Color Theory.

something like cowboy.
something like feeling.
unable to figure it out.
something like a horse.
a horse carved out of stone.
the myth shooting me right between the eyes,
and coming out of the television.
tumbleweeds and dust mustn't make me sneeze.
the desert is vast and symbolic
and the sickness never comes to light
because we are legends.
we won't experience death.
we pretend with the end.
we see beauty.
an exquisite corpse,
such an exquisitely dead body.
the wind discontinues its ebb.
it never stops pushing and pushing
so as to keep
the black horse
rushing further and further away
from this blank sphere
we all spin on.
when the lights turn on
there will not be white,
only shades and shades
of yellow.

Business Grief.

Even though you place
the plastic crown on your head,
the thoughts still leak in.
You binge on self awareness.
You still, self aware mess.
And you'll still abuse your body because of it.
Waking up and noticing
that the water is deleted
from the map on the wall.
Walking down a lonely alley,
stooping to pick up a piece of paper.
Written in lavender ink,
You keep telling yourself 
you are nothing
and you will be nothing.
I'll dance.
I don't give a shit I'll dance.

Empty Light Pouring from Some Holes.

When the roots took hold
of everything inside me
I knew that I'd have to take a tab
to keep myself lit up.
And when that happened,
all my hues and tones
were filled in with neon anxiety.
Poison plant lay your underpinnings within me.
I am nutrients.  I am support.
I know the out there in the darkness.
Where one tree sways unlike the others.
Where one light shines dead matte black
while the others twinkle.
Where the singular planet wobbles gracelessly.
There are deep wells like empty holes.
Chalkboard coarseness scrawled
with random scratches of light.
The whine of the camera after the flash,
the red light bobbing in the after image.
I am surprise when the india ink tips over
covering everything effortlessly.
The whirl pool that stands
perpendicular to the marble hallway
is faster than your quickening pace.
The man just outside the window screen
is asking to be let in.
There is an air conditioner on,
no one will hear him slip in
through the hole in the wall.
And he can hear your footsteps.
He'll stroll amongst the parts,
the reoccurring nightmare,
the empty universe,
the ever present discontent,
the twinkling beauty.
Can't you see what I am doing?
What I am doing.
What am I doing.
I am a wasted guru.

Grief Funeral Procession.

We can make things less empty
if we all pull up the wreckage underneath.
We can turn it around in our minds
and let it completely unwind.
We can let the body burn slowly,
let the tears at our edges mend knowingly.
We can get the loss to recede in fits.
The sun wedges in our broken heart as a stint.
We can crystallize and turn into pink ice.
Our organ no longer an over used device.
We can get the cold.
We can lose to it.
We can come back from it.
We can live further then die from it.
We can be laid to rest.

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.