The Performer II

Into a tree you carved
a message with a knife

"IF FACES ARE TOPOGRAPHICAL

YOURS IS A RAVINE

SITUATED SOMEWHERE EAST

OF MY COMPLACENCY

WEST OF WHERE I DREAM

NORTH OF ALL THINGS WHICH ARE NOT

BUT PAINSTAKINGLY SEEM"

And you walked back to your car
dead leaves flying backward

beneath your feet
you drove all the way home with
the emergency signal on
singing the same song
your parents played
the night you were conceived

While You Knelt

What is the history

of regret?

It doesn't want to talk about

that. Trust it, that was a mistake,

it should have known better.

And if, say, that magical

memory jettison corporation

from that one film

with the blue-haired girl

actually did exist, yeah,

it would most likely

opt for that. Instead,

its head is reduced to

a pendulum inclined

to encumber a neck

too frail to support it.

Sure, it had fun,

but it's a Catholic, see,

and guilt became the

new pink as soon as John Paul

tied a rose-hued

chiffon scarf 'round the eyes

of his subordinate,

whispered redemptive

prayers into their ear- "Pretend

it's your favorite

candy," five times,

for posterity.

The Performer I

An octave prickles

the tongue which

cradles it and

buds bust into bloom

as the need for

projection is expressed

with a single

coo

Yesterday failure fulfilled you

lips lubricated with glue

the thousand-headed

monster of the crowd

lies ravenous

its eyes cast on

you

Count the Colors

O you

with plaid-clad

residual cherubs on your cheek

and pastel-planked

suburban scripture

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

ever faithful

drag queen?

In what vein?

Hands

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

charred bologna

but you sit at your unused drafting table

and spend hours

staring at your hands

Estrogen & Tonic

You listen to a voice

for so long that its sonic appeal

evanesces

And you walk to the park and sit

by the tree beneath which you

proposed

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,

anyhow?"

Dialogorrhea: A Love Story

i

"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."

ii

"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?"

iii

"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?"

Line Breaks, con sal.

By sundown,

I'm but a million morsels of decay

as atoms reverse their tap dance
in a delayed orbit
around each eyeful of almonds
two salty caverns

This brand of torture is as exclusive

as it is elusive
swift, comparable to
a mere drizzle of honey;

it's funny
But not in a healthy way

Stream of Consciousness

I stood at your grave,
with fists full of change,
change in the form of words,
words I couldn't previously say,
due to tides of time,
ebbing and flowing in the form of
change, change in the form of words,
words I collect in a felt hat, as
I busk for saplings of change,
change in the form of words,
words written in ink, exchanged
between changing strangers,
in the rain, on the bus, in the
train station, as people change
hats and faces and trains,
trains in the form of thought,
thoughts I collect in a cup,
a cup I keep above my bed
with a straw, a straw in the form
of a speaker, a speaker moving
voices, holding song, above my bed,
talking about
change.

A few servings of Haiku, in bed

This is not the end
We are despised, yes, but hey-
There's always the sea

I make no judgments.
But, sonic aesthetics? Well,
that... That doesn't count.

Cornucopia
Of wild, elusive facets
You show none but one

"Lay Lady Lay" looped
As we made love until noon,
Wish this bed were brass

"I only have eyes
for you," he said, she pondered,
then gauged, whispered, "Thanks..."

I am constantly
Coming up with new ways to
Say I do not know