cloudy hair, you know who you are

distilling in your petri dish of plans is a seeing eye glass that you walk around town on a leash. your neighbors are skewed and they will never know how you see them but the same can be said about you. you just focus on the tenor of your dreams as you let it cramp your hand hoping it will tease the minds of the tricky people you surround your addictions with.

injected in your brain at birth was an abstract parasite telling you what to need. as you keep listening you disregard the disappointment you feel because, just like you confided in me, an explicit connection would require giving up what is too much for you.

fraught of white lies, your life has grown blacker. with the static momentum of your fine point pen as the idea of me issues in to your screensaver train of thought your mind floods itself with abrupt corners and never a dead end to let you stare long enough to judge it to a pulp.

as an attempt to disclaim the preceding--as always, a moment too late--i must add... these are bastard thoughts and you own half of them. from your self prescribed omniscient libido, you have been jaded by your own system. also, i think you're fun to play with because i can predict you.

the plan

you came over to
me and stayed


long enough to
say your best
choice of well thought out
words


and walked away
before you could
catch your
repercussions
streaming down
my face

Cantankerous

i saw a certain light today.
it was entrancing!
it was the kind of light
that made you forget about time
(beyond the distant past)
and holding your breath was the only thing
that forced you back awake.
it snuck into our existance,
like it was shining through from The Dark Tunnel
that leads us perplexed to meet up with our end.
the light where the age eeking out of everyone glows.
it was soft like sweet afternoon light that places allegedly innocent dust
on an unfinished chapter book.
when watching it fall reminds the eye of all the tiny unnamed organisms floating
in the deep blue soup of predators.
below the thick, decieving air
like a sunken ship on the ocean bed
is a pair of glasses
holding your book closed
too weak to aid you anymore

the light is dense with gravity and
the placid rays that once reflected
off my baby blonde curls
is now insinuating the
truth and proof
of age
and tainted blood
below the surface of my leathering skin.

majesticly then
it occurred to me
that it is the dead skin i shed
in order to aid my callases
that collects atop your literature
when you have since realized you were
no longer equipped
to read it. and
once again
i set
someone
back just enough to effect only
the one thing that effects everything else
(time)
but only
when it is on paper
does every move i make
portray a trend
to my accidental bad
influence.
otherwise, i sneak into lives
of the people who are set up never to
expect such a disease
as the one i contracted.

wise we may be from it
but weak i am
and weak i make you.
weak to the artificial
high that was only ever as deep
as the ground i dug away.
i just kept digging down
down
down only to discover it is
almost the same as the ground that i once knew,
only colder.
and darker.

it all makes sense now!
it was a trap i could have
easily avoided had i paid
attention in school.
the ground gets hotter,
yes,
molten, even.
but that warmth can only be reached
in depths intangible to me
or anyone of Earthly delight.

everyday is Earth day!
but no one should know how
cold it can get when you
have wandered too far.
and once the darkness has caught you,
even if only for a second,
prepare to be translucent
like the day you were born.

Surf's Up

i'm perched
i'm parched
i'm like the hills
over lust and cheap thrills
kids skip over me
they like me as their toy
and i suppose i like the weight they shift
it's a perpetual short term tuned to the music they dance to
but even if i'm around enough i only get as far as
airport security
as they try to share with me
a brand new adventure
but all that equipps me is discovered
when the security guards cut me open

in search of all my threatening or intimidating flaws

only to forbid my going any further

and just like your girlfriend said

it only takes a few moments and a replacement

to leave the memory of me

at bay with the ashes of all the other

born-aliens who died trying to speak earth.

and you wonder why your beach is polluted...

higher climates

you think i'm overreacting
i think youre overlooking
so here it is
and here we are
you say i'm good when it comes to ruining things for you,
but that is precisely why you were never surprised;
i never wanted to let you down.
again and again, i guess.
the pain is so distinct.
if i do as you ask
and i act
more like you say you would
if you were me
what would you do when the world got a little bit colder?
i believe you that it might be easier that way
on a personal level,
but what you seem to be disregarding
is the fact that you haven't packed enough layers
and i can't bear to see you freeze.
that's my job, remember?

