crown country II

sit across. you hold a nail. you rock back. and forth. the purple air. swooshes. you are dis-abled. un-abled. cross tabled. cabled to a vestige of the village crown country. you are held. with sticks and bones. your manhood intact. essayed into a booklet of the disabled country. i want to know. crown country. how you feel. when you see a man skittle across the hallway. at a ballet ball. when you sit and foam. and the elegant twirls. in pink champagne. beseeching flesh. your eyelids droop. and dribble stones. juggle bubble. imagine, if you could juggle a parody of bullets. how sentimental. i cringe in a shadow forbearance. the uterus ring that gave you whims. that killed your nails. phony air. scooped and pressed on a mere particular. you disabled man. crown country vogue. let us pull your lips. and braid your toes. carve a babe from your biblical robe. for on the pedestal. of blood baptists. you lost patience. i want to ask. if you envy me. the totality of the human body. my generous limbs. and rubicund pinch. the motion of trills on instrument and lust. do you lust? maybe you do. do you blink? maybe you do. yet. what is this totality of the human body. what is the complete? who is to say. this is the epitome of creation. without flaw. or mistake. in evolution streaks. what is the meaning of the compounded differential. of the human man. of the human woe-man. who is to say. i am the un-disabled perfectness of the creation gods. or evolve? if every seam has its set of flaws. and flawless flaw is a continuum of jargon. this pageant then is a tattoo of who is less and who is more. who, in this continuum of denomination and trend, is less of the un-abled man. but. in your mind, i want to know. do you still feel an envy?

let's look at lust. and trickery of the flesh. vile resemblance of the animal tombs. leaping over the rational. it drives you mad. stiffens your blood. makes it flow to the cove of your puppet genitals. reason flings. the rational dips. you are now a strange animal. lust so strong. you cannot breathe. you want the touch. you want the breath. you want the saliva streaming down your mane. your neck line wet. your ravenous lust. like the vascularity of the play store demons. dilated lips. and dangerous tips. perched on bone. expressionless fruit. your pounding heart. racing at lust. those hormones swell. dart through the precipice of ruby red walls. you tremble at the flip of incoherent dreams. you want the violence then. who denies. the intensity of sex. an incongruous blandness, volatile at best. an unexpected preparedness. who teaches sex? this game of love? is it a game, you practice at best? get better with time? when on the time. curiosity piques. a vortex of imagery. and deviance. when does your thought. decide on time. this orifice of blood is for a carnal lust. a blood borne pleasure ball. rolling. and shrieking. and howling in pain. laced with a hint of love? when does your clock. bedded in your eyes. invisible yet real, to the chronicity of body-works. tell you the poem of the syncopic sex. it is time. you country man. you pepper dove. shed the gown of your abstinent saints. how biology did bend over is a misery of the vacuum. but you are free. with the release of the floods. orgasm of the dizzy cones. jarring and pounding. the beam balance caress from the monologue tales. yesterday, they cried in pleasure.

theater I

the tense of love. of the love borne scalpel. is unnerving. i get it. maybe. you sat by my side. and prayed. in the damp of the friday afternoon. i was in scrubs. munching a bone. and polished flesh. slow down. you said. or you will choke. i smiled at you. i need to return to surgery. my patient has no conscious. his chest spread. rolled up in drapes. tubing through his nose. hisses and puffs break the silence of the room. his lungs collapsed. machinery kings. the universal man. his chest exposed. i should go back. but you ask me to wait. you compliment my smile. and touch my hand. you wouldn't leave. will you be there tomorrow?

i don't know yet. my schedule. so volatile. you lower your head. and stare at my fork. speckled with brie. you pause again and say. my son will be there. his third time. i am scared. will you be there. and say a little prayer. for me? he fears his death. but smiles and laughs. at a dyslexic mother. a father that vanished. but i still wear my band. i never forgave. but i couldn't resist. a war hero. a warrior. he lost an arm. looking for home. he fled. and returned. and fled again. may be he is alive. i couldn't leave. i swore that day. i took an oath. i meant every word. in front of god. i held his hand and i made a promise. i cannot break. i cannot kiss another man. the taste, i cannot forget. nervous peppermint breath. so endearing. forty years ago.

you have a heart. pouring love. and honey and saccharine sentimentality. you carve another. every day. tremulous eyes and nervous lips. you wear your scrubs. a uniform. a calling. come, protect my dream. you don your cap. and seal your breath. a cloth mask strapped across your face. you cover your shoes. look at the mirror. you are ready. before you walk. in through the door. you freeze your world. up at the ceiling. you say a prayer. let them heal. i want to fight. till the last ounce of my capability. so that they live. this is more than a job. this evolution of life. you kill and live. and kill and live. a cyclic normalcy.

