Lost part ii

An aged and sour boyscout
grown above the fires
mallow and slow walking ladies
may hold my hand for a bit
until cackie becomes
creepy
and he denies my chimney

A paranoid boyscout
may never hold my hand
as his fingers
are wound
around the binds which
which leash him to a soft mallow
or survival.

And though survival is a factor
And while a soft and tender
badge of honor
Promises a soft and tender living
Survival is a factor
So i must refuse the hand
and lease my gaze to
the oblivious savage.

Visine- June 15 2010

Knock softer for your mother
wake her gently or she'll start
she needs her sleep
Can't you hear her summer snores
Getting louder than before
Steady creaking of the door?
No.
I asked for silence
and I won it
at the bottom of her pillow
hiccup swift
and then slow

I'm Shy

I like to watch her turn red
because even as both our voices shake
Notable anxiety never became
my cheek

Untitled

woman with a slight mustache
tells me a story that make my toes bunch and my hair curl
there are drugs in our children's day camps she says
i don't believe her, really
cause she has a wart between her toes
just the same way my dad had that twitch in his left eye
for 6 months
he wasn't diagnosed until he bit the big one
the big one! oh no.

Post- it Notes

Do you fuck the muse?

Did you- Nov.18.09

Maybe if you paid a little closer attention you would notice the inconsistencies that ate my story.
But you zone out on the smallest details.
Cause If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and had to start all over again.
If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and twisted my right ankle and bit my tongue and screamed.
And then my left.
You were listening to Jesus preach at the time I sang a song to explain my mood.
Apathetic.
Copasetic.
You didn’t even make me groan.
Satisfied at most.
Most of the time that I was climbing shrubbery in Auntie’s apple-butter yard, you were out back shooting the breeze with that minor detail neighbor girl who never showed her fancy shoes again after that day that I told her how minute she was.
In this world at least.
Your obsession with Jaques Causteu plagued you and I watched through big lenses for the way you pulled at your hair and struck your yellowed temple with the tiniest of pencil tips.
I always waited in the corner as you got your kicks vomiting up your last meal or thought or shitty liquidy meal or thought in shitloads on the back of the old Volkswagon.
I was listening to Jesus on tape.
When you told me to.
I know I never listened on my own.
But then again you never bopped to my pop.
Maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again like
iffff
you would turn
Your neck
And twist your lips and repeat
“if?”

An Ode- written August 6 2010

I am dying to love you
for you I cut off all my hair
for you, my picture
my shallow artery (outcry)
my shadow
my face in the window
on the beach
I blush eternally
I die
and begin again
not quite a phoenix
but the pigeon who longs
to coo
to coo
to coo
lay prostrate at your hesitant toes
I want to feel your sweeping desperation
I want to live your point of elevation
I breathe to be your everything
your lice
your lollipop
your paintbrush
your chicken pox
My Muse! you are a gorgeous God!
Flames run at your finger tips
Bright spirit bursting from your lips
your eyes are blind to my approach
But still I come
I do.
Your scent
your waves that drive me here
I die.
I die.
I'm incomplete
without your breath to fill me
I am famished
pale without your flush
without your silence
prone to nothing
Never speak my dear
of rage
Or better yet, do!
I'd love to know that secret passion that rumbles on inside you.
And as you are the object of my obsession
my bleeding and bitter point of infection
I traded you
I did today
my soul cannot afford this death
Before the bedpost and the wall
I dreamt of you
But nevermore
I begged my god to trade my passion
for a human punctuality
This way I did not miss my train.

Reading

At night I can feel
Death with his feather
and his flute
tickling the bottom of my foot.

I've made my sole too readily available.