Month: July 2014

Cat Walk

The pitter patter, plain and eventful,
of hundreds of muscles of trees in sway,
that trace the winding catwalk
where a 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.



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 great
never look like they were about to

or ever capable of doing it.

They were derelict, strange
on a good day.

I have to remind myself of this fact
to the threading and style death
of my self and, it’s 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 or win, but still lose, as men.