a theater district. of mannequin bones and analgesics. organ love. organic. the theater got its name. from the garbed actors. so sterile. you may not breathe. you may not touch. in dilemma of the arts. in this theater. the cast of flesh. in its monumental primacy. is before your own. you swivel not. in a cold january morning. when your diamond of nine. miscarried your paternity. you delivered then. this paradox. you live. and cry in the storm. or behind the doors. where no one sees. no one hears. taped in silence. the life of scrubs. in a dream theater. yours is a calling of life.

playbook

little playbook doll. you cursive curl. your honeydew salt. and fragrance of the night flesh. lingers on my tongue. a guzzling spray of melting saliva. dripping in a cave of the erotic checker. a finger tattoo of cruddy nail polish. and imitation rose. the lady at the bar. nestled in white. pregnant. and swollen. under the whir of a ceiling fan. rotating. in a magical symphony of electricity. and air. a stale green air from the coffee flames. a pube in pink. a probable italian. their fingers clasped. their lips caressed. her nipples raised. through the chiffon patisserie. the mustard on her hair. and sapphire eye balls. stare at the wall. it reads. patience. faith. les apiritifs et la mauresque. gitane in the jane. overlooking the waves of the twin city tinkle. the dangling lights nod in shame. at the hiss of a thousand silhouettes. of ballet leaves. semi-perched on cobbled walks. and artificial lash. dolled with tar and pastel pepper. black and gray and maniacal. frayed at the edges of a generous crochet. of golden pints and silver shoes. an etiquette of grains. we clink and toast. and smoothly tan. a silken crust of explicit overhaul. of berry charm and harmonica. a candle flick. a charming grope. and the swivel pops across the dark. dank. silhouette. of two collapsing bodies. in perfect harmony. wine and plastic. iron on a boat. in a trilogy of spiral dignity. man to man. man to woman. woman to woman. man-woman.

on your neck. he wore a lace bead. and dangling shoes. and a key. made of orange feather. you said. irene died in a pool. you ripped a plume. and glued to your flesh. the misery of death skidding on your chest. you couldn't bear. and so you went to the lake. and with your soul. you lit a flame. canopied shut. ladled with milk. you came in the wave. sperms afloat. it feels my cells. this proximity of fluid love. you could never feel on the pedestal of the intangible. little playbook doll. your color of rouge. the mascaraed breast. the pierced vagina. fold like paper. in a category of death you can never fill. a track of tunes. on your hair line. tattooed. you would say, music in my hair. my narcissism drapes. this is the symbol of injury.

you village girl. so sassy in sweat. the crimson gerbera atop your ear. so beautiful in the sunday breeze. by the piano-man and the swan lake. your gait, like soap. you bubble your love. and smile at the grass. where a saxophone sits. the brass. the rasp. the wooden deck. converge on the wrist of your violent corset. it is peach. and ribbed. and through the frame, i see your heart. dancing in the breeze. smiling at your eye. so light, like smoke. in a brilliant mosaic. a wild menagerie of beats and swirls. it twirls and twirls. and swings like pearls. and beats and breathes. and lives and sings. songs of life and songs of love. free from your breath. free from the strings of beating synchrony. free from the rivet of the jugular moons. the perpetual rhyme. the chime of the lisps. the lips of the garb. the cloak of physics. and dances in the wind. again and repeat. i love your mane. your childless womb. my strings are dead. the odor of liberty binds your tale. you libertine tongue. you rogue of peace. i am free. i am free. like cotton in space. in perfect vacuum. spotless. immobile. silent.

the married man. holds his hands. knotted bands. he married his self. in mind and soul. he is his. and his alone. winged man of the piers. little playbook doll. let me sketch your nails. and paint them white. for yours is the peace i seek.

