words cannot know
what would a word say if they did?
what do words know of my fear
how do they know how to describe what keeps me awake at night?
there are no words
there simply aren’t enough well defined marks in vernacular
will is indeed in deed
actions are story enough
in act my poetry is writ
wrought with written wells of ink beneath a breadth of words
that still call me to tell.
but, what do words know?
all that can be known
slyly slightly weights what’s shown
and words tip nothing
not head, heat, or hat
the concrete truth of it
the bare concrete burden
is that no one can ever
see what keeps me awake at night
the shadows, the fear, the blood wrenching terror.
words don’t know how to do that.
and how about you?
can words aptly paint pretty picture for you?
do they swell to paint your conversations swell so well that you might as well never leave home?
how about the porn star?
can he describe what he sees?
can he describe how the eyes of the not-a-lover in front of him
makes him feel?
what would you think of him if he were to describe
how her eyes remind him of mother
then, what would you think when you found out that he tried desperately to remember his boyfriend’s face while spewing lewd onto hers?
words do not paint
words do not know how to paint
they do not see, or feel, or carve, or breathe
they only sing
twisting nuances out of color and shape
making perverse verse, vain vein exposing vane exposition
spoiling sight on the spot
I can’t paint you a picture
I don’t have any words that know how to do that
I can only describe.
And how can I describe what I can’t see?
ten times a lover
ten times the lie
ten times a tapping
rap rap rapping
and she’s liking my nimble fingers while i’m on my knees laughing
i could never know exactly what she means
lost and afraid i found her finding terrified and lonely
but it was there that our hands met in the dark
cigarette smoke filled the air and smiles exchanged
"can i buy you a drink?"
watch listless and sullen as our eyes met on the surface of reflecting portals of escape. seeking the refuge of being cast but never on stage.
our eyes met in reflections hiding in scented fog. never losing sight of one another’s forward glance as we crept closer, staring at the wall.
how neither of us stumbled is still a mystery. navigation is key, always the key.
moving closer until mere inches apart.
laughing at overheard sentiment of desperate dishonest dreams distant distilled in spry spirits.
"can i buy you a drink?"
"have you met my friend?"
"i have one just like that!"
watching desperate reflections of the lonely on bar-walled glass dreams dripping decorating shelves behind those reflections. our eyes would meet and we would smile. an entire conversation had through glass.
dropping in on dripping crippling eaves. our spirits distilled, refined, entwined by dry emotion.
mocking inebriation, never looking direct, but one never losing sight of the other.
who needs drunk when longing is impairing enough as it is, and ensnaring enough to make graves? who needs inebriated navigation?
cowards. all of them.
i prefer to a see an oncoming collision head-on. and so does she. we decided to stop rubbernecking and collide ourselves.
ten times the lover
ten times the lie
we’d start rap rap rapping
and be licking distilled dripping duel digits in due time.
but first those creeping agents of fate, would meet, have to meet, in the dark. and there our hands seek meeting and creep discretely to greet in the dark. as dim bar glass glances never broke and were affixed amidst cigaretted fog.
tap tap tap
she really was ten times greater than the dream, a non-accidental collision. no exchanging insurance… i didn’t even catch her name.
All the best men know how to cry, and all the best women know how to make them.
being lost imagining what could have been
or painting pictures of old landscapes with brighter color than what nature had provided
on the short lived walls made of cardboard found in a trash heap
never learning to swim, to kick furious feet, or to hold desperate breath
walking away to escape the rest in circles fearful of daring to darling in with them
having foreknowledge of how they nip at the toes with their teeth
or sometimes at the neck if they can reach it
oh how they are quick to extend a smile with knifes, or instead apply them to turned backs
bearing the scars of trust, standing alone and trusting the fear of jumping in
ever trusting the shadow-lain secrets of life lived by tailor-torn brothers and mothers
offering shelter to fellow dwelling survivors of painted cardboard walls
a refuse refuge to in whatever makeshift shelter self-fastened and
crafted by ever longing hands guided by dusty eyes
a simple matter of candlelight before they tare at the walls of well-meaning wishes
left longing and tearing alone in dark corners unseen and dreaming of the time never spent
embracing shadow lovers
kissing untouched lips
spilling unseen blood
and walking a well charted path pacing around what could have been
time is the fate for them that believe in better days reached without painting the road
those that stand waiting and watching and walking in circles away on dry land
keeping shadow secrets of those who’ve sought shelter in those walls of well meaning wishes
and none of those wishes belonging to the hands that had crafted them
trusting fear that they will be torn down by extended smiling mouths
that tell earnest tales of their own furious feet and their own time lost
twisting and slow through the gallows of all man’s sleep, finishing the way it started
trusting the fear and imagining what could have been
the final stone-etching bearing that most disgraceful of sentences
"we loved them"
these three words i read as i sat pondering who it was that painted these walls in the first place
and who would leave a headstone indoors never to see the sky or to feel the rain, wind, or sun.
