screaming at low volumes
there are blades of grassthat grow under the snow;how I wish I was them.these flakes of snow fallingfrom the heavens that sent youare bigger than I’ve ever been.Is it love that makes me tiny,where a deep sigh is a hurricaneand heavy footsteps an earthquake?
right now, this very moment, I want to destroy everything. It’s taking a concentrated effort not clear my desk, my book shelf my heart; I wish I understood why.
When your eyes burn with visions of Santa Anaand Brazil is laying itself upon all you touch,when every mystery has the same answerand the sun won’t set without a saint’s song,when all the words have run togetherto make only one last sentence,the flood of love will leave nothing behind,the currents of life will deposit everything.There … Read moreWhen your eyes burn with visions of Santa Ana
sometimes I have to yell; it comes out like vomit – this poison that sits so deeply made from too many years of ill conceived waste disposal programs. sometimes I need to scream; the currents of the continents smashing together in an ageless dance pushing rage out into the sky, into the ears. sometimes I … Read moreVolume
I have opened every box, every bottle;looked under furniture, laundry, dirty dishes,but no where can I find oblivion.Maybe it’s me, my own blindnessthat I think I can see and hence the confusion. Sometimes I want to extinguishmy own existence in this sphere;watch the blaze of insecurities andmake ashes from my lifetimes in doubt. Fists in … Read moredisjointed
My butterflies are biting me and I’m still writing letters to the world but I’ve run out of bottles – they don’t seem to come to the island anymore – and no matter how strongly worded I’m still just lonely and still just lonely and still, I’m just lonely dreaming of soft arms and dark … Read moreLast Night
traveling; south then west over to the crater that was once a crescent moon for a party at the ends of the earth: I think of Morocco and Burroughs and the wasted deserts of West Texas. I hop into demons and scorch the sky; on whims as flimsy as balsa wood planes and the bella … Read moreTravel Days
Baby can I come home with you? Yeah, I’m not the first to ask; but there’s a thing you got – please don’t ask just what it is, it ain’t part of my five senses but every other man in here just don’t know what you got: oh, they feel it, but they don’t know … Read moreTo Hell With Everything Good
there’s a bar with a stool for me that I can’t get to easily. I must overcome too many adversities: all my knuckles hurt, ache really, and my back is stabbing me and twisting the knife, plus I found a lump near my spine; I hope it’s a spider bite, further, my neck won’t straighten … Read moreConvenience
My penis has a sore from getting caught on my zipper during an extended session in hermetic love of binary objections on video displays flickering a dying light. I see music in the faces that ring out of my cog driven, enslavement of idle key strokes. An urban filter sun that starts out on a … Read moreJacking Off