Traveler

One million shards of glass lodged in time,

I can feel the diamonds embedded in my mind.

Take me higher,

higher still,

past the heavens, past the stars.

Lay me down on the moon,

let her craters cradle me.

I am a traveler

Crossing over distant lands.

I’ve been grounded there too long,

Singin’ those old songs.

I want to write you a letter, but my well has run dry.

Take the blood from my veins just to fill my quill.

I’m an astronaut now, I’m a hero now.

I’m a vagabond now, I’m someone’s villain now.

Tell me you’re alright. Just blink your light

from the ground. I’ll spot you from above,

let your beam reflect off my eye,

glassy,

and blue yonder.

I’ll know you’re still there.

Doesn’t seem there’s an end to this road,

but it’s taking me somewhere,

maybe far away from you.

I want to write you a letter, but these veins have run dry.

Take the darkness from space just to fill my quill. 

One hundred million shards of me lodged in you,

can you see my diamonds in your eyes?

I can see yours in mine. 

Blue Alleyway

You think

that because of this

silence

the words not said

will prove to you

that I am happy.

You think

that these red-brick

alley walls

are eternity.

Yet when you leave home

the sun goes with you

and the evening sky paints these walls

a hue

of startling blue.

That is the night

that is the doubt

you will never know

because I choose too

hide it from you.

The Return

And with every parting

there must come reunion

with the people

we thought we never knew, for

there are no goodbyes, no hellos.

We’ve always known each other

deep down in our bones.

So never say, ‘alone.’

Believe It

Plenty of people

good people,

you’d call them.

Simple people.

They will hear what they’re told

is “good”

and nod their heads

bend down on cheap wood

say a few lines

then head home.

But seldom

and few

do carry through

They will hear these things

and carry on

with their angry

hateful,

petty,

wasted lives.


They will carry on

and they will not care.

Careless.

Because they believe

their ticket’s bought

and sold —

exalted

and gold.

Like Karamazov

I kindly rescind

this arbitrary

pass.

Here

take it.

take it back.

I will burn in hell

with the rest

of the world. 

Dead Between the Walls

If you kill for hours on end
without staring at the walls
and spraying open your eyes -
then you’ll never learn the hearts that beat beneath
the plaster and paint.

The walls have eyes
and when you die
and dye
the floor stain-red with the liquids of the soul—
then you shall find yourself
dead between the walls.

Then there’s nothing left to watch,
but the sound of dead, dead space
And things with out a place.

Without A Presance

Just a ghost
weaving between your lives
just a specter
phasing in and out of
the image
of sparse times.

I cannot say I will
be here tomorrow
I cannot say I was
there to see you grow
I can say that I love you
and the softness of your glow

Faint and faraway
flickering
memories
seething in a darkness
I have forged from hate.

I cannot say I’ve been
the best there is around
I cannot say I will be
any better than I’m now
I will say that I try though;
sometimes I come around.

Born in a dimension
different from your own
born in a world
full of ghosts
alone.

I died a million times
and each time coming back
rising from the ashes
with sunshine in a sack.

And you will one day ask:
why did you ever leave me?
I was never truly brave
never truly breathing
I was just afraid
afraid of our feelings. 

So I shall wander on
tired and concealing
So I can belong
as a ghost
with no meaning.

In Your Sands

I’ve stood
for a long time
on the shores of your beach
wondering
what if…

What if I
had decided to swim
in your undulating
waves. 
What if I drowned in them
or was eaten alive
in them?
What if I had
said yes
and let your beach swallow me
wholly and gladly?
what if…

I had not been shown
the enticing face
of desire
and had bled my heart
into yours
into a plash
that congealed on your
sandy
bottle broken
beach…

And what if I had
accepted that— sure
it’s not the prettiest
or the purest
or most innocent
of beaches
around
-but -
you were mine.
If not
just for that moment.

What if I had waddled over your shore
cut my feet on your glass
sang to you
stupid love songs
in humanities dumb absence?
Would it have been different then?
Would I have been happy then…?

It seems easy
to lose yourself
wander drawn
by treasures
that were never there
that turn out bare
is it so simple for us
to lead ourselves to alien coasts
and force ourselves to drink
from its phantom springs?

How I yearn for your shore
to wade in your surf-
how ecstasy washes over
the brain.
I want back on,
but I’m afraid.
Afraid you’ll spit me out,
because you’ve changed.

Broken bottles
glitter like diamonds
dead things
appear writhing
decomposing
in sentient ravels.
Seaweeds flow like ribbons
mixed in your sand-duned hair.
All beauty
is opened up to me
as the once ugly
now breathe carnal passion
into some sort of attraction.

What if
you forgive me?

I Give Up

What does it matter
anymore
anyways?
I could run off
to that gas station down the street
and meet all those
annoying faces
I’ve always seen
in a thousand other places.

I could take myself a state over
and past that one
the other
and they’ll all
be the same
there’s no
escape
from this same
-ness.

I don’t want to be sane
I do not wish to make
rational decisions
they scare me
because I’m worried if
I make a right one
it’ll turn out
all wrong
many years
down the proverbial road.

And so maybe I could run to Mexico
if their food didn’t make me
so goddamn sick
and I could say: “just one night please,”
in Spanish.

No…and Canada’s too cold.
Europe would be too redundant
and plus they’re all so full
of themselves anyways.

Australia might be nice but
it’s kind of far
and I prefer my piss
to flush clockwise…
or was it counter-clockwise?
Does it even matter?
Wherever you want to
go,
or for your piss to swirl,
it will be a dull facsimile of
boring people,
menial jobs,
strange ugly faces,
pay-phones,
kleenex,
corner stores,
lottery tickets,
dirty salt-stained cars,
and kids that cry because
they’re so
damn
lethargic.

The reason why we haven’t died is
because we’re already zombies.
Our tedium
is an exploitation
of the nothing
we’ve become—
the hollowness
that we pile on our brain,
and our ennui is product
to our imagination’s decay.

And still we crave more.

Frances Dropped His Hammer

“it’s the other one”

he points

looking at his

hands.

I thought it was the left

but

he told me

I was wrong.

He heaved the hammer

in the right

and drew it down

upon the skull

with all his might

I still remember

the “crrrrack”

and “squish”

the cranium

had made

when Frances

brought the

iron down.

Grey matter

pocked the floor

and the walls

sprinkled crimson

bits of skull clung to the door.

It was the other.

I forgot

it was the other one

not the left

the right

THE RIGHT!

And now they’re dead

but I still stoke the embers

turning them over in my head

looking for the answer

as to why

our souls must depart

in the strangest of ways

how we could harm a fly.

We still are

but they are not

We choose the right

and the body will rot.

Frances ran away

but I stayed

and now

now

I’m the one called crazy

but I knew it wasn’t the right

he told otherwise….

but it was…

it was not supposed to be right.

Anesthetic

Magnificent hues of trembling pain
seem as rainbows trickling down
to seep into my brain, to cry my name
yes to endure the tortures
and rigors of life’s seething labors
do leave me salivating with mirth
and freedom’s joys!
I would take anything
be it beatific rejuvenation
or loathsome decay
I wish only
to feel
again.

And what do I have to show 
for myself?

Half-hearted love, 
measured joy,

and salty bedrock 
dried of tears.

I have only this indifference, 
this numbed pain.

The flame has fled with the whisper of your breath.

And only I am left…

with the echo
of your “no”.