pacing in circles, never painting the walls of their own vision
but painting the many dreams left told by passerby survivors
who may have picked and tore at the dreams of others, but would never betray the candlelight
eye twitching at the beat and the rhythm of angry neighbors pounding on those walls
as i stare at that engraving
if it breathed it would do well enough
but confined here it can be seen for the lie that it is
and so i leave this place knife in hand to suffer the weather
and swimming to suffer too those lidless eyes mounted atop cheshire teeth
if i have to stab anyone i WILL leave them scars
but their scars will be on the belly, chest, or throat. and never on an extend a smile
and if i ever paint on trash heap cardboard walls i will use my own dream to do it
with but few colors brighter than that which nature had intended
however it goes, wherever i find myself
i’ll be damned if i sleep here
in someone else’s borrowed xenophobic dreams
truth and hope
they run from the main
both handles make lukewarm
torque either as much as you want
that’s all that you get
befriending the music i cringe to
stepping on the feet of my dancing partner
backwardly kissing forward tongue’s forewarning
of terminal heart beats to the rhythm of the music
that’s what ya’ get coupling optimism with honesty
torque ‘em both
pour into my belly until i’ve had my fill
at least it’s not empty
but now i really have to pee
and no one will ever go thirsty again
ambiguity, sir? certainly
before time was time a melody in voice divine…
about a lullaby to calm the life below from opening ancient eyes and the falling fellow chaos fallowed flowing form from the dark undercurrent caressing careless hunger and need seamless in greed to feed on that which all had but for the other
waiting watching patient and still, ever loving and longing to loosen dreams ‘neath the surface of depths lost to emergent superficial
panicked, the cycle of hungry ravenous rival, bred breeds from the seeds of ages in war-spent survival hairless apes sprang forth curious and spry embracing the tree, iron, and sky. ironically reverently loving the lie life poses reposing contempt for a time
but only just
momentary morality and ethic were born to back-handed esthetic of clever clutching opposable thumb forged war creative creature culture and ravenous still politic, religion, ungoverned governing mill
convoluted convulsing conflict colliding while ever loving essence lay still watching presiding in shadows residing in darkness
a dream awoken a while whispering will is unspoken
as tides roll in raging ragging and wagging
a book half wrote
a secret unspoke
and lies leaving loving lost labels longing low tempo
the states of the world before life sprang screaming forth in ire transpired to conspire and retire stories untold unspoken truths yet to unfold that flaming paining painted corruption goes unmarked were it intrinsic in being
silent child be still
watch waiting for what wakes and quakes still to awaken, awaiting the day dreams lost and forsaken open their eyes
…and i can finally get some rest
i dream too i mean
in lucid torrid lines of space
lingering hands advance to remove my own face
if in the line of time venture forward
my breath seeded shelter in torment and horror
life moves but to the fro
awaken to find that you know me no more
and if in dreams of silence i find you
it rail-ways my junction derailing convictions
blindsided by hope despite obligations
devout and solid i stand
and standing i am.
but your agents of distress left you clenching success
… and that dress.
you made me look over shoulder to shower oft in corners longing for…
How long I wander
how long I wonder
Feeling guilty for a time lost in the gravest of holes
And in fletchling states of down ridden games
the world sucks
suckling milky dripping tits of rotten molten flesh
trip at the hip on the heals of fletchling states
fuckers can’t stand the stench of their own vomituios effections
towards the armed lovers of distant cultures
stitched the shirt before the shit was even sewn together
swaying back and forth like kleenex on a dark undampened street
fleet to foot and falling longing for another
once you liken the tramp to the the preist and see the plumage of rage
go and turn away
run fucker run
run as fast as your silly little fletchling feet will carry you
eternal in youth
impermanent in age wither the fuck away
into tomorrows land of forgotten uncharted scenes
the truth is they’ve been charted over and over and over and over and over and over
NOT THAT YOU CAN EVER FUCKING SEE
NOT THAT YOU”D EVER FUCKING LISTEN
to all those people those people those people
ALL THOSE PEOPLE
who’ve been there over and over and over and over and over and over
countless times before you
before the likes of you there were only
the like of you
have you ever stared into your mirror
long enough to see what you despise
clearly out your window
report center stage
inverted celluloid clown
with a frown
not a sound
…i’m just kidding.
you watch the inverted celluloid clown
sharply his colors fade to black
the closing scene ends with a fist in the mouth
with no makeup on and grinning
did you see his teeth without the cherry fire-engine red
greased upon his lips
the jokes on you, you know
and no on is laughing
the colors inverted
and in your seat watching the silver curtain lifting ever slow
to reveal the inverted celluloid truth
like a print in double negative
scary isn’t it
i can tell you think so by the way you tremble
isn’t that why you gallivant off to the movies
exiting stage right
but there’s no greater thrill than this
and your little jester makes a gesture that makes you peek through the curtain
and it’s at that moment
that you’re on stage
and the laughable clown is inverted
sitting double-negative in his seat
with no makeup on he cheers in color plain
"tell us another joke!"
the laughter stops and silence fills the air
as you realize that this isn’t funny anymore
and until recently
you were the only one making a sound
up there on your stage
and as the spotlight dims
you can tell that your little harlequin
must have been weeping for you
this whole time
as you laughed
at it all, taking it but for a joke
keeling the feeling
like I’m kneeling
Sunday sorrow, and borrow
there’s no tomorrow
so stealing’s a feeling
believing and mealing
from the floor to the ceiling
to lean to the level
a deal to the devil
There, It’s out I’ve said it. It’s done, The madness. The mayhem, expelled from the wrists to the finger to the toes to the heals. It feels unreal. But still it’s done. It’s out, it was fun. It’s not over, not even.
Like splitting my skull with my tongue it’s undone, my mind likes feeling my heart with a gun.