quirk I

some day in the breeze. i will build a pillar with swans. pleats. with carousel horse. and silver strings. twirled in fours. a ball of sophistication will roll down this charming delight. of the west village syncope. the candle flame. a-front my mug. tickles and giggles. chuckles and rhymes. dances in the smoke of coffee beans. the lights are dim. and horny men are walking around. looking. beseeching. craving a breast. or asinine hair. nestling. or other men. or candle flames. or spoons and knives. to cut and carve. or carve and cut. or drink wine on the illuminated faucets. that overhang a nimble vagina-rush. the mettle. the kettle. what's with the rhyme of illuminated faucets? and fixtures of overhanging candles. in the dusk. and sound of bodies jingling in a swoosh. you see through curtains. half-wanton. semi-sexed. an aroma of amour. clamor of wine bodies. the promiscuity. you say. those whores on the boulevard are promiscuous as fuck. diseased. and battered. left without morals. but did you know. you married womb. that your lover of sorts. is caressing a boy. a sexual hunt. hush hush. let's slow down. and whisper. i am married. but i want your flesh. she will never know. in booths. and alleyways. in the toilette combs. this is morals. i was told. them republicans. makes me laugh. right? where was the bible? no wait. it was temporary. there wasn't love. there was sex. she would never know.

in the village. i observe. the trees are swinging. talisman man. and bejeweled lady recline in a love seat. wax automobiles singing hymns. in chimes and grunts. here a thud. there a love. winks. the leaves. gyrate and land on the wooden flask. automotive stretch of fumes. spraying green sweat on hugs and bones. slender legs. lagged with hair. and twinged with lust. that estrogen. that fat. the memory making fumes. i don't know why. i am in love with the carousel on wine bar. like a midget that entangles. and disentangles. like a polemic olympian. holding a torch of iodine vapors. so volatile it makes me smile. what has happened to my mind? what has happened to my fingers of purity? the sweet smelling honey that used to trickle down my eye lids? the chastity of a little boy. growing up. not grown up yet. when does one say. i wonder. i am grown up. this is it. this is the maxima of my growth. this is my allure. no more. from here. there's only the downhill. the re-caving. disintegration. when does one say. i am mature enough. there shall be no more maturation to my uppity process. i dictate to the children. in the drapery of neverland. more or less maturation? so subjective. subjunctive. creative at best.

obsession with pulsation goes a long way. the paradigm rhythm of a heart sound. of stretch and squeeze. of what we say pulsatile. is alive.

lady

lady at the park. is legless. without motion. she yells. and screeches the name of a pagan jesus. and licks graffiti off her breasts. eating pebbles and wood. her eyes are white. so dead at night. so yellow in the sun. i want to make a shirt. with the honey from her eye balls. and a curtain from pustules of jasmine. beaded to her military stockings.

she is eighty three. of cucumber flesh. and banana peels. slippery from a tan. so silky. so milky. i want to play with her left nostril. and draw daffodils on her palm. give her a jar of coffee beans. and say. this drug will kill. you ruddy minx. you ruby whore. on sunflower fumes. you paradise gay. leverage your sanity against a mothy frothy tabernacle.

this is poetry from piss. a hetero- altruism. what meaning? a semi-colon sex. a disjointed rotundity from your diplomat tribunals. like salted cookies. plaguing honeydew scent. and vanilla molds. spifflicated on a city trail. this manhattan plague. this burning dream. this hyper-morphic alchemy. the problem is. little lady dove. you are the dove that broke. in a crash of literature. and handsome hair balls. there is none of that left on a technical pageantry. there is the story of the triple couple. they love each flesh. walk in threes and cough in twos. but cry in fours. or a curious eighth. what does this mean? more is more? less is diffuse? parallel chests without breasts. this is like the classic homophily of invented socio-crafts. and sociopaths and art lovers. they huddle across hudson. in bands of wool. green and ocher. eating neurotic pills. this civilization has come.

a new evolution. 

stabbed

he pushed the door aside. the black man. bleeding eyes. he wipes the blood with his long curious dreads. it bleeds. he wipes again. his hands jitter. and tremble. he was stabbed. on an october evening. going back home from work. i am blind. and i bleed. all day all night. give me dimes. and pebbles. scraps of geranium. i haven't eaten in four. a history of metaphor. i used to see my face. i used to see. the ripples on the lake. i used to see. the beauty of a tongue. the frame of cezanne. and the diamond on a dead wife. but i do not see. yet i do see. a darkness. i see? but i hear. the subway. rumble every minute. i hear a chatter when i pass. a sympathy. that sickens me. i abhor that clicking of your ruby rose bracelet. your breath of peppermint. whispering a psalm. i love the lord. and the lord gave me blood? the power of drugs. and a beer can epiphany. this was a life. this is a life. tangled in a dream. of a little home. of a little love. of a little kiss. of a little touch. of a beautiful smile. of a broken moon.

