The Bog of Eternal Insecurity.

I know you are a monster.
Your monstrosity has nothing to do
with why I want nothing to do
so wholeheartedly with you.
Within you prowls creaturely anxiety.
You shoe gaze to assume some sort of piety.

When your milky violet eyes
creep over my skin
the fog of the lagoon
turns into a blanket
and I get damp and sour
with your gaze left like dairy
on my skin for weeks.

I am sorry for you, monster.
Sympathy without sorrow.
Empathy rotten with malevolence.
You are a monster of the heart.
You are beautifully deformed in your emotive strikes.
My hands grow wild with decay as you stare into me.
Tears leap from your eyes as flames do;
the lonely descent of a suicide falling from the ledge.
The smart phone notifies, forgotten under the hedge.
My feet sever their ties, yet no farewell to the ankles.
You drill your eyes into me and take core samples.
This layer is empty.  This layer is full.
This layer looks all crossed out and null.
The bog has lain traces of itself all along your skin,
fissures of silt stratifying the stupidity forthcoming.
Something that is wasted without knowing it.
That breath, that voice, that fear of showing it.
Wasted for everyone to see you unclear.
Your struggle of expression leaves you further rather than near.

The middle of the earth just wants to give you away.
And the outside just wants to take from the middle.
And that is life. 
The transfer of electrons.
You give it and I don't want to take it.

There is cowardice in feigning internal struggle.
Hiding behind yourself, your emotions are a muzzle.

The Heart Run Skyward.

There is a steamer trunk with all of the things in it.
Oil rags piled on the lid, it sprawls next to the wood stove.
The soft fuzz of the fire sheds upon the room;
a gauze of snake skin fog drawing a cataract across the entire vision.
The trunk holds all necessity.
Whatever is in there should be.
What isn't shouldn't.
His gaze pours from
the slivers cut out of
the leather of his face like kerosene.
It lavishes the lacquered wood,
the gilded edges flicked with rust,
with an amber attention.
There is a play premiering in his mind every day.
No one is watching but him.
The writer of the fiction is psychotic.
His eyes twinkle like distant planets as he seeps into the dead room.
The moon lounges in the milky daylight,
it's chalky eye desaturated by the desert glare of the auburn steppes.
It is peeking in through the cigarette burns in the blinds.
He pays no attention.  He has no intention.
He has blood that runs when the cops round the corner.
His organs swing from ropes.
His eyes pace the hallways within him
and the delinquents skitter back to their places.

A transistor radio slurs out rust at a cantor.
Whatever song it sings is no matter.
He hears Tom Waits,
"House Where Nobody Lives,"
despite the tune the station plays.  

And the things inside the trunk.
They are ideas left tangible.
It is as though the plains were burned away into nothing.
Only leaving the roan horse spinning blindly through zero gravity.
The breath quickly zipped away to leave a vacuum in the lungs.
The fleshy walls trembling in that split second before they collapse.
No matter but the singular entity lost within itself.
No way to interpret itself.  No self perception.
All these things in the steamer trunk.  All the things.
Who ever he is.  No need to pry.
Where ever he is.  Do not linger long
What ever this is.  The space does not matter.
Why this is.  Try not to fathom.
However, a twinkle through the curtain, out in the bright:
The moon whispers,
It's okay, it is okay to find out.
The moon offers,
It is okay to simply see the outside of things,
and make up a different part for the inside.

Holding Against.

If I knew what I was doing,
I would not be doing what I'm doing.
You can always play the guitar like it's silent:
lose the loss and not the intent.
Please hold it against me.
Dot your eyes and cross this T.
Hold your love up close to my heart.
Hold me down so as not to part.
I want to feel it close, velvet,
deep level vibrations like a threat.
As when I felt something back then
without questioning the sensation.
The black holding the stars together,
the sky holding up the weather.
The black of which you talk of,
the tantrum of sparks of which you balk of.
To make a little decision,
to disavow with such precision.
That black is just as flat
as the endless expanse unwrapped.
That squirming little worm,
the smoldering ball defined carelessly as a term,
made out of construction paper,
to be pasted on the wall a bit later.
That worm that gets to change what you see.
Until it doesn't and you hold it against me.
Unquestioningly.
Done breathlessly.
My arms spring upwards into action,
thoughtlessly enacting throat protection.
It is involuntary and I do not want it.
Hold it against me and I'll flaunt it.
 

