside such a wild, untamed spirit?
Eventually, I came to realize that the wildest spirits
are in fact the most vulnerable. Each bite of vulnerability
is like another shot of moonshine to the soul.
My pain was your gain,

your gain built you to the sky, after you had
been knocked down by your own pain, in times
attempted to be forgotten.

The Three Month Itch

Your eyes are midnight-flavored almonds,
my favorite.
There are no euphemisms for your kind of fire.
The kind that you can see, hiding under your skin.
It makes you scream and deny your anger.
Sling shots of melancholy whiskey across the
room with your eyes and then kiss me above the
speed limit.
Pushing 90 on a 55 mph highway.
When I'm annoyed, you can tell, by the way
my entire body begins to itch like a methamphetamine
addict, with crystals farming themselves
under my flesh.
It's worth it.
In the mean time, I photograph your being with
each glimpse of my eyes.
My eyelids shudder.
My fingertips sail across your face, getting lost
somewhere along your spine.
The Bermuda Triangle.
Your bones are my foundation,
My bed frame,
My hammock in the desert

The Roman Empire.

Knee-deep into my past, I came down with a rare case of the
'I don't give a fuck' syndrome. I fell in love with a disease
called Music. It eventually ate my flesh and melted my heart valves.
This 5'10 bag of skin drove his tank into my immune system and began
the rise of my sentimental suction. The dissintigration of my
independent rationale. I was a clever fuck, but lost my wits to
something I couldn't see or touch. After the rise and fall of
my love life, I became the Annie Oakley of heartbreakers.
Perfect aim, every time. I had precision. For crying outloud,
I certainly perfected the art of crying silently.
A Roman Empire lived inside the furnace of my soul, and
I felt every joust of a sword, in the colluseum of my eyes.
Poking through my pupils. Julius was my right arm
and Brutus was my left. I'd have fist fights in my sleep.
I stabbed my own back, perpetually.
I was a shrink's jackpot and a patriot's
worst nightmare.
I had cigarette burns on my neck,
and in the end,
I learned to enjoy the pain.

Louis Braille on Viagra.

Seni Seviyorum? What the fuck?
I don't speak bilingual madness. I only love with my eyes. My voice dissipates in the presence of a lover.
I feel my way around like Louis Braille on Viagra.
Let's be honest, here. 

We're human, yeah, we fuck ourselves over in our nine-to-five lives and then we go home and fuck our lover. It's nothing new. 

Ancient Egyptians did it, the Romans did it, you do it. Yeah, I do it, too. 

Never mind celibacy- life is too short to be pure. 

The last ruckus I caused was in February 1989, I finger-painted on the walls of my mother's womb. 

I wrote: "To my future siblings, this one's for you." 

My past lovers liked to wear their genitalia on their sleeves,
While I tried to pretend we were problem-free.
Jeans exploding. Eyes flooding. "No one is perfect."
Man, was he right.

I love you.

That night, I bled onyx pebbles,
and my limbs grew limbs.
Your eyes liquefied my tongue
into orange magma. 

"No, thanks." 

The silence fell like a boulder 

on our shoulders.
You and I are dying so beautifully.
The melodies of asphyxiation
drown out all worries.
Man, do you have any idea how long it took me to get to this place?
"I didn't think so." 

I don't want you
to take this the wrong way or
anything---- but I'm not who you
think I am. I'm an -ING maniac.
I don't stop for a second. I observe
dying bumblebees after they accidentally
sting inanimate objects.
Please, tell me you love the freak in me.

Tell me it's okay to enjoy destruction.
Tell me it's not wrong to fall in love with yourself
while showering in the afternoon.
You gotta admit, life is pretty fucking ironic.
Too ironic to take yourself too seriously.
Woe is me. Yeah, fuck you. And you.
And you, too. 

Oh, but not you,
You ravishing beacon of beauty. I love you.

The chandelier broke on my head last night.
And now, I light my own way...

miami.

There's something about this city in all its

attempt to be culturally colorful and the fact

that it remains home to me, no matter where

I go or how much I claim to hate it. I've

metaphorically spat on this town so many times,

the next step would be to hock a loogey of

chewing tobacco off the bay, and let it fall atop

the heads of the manatees. The manatees

here, they all have scar tissue on their skin,

from boat propellers spinning into them, creating

puncture wounds the size of sunflowers all along

their sides; when they wail from the pain,

the sound waves disappear against the Biscayne

current. All the while, young girls with old minds

strut across the street, looking for validation.

"You're lovely" is all they want to hear.

Of course, the cat calls from nomads and

beggars and the corner bus stop full of

sheepish pedophiles don't scare them.

No, this city is filed and polished

like a royal fingernail.

The roads are stained with Pibb's

Root Beer and Sunny D-Lite dripped

from toddlers in speeding strollers.

The sidewalks are cracked from pressure

from the sun and steel-toed boots and the

South Beach elite, this city is warm

and cold-hearted. The skyline licks the

horizon, or maybe the other way around.

But, it's so vibrant, it makes you shake,

and think: "Could I survive anywhere else?"