sōth

when i am with you 

i can see beautiful

sitting on the futon 

at the lunchbox

looking at each other 

in the tiled mirror wall

we discuss if the mirror 

was there first or the tiles

glass and plastic poking

corners in our eyes

the door unlocked 

for stamos to get the pot

and piyali to put on 

longer pants 

so we can talk fifty feet 

through the woods 

to the golf course 

because it it is man-

made beauty at its finest,

and the sky is orange

light glowing in low clouds

white oak branches black 

and dervish smiles

adorning our faces

felipé falling from that tree 

and breaking his face 

on the ground 

a year ago today

i would stand on 

the women's green 

when I didn't know 

there was a difference

but for twenty-four feet 

between neat pads of grass

earth saturated solidly

still and stolidly

the stoic stare

standing entranced 

at the sigh of springtime 

sating our tuesday tremors.

I am motion.

Wind Babel,

Boulder Heaven

skirt hijacking.

Memory stutters.

Bishops Creek,

God heavens--

square window.

Maybe marigolds

make headdresses

of morning glories.

Side doorways

on wood porches

wear more.

Shelter Mississippi:

mourning miles

creep covered.

Delaware beaches:

if you were here,

you'd be home.

Bowing sun

retreats West--

follow breathless.

Roman opera,

Florida gunman,

New York riot police

pull the chord,

startling awareness

to waken.

Bones on pavement,

purgatory landfills--

dry.

Paper is braver

than Greek tragedy.

Nebraska barn

red in a field,

me barefoot beside.

Two

Hands slacken--

taught on movement.

A Word

There you are Jack, always getting lost under my clothes.  The covers on the bed back and sheets pulled from their bottom tuck, crumpled up, lump of cotton fabric bowls build up inside my head.  I want to get the roots out of that tree before they eat the driveway.  I don't know if I thought on this path of endangerment, self capitulation mutilated heavily in the thoroughfare, concentrated vibration of tattoo needles and bullets, vibrators.  The obnoxious singing life form in the window over my left shoulder reads this and continues skinning sweet potatoes, melting butter and tossing time, measuring heat resonance in the microwave.  I'm more distracted than usual because I feel guilty for thinking about writing what I want to write about, even though I know that no one will read this. I feel like writing about it would be repeating it and it's not my place to tell of someone else's--the honest torpid of which I have no understanding, but a recollection of a past memory entrenched in cerebellum, pineal realization of abject humility and prostration before a God in question, the mere suggestion of a reason seems heathen of me, but I lack the proper communication skills to build any adequate response, so all I can do is listen.  I feel immense sorrow for what has come to pass over his life, a God who will not listen--he would rather be in Heaven, knowing of his blood and brother's true salvation.  Retaliation is an endless process that leaves him when he needs it most.

Can't

--containing all letters in a spectrum of light, time elapse photographs of moving glaciers down a mountain, revealing rectum and unsightly ghast of daybreak, the morning ridge suffering dutifully, the congruent feasibility of reality spanning panoramic for me to read on a blank page, three shelves of empty journals and the meaning of a having a voice, the unspoken chances of womanhood stored in attic milk crates and cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations, plastic angel hung herself from the fiberglass garter stairs, bares all humanity in her reckless entanglement.  Dubstep and driving is a dangerous combination, the sensation of bass vibrating through your system, circulatory side brain consortium of next level planets, fiber optic Indian trance, dancing Coptic nonsense down the plaster dreamt hallway, Black Cat Baltimore endeavors waving headless endorsements of the ever lasting magic of hybrid theology, the mental embalming of my body, never grown used to the fluxing, the stream of consciousness rattled out of its naked prostrating at my own feet, a hijinks of perspective radiating at my knees and through my ankles, thoughts are canker sores, toad piss warts and chasing hop scotch lightning bugs through laureled yards, both hull and keel whittled down inside my jeans pocket, crushed and sat on with my last cigarette in the pack is broken in half, laughing at me dejectedly cornered in my own hot bed of existence, the resistance to ride the wave of cadence, because somehow the very suggestion of a rhythm and rhyme is cliched, corny, makes me horny, makes you still question if I have any idea where I'm going with this and the answer is no, only that I am restless and incapable of putting it down, laying down my thoughts as if they all matter and can exist without me.  I see jumbled texts crisscrossing highways through my brain, causing high speed accidents, fiery car bent around the grill of a Texas sixteen-wheeler, the long pines lining Highway 59 disappear suddenly and leave us with the stark nothing between gas station towns, lonely ghosts trailing the exit signs and sighing despondently between yellow teeth, grief given out freely and to all who worship plainly, green stained flannel long-sleeves in the dead heat of summer, August drought drying collards down to dirt and oil rigs rusted shut, stuck still in sepia time out of some still water movie drawn out as Conroy dies in rustic sorrow, tomorrow still waning ever in the puckered grass, insisting hellishly its firm stance on reality that if I find ever slipping away gracefully, Russian swan pirouetting pointedly from air to buckled stare and gliding through the fog, landing on the water's morning mist and shuddered up the grape vines, Classical mystifying resemblance to God--I stop and wonder when I say God what is it I'm looking at, so many stars staring across the purpled ribbed sky that there is far little dark matter, the space in the measured vortex of Fairmont, West Virginia, coal veteran mine drafted Vietnam homeless last left huddling under pipe lines.