this palette of glass. take a drop of blood. on the lip of a brush. and swirl in spheres. one. two..three...four....and you create a wheel. of blood. patterns. a geometry of desire. a spiral spine. the backbone of an elegant loss. the loss of home. the loss of a smile. embroidered in a hymn. they saved your man. the manhood of piece. and peace of calm. of the boiling menagerie. of petal work wisps. of a continuous belch. this man of manners. where did he swim? in the bath house of shrill tendril men? on a vestibule. on a god. he swore. and now he bleeds. the blood on his finger tip. like glycerine sweat. and ruby rose. the blood on his eye ball. he licks the juice. to feed his soul. if nothing in this world. this blood is mine. this taste is mine. i eat my soul.

when the poet in the bar. sits and writes. and smiles. and drinks espresso in the corner. and eats macarons dipped in honey. and stares at the window. there is a working machinery. a mind that calms. a quiescent lust wrapped in a word of rhyme. and poetry. and an imagery of wounds. how it feels. how it may feel. how it could feel. feel? feel. feel what? an orgasm? a machinery of the poor? and smoke a paper can. they used to make those on the rooftops of the chinese doors. they are dead. their sons have forgotten. they had fathers and mothers. once.

untucked

in a metro stop. pull out a kaleidoscope. and look through the tint of skin and bones. freckles of margarine. and golden chains. and an untucked shirt. so perverse. it makes me smile. epiphany of the minds. so seductive.

i cringe. and i smile. and i fan my flesh. i lick my skin. the salt of sweat. so soothing in the sun. the green of pearls. on my delicate saliva. i love it. it should rain on my neck. and twirl down my spine. a mezzanine concourse of river and flood. of a viral battle of ear drum and eye lid. this biology of intercourse. and divorce. and hermitage. this psychology of glamor. a glint of trapezoids. so many lakes and ponds. they intersect in virulence. and matrimony. for what is this union of souls? where is the soul? point it to the world. point it to your god. is god a soul? a soul of a soul?

what is within theater is worth pondering. an act. many acts. hurricane winds. and anonymity. masks. so many masks he wears. and cosmetics. and the cosmos. churning around. his lips are pale. body frail. and there is a quiver of manhood rave. motion pictures move in the city of winds. coffee cups of pearl. and a bronze menagerie. the bangle seller paradox. they turn to soot. and ash of ravens. so ravenous. it twists and tumbles in love. the love of legends. the love of man to love a soul. to hope. to goal. to decorate. to favor. a favorite. to shade the rain. from sun and moon. from the century of heavens. putting the dog to sleep. a melody of drums. beat. stick. a carryover project from the sand boats. they break on vapor. and nicotine. addiction. my love. how does the maniac explain. this wasn't me. this wasn't me. i swear. this was my body. my mother's sperm. my father's egg. the technology of semen. in plastic. so fake. you make a soul. if this were real, man made soul. where was god? an ancillary vase of whispers? and to also say. memory men. where are the sea shells? where are the brains of those halogen lamps?

the question. in philosophy. how informal is belief. and the ethic of ethics. time will spray. a sapphire tale.

sigh

i wanted to go up to you. and say. your eyes are beautiful. so green. against the pale of your skin. rosy and ripe. to look into your eyes. they look like mirrors. like pieces of green glass. through which you can see the world. the love. the desire of fairy tales. a treble in your eyes when you look at me. wondering. who is this awkward stranger. staring at my eyes?

i am at a loss for words tonight. i keep thinking about your eyes. it makes me want to cry. to tell you how beautiful they are. but i shall be appropriate. we have rules. i guess. 

doors

often times. in the city of green electricity. there is a pulse. an earthquake. a wave. that ballets and pivots on water blades. rolling stones and skipping bases. lamp posts wrapped. in petals of caramel ash. in the tunes of idle tales. door after door. wood after wood. and what goes behind. is a question for our children.

telling the child. behind those doors. behind the wood. the foundation of your lips. slipped into asinine existence. for sex and categorical sexuality. honeydew and molten wax. merged in sweat. in erotic violence. in a monochrome of desire. in a cardigan of love. so smooth. so soft. like cotton pearls and dandelions. afloat on clouds. clouds of ink. streaks of smoke. building pyramids. killing men. with ivory skin. you are man. you are greed. you are power of the thrones. you are the truce of dimes. and diamond coquetry. you are the opium of a non-admitting category of volatile experimentalism. women, they say. born as you may be. your womanhood is acquired. the window of exchange is narrow. there is the trans-identity. there is the volatile pivot. hurling sweat. and chewing rust. and behind closed doors. what power you wield. little child. what power. what is it about the maleness? what is it about femininity? Why the feminine needles. shaped like a telephone. shaped like a violin. or a muslin boat. little drummer girls. defeatist in their vibe. they careen behind doors. voluptuous philanderers. he asked. is man meant to be the idealist monogamist? on Darwin's toes? did the union of souls exist. before the coupling of questionable catechism? no, they said. i quietened. this was cancer. what kind of anomaly? so waxy.

