Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Salve

Let yourself feel the

delicate press of mercy

apologies are peace treaties

some are not ready to sign yet,

because a war of vinegar is so much more

popular to belong to,

it makes you feel

so much better

because anyone can take on the world

when they've got a legion

of jealousy and insults behind them

incinerating any thoughts

of forgiveness amid the

crescendo of slammed phones

and doors


Days turn into tours of

duty,

keeping the pretense

that there's something

to strike against

until you're bloody

and decide to affix a

cold compress under

your skin,

ending the war

sometimes love is in the palm

of inaction,

and sometimes love can leave you

just as brittle.

By the Numbers

As with lots of seamy encounters,

this one began with a terrible movie

Charlie’s Angel’s 2: Full Throttle,

two hours of bottled gratuity,

famous tits in tight outfits,

dancing hordes of explosions

barely enough plot to keep

it plodding on the DVD player,

but I soldier though as it is

entertaining enough to sate her,

curled into my cradled arms

our hearts are spasmatic tools

we, puzzle pieces plucked from different boxes

still find a way to fit into the old grooves,

as Lucy Liu laughs at lackluster lackeys

we settle into old wriggling moves

as if we weren’t nearly two years removed

from our last rendezvous.

I think of the numbers as we tussle,


716 days since the last flash of lust

lolling out of her emerald eyes,

and an excited twist of her right arm,

a pale climbing stalk curled back,

her pointer finger like an exclamation mark,

twisting toward the ceiling

my hands greedily claw her bouncing ribs,

eight heaving bridges as I

upthrust into moist pink ridges

sealing our writhing sentence

turned regretful penitence when

I was ushered guiltily out of her room

to brood on the pain she dealt

herself and fiancé Chris who was

due in New York by the next full moon

and soon I’d be chopped liver,

14 days I spent as

a being of weak slivers slithering around

the apartment like a specter,

regretting and cursing Julia’s closed door

and the damning sounds of lovers beyond.


264 days since I missed the wedding,

fearing the searing strain that would build up

and bead in my furrowed eyebrows,

if I sat through their vows

watching her father give her away

instead choosing to sit in the hazy sway

of 6 blunts, bludgeoned by

smoke and sorrow sitting balled

in my gullet like a 10-pound gizzard stone

grown past the point of being swallowed.


265 days since she, a despairing damsel

was swept out of New York City by her

Prince Charming, the union of paramours

paired from paring down the teeming hordes

in massively multiplayer warfare,

but before they left,

she called me to see them off in Union Square,

the cupboard of my sanity now threadbare

I said I would come and never went there,

again the bluntsmoke would spiral midair,

the burning period on my none too subtle ‘fuck you’.


I didn’t want him to see me choked up

purpled with gurgling envy

in the aftermath of his matrimonial victory

on 14th Street, afraid I would be tempted

paint the front of Virgin Megastore with

the reddish-brown sleet of his blood and bone

or find myself dribbling my own on the train ride home,

or catching a nightstick to the dome from police

keeping peace for the throngs buying thongs from Forever 21

aghast at the fallout from hurled fists.


I return 360 degrees

to the abovementioned steamy scene,

two faces no longer distracted by the

screen, but by the moist sheen

in each other’s lips,

closed-eyed bliss

she reminds of how I firmly

gripped her hips,

just how much she and I missed all this

my slim arm seen sliding

up her strawberry red and black striped

shirt, teasing fingers dancing excited along

and then under her bra cup’s lacework,

rising guilt shirked in touching the erect

nipple I squeezed familiarly with

left thumb and forefinger,

she lets out a short hiss

but the guilt still lingered.

Digits working to take off my clothes,

breath reverberating in sharp, hot, rasps


I know my reach is exceeding the grasp,

but I ready myself to strike,

a starved cocoa asp

molting his shirt and swaying,

around my twitching cock her

wedding band branded hand was playing,

soon on her neck I would start preying,

at this point I was so frenzied,

so ready to pounce without fear

until suddenly between gasps

she whispered,

I don’t think this is a good idea…’

remorse now flooded through my hands,

this wasn’t supposed to be the plan

she reluctantly shoved me back

rising to leave while I still

lay down on my bed,

feeling like a rope that’s lost slack

squeezing ten fingers tightly

against my palms

resisting the urge to choke

her till’ her face was gasping and black

as she lightly joked her luck with

girls was equally just as bad.


