YOUR SUBPERB SILHOUETTE

If my appearance interferes with your venerable existence,
Please take your body and withdraw from my crude presence.
I have nothing but respect and reverence for your face.
It reminds me of canyons I've never seen and dreams I've misplaced.

There's nothing I'd love more than to share a drink or two
And chat about teenage procreation or Sioux City Sue.
Because your hair was scarlet and your eyes were opal blue.
I remember the pendant on your necklace was an old buffalo tooth.

We could speak of urban myths, beets, and the leaping years.
You could confess to me your secrets and I'd unleash my fears.
I'm not surveying your wrinkles or the silver in your hair.
I'm savoring your mouth while smoke lingers in the air.

you will set your ear upon my heaving chest
As I vacuum in the last drag of my cigarette.
Obliged to hear me speak of rock and roll legends,
Then I will quietly leave the stoop and witness your superb silhouette end.

Alarm clock strong arm

I'll help you stay alive if you stay by my side.
I'll keep your mind off the drugs if you keep my mind off the time.
I'll hold you when you need holding if you don't leave when the storm starts blowing.
I'll plug your nose when you feel temptation if you hold my hand when it starts shaking.
Just know that I'm here.
And remember that I hear.
I'll take in every word. and spit some out in return.
Don't lose faith in me because I won't lose faith in you.
The road ahead might be blurry
but we can both learn to focus by teaching each other.
When your alarm clock rings
I'll stretch my arm to shut it off,
if you keep me warm for a few more minutes before you put your clothes on.
When you think you have tears to cry,
I'll help you dry your eyes if you use your hand to muffle my cries.
If we can love, learn and heal and understand the things we feel that's all we need.
Baby, that's all we need.

Alone in my messy mess

Get out of this house
Get out of this mess
When I'm here all alone
that's when I feel the best
When there's no hand lain across my beating chest
And I hear nothing besides my own frosty breath.
Yes yes yes that's when I feel the best
When only my lamp lights up my room and there's nothing to see
But the gleam of the moon,
I don't worry about who's watching
Only about holding onto the pen and paper
Not about aching feet off eight hours of labor. 
Only about the words and me.
Only about what else I will be.
Because when I'm out of this lonely but comfortable place
I am forced to come face to face with people and smiles I don't wish to see.
Once in a while I just to be with me.
My apologizes darling. 
I'm kicking you out because you just don't hear what I'm talking about.
No, not tonight I don't want to be touched,
I don't always feel like making love (to you) 
Sometimes I need to be alone, so I can remember what silence sounds like. 
To hear no phone. To see no faces.
To forget the vibration of the ticking clocks race.
To do nothing but lie in warm waters in the dark and shut out all outside these walls the people who have become so stark.
Alone I am.
Alone I will be until I wake in time for the day ahead I'll dream of that warm lonesome bed.

So you saw no one? There was no one there. So you did see no one.

With opprobrious sense,

simulating to the shadows,

of your locked kicked-in heart,

My lost sense of moral turpitude,

strains on your mind,

amphibologie's run a muck in our whirlwind love,

no such luck with an equivocation's save,

you spit in my eye,

slap the lithium laced tonic from my hand,

you'll take lead on this political charge,

spearheading the shock treatments I'll soon need,

as they propagandize my Lhasa Apso against me,

but my immovability will prove to best your best attempts.
So as the arms on the clock grow tired,

telling you the time,

you'll scream for it to shut up,

but they'll be nights when you'll hear her,

tick tock,

tick tock,

no escaping father time.

And I'll use my arms,

to bear arms

and strike you down,

light a lighting bug in a thunder storm.

oranges and gasoline (dreams weaved into infinity)

Her eyelids were spun by sweating silkworms.
Tucked in her bed, they slowly close.
Her brain projects images of tree snails
Sword-fighting with delicate dog embryos.

Leave her thoughts alone.
Go back to your home.

You enter her dreams with your puffed out chest.
She locked the door, but somehow you break in.
Smiling with your sugar cube teeth.
You take off your shoes and walk on your bare feet.

Don't forget to close the door,
Or you won't be welcome anymore.

You walk through the labyrinth of her mind.
Rainbows and sinkholes all along the trail.
Stop at the fountain for a glass of blush wine.
Milkmaids in bonnets burn all the mail.

Your train has been derailed.
Your love letters will not be mailed.

A man of God in a white robe brings her a bouquet.
Geraniums in an aquarium with angel fish.
They swim up in the sky and land upon her lips.
You sit at a round table and feast on amphibians.

Is it what you expected
After you let yourself in?

tigers dream here, didn't your hear

My first half unfinished version of you is
Like a silent contract of mistrust
Smooth-faced and casting shadows
You stand over me
Sketched in red and pining
A softened solemnity regales itself to me
Deeply pierced I feel nothing
Except a choice refined.
Interestingly strange you seem
Portraits of the history of your face
Deference and masculinity line your stride
With blue-blood invention
Like a tired snow leopard in a sea of Purple bougainvillea
Just after summer satisfactions
Just for great art
Just another July afternoon sunlight sewn with astounding exactness
Flesh beneath a mannequin's costume
I watch and wait to see

Secret thieves

I wrapped my body in warm layers of wool
To probe the nearby wooded trail.
I went alone, I went in disguise
To learn the secrets of the snail.

The cash drawer was forgotten and never counted.
The till was left open to be stolen from.
And I didn't care, I left in a flash.
I knew the thieves would never come.
Those damn thieves never get their easy work done.

So hold on to my hand and we'll go off together
To the wooded trail. Just dress for the weather.
Cover your neck so you don't catch a cold.
And forget the cash drawer, forget the green mold.

Do what you please on the wooded trail.
But cover your feet and look out for the snails.
They are hiding beneath the foam and the leaves.
Waiting to be found by the secret thieves.

The secret thieves, the bandits of the trees.
They know where money grows
And how to keep it clean.
The secret thieves, the bandits of the trees.
No cash flow out in the woods,
Only birds and bees.

Dig me clean grave

My mouth will squeeze
Red blood of a beet
Onto your scalp
When you yell for my help.

I'll be sitting naked
On my favorite arm chair
And your breath will float over
To sleep in my ear.

We will think of the years
Swiftly going by,
Like the snap of your fingers
Or a galloping deer.

Milking the udders
Of a broken clock.
The pendulum swings
But the time has stopped.

Can you keep it like that?
Can you keep it like that?

Can you stitch a patch of lace onto my back?
To cover my scars,
To shield a scratch
 
Left on my skin during a vengeful attack.

It was long ago,
But the marks do remain.
They are ugly and deep.
They are pink rubber stains.

Help me wash them away.
Help me wash them away.

Put your hands on the soap
And dig me a clean grave;
Where I can comfortably lay.

snow capped dreams

On the breast of a snow covered mountain top,
I relinquish my morality.
amid independence fleeting thoughts of resilience pending,
the arrogant stress lies upon my polyglot personality,
with the swiftness of a boa your meddling thoughts,
restrict my brainwaves,
my thalamus receives your negative thoughts,
like the mountains receive the snow.
I am open.

These dreaming are causing my rash

walking metropolises
constantly in sunlight
pushed along by the slight but powerful expansion
of avant-garde illusionists;
as hoards of post-irrationalists,
picketing the rational argument,
of certain constraints,
for whos omnipotent divinity,
will hold them morally acountable
for the Palawan massacres
in the twilight of post-capitalism fallout?