behind those doors. men sharpen souls. woodcutters smother saliva on bottles of wine. and whine for hours. sometimes they joy. laugh and smirk. make chandeliers with milk. and in the photo shop. they dissolve a humility behind closed corridors. faculty clubs. faculty of an estranged dissonance. raise your child. and bite your clocks. behind closed doors. they sing songs of love.

pause

for all i see. microphone lips on daffodils.

a time that came. you know. when the thought of the other set a trill. a beautiful flutter in your heart. you don't know how to explain it. what it is. this attraction. the latent feeling of i want you. but i'm not ready to tell you yet. what if. what if you don't love me back? what if the first time we held hands. grew out of politeness. while you waited under your skin to say. never come back. i don't want you back. what if at the pier by the river. while drinking eight glasses of white wine sangria. you laughed and joked. and looked at me. only to tell yourself. this is not the one. he is not the one. you said. i want to go to the bar. with you. i swallow a gulp. no, i'm not comfortable right now. why not, you ask? i want to touch the moon instead. and what if you decide. this is it. but you cannot tell me anything. cannot tell me to leave, because your politeness. your temporary niceties forbid you from doing so. and then the dagger came with your cold shrewd ignorance. you feigned business. the secondariness of my existence, so obvious in the wake of the day. evenings spent. waiting for a text. a phone call. no response. no reply. that gentleness on your lips. that i touched in the bedroom. says today. dude, i don't have time right now. this makes me gulp a second time. there is this hankering. this lingering from the moment i met you. i told you that evening. i will support your decisions. all, other than the one to smoke weed. and you say. at the avery fisher. you hear xylophone melodies in your blood. a harmony so intense. it makes you cry. like the white water hymnals. it makes you want to spring in the air. and latch on to the treble notes waving to the lilt of crystal chandeliers. and the musicians. you are one.

but you make me cry. you make me stop my life and think about you. this beseeching in a city where sex is free. where amour is a ternary conceptualization. which is not to say that love is lost. not to say that when i held your hand, that lonely evening, i didn't feel anything. this armor around my discreet emotionality has destroyed a dozen souls. i told you that. and you smiled. and shook your head. laughed at the moon. at the fresco of the glimmering night sky. and then you kissed me. rolled over, and kissed me again. and i kissed you back. 1901. the beginning of an odd train of rumbling awfulness. they used to say Madison men don't know how to love. or love too much. tie my knuckles and kiss my lips again. what have you done? this circle of breaks. and bleeding hearts. remember how it felt when one did that to you? 

city of tin

you hear a whisper in the wind next to you. the taxi driver. snorting honey and milk. he speaks of a child. with broken spine and failing heart. this land is ours. this rain on my tongue. and wind on my walls. the lady is ill. this hopeless disability has lesion-ed her womb. the fertility of manhattan lights. the fecundity of water boats. asleep. so parochial in the tide of disability.

this is home. the city of tin. the wires of grass and pregnant aluminum. entangled and enmeshed. like a racist mannequin. sprayed charcoal smoke along the curve of a flailing vagina-scape. the breasts. like silken creme. sand grains of brittle pearl. polka dots on mannequin skin. the interface of historic indigence and emerald stains. this is home. like a montage. of hearts and drugs. of squealing suicide from the racks at the guggenheim. the flashlights make me dizzy. so dizzy. i sit. and smell the paint. lick the wax from the suicide notes. tattooed onto her horizontale. her vagina. unshaven. and her model of ridicule. charlie on the mirror. there is a femininity. francesca. taped and bitten on her thighs. little shards of glass. and saliva mirrors. a woman. a mirror. a woman is mirror for a man. i ran so close to a portrait of angels #1. a self-portraiture. head in a pool of blood. so fake. so real. i want to scream. and bite my thighs. and scratch my eyes. hold my eyes. and rub them till they bleed. you girl of 1978. the polka dots on your nipples. are on display to a million art lovers. with the like of picasso and cezanne. could you ever imagine? your hair braided. ribboned in telephone wires electrocuting your burning scalp? and a spoon. in the city of tin.