“Will you walk me to the train?”

she suddenly asked, a pained look of pity

for me on her face,

I whispered ‘of course’

desperately trying to keep a sneer zipped

under a pained grin, l forced myself to take her

though deep down inside

I silently bade her stay with me

instead of feeling played thoroughly

by her final kiss between the hesitant doors

of the 4 train, rattling tight with a click

leaving me to trudge home wincing and drained

a soaked solitary grand marshal of a rained-on parade.

Ronin

A tired eunuch,

flustered resentful sentry,

they won't take from me.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Fim at 11

From 10-12 we get on out knees
and give our evening-news blowjobs,
our adoration the spit we gag on,
divided only by the nightly
poll and our opinions on
rampant reality shows,
drowning our gravel colored visions
with technicolor travesties stating
big girls can't be pop stars
and we can afford
to waste a million pop tarts
because in the tube no one ever starves,

We only hunger for
fifteen minute starlets
who swallow the press for
all they're worth
while the news seems
to be accompanied by our mental toilets
flushing journalistic shit
like a 21-gun salute
for a police dog
dead in 9-11's concrete shower
because human heroes were
already old news and
it was a slow week
television is the phantom comforter
we seek,
Nielson the watch we set our lives to,
let's wade in our misery,

break our legs bowing to our American Idols

because we're Kathy Bated into

believing our media babysitter knows what's best.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Pencils Down Please

I remember when I realized

Middle school was Hell

When I watched old reruns of

Saved By the Bell,

Bayside High the idealized school,

a surreal spool of lighthearted pranks

and very special episodes too.


Amid the corny California campiness

there was something amazing to me,

Zach Morris and his gang

only had to worry about

one looming SAT

while I worried over three

tests from a shadowy regency

that purposely designed their tests to fail

giving little heed to their wide fatal swath,

a bloody trail of broken student futures

educational thirst choked back by

the stifling sutures of Sequential Math,

Earth Science, and Spanish,

we could only watch as our teachers

hesitantly pulled each state-appointed stitch

over seas sneering lips,

snarls sewn away by binomials

we became the murmuring chattel

of a Scantron monarchy,

bisected by our hatred and desperation

to graduate.


While we were interred in

worksheet work camps,

driven by the sharply cracking lash of

Regents test preparation,

“What was the Emancipation?”

*crack*

“Why is this a parallelogram?”

*crack*

“Draw the elliptical pattern of the lunar cycle.”

*crack*

Abo-gado! Abo-gado! Biblio-teca! Bliblio-teca!”

*crack*

we call out our acapella

chorus in clipped Spanish

all interesting lessons banished by

mandated deadlines

passed down from on high

to our resentful teachers

forced to teach the Civil War

in two weeks with little heed

who those who can barely read

much less understand why

Wilkes-Booth shot Lincoln.


We wailed and gnashed

our teeth as we sat in rows,

frustrated regiments hunched over

tagged up desks

noses to the Earth Science

grinsdstone hollowing our minds

into sedimentary mortars

under a twisting pestle of guilt

guided by the hands of

our teachers,

reluctant alchemists who

weren’t shy in ticking off

reasons on a short list for

passing these tests

brewing classes cast in

a scalding cauldron of

multiple choice repetition,

in pressured retort many kids offered

righteous sedition,

their fevered participation taking

shape in staircase wars between

frustrated factions exacting

swinging fists into each other

because sequential math can’t feel the sting

of knuckles on the bridge of the nose,

but those who didn’t succumb to

the lust to come to blows decided

to run from their No.2 pencils,

accepting that they couldn’t fit into

the stencil of the model student

made to stew in preordained failure.

Pawned Constellations

In yet another exercise in humanity’s

coarse narcissism,

businesses scour night skies like

fish tanks and saddle stars with

earthly names and proof of

authenticity claims,


Smell of cheap cash

leaves rancid emerald stains

and invisible slave chains

wrapped around merciless

telescopes who hope to

rape the evenings close up and personal because

why wish upon any random star

when you’ve got your own,

a scam so contrived and trite

we’re forgetting to gush over

Hallmark poems and semi-precious stones,

why buy roses when whoring heavenly bodies

can get the girls to jump your bones?

