dated future: may 12, 2012

what I would not do to spend one night with you:

1)...

history

mind has ostracized heart from rest of body...
heart travels world and follows dream
dream actualized
mind wants heart back
mind needs heart back
heart comes back too big to fit in body
so heart shrinks itself,
because heart loves

life is too short to be anything
but a joke

jungle boogie

in your jungle basement,
two bartenders mixing the better potion...

Two snakes wrapped up like Caduceus.
You slither your coarse against my smooth,
in this jungle room.
Leopard spots,
elephant tusks,
zebra paintings;
delight in the shag-feel,
coated ground.

I know you watch me,
want me. The prowler
with a growl.

My eyes closed,
taking each second
as its own before it dies
like fallen domino.
I already see the last one
hanging off the precipice,
before it's there.
Sometimes, a hand will wait
below to catch it,
but that domino will never know,
until she lets go.

Kienholz installation “The Illegal Operation”, 1962
 
He regarded his viewers 
by their garbage. 
He fabricated material life
holding up a mirror to still eyes
in denial at the horror of truth
captured
like a living photograph.
 
Burlap sack punched raw
laying like a burnt slab of molding meat
hoisted atop a shopping cart
that’s missing its cage.
Its wheels overused,
no longer able to move.
One can smell the rust and taste it
as though a child were in the seat
looped wires cradling
as it sucks on the handle
where mama’s hand had been.
 
Burlap sack sweat-stained
vomiting out its torn orifice,
split like cruel lips
of a motorcyclist
with a mouthful of cement.
Purging what poison that let grow
within, pulsating
now dead, half covered in a pail;
 
a forgotten guilty conscious,
a redemption for shame,
existing only in
mother’s waking nightmares,
her cold perspiration against
the cool moon's stare; a reminder
of the surgical bright light
that casted a pallid yellow glow
on seemingly sickly skin.

Collecting together, many years
later, little knotted plastic black bags
holding the little bones of the 
little ones, discarded
in the wasteland.
 
 

2-line poetry

(basis: little to no abstractions)

i am but a simple mechanism taken advantage of
invented by a dead corpse with a name

........

smoke-laced conversations under fading bulbs
whiskied souls floating down the river Lethe

.......

broken fragments of a wine glass glittering under wide eyes
a pair of cocks, beak to beak, vying for the cry to the rising sun

......

shit grins from within a toilet
chagrin to desire to dig it back up

.......

hair that stands on end and pricks when the skin crawls
under coverlets that should protect the mind's wit

dreamers

i sometimes see him, in my mind, clearer than other times i imagine him. on these clearer pictures, i see a great man. he is on a journey. a journey he wishes to accomplish alone. he feels a great desire for independence, freedom and the complete fulfillment of self. but at certain moments - certain, rare moments when he is completely alone - he doubts himself, and then still other moments...i know he imagines someone like me. and this is the clearest of moments - me knowing exactly who he is without ever meeting him while imagining him, and he, in the same respect imagining me - knowing i'm imagining him. and although we've never met, we've never shared a real moment, when we do meet, we'll know...something.

we're not exactly waiting for each other. we each have our own lives to live. we each give into idle pleasures now and again. we find fulfillment in not only what we do, but what we're capable of. the only thing that keeps us awake at night, and have us dreaming in the day is the fact that we're just a daydream, imagination, invention; a comfort away from reality. we don't even exist.