Pairings

I started writing with no purpose and it got me no where. i enter into my practice with an intention, but without a map and sometimes it gets me lost and pleasantly so. I could use some guidance, I am sure of it, but for now all I can do is listen to my soul and it tells me I am on the verge of a life changing experience--cliche as it may sound, I heard it speak sitting at the edge of the woods where we climb to the King and Queen seat, Susquehannock outcrop jutting over Deer Creek, seeking nature's mind of kindred spirit to the raccoon critters dancing jitters up my naked spine.  When I whine, it does nothing but make me more bitter, when I smile, I feel my insides relax and soften, my soul settle like the open sea I imagine it would be lying post-coitally on the horizon, sun sinking basket into open arms, Poseidon's garden hyperbolically stationed on the precipice of my own existence, my inability to reach the door, rolling dead bug on my back on the floor, Kafkan nightmare of seventh grade English class.  Teachers like this are the reason kids hate school, being told there is a right and wrong with regard to literature, the richer I get, the more I think I was better off poor, for then I am at my kindest, more compassionate vision of reality, whatever that may be.  I'm straying too much into the metaphysical and my audience has already stopped reading, now I am free to speak easily, meandering the dark channels of my upside down clown face, charted vessels bound for Nederland wooden bars, bluegrass Kentucky bands charming hunters and hippies alike--I cannot tell him it is wrong to kill, but for the thrill of his reaction, I tempt it anyway, alluding to some mattered connection between living things and he laughs at my impracticality, his family has to eat after all and we are not getting any smarter but standing here gawking at ourselves, our reflection in the dark glass windows, we can't see past ourselves to the mountains growing like waves outside, Rocky mothers breast feeding baby and carburetor, pissing on the radiator to cool it off, pulled over at the shoulder pass, dropping Earth wings on windshield, humping the gear shift as if it were animate, moaning uncontrollably--put that bitch's face in a pillow.  The steam on the window and a cop flashlight tapping asking ma'am is everything alright and when he sees it is consensual, we are both arrested for indecent exposure and over indulgence of the lustful tones of wonderment, staring at the moon through the cruiser window, winding down the spiral staircase to 7-11 where he stops for coffee and being caffeinated, lets us go out of sheer compassion but lets us hike the 18 miles back to our vehicle, shaking lonely from our abandonment, post-traumatic bucket sense of glass jars re-aligned obsessive compulsively in the cabinets, again, measuring half an inch exactly between each rim, every grip on the counter's edge leaving sweat hand prints and microscopic mildew remnants of being held captive in a desert womb.

Test Run

selfish endeavors such as writing require no audience, although I assume one.  a name, perhaps, does not matter so much as the person, but I am still hurt when Adam does not remember mine a year later. i find i am much too patient with others and not nearly enough so with myself. these are strict observations which would do better to be shown rather than told, but seeing as how i'm alone and no one is watching, i'd rather put it this way.  it's cleansing to be able to say what you want to say and not worry about who's caring. i could be daring, and paint a mural on the side of Bank of America, something about damning corporations to hell, for after all, we have ruled that they are people.  something about all this does not sit right with me--not just the corporations are people thing, but the words i'm building on the page feel dishonest, even though they represent quite literally what i am thinking at the present.  i suppose it's because I know that anyone could be saying these words.  that's kind of the point of poetry, sometimes, to say how no one else has; it's all been said already, we are now finding different ways to say it, without so many limitations and structure.  although, if you talk to Adrian, a painter, he will argue that words are too constricting, that to channel the mind, one must drop all of the pretense; but my mind works in words, and in so many reasons as there are paper cups.

A Notable Quotable

"Poetry is an honorable lie."
            -- Michael Collier

Crane

jilted self awareness into happiness to let it happen, the master plan if you will, the hybrid thrill back bar room drills and smoking blunts in the basement, Fletcher's Grove pounding bass hits, grippled drum, rhythm face masks, plastered onward, metal ho drum, the bigger traces of nature's reality steaming forward, the natural imbalance of body and temperance. noticing the movement of hawks and turkey vultures, the earth's curvature reflected in my eyes, the soul blues ducking care worn and hearth steader, mental bending, mention of somber moments in Sunday morning mass at Saint Margaret's, Father Tim prounouncing proclaments, Latinate diction and Dane Cook memoirs about Christ Chex.  The next chapter is a little hazy, and the heroine hasn't come to fruition, her lack love ambition heaves her crippled in the stair case, the mental debasement of body meets daily grind and hyperactive mobile streetcar races. I have cases of cocaine stashed with the bodies in  my basement--too obvious?  The blame game is great, I play it too, suck on these nuts, speak habits of gin licks and rhymes.  In my prime, I was feathered as a peacock, alpha female status of the first divine, queen mother of rock n roll blasted  holds the winter's cold, buried in my soul, the black book of Heaven.  

Female Superhero Concept: The Skeleton Phases

name: Alex

backstory: Alex was a breast cancer patient, recipient of a double mastectomy.  During treatment, she was over-exposed to radiation as the CT scanner exploded, giving her super-human strength, and the ability to regenerate her own cells (thus healing her own injuries in a matter of seconds) .  She lives in Baltimore.

physical description: She is fairly androgynous: beyond her lack of breasts, she is also broad-shouldered and muscular (not overly so, but noticeably), but she does have a striking face, a healthy tan, and curvaceous booty.  She is bald.

super-heroism: Most of her crime-fighting is with the street criminals in Baltimore: gang-related violence, prostitution rings, etc.  Her arch-nemesis is Geezer, a slime-ridden reptile/rat/man and disgruntled former police chief who inhabits the city sewer system and the inner harbor.  His stench is forever present, even when he is hiding underground plotting and biding time for his relaunch into local politics, and subsequent attack on the city.  She has yet to find a way to kill him, as he seems to feed off of the human suffering that is so rampant in Baltimore.  

love life: Alex has a female love interest named Masha, a beautiful Russian ex-patriate and photographer.  They are living happily together in a Canton row home, but complications arise due to their respective careers.