warm gunfire is happiness
whenever i start to go down and feel that uptown road turn from asphalt to gravel i begin to remember even nuns mature early and katy perry gets pimples and ryan gosling wipes his ass and i can’t always be right but i can try to do no wrong it’s at that particular point the time to enjoy soap impressions is officially over as the velvet hand SLAPS MY FACE and i finally...
Bloody by noon.
Knives like gaunt hawks can swoop through and gut you at any moment, unexpectedly, the sunlight carrying surprise torture. maybe i’m just sorry, see maybe i’m not even hanging by a thread but i am the thread and it dances in the wind and frays like a mad man. i can twist but i can’t shake it and all these tiny steps left behind some moustachioed rake wept over oak senseless...
I think back to hot nights, hot redlighted couples kissing madly behind back-hall-dance-floors slurs of tongues melded together, battling each other for oral supremacy blink twice and its raining outside when you ask me to leave say you’re tired of painkillers and foreign pulses shaking the bed i stand outside on your rusty green porch hood up, joint sleeping in my fingers and...
Almost like he tripped.
it was five o’clock which means drinkin time or shadow time and universally whistle blowin’ time when i realized i hadn’t uttered a single word yet that day and i didn’t miss just one person floating in some vapors it was many persons like a greek chorus dancing with synthesizer heads squeaking shiny stories about the future. i noticed again the fold of my skin evaporating...
never hang your head down for sorrow
waking up with red roses at your feet may strike a person hard at the brain stem, but not you. not your dull, crusty guitar playing. never your pin-straight hair that framed your face every warm morning. you never looked out the window, you promised a lost friend that golden beginnings were the only thing to long for. rolling action, fresh bubblegum blush, and rattled goodbyes. your voice was...
last weekend i wrote a whole manuscript and tore it to a thousand pieces monday morning because it laughed at me instead of making me laugh uncontrollably the way i wanted to sometimes yr best work must be torn to bits before you realize what really makes you laugh what you really need for dinner what keeps yr belly fat and yr mind lucid take note of that moment from then on...
a sharp crack of bone, discs of a once focused soul rotate north to nostalgic pining for autumn debris on weathered roofs and roasted flavored holidays drenched in memory. then inversely gazing to embrace a dirt path, several misty miles to its body, vast alien terrain on into deep crimson and unabashed, tangerine mornings. nomads hover and flutter in front of starch, battered pupils....
getting the shakes
whether it is nobler or not to suffer WHO CARES i am the west and juliet is dead to me -suburbanmike
Everything I know, you know
God lives in Texas in taxes in the absence of cars on 16 southbound i think about you when i see red brick driveways and old flowers in the compost heap bury me deep in your unwashed hair and I will cling to these scents of permanence can we touch? will we turn to gold, under neon dawns and crystal twilights and though we have lived only half a fingersnap’s worth of time I...
It wasn't the gun that I was afraid of in...
in case of emergency say perhaps the sky ripping open like a torn sheet, whisper and whet the names in your mouth , to soak in the caves of crushing loneliness, everyone you never had. not loneliness in the way that you have no one but in the way that no one has you. staring at hands and erasing faces professionally, watching baseball, eating cracker jacks, and flossing- just in case. none of it...
current recidivism rates paint a bleak picture for anyone involved with toxic marriages or stolen works of art or happy memories but i’m so fucking lost i feel shooting a bow and arrow into my heart and bleeding pints onto the concrete wouldn’t save me from the future -suburbanmike
a bohemian's aside
to determine the validity of a human face, a specific sonic resonance, an imprint of doe-eyed laughs and small, blue corners on a busy street under a sunny afternoon comes with delicate diction. that is what occurs between strangers. many muddy murmurs on steel coated roofs and perfect mornings are now clichés, just taboos of yester years, like dribbling, shallow nonsense dancing on the brim...
whatever spins my dreidle
few things are equally ugly and delicious as the sound of ballpoint pens rubbing against a brittle surface i feel the rods’ vibrations in my grippy fingers and i can smell the friction the ink burns the shrills can make me clench my teeth they can make the hairs on my spine stand up i know few things that make me feel as still not nails nor the white smudges on the chalkboard but paper...