gattaca

all us hurting things
we stand up
eventually
at once
and laugh ourselves
into infamy
that stings like
stinking
frayed strings
until someone
changes them
and nobody else looking
the gift shop gets
robbed blind
while the house band
is forcefully
induced
to re-enact
one thousand
year old rituals
for the sake
of function

and the sting
the sting
the sting
that hurting thing
continues thus

to sting
and outside
the front door
daylight broods a broadsword
we bring
we bring
we bring ourselves back indoors

GSF

it was another wild week
 
the irish brothers made a girl cry
 
after which she went on an anti jew tirade
 
and we told her to leave
 
i laughed and thought of you
 
how clever life is
 
when it creeps
 
and crawls
 
and slithers
 
and calls out
 
out with the peoples real desire
 
to hate as freely as nobody can love
 
we did it all on the street
 
we danced in a dozen bars
 
and laid on patches of clean grass
 
and told each other everything
 
and made a spectacle of the spectacle
 
and when it ended
 
it was well past dawn
 
because thats the way we do it
 
down here in st. johns

Cat Walk

The pitter patter, plain and eventful,
of hundreds of muscles of trees in sway,
that trace the winding catwalk
where the walker takes his walk,
in the boredom of night
finding the same alley cat
as most other nights,
and the memory it jogs of the
drug dealers pretty girlfriend
and her tattoos, universal & easy,
how she smoked and he, pierced to fuck
went on and on about having to quit another job
and the way she smoked and looked vacant
all at once, and the alley cat so
affectionate, like a thing starved for touch
and how the walker felt that way, too,
and the failure of it all
to change anything

but the beauty of it, too.

Boneadenus

the wrong ones always teach you the most
about why they’re wrongs are yours
and how you’ll need to fix your own
before the next ones any different

but you always dream
you’ll meet someone in the exact scene
and time
and you’ll both escape
like some kinda new age cliffhanger

you are the kiss you begin with
you are the dance you end on
you are every night’s the best night
you always dream this free
you always look so enchanting?

in here
in this
in with me now
you are the best thing

but for me to really know you to love you I can’t really get that close to it or we will change this thing
this little thing we got right here
is called a conundrum
and it stings
as it is sweet

to be this cool
we have to lose something
been this way since
I was just skinny
and then, into scrawny
into scaled even,

I have yet to see anything go well
if it was just beds and knobsticks

we need it to work too
because more than just everything
depends on rain barrows

it’s impossibility that shadows love

and its them we need most
when we run short of lust
when we lose the ghost

the skeleton remains

and let me tell you
of all phenomenon to see it
dance like that

is it

Net Born

everywhere you go
you get caught up in it
the people are the throng
and the truth
and the trip itself
is made of their shared dreamscapes
the patterns are the closest we get to religion
we do them that justice
gyrating to the new because of its title
and nothing else
but the smell of street vendors at last call
and the army of slipping heeled legs
almost broken under the weight of the night
but still too young to shame a cab

Age Syndicate

The people who eventually do something
never look like they were about to
or ever capable of doing it
they were derelict or strange
on a good day

I have to remind this fact
to the threading and style death
of my self and its lingerie

I’ll replay the same thing over in my head
until it rhymes
becomes a mime, a mine
a mind

and it will still fall flat
before the pharaoh in my next loves mythos

there is always the danger of merely aging
but we seek something worse –
to lose as men.

Furman and Lily

The heart of two white
cats, old siblings
upon the white windowsill

they narrate silent
in meditation of
outside realms

the sister knows
every aging tactic
of the brother’s
annoyance arsenal
mixed with play
and snuggling moments

the space they occupy
without ever knowing
any of the earthly pleasures
but for the easiest one,

in death.

pulp common people

sweet
so
you’ve seen it then?

how it overlaps
and flows
in directions
it’s not supposed to?

and since you’ve left
have you any clue
how it’s gotten?

like some new screwdriver blue?
like some unknown duck
do?

you go
you go and we go with you until
the dance margin forgets you
and the hardship it’s such
a fucking hangover

it could break your
nails off
in the keyhole
to be free

they were never easy
pieces and
you will never have them
regardless

of how close
we came
and you would still sing
its name

as sacrosanct
and petty
beyond it all

I want to make a tired wing
of your arms, lurching misandry
I want to tease your hair,
to dance on the command
of this tempo

(although first)
you need to know things
that could only ever be shown

shewn,
screwn,
doomed,
and loomed

along the song slung
harp
of our poor nights

(you cannot)
have them, for
have they, no matter,
how close,

we came, to kissing them,
just, burning bday candle bodies,
lain against cheap stain glasses,
with ease

and we will crawl
and we will creep
and we will crescendo

above the holler,
just to say…

Taxi,

Taxi…

Taxi!

And ease
into the casey load
of another Anthony

who doesn’t know
he’s just another
new york city
detective’s depiction
by tv’s finest

and in turn you help me
to know the causative
difference
between those

and me
and mine
and hoist me,

up into the booth
from when’s I can
claim
some sort of soon
becoming,

and reach me
three days from
the
shadow
of the crime,

of believing, for once,
we might be fine
(but also fucked)

to ruins,
sand, crushed fine,
let me go,
into that mind,

and when I come back
ill let me
be mine

I’ll let him
get shines,
get kinds
all manner
of them,
those clean highs will

be all the
worth having
suspending inches
from, for so fucking
many, many years.

House-hold

coming up the stairs
with all the lovers
you have had

at once
a party,
a rebels march,
a taking back,

of the creaking tomb
now owning your morning
and your night walks,

I can see myself,
falling, into the ocean
or, a pendulum swinging
on a crooked branch.

you can’t see me
like I can

and that’s what makes it
easy, like yours,
hard, like ours,
complete, then mine.

a set of advantages
builds,
oceanic

and all that rests
is the applause
of crowd laugh,
of foot twitch,
of airs,

untold,

of a tour,
of a chorus,
of everything,
in-between,

buy the hat,
sing the dance,
make it yours,
and mine,

mine
is an easy calligraphy
in-between the mad,
coarse
dance that
shuffles us,

into new, exotic
singularities

we want to raise
our finger
into the air

and ask it for anything
but what we already know

so that,
and this,
and our dream
meet,

a half burning finger
in-between

that stings,
and sings,
and singes,

that easy binge,
it brings
us cover
to honesty

it brings us
closer to sovereignty,

and it clings us
to the envelope
so that we cannot
grow
without
that

and we go
we go until
there is none left

and that is it
for us

isn’t it?