a sinister plan

these are all
greater parts of
a sinister plan
biding time nature
will strike
the allure of light
literally stemming from within
as if to capture what is truly
important for its existence
sitting in darkness
without eyes
or a spine
or nothing
just sticky lines
and survival
and a (not really) brain stuck on
just a couple of functions
just a matter of
getting the catch
consuming it in whatever
weird sickly unhuman manner
it decides.

that’s really gross.

yeah dude
limestone LIMESTONE
giving them prosperity

as if they could ever
understand its titanic
endless growth through time
through the power of rain
water dissolving the world
trees stem in deep
rivers going down
seeming to disappear
in dark
where they will ultimately meet
resistance and decide
to just erode.

shake

in my crevice
i gaze wide-eyed
up at the giants screaming
with teardrops in their hands.
my sight has never made
any sense before, these empty eyes
drowned by the drops falling
through their clenched fists.

somewhere out of my hole,
i feel the earth shaking.
rubbing my blanched fingers against
the walls of dark stone, forever-wet.
my white fingernails, shortly-trimmed,
shine in the
pale light.
and i feel that mover,
i feel that shaker.
i will never know his name,
and the men in the clouds and the
men on the ground – too busy
rubbing grease on their bodies
to weather the rain they rattle
from the clouds with their
incessant screams – shall never know either.

still,
he keeps on thundering,
keeps on rumbling.

cold blue is blood red

pump.

i am the swollen beating heart
that never knows why
when each cell
each plasma-filled membrane
each extraneous extremity
has swallowed a sufficient
saturation of oxygen and the cold
blue discs come hurtling back through
the streets with last year’s garbage
that some sick neuron of a
soporific straining pumps pumps
pumps a pulse electrifying
my spine and forcing my
heart
to give life to my
lips
that speak the words that have cut
at the throat of so many
conveniently turned backs to my
tongue
that swallows katrina’s of
foreign saliva and has performed cunnilingus
on onetoomany a rose to my
fingers
each and all that have punched
and typed and shushed and pulled
and fingered and squeezed and twisted
one-too-many times each and
all to my
eyes
that have torn the clothes off the respected
respectable woman and have pinned her to
the floor my remorseless gasps
absorbing her screams gripping her fingers
tighter for one more
one more even though the carpet burn
is hurting her knees
and finally to my
brain
that through new and abandoned convictions
keeps pump pump pumping neurons to
my shriek of a heart for the next round of
reality tv shows starring shrines of beautiful
gossamer ghouls
but no
i’m no philosopher no misanthrope
i’m just sitting on my chair (you know that black
leather rolling chair that my dad bought me
for christmas a few years back) bent over
the chaotic sea of raped
trees on my desk writing a poem on
a thursday night after a long talktomyself shower
draining time before my favorite tv show
10 pm eastern.

now the pump pump pump begins to slow
and as the choking grays of the walls
and ceiling sink me into flannel
pillows into final lonely terror (or dreams)
because i’m just too tired to masturbate
i clutch my hand to my breast
and begin to love my heartbeat.

you bick wit us, lee?

king
you have your desires
but you are not reasonable

your silk-wrapped hot dog buns
and mundane perfumed doilies
are just not worth

these heavy chains
and long long hours
good liege

that it is your choice
is ubiquitously mourned
but it is.

it is
and so we plea (non a
priori) priority look and see

you’ve made one man happy
king
(no, you’re right)

thank you for your time.

gallows in five? make it ten
i should visit my icon
thanks see you then.

collision with a train

they’re not sure yet

it took off both her legs
but they’re still not sure

the fucking news reporters (god
i don’t know why i watched it)
played the nine one one call

all you can hear is her screaming

she mainly worked with
the kids and me at camp
imagine that

so busy saving and
now look at this

wheeling herself in
with the rest of the gang
next summer living poetry

and her goddamn legs are ripped off.

duo coal

moving it to nine
to twelve
it’s not even burning yet

that clink
that suck that delicious
mintlemonvanilla fucking

okayness all that’s stopping me
from breaking down becoming
nothing from doing i don’t even

know what that wiggle
gesturing the hose (clink)
suck it down but

there is no talking
just bubbling just smoldering
ashes becoming

slowly so slowly
less tasty (clink) less full
less beautiful

it’s winding down now
and i have yet to say
a word

she wanted it though
laying there blowing
smoke in my face

maybe it isn’t time
this time
but it’s always time

it’s always (goddamn clink) always time.

fresh air

i just looked at him
kind of fat
kind of mexican
there was gel in his hair
he had combed it back
glasses on his nose
three fat textbooks strangled
by fat fingers dwarfed by
his dumb white shirt

and i was so happy
(i mean who wears
just a white tee shirt)
because this kid
was going somewhere
and hell if even he knows
where he’s going
but he's trudging along

with those three books
i brought no books
to class i brought
coffee and an essay
to catch up on
i should come to
class more often
and not write
poetry (for once)
if he’s going
i’m gone.