Laces

Seeking deeper into the abyss

within we pull up the tiredness

like heavy boots and sore asses

sashaying our passes into openness

please bless me with amnesia

for only the shaded spots of hopelessness

let me forget all the pain on faces

nailed to my broken graces

chunks of me were dead at birth

so give me this twisted rest well earned

for I have already walked the earth

far too long in shoes without laces

Haunted

I don’t want to haunt you anymore

I want to move on

and die again somewhere else

maybe a field of daisies this time

a mountain pass in winter

or tumbling off yet another ledge into her icy sea

or maybe I won’t ever die again

with this knowing now of how

to rise from the dead

like some kind of resurrected erection

no longer am I afraid

of the things that are killing me

I don’t want to be haunted by you anymore

I want to live on

Hoods and Handcuffs

I couldn’t believe it

these poets speaking from memory

mesmerized by their memorizations

recited enacted and performed

poem to memory

memory to poem

and then I remembered

that all my poems are memories

put to word

and put to death

remembered

this is where I tear up the page

and trust the poetry within

leaping into the boiling waves

forgetfulness is an illusion

we remember everything

that we ever remembered

chiseled into membranes

locked away down long dark halls

stored there in the basement of our mental

albums of hopes lost and meant-wells

songs first heard

kisses that really did last forever

and the lovers that didn’t

my mind runs marathons

around these synaptic pathways

every step of the way

my body carried the weight

but my poetry carried the meaning

we think in stanzas

my memory is poetry

line breaks

patterns

chaos

observing

discovery

And yet inward only

only serves you

no servant of truth

remains voiceless

in the silence of fear

the time for words on pages

has been lost to glowing screens

we must speak louder

to have our truth heard

if corporations are people

and corporations always put

profits before people

then it’s time we all ascend

increase our value

and become prophetic

profit margins falling

puts prophets like you and me

before corporate personhood

but I’m no messiah

no Miss Iowa either

just a madman with a mind full of dirty poetry

trying to bring back the dead

one lost relic at a time

knowing I have lost nothing

comes from realizing it was never mine

and this solitude will kill me in the end

dying to remember

the memories

of my

truth

and that is the poetry

of the

prophets

a memory

flesh. denied.

So what if I admire the way my muscles jumble

in the constriction of a tight wife beater

a loose life losing youth

that pang of sadness squirms under my skin

tragedy

my body going to waste

a tired corpse

So what if I won’t look this good forever, I say

            am I really losing 1% of my testosterone per year?

            how long do I got

            till this cock runs dry

            and I have to make them love me for my smile

 crooked

misshaped desire

but I am the fire in my loins

the sweaty tiger clawing at freedom

and when that heat in my pants dies

the nights will chill

So what if you think it’s homoerotic

            that I find myself beautiful

            this is all still so very new to me

            but who gives a gift

            that they wouldn’t want for themselves

standing

tensing thighs into rolling foothills

inspecting myself in steamed mirrors

trying to see the gift I can be

from inside this condemned mind

So what if this is what I am

            this decaying passion vessel

            bad teeth and a large intestine

            twisting around the demons in my womb

where home becomes a temple

and the temple has a rhythm

music

my body beats

bloody fists into the bedposts

worshiping the last gasp

of your salty spew

So what if suffocation is when air tastes the finest

            a sack of organs

            out of tune

            and out of a gig

limber

            gathering dust and collecting bedsores

            while humming the tempos

            of bodies being more than flesh traps

            nipples and eyelashes

            napes and arches

            pent up boiling blistery

So what if I am a temple

            come celebrate with me

            under the “oh yes” fireworks

            near those draping banners whispering

            and the confetti spilt on back porches

stiff

            we could bring down heaven

            one cloud at a time

            one piece of clothing at a time

So what if I don’t want to be any closer to God

            there is plenty of time for that

            after death swallows me and asks for more

fucking

            isn’t about getting off

or getting out

            or getting in

            it’s never been about the orgasm

            it’s about the organism

So what if I am only a dirty temple

            having its final festival of living

            I will deny it no longer

flesh

           

           

Sadderday

human pollen drifting dust

dancing on gusts and thrusts

and evermore these peeled hands

miss their skin and don’t understand

exactly where it is they’ve been

can’t be one of those kind of men

Love was never about possession

just another coward’s confession

And I wonder how ugly I can get

inside this damp skull doomed to forget

railroading desires and determinations

waiting for trains in empty stations

spastic laughing and gasping back slabs of past

knowing all too well that it may have been the last

Singing to the Birds

Reading in the morning sun

Oh, Flannery, oh Connor

I wish I could tell you

that a good man isn’t so hard to find

singing songs for the birds

writing poems to poets

loving all the lovers gone

if we want to live

we have to think about dying

we have to think about dying

baby birds chirping in the nest under the gutter

Momma bird shouts “Be Cool, Be Quiet, Danger Nearby”

the wide eyed and lip-licking feline resting in his sphinx pose

says to me “I can wait for as long as it takes”

and I know death is coming

Ignorant Again

Manic me crashes

into trees and telephone poles

fantasy isn’t meant to last forever

it’s the universe’s chewing gum—meant to keep your mouth busy

I’ve spent more time thinking about suicide

than I have marriage

and I only started listening to Jesus Radio

when I too came back from the dead

I still mute the commercials

and pretend the sky isn’t rotting

I am not gay or happy

but I ain’t straight or sad either

I certainly don’t need another girlfriend

but I could use a mother

makes me wonder

why men can’t be nuns

I’m not depressed

I’m just aware that we are all running out of time

and everything I learned in hell

is useless in this new heaven

spreading out the doubt between clouds

I want to wink and keep moving

everything that I have been thus far

hasn’t worked out so well

so don’t be shy

if you see me wearing a new hat

the best kept mystery of what I am becoming

at first—I won’t know how to do it