also. at the coffee shop. the man beside. gorgeous, so volatile. crying. and i say. the passing of spring -the birds weep and in the eyes of fish there are tears. a haiku from the east. tears on fish eyes? what of the river? the permanence. the impermanence of ink and alchemy of the plutocrat. he holds my hand. and roils a cup of cold stale coffee. asleep in a paper cup for seventy seven hours. this is all i had. a cup of drugs. and rotten piss. i haven't gone home in three days. what do i tell my pregnant wife? my miscarried son? my pregnant daughter? what do i tell the world of rage?

you city of tin. never sleep. the birds are weeping and in the eyes of fish there are tears.

varsity dialogues

it's like the old lady with the lamp. feeding margarine to the sun. brushing hair on moonless nights. she had a desire once. to melt her gold. to end her love. to play with bodies. of apothecaries and the rain man. the pantaloon of hurricanes she bought from the mountains. are buried in a mold of virgin platinum. that was the end of her moon cycles. her blood had dried. swapping bodies and candles. of arthritis. and politics of the vulva. her vulva is the food for volcanoes. and the fish of genetic produce. the organic revolution plays flautist malleability with her sexual identity. like sodium drops ripping through the church of ice. it is cold and warm. molten and crusted. she is he. the new he is she. swapping nails. dribbling saliva like a mannequin dog. the new cult of mannequins. in a circle of civilized anxiety. this new cult is a start. the swap and skin. she molted life. she molted dreams. and her violent menopause. her flashes of crystal urine and carnal palpitations. ring serenades to the tempest. she is he. the shadows are green. welcome to the pasture of halogen lamps.

at the end of winds. the sunday of next. i will wear a gown. tradition of academics. the somber garments. the ornaments of metaphors. this cult of chains. there is a slowed gait. look at me. as i shake my head. and pose for the film. look at me. oh what a display of citizenry. hand in hand. families and little hair pins. strewn across the ball rooms. there is an end. and this is the end. to varsity monologues. this is the end to varsity. step two. the reality of choruses. on manhattan streets. and the display of dizzy fruit sellers. selling poison and drugs to the new born in the river. the river that floats. who floats on earth? and sways in the river? the chords from fifty seven tides.

the play of bodies in manhattan streets. is a spectacle of fulfilled lust. lust for a viola lip. and toe limbs and harlequin melodies. the romance of fools and book shelves. the tyranny of the philosopher's sheltered testicles. he left the birth of the virgin in the shack across the rainbow tongues. fooling himself; this is the kingdom of rhinestones.

the night lamp

i will call you bernadine and the night lamp. the german apostrophe from brooklyn heights. your punctuation marks. and alphabetic consonants. and loving doves. have frisked a charm of fevered alchemy. you stripped my clothes by the shallow banks. every motion of your finger tips made my nipples tremble. oh what resistance there was. playing hide and seek on the shallow lakes where we bathed in moon clouds and rain. that smell. of soil and seeds. and carousels. still makes me dizzy.

and spin like the moon. the lustrous beast of harmony and quartets. my manhood, like a garland of dreaming sapphires. bending over the arch of delicate flash lights. they signal a sense of capitalist promiscuity. this is my power. the sanctity of my sexuality gives me strength to learn about the vagaries of your austere politics. you flaming misogynist. you raging bigot. your fierce tendrils of thorn and crystallized sweat. makes me so angry. makes me sad. you know. sometimes, when you want to tell yourself there are rose gardens in chelsea. and the storm came. and one by one, you tied bracelets to the macabre wind chimes. and you howled on a saturday dusk. your stomach carved with a million ribbons. candied with hope and organic desires. this valentine's night. you cut your soul, and with the red. you hemmed memories on pine cones. and those cones, now. are on the museum behind the lake. where mankind goes in shame. walks away. walks across portraits of a Dali. and a surrealism and shrouded the politics of your liberty. your hands are tied. and you bleed. convulse in a violent epilepsy. this violence is the trilogy of your interrupted birth.

on the carousel. we talked. evolution. and the fittest. you. on the throes of nature and demons. have survived a test among the millions

one night

a light breeze in the air. illuminated palm. trees and trills. there is a crisp in my hotel room. a twenty-seventh floor suite in a city hotel. the lobby smells of excitement. a sky lounge to my left overlooking the ripples at the horizon. and an enticing view. curls and furls the rhythmic caricature of my heart beats. there is a sway. a gentle lilt of leaves and sweat. the auburn paisleys on the carpets. accented with gilt shame and crimson modesty. bear a kaleidoscopic morph of patchwork art.

first night. san diego.