Modern Romance

Among the morning city
strings the interconnect
of thought and physical brain
bright blues of skipping
light silvering over those
tired bodies in for the night
a boy who rides his bike
looks up into an unfamiliar
sky wonders not
what or how
or why but
just smiles
and smiles
and smiles
hands out
letting
carefree wind
lost principals
funnel life
by and by and by

It's not you it's me

Green is the snow beneath
our wintered soles that shuffle
back and forth looking for static
spark to light the wood
we’ve been gathering

wood would melt
our cold weather words

Oh but we do consent the clouds to gather so heavy as spouts that poor our heads full of pounding, leave us rising amnesiacs.

Slow heads
overflowed
of rain
-water
our feet again

to wonder
collecting dew
stains and baking

over the ice of summer

In periphery sky
In melancholy joy
wait down poor
clouds for semaphore:

“sink us ships
in cathartic bliss and cold,
cold forgetfulness”

Tin and Tinder

Rain always seems to precede
our constructed misunderstandings

we stand together underneath
tin roofs place hunger and lungs
before hearts and as hearts
we pace for one another
hang our skins to blend
into cream colored siding
as a sign that you can know
what thoughts are ticking by
if you only look

but our ears shield our eyes
as they forget to listen
to the truths tinning off
as rain coming hard from
gathered clouds

our honesties forgotten soldiers
victims of the fragile circumstance
we’ve built up around us
if we could only walk from under
this false tinder we would
wash away the tender lies
that keep us standing
and lay together—a puddle
of honest bone and honest
blood

I am the hypocrisy

The bearer of my own
Extension towards what I cannot
understand but me still carry
each of seven faces
balance fourteen holes forward
over this plugged set of word
forms

Ishmael! I am the same I am
The one who wants no desires
a machine that feeds on air
a horrible contrast white
juxtaposing the beauty of black
me my truths’ lies those around
boiling from my skins
each layer pains because pain is
nothing but metalloid arsenic rubbing nothing
digging deep when I find I find my model
has been discontinued
put on back dusty shelves back in the
contemporary thought processes of this locality
this social construct this what we
call reality I am
hypocricy

Rubber souls (all 32 to take the curves through)

Curb chokes back
through throat like DEATHGAMES
the kids with right
pills will make
the right hand write
Collect, cacophony, clatter
our lips wont listen
but will shame while Sun
Taunts a rubber soul
back with the weight of awaking
gravity and sleep kill dreams
Downing hard on a place
Where neck base meets
our bodies disintegrating frame

Cityescapes add race to make the night fly by in ventured course removing moon from sky

Four feet squared

two
citied hearts,
blocks abound,
Filled in
-side walk
around their
in-betweens
a gleam
-ing scratch
spill
fire ants out
their cracks


Rainy days and Mondays

rusted over
grates that
latch,
lead under
-neath earths
brown thatch,
locks round
a drain,
Mondays
slight impair


Yellow time

lines drift
up rock
round corners
dotting out
taillights,
punctuality
vectored in ties
thankful pacing
day dreams,
their schemas
for making
love or
lust.


Shadowed people

under canopy
white, siding
up neighbored
homes, drones
the day
advanced in
its glanced
parturition


Roof rock

tops on
city spaces
side viewed
apertures pastoral
faces gracing lots,
plots of land,
given up
in floods expanses


Noah’s art

stand tall,
soot and full
grain stock
the shelves
preserving, in
numeration
pillars, bound
from linoleums cap
to grey sidings
illuminations, ones
construction supplying
worldly
Salvations.

Festina Lente

for dawn will
find us

among tracks
meaningless lines
among steel
blocks rotting
brothers to
our ancient
gods among
broken glass
and scraps of
printed word

dawn will
rise

from disfigured
black piles resting
beneath gray fog
luster fixated rubber
hearts melting clusters
white curling round
skinny sleek
frames

dawn will
rise

over sickle celled
moon our corrosions
hidden cycles
old and new
a poor mans fall
through dusks
deep blue

big bellies big
night lead us
eyes astray huddle
quite nohomes into
alleyways Over
subways tagged in
epochs wide expanses
that mix up our
nine to five
clocks advances

quite city
searching

will find gates
horned with liquid
tar holding life
huddled in bones
matter to call a home
from creeping down
six feet

twenty-four hours
till next round

Keep moving

To study econ

Micro

my small minds econ
quiet under kapitals
destructive thunders

Macro

small economies
crumble under kapitals
destructive thunders

Thirty-three rows of florescent splendor setting cherry tomatoes aflame

Walt Whitman once stalked these shelves eyeing little boys
with Ginsburg close behind

then veganism slit their their throats started selling America's new noise

all kool kids hang on designer hooked denim
while Betty Crocker box speak last night b-ball game

an incident of smoke and tears for fears an illogic all its own
the music goin' down here ain’t nothin' but silent porn

all the kids in dem jeans be keepin-it real just fuckin' on that beat
sliding hands over each other's repression

just suckin' on that meat

this contemporized style is for everyone that knows
the men they all be Gatsby's grabbin' up dem hoes

Those hoes be selling shakes (dick tricks) for buyin' fancy cars attraction
loves those million dollar babies who use coke to cover dady scares

product life and simple answers
placebo guns killin’ linoleum plain’s game

Temporary

is happiness stacked on white shelves
found convenience in modern temples

and new heaven has a Greeter
whose “hello” keeps us

all the same

Redcloud Word:Ammo

quite are the sounds
falling out my mouth like rain
moving up in winds

particle words in
bathtubs make the syntax of
skin clean once again

words accumulate
meanings hidden between lines
that my eyes can’t see

*Untitled*

her insides flat
contain hard white
edges cracked
and drained of origin

a diameter that was full of breath,
beating hearts and lungs
is now a home where nothing
lives. This two
ounces of skeletal
light, their last
memory. White

sky walls
carry a costal breeze
up over her head
as she pulls
the fragile body
out from grains of sand.

