Closed-angle glaucoma vs. Presbyterian sunlight

December 12, 2011

The afternoon is happening. It’s calmer and darker. The images I can squeeze out of my eyes tell me that they’re telling the future. I’ll be grimacing whiskey in the woodshed tonight with fellow men. These eyes will rot blue, like mushroom stems. The tunnel vision floats down like a blanket from the sky.

Joie de vivre. Mojo. Swag. Bangarang. Commodity. Equity. Perpetuity. I ran around and shoved sticks into wounded trees for the sap. I should drink sap and remember that it’s bitter. I should sit in the grass and stare at a birch tree held together by duct tape, outside a Presbyterian church in Somerset, New Jersey. Then, the tree will grant me an opening in the crocheted garment of time and space in exchange for my soul’s realization of the tree’s nature, and I go back to nursery school and kick the shit out of Natolly for ever doubting I could kick the shit out of him. Slap his plastic water cup over because he dipped saltines in water. Then, I will stand angelic with my eyes closed and graduate alone, because I have a flight to catch. I’d never wash out the old wood that sublimated into my hair on my first graduation day in the drinkable Presbyterian light.

My will is not a hard glass sword, with which I deliver pleasure and pain to the mangy world around me. It is lilting music, unrecordable and uncapturable, and quiet like needles on a pine. This is a source of anger. According to neoclassical economics, this impotent lilting music should be crystallized by fiery anger, and I transform myself. The curve shifts to adapt. But the majority of life does not adapt. The biggest personality trait of life on earth is a lust for one’s own death. And unfortunate it is that any instruction manual those old men wrote attempts to lead one from words to actions to experience, with just words.


Challenge Quietly

November 16, 2009

I haven’t worn a leash
And I haven’t learned the steps
Your temper is to beseech
And my temper is to be kept

You’re hair so very long
In this short one act play
I tried to make the stitches unfurl
With my half-baked hearsay

Water down the drain
Windows down the shore
I keep asking if it’s about the film
Or simply just the score

You weren’t born to teach
And I was, so keep what you kept
I have everything to sweep
But even I need to be swept

Language is a fuse
There is this
red spiral notebook in the library
right by Borges
Care to play into a ruse?



November 16, 2009

Every compass lies between time and time.


Years inside Moments

September 15, 2009

Your painted face
Tattooed eyes
The mess behind
You made
Turning circles
Into diamonds

In the soil
Under an overcast
Under and over
The shadows of school
children’s graves

too much to ask
for you to kiss me
soft enough
to turn back your hair
from its cigarette smoke gray

I do admit
I held onto bombs
Inside my breast pocket
Chest sockets as empty
As the spools
beside your lathe


The End of an Engine

August 20, 2009

hearts, yellow hearts
shallow and tainted
misguide you

through hoops of fire
trials of blood
and broken skin

to win is to win
it all and so every
bone inside you
sings like the strings
of your guitar
without a
glass of gin

so if i was a engine
i’m not longer holding on
i’m in a place inside a seed
where even the leaves don’t know

a cottage on an island on
a drifting sea
in the heart of a star
where red blood
no longer flows


Soft Bones

August 20, 2009

In the smoothness of my arms
Too weak to hold a grudge
Against your forehead

If it shatters
The tiles
When I throw it down
like I was mistaken forever
Does it make a sound?
If you are not around
to drop your eyes
Through the earth

Lead lava’s dead
It’s said
done and rotting
a rocking chair
With afternoon eyes
Through old white sheets

like your soft bones and how they
fell apart in my fingers
among the heaps
of the earth
in a field of dead wheat



August 19, 2009

Man in a metal

row boat, pulling people on

to hist’ry book shores