Fill in the Blank

i've been here before.

it's very dark but the feeling i'm given is the feeling i took like last time.

just like a familiar face

their batteries never work but

they change my mind

as they force to fit

leaving yet another crater

of questions that do not require answers,

they just leave you dumbfounded.

in the picture i'm sitting in

the one my mommy took

i am wrapped in terrycloth

i can still smell the chlorine on my skin

that day i'm not sure if i told you

i took myself for a fool

and it occurred to me

i didn't seem sure your arms would suffice much longer

i went blind for several years

until i wasn't strong enough anymore

and suddenly

i could no longer be content with my independence

but i wont ever allude to that

i guess i shouldn't

right?

if i am not stuck in my coming hours

i will not forget the moment after

the click

of your freshly exposed film

when i started begging for peace

or whatever you wanna call it.

one day, i'll get it

in a tree just taller than me rests a home
specifically designed to cradle the helpless

"nothing is new under the sun, i swear."

ray nyland.
his dad was a busdriver
his mom was a chainsmoker
the house he lived in was
the size of our kitchen
and he had seven siblings
there was a lifesize
cardboard cutout of him
with my mom
prom king and queen
spring 1977

his wife didn't let him be
what he wanted to be
a teacher
now he works at the local
hospital's blood bank

she cried looking at the moon,
"does he still think of me
when we watch it
at the same time?
miles
and ages
away?"

skim milk

"sing along," she said.
"like when we were little."
like when we were little. ok.
"oh the lord is good to me,
and so i thank the lord
for giving me...."
wait.
sunrise is here and im still sick.
what was the deal you made?
ya know what, fuck it.
a wave of my mother's praise exceeded me again;
her decorations hide mine.
festivals host festivities i have become obstinently allergic to...
fuck that;that sucks.
i'm going to excercise tomorow,
and i'm going to lose that weight.

a muscle i need to stretch and burn

breathing so close, i peak through my sneaking sleeplessness to see if you are peaking back but the next thing anyone knows, i have overslept. i think it hurts your eyes to look because i have that one reason under all those fake smiles i love to hate and hate to love. you claim to care about this one most, but really, it's just the one thing that could never happen to you.i chatter my teeth into a yawn until i catch my breath again. i stare at my ceiling light long enough to focus on the dead insects that thought they found happiness.

means

city scape;
ameoba shape.

dungeon light;
seller's right.

miscellaneous drought;
addicts pout.

king's crown;
queen's frown.

slight of hand;
goodbye land.

"what instrument is that?"

poised;
sick at heart.
it sounds like a violin. from japan? she was.
the sirens outside sync beautifully
with her rendetion of silent night
(a little faster than i remember it.)
i watched her.
eyes closed; swaying gentle to the disciplined vibrations of her hand.
and the sweet pet of her bow
against the single plastic string aimed upward toward
a north pole she knows has never existed.
but christmas is in 8 days and
she needs something to happen.
she wont tell us what
because no one speaks
her differently designated tongue.
or maybe!
she already has.
i have an inkling that i could see her life story
through every wrinkle on her face;
or by her coat...
i could wear that coat to polish off
the fashion i suffer for.
she wears that coat for a different reason though...
the money thrift stores save her
she spends on a secret family recipe
for the holidays
to bring together her adapted american family
that never appreciated the value of
her tradition.

we just don't want her to know
we don't really feel guilty
for not wanting to go home
to decorate the tree by our
electric fireplace with fake logs.

i see icy eyes

singing quietly; swimming synchronized; biting flesh; tasting red.
summer froze and i only know how to slip in the cold.
a mound of snow is like an audience,
i can only see one face at a time.
and when i am finally able to focus long enough it's only because I've already lost my footing
finding myself staring up through my once-far-too-curious eyes
not even jealous anymore.
i think,
"make a floor plan and hire your eyes.
this time make sure they do their fucking job."

Flesh Robots

(Power On.)
We have to be doctors of technology and fluent in our designated tongue
Distant from our future enemies
And robots of education
Religion
Distinguished race
…
Carefully produced to fall for the seasons
And watch as the leaves from frozen trees fall for us
Only so we can convince ourselves,
“Spring will come, don’t worry. It will
It will.”
But darling, wait!
It’s time now to play dumb
and wait with a convincing smile until they Power Off.

Is Your Bed Made? Part One

His name was Cliff. He didn’t like to drink water. His brother, Allen, was my mom’s dad. He died when I was in fifth grade. And my mom stopped packing my lunch after that.

Ash

When our timing is cumbersome enough to determine the circumstances of a situation as fragile as a fishbowl, I begin to shed my skin along with my best defense. My actions can’t be vindicated. I’m in the sun with sensitive skin, raw and soar, still fresh to this atmosphere. I need to reach you or I will burn alive with the leaves; I will listen to the crackle of the moisture escaping me and the whistle you hear when there is luck on the way (good luck, that is). Seems I haven’t come back down yet. I just need a little bit of grey. The black and white is tearing my limbs from my body as slow as the ice melting in a crooked glass that you enjoy over some light conversation. And there is nothing I can do for the first time.

Fresh Rain and Cold-Cut Grass

I sliced my foot open on a broken beer bottle in the street
from a fantastical night of drunken delight
The bow in my hair unraveled down the sewer