[i’ll wash them from her while she sleeps]

i know too much about being invited
two fingers on the thoughtless device
and the window with no blinds
the arches of her skinny little feet supporting all those dreams
i’ll wash them from her while she sleeps
here are three new colors stacked up tightly packed
towering troubling hung up and visually demanding
imitating sad bruised and beautiful
bellowing bruised beautiful and sad
falling beautiful sad and bruised
the thing about being invited here
two fingers forced into the soft doorbell
beneath her ribs, she knows how the world feels here
and no one can take away her demands, her vision.

note on untitled, 08102011256

i am an addict; something hairy, something scary, something crawling from the shower; stay away; parking tickets are gathering on the floor; i’m beginning to embarrass myself; love’s a serious drug; reading the new yorker is a chore, i subscribed for the poetry, now i’m ‘enthralled’ by profiles, really just scanning fiction — i live in new jersey, for christ’s sake; for days the mugs remain filthy, dirty on the floor; since childhood i’ve been fearful about clogging toilets, especially at social gatherings in strangers’ bathrooms; i think i’ll stay away; caffeine is a serious drug; how often should one wash towels? linen? how many fitted sheets should one own? how many is too many rings? i am an addict; pick up the phone; i must outbox colorful, impermanent stings — now i am considered grown; i am an addict; something scared; something crawling; something begging to be left alone.

you have to associate memories

we identify the artifice with simple programs
extracting borders from blackness, nothingness, ennui shadows fear,
piss-colored paint; get it? here we are, wherever, beside each other and bored bored bored
so we pinch our forearms — easy — and steal little pictures of pain
sideward glances the goal is never to be happy the goal is to never stop
emoting and cradling movement.

the goal the goal the goal is here between my fingers in nothing the goal is nothing
the goal is the goal the goal the goal is to pinch your ass from all the way over there
across the clean white walls of this room.

where love meets

finger the painted scales of revolution
beneath the trembling doorframe
and out beyond the shivering window spot
buried in the shattered safety glass
and inside legion
and nowhere
behind the hailstorm
the earth absorbs one final drop of rain.

sorry i haven’t been updating, work gets in the way