The Game

The meaning of life

that is no science

that is an artform.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The Break

Pain a ferocious adversary

ever so familiar with my

flesh,

like a vivacious lover

it returns to me with amorous

intent and a sneer,

taunting me for an infatuation

I couldn’t believe,

punishing me for an intrusion


I welcomed with amber

glare and shredded breath

giving up all pretense

of not needing his stare,

more than needing control

over myself,

eager to believe that

“this time it was truly different”

that the poison that lay beyond

sleep would never return,

that my love,

a tired critic,

would not have to return

to my frigid fingertips,

forever perched upon

uncertainty.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Landmark

A tattered lean-to

to shelter you surreptitiously

till you run for more tropical locales

call for your vigorous participation,


Elation still elusive,

I watch your eager effusiveness

leave a dizzying trail,

you are the charter,

daring cartographer,

a darting Magellan to my

lonely uncharted island,

good to explore for a week

and then back to deftly

plying the world,

like a carving knife

through a pumpkin.

The Corridor

...Then what must I do to impress you?


The unattainable jewel representing

a frustrating quest,

aggressively cresting
down a narrow hallway
with blinders on, dwelling
on your tales,

are wet squirming interludes

the only things that possess

your seesaw attitudes?


Fear begins to accumulate altitude,

an airborne scimitar at a vicious

vantage point swings like a curious

cat tail, am I the impaler or the impaled?

The Sea (1)

I prevail upon the inner sea,

an ocean of froth,

salt and circumstances,

the shore eaten away by the

resolve of this ephemeral

bowl of solvent,

erosion constant,

I need to make contact with

the leviathan sleeping in it's depths.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Have fun, safe flight.

Furious, not content, I now seethe,

a sulking denizen, sighing face wan,

I’d rather vomit than angrily breathe

in despair I do what I can.


Taunting door slammed no more

due to curling smoke and self-centeredness

now I sneer instead of snore

kept awake by sorrowful abscess


Clogged and distracted I struggle

to wake from trailing in hers

but it is hard not surrender in anxious tender huddles

disdain I channel, a frothing and furious curse,

would that he would choke on my thoughts vile and terse,

he is due for a madness I wish I could reimburse.

Fledgling Nation

How did I come to believe in a

country called Brian Rutty?

With an economy based on bad investments

in childlike appeasements,

gross imbalance abound,

my government is so corrupt it

should wear a crown,
my flag flies high

even though it is tattered and torn

my critics in the press

tell me to work on labor reform

so I can pay backs the loans I owe,


I have no cash crops so I can’t reap

what I can’t sew,

my jail of inconsistency is built upon

years of indecisive woe and worry

while the world

is filled with hushed conversation

with the constant question:

“How can we help this troubled procrastination?”

can I escape this country with many bleak sunrises

and an extensive history of broken promises?

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Earth Day

So eager to celebrate our home

this one day we spin

moss-covered love poems

for our world, by far

the biggest victim of Stockholm Syndrome

So eager to sincerely lament the

the plunder of our mothers’ bones

bowed under the blows of

her bold children not even

an eon old as we sew our entitlement

across her scalp with slash and burn tactics

humanity, a skittering virus cheers

as it violates,

oily fingers drum on the ocean,

ozone continues to erode up above

Al Gore stands idolized as

the seal’s neck still breaks beneath

the force of a club.

Love Letters to Eta

Like a sentence developed in

a nightmarish speech class,

this gruesome picture came

to pass,

with a crunch of metal

and a jolt of pain,

exploding trains in Spain

left 201 slain,

thus unfolded a gristly scene,

the results of backpacks of titadine

which made lives groan

and turn to gristle and screams,

and just when the tale couldn’t

get anymore obscene

it turns out an Al Queda cell

cooked up the scene that

made Madrid frantic,

compelled by conviction

and Koranic

verses now juxtaposed with

violence

inflicted at the expense

of Spain’s children

derailed off track

and all of Aznar’s horses

and all of his men

could not mend

faith in him ever again

as the rest of the

world seemed to drip

disdain at an attack

that was preordained

with a crunch of metal

and a jolt of pain

terrorism isn’t over

just because they

caught Hussein.