Semiotics

Noise eating
desperate
pinches of
sunbathing palms,
turning this
way or that, inside
or out, or pushing
against another
lone limitation
on real color.

Smiling faces
in reflections
distorted
to beige
scaffolding
crawling with sway
and taunt with wit
sunken eyes,
slipping to snare
meaning from
firing squad
synapses.

Do not
make effort long,
give in to
drought, to meeting
memory with
forgetting, to renew
spirit sinew.

Innocuous
sleeping parts,
offset and
lamenting
smokestack sky,
inching
always
closer.

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.
From House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

Spring: 04.16.2014

Next year I turn thirty,
every day running faster
and faster towards death.

My addictions convince
every cough and sniffle
that stomach, lung, blood
cancer makes sense,
etching my own obituary
and tombstone heading
on my skin for everyone
to read.

How shallow to think,
anyone but those I let
into my life would care,
despite keeping those loved
at arms length.

How shallow
those thoughts trickle
across my tongue.

Solar Sampling

Scream lungs full
until bloodfresh
and raw,
small mistakes
compounding against
a thousand years of
evolutionary bedrock.

We dance backs
turned, hands
holstered vocal
strings deep:
plucking along
offset melodies
with a shared spine,
pretending it’s okay
to fall wingshy
of cloud tops.

I have
bitter blood,
bitter spit,
bitter hands…

Made of all the things
I couldn’t say,
when you needed it most.

Ringing Well

Disappearing act,
to deep black hat
after silk hands
quiver blood from
inner pockets.

This frail complexity
that carries my wounds
after the extra drinks,
fails to carry me to you…
And are you as sick
and tired of me, as I am
sick and tired of you
being sick and tired?

Rambles can only shake the tree into shambles so many times before it falls.

Forget
what your
mother said,
about the length
of hair and the lair
of spare men,
sleeping in your closet-

Our attempt at loving
everyone has an arms
length approach to
happiness.

We are all sick and tired.

Spring: Spools

Nine days
on death watch,
waiting to suffocate
and feel black
tar eat vessel deep
into veins, nerve,
and bone.

Can any,
of anyone
pick up after
being cut from
umbilical melodies,
and mother’s milk?

Couple years
deep skin and being
talked out of happiness,
pursuing four-oh-ones,
encrypted feelings, and
grave-plots under
high rise mannequins:

Dancing
Dancing
Dancing…

Prepare for
final descent
into the core
of the earth,
reclaimed by
the particles
we once were.

Spring: 03.22.2014

Fever dreams again,
deus ex machina
to the machines
growing against the
inside skull
cranium wall, built
with hand-slaves and
a drug sludge mind…
Voices asking to
rebuild, destroy,
rebuild, the clouds
are falling and cracking
the plates sucking
the oceans towards
molten rock spiraling
metal core- Rebuild,
destroy, repeat,
the machines keep
going and drugs
breathing in time
with my lungs,
not drowning this
is flying,
and I’ll wake up soon-

wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up w a k e u p

wake up, you’re dying
building fever machines,

wake up.

Winter: 03.11.14

I want to feel
your rain, the
heavy rush of
lightning strikes,
a calm thunder and
the way dawn breaks
over this thick hush-
Our voices broken
by all the things we
want to say, lodged
in our throats.

I want to cast a hook,
rope thick and knotted
with all of my regret,
feel that tug and pull
against a tide
running against the end-
Our bodies broken
on the shoreline rocks
that dot the water’s edge:

I have to feel a rain
that makes me want
to go outside again,
before a buried past
reminds that love
is expired medicine.