The Thing

This is not the thing
That exists
Between grains of sand
Silently preventing
Their escape upward
Upward and far away
No
This is the wedge
The knife
Pressed slowly beside
The lock
Waiting
For the inevitable twist
Then kick

Now, it is before you
Watching
Before you
On the table
Like a fat, untrained cat
With a taste for whiskey
Waiting to pounce on the eye
You’ll eventually
Roll across the floor

Its patience is numbing

insomnia

In a place where sleep is more valuable
Than self respect, I sit up to wind thoughts
Around my forearm
Counting the loops
Each a little shorter than the previous

It is not long before I am lost
Distracted from where I am
So instead, I trace a heart
Over your left eyebrow
With a blue fingertip

Synesthesia

Too bound to accord the metaphor
Too taciturn to find other words
Too myopic to see our touching noses
Too addled to taste our own breath

Reversal

Mildly past due for an adjustment
Partially concerned
All I need is a razorblade
     And 5 minutes
     To slice open the sun
Watch it run out like fresh eggs
The yolk falling upon the
Attached and the Dis-
     connected
          Equally
When all is done, I shall sell raincoats
     And skillets

Collar

Sometimes I forget that the belt
Around my neck
Is reversible
A trick in black or tan
I must be
Too busy lunging ahead
For things
Not quite there
A dog with cataracts
Snapping at rain
Distracted

A slow turn to the left should release me
Just tilt your head for good measure

tremor

The shake
The slight shake
   Of my hand
   Can be hidden
       Disguised
   Folded up in an envelope
If need be
Or held at bay
   By a wall of bricks
   As fake as my smile
But these days
   I more often forget
   To notice
   Even use my pockets
The simplest of things falling
   Behind
   The taste of plaster
       In my mouth
Perhaps soon
I shall sit center
Facing all eyes
   As I inflate
   Paper boxes
   To juggle
       Behind my back

The twitch in my left eye
Is another matter

Cap'n - Part One

The Ray Bans you brought all the way from California spread the sun out in front of you like a knife. The Chicago snow appears to melt around your feet as the Wrigley Building itself bends over to suck you off. Let loose that bomber jacket “Top-Gun”. This is going to be one to remember. Let fate top it off with a heart attack or scurvy at the very least. I’m bored and a daydreamer. But of course, you already know that, Cap’n.

02/08/10

If only I were just three sheets
I might laugh at this wind
Might lay down next to this bus
And piss in the air
Nothing of concern or consequence
At least not on a Monday

Practice

I wrote these words to get paid
But it didn't pan out
I forgot to sell-out
Forgot to wear a suit to the meeting
I slept through

I spent this paper to build ships
But all I have are hats
I wear in the rain
As I wipe ink from my eyes
Plans like water

I held out my arms to embrace you
But I've been grasping trees
While you hide laughing
I'm getting a little closer though
Moving backwards in measured steps

Practice helps

Distraction

6 Becomes five becomes 3 more days
12 and counting
With more over the horizon
A stampede of boredom

Thoughts
Drawn out thin as a reed
Time too
Dissolved
While I reach for my own tail

Just a twist and a lunge
Just a pathetic flick
For anything larger than a finger
A poor man's anchor
An excuse to get behind myself

I will self-actualize in my own
Good time
Thank you
So
Get used to your own cock in you
Mouth
Dangling your shoes in the air

Turn your head and cough when your done
Just keep it off my shelf