Your Eyes Like Bullet Holes.

Staring into the mirror I see
that tension of life with its inability.
I've got stars in my eyes
and they make me look dead inside.
My house is a ghost waiting to be built,
the cascade of the river side silt.
Nothing is ever perfect as you go.
A trust in severed vectors foregoes
the precision of choosing
with the decision of losing.
Wherever you go just get there.
Get aware of your leg loose of the snare.

I shout bullets from my eyes
and punch holes in your head with surprise.
The wounds open up and the pupils in there
like jewels glitter and milky they stare.
These hands handle smoke to construct the forest
out of words and nothing and your caress.
There is not much else but amber liquid.
The wings of a horsefly whirring undid.
This ammunition you have here is innocuous,
with the bullet casing spinning I become delirious.
A slow, slow walk, the trees talk with a stutter.
The wind blowing away a memory of another.
Whatever, don't care, it happens to be no bother,
Too bad I'm so secular that I can't understand the proverb.
.

It Must Be Death to Make Life Simply Gruff.

You took me apart
and now I see
that just as a start
I give this piece to thee.

My heart dripping honey and rough.
Staring straight eyes and make me tough.

Our dads are dying
and the fits come and go.
No use denying
of what each other we know.

It must be death to make life simply gruff.
We take up below to just lessen enough.

There was honey where things fell blank.
There was sunlight where flesh sank.
There was something other than nothing to bank.
There was laughter after the empty tank.

The universe asked, do you know
what you are doing to her?
My  purse tasked with sorrow,
blood, and hemorrhaging girth.
She circles one millionth of me
and yet she is all I can feel inside.
A purple sun fulfilling entropy,
such order forcing chaos to hide.

Getting Away From Getting Away.

sometimes there is no difference
between getting away with and getting away from
rays of black light illuminating the darkness
out there in the empty of the universe
clever ferocious and made up of nothing
so that I may reverberate it to sing
how could this matter with all that cold?
out there must die forgotten I've been told
because you must get a perspective
you must sit still to detect it
we are spinning at the same rate
and time and life demand to dissipate
a lot of contradictions piling up
dead soldiers on a mountain of doves
get me to get me out of here
a love of thusly seeing unclear:

this song reminds me of breaking hearts
and I am sick of faking arts
there is something to taking darts
there is something to moving parts
these words will get you into trouble
you pour them in and get muddled
only to get them back out won't be possible
you divide them and they'll still double
I imagine as a sun goes down on another planet
your death does not occur if you plan it

done and gone already:  eventually empty.

He Walks Very Slow.

The airport blues get you when you just wait.

He turned to me.  He told me.

My heart is living forever.

I said it seemed that way.

The body is skinny and brittle.

The mind left a note on the counter.

Paper stretched over a skeleton with drugs to exacerbate bruising.

Scrawled in wrinkle the years dance.

No one under forty has experienced the chill outside.

Ice and sand where a hole was dug for a cellar.

Us caretakers,

We climb in to test our belief in a ghost.

The light hangs with beer cans and cigarette hands.

No sign is given, we drink a bottle together.

I'm listening for the best last words.

I want them to be profound so I can erase the indignity.

When you just wait a glimmer of expectation dims slow.

I think he knows that he has been here for a long time.

I think that he says he doesn't want to turn around.

Because he doesn't want to turn around.

The continent of discoloration etched upon his brow.

That does not look real.

And the hospital bed,

 and the broken reservoir lid,

 and the grinding teeth,

 and the diapers,

 and the wandering eyes,

 and the smile,

 and the brief shine,

 and the ambiguous loss.

And not knowing where he is.

It is all right because he is home.

He left and we are waiting but he is home.