Oh my God, So I had This Dream

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The Break Dance

I broke my teeth

chewing through your

corn filled shit,

I broke my wrist

fisting my way out

of the annals of

your deceits

I broke my leg

running in concentric

circles, falling

over those thin, low-lying

trip-cables you see

in heist movies that

may or may not actually exist.

I broke my neck

sticking it out of

a fast moving train car.

I didn’t see that brick

barrier coming so fucking fast.

I broke my arm

weaving webs of lies

to escape the ones

you trapped me in

But I won’t break

my heart for you,

and I wont’ break

my balls for you.

Those I’ll save to break

myself, when I’m tired

of using them

for my own

selfish pleasures.

I fall, we fall

I saw her

laugh

and I loved her.

A stuffed

dove

with the mating

call on

repeat.

on repeat.

A diabolical

angel

playing a detuned

harp

in hell.

But I knew no better.

So what if

I stuck my

hand in a bowl

of colors

and came out with

the popcorn

jelly belly.

At least I got laid.

The Last Day

A long wave weaved through my hair

in the last dying breaths of day.

The tangerine sun tickled the horizon with rays

of intolerable fragility,

sinking with the light into the sea.

White birds danced with brown bulls

on black sinking sand to the tune

of Bob Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine man,

but he didn’t play for me.

It was the last day of the world

and we all knew it was coming

but we didn’t know it’d be so soon

we didn’t know it’d be so god damned soon.

So I swam in the sea as the last light of the last day

descended into the void of darkened eternity and I was

washed away as the long waves weaved though my hair

as Dob Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine man

played like a million symphonies convening

over the coastline

playing for all of us

daring us to dream

when there was nothing else to do,

as God slept in a hammock in Tangiers

sipping Pina Coladas.

where are you from?

what’s that accent?

why are you here?

why are you here?

why are you here?

how long?

have you been to new york?

do you like bush?

do you like skynard?

how bout that exchange rate?

does it matter?

conversations flutter off an on with varying results but more often than not it all just boils down to can you get out of my way. because that’s all I really think sometimes, but I also wonder if my periods will look weird if I don’t de-italicize before concluding my sentences that aren’t queries or exclamations – and normally these are the types of thoughts that occupy the vast amount of my brain-time.

desktop alliteration

six bottles, ten cans, six empty personal size chip bags, two unwashed plates, dead digital camera, overturned burnt cd - I wonder what it is, telephone, corkscrew, nearly full pack of Marlboro medium cigarettes, empty day planner, fan, lamp, six pens, twenty six bottle caps, ray ban wayfarer sunglasses, toothpaste, three empty chocolate mint wrappers, a bottle of Heinz tomato catsup, empty hummus container, small foil square, laptop, two arms.

i dont know what this is

Primrose princess

in your infallible infatigable

mall meager fantasy song:

deliriously, eagerly and

freshly won with no more

tongue today than yesterday

stained and barking stung

climbing ladder rungs and

licking dark deepened

blood clotted skin rivets

speckled across sands of

vastly different sonnet sons

dripping with the scarlet

lungs singing cancer dances

dusted with lusted necromancers

in the twilight’s negligent sun.