“A sand dollar,” she says.
Smiling gently, placing
this of all life’s missed
fortuities between a humble
bulge and the elastic band
of her bathing suit.

Fire on the Mountain

We are those who only live at night awake because we see the fire spreading across the small brown mounds of scrub oak and sage towards the blanket of arched city brights our hands are shutters clicks and lenses sectioning off chunks of midnight heat from the different angles hanging in the august air if death happens to slip his hand through the neighborhood through the woman through the men through the children our memories are staged to capture this lust and we are not afraid to take charcoaled flesh home in our heads or to hang it on our walls like fathers sporting trophies.

Crow Is Fictitious

crow is fictitious, rounding
mans outer edges hopping waiting

watching life’s disappointments spill
over the masses faces in frowns

watching men skim pebbles cross their
muddy-clouded minds

the covering sky’s wrinkling blue
magnifies every stones falling short

while crow is fictitious he still waits, perches
in minds branches to move man away from earths gray patches

he circles in the blue swoops to slice form’s flesh
from unsuspecting men’s thoughts

and if man let crow all the way in to begin
his art crow will skin this man alive

peel this mans flesh and all away using only his beak
to mingle blood

only claw-picks to vibrate nerves and sting
this man’s air out his lungs

if crow finishes before said man is dead, evacuates few
enough cells in time, mans pleads and cries for death

will let crow know he’s done his job well

Curved

Like a question mark
Under the cotton quilt patters
That block light from touching skin

What color am I?

Light poses interesting questions
in this, an upset, downward
manner

twenty-three and still
no one to help me strengthen
my spin

no one to help point out
what directions resemble

I imagine her face moving in
Directions resembling
the shape and size of the sun

beauty will set
all I can do is watch
as this full dark motion
skinks sleep over
my muddled thoughts
backs me under
crow ruffled
black cotton

Situations

you need leverage in
situations like these sitting
across from her

watching lips move
like violence [never
the violence you see
only the violence
you read gestures
forming off the tongue

tipping out each syllable
an atom-bomb of semaphore

her lips move like an illusion
gifted by the dead

you are her dead

her wheat man
rising victim

to her sun’s pale
nigh fire.

some people say that Bukowski was a bad man but I don't think that

a man fires
rotting rubber bullets
through implicit yellow

“i’ll kill you” he shoots
“i’m gunna’ fuckin’ kill you”

the row of brown
brick chimneys he’s slinging at
sag inward under these
cigarette lit threats—

their seemingly modern genuflect
to the cannon of his word
and the wisdom about his nature

satisfied at this respect
smiling a sunken crick
the man sings once more:
“i’m goin’ to the horse track”

his slouch of pillared salt (a body)
disagrees and empties in collapse
to the green glinting shadowed
blades of grass

then the cities fiery
lights tuck round
him like a duvet
while his jaundice
filled life files obvious
from between his legs.

Monopsany

At age twelve my head was full
Of little feathered monster plucking
Their scaly feet from the thin sheaths of conversations
Wrapping round my neighborhood block.
Pushing their bodies up in the warm Arlington updraft—everything,
Muscle and bone, pulling away
From the hand of a needy mother’s mechanics.

The clapping of her clouded lips never scared me.
She couldn’t keep me if I ran. I ran fast, ran against her hail
And bolt hands. I found doors were only locked if I didn’t open
Them so I sent wood knots spinning on their hinges.

And as I grew the air turned sour so I
Flew south with those winged boogiemen.




now those plump feathered plumbs swath
the ice wires that hanging just outside
my third story apartment’s blue wintered
windows. Their bodies cooling,
as they coo one another for warmth.

i light up, glide more time down
my throat, phrasing my smoke, exhaling:
feathered souls drift south when snow settles—
nicotine makes me speak in local headlines.

again i look out watch each plop
of little feet weigh down the spun-glass
word of telephone wire dipping it closer toward
our electric-spun mother.

each mass of down unaware of exactly how thin time
is as it sags under their tightly clutching fingers.

i’ve tried to avoid those graceful black bodies
from weighing thought down but in a frenzied white winter
updraft it’s hard to want winter to pass.
and i watch, thinking: a man dies
alone—sometimes.

Defaced (Swinging towards terms)

Really not anything that can
be
destroyed after all
that’s not already
there
is the rhythm
in these chains

My pump

So localized in back
So specialized in forth

Snow races down towards STOP
Now away from inside places STOP

again

Snow races STOP
Now gravity drops STOP

Again

Skulls smiling STOP
Gravity drops one cold skull STOP

this skull me STOP
I never want her STOP

never, please STOP
Never STOP

To

Jump

Addiction

the rubber
band man
moves like
no one can
moves like an
elastic theme
through thick
stale scenes
sucks level
psychosis up
american dreams
slings strings
out to anyone
he deems fit
for white
high and gotti
go go
his ceaseless
consumption
deals death
too all caught
in his liner
construction