Tic

I am bound in poetics
first in verse, second in form
third and afterwards and on and ever and anon found, caught so in.
And on topics on which I have not formed an opinion
exposed anon as well and rightly
in a quick and sickening and inevitably promulgate manner
the nature of my sin.
Justice is in-poetry, in, so indiscreet though hid
though tongue in cheeck, a thumb between the teeth, admit,
tells more than one confession ever did

You never call me

the neon blinks
the sky is pink
I cannot sleep
the night has been
the neon lights
all blinking restless

Bury me beneath me

it tasted like death and churn’d ‘n my stomach. I sat still, examined the upturned soles before me. I had erred in wearing sneakers, and should have searched less briefly for the appropriate attire (I conclude after a few queasy seconds). My attention turned after a few more to the body hanging from the cieling. Their messiah looked rather strung-out – lifelike and pale. His high-tension steel suspension created the impression of an elevator well. And I entertained myself thinking of throwing a richard nixon mask up over the his face. The brother wore white and green, a diamond drapeau over his chest, and the dead wore a tablecloth. And for as long as I could I watched the coffer for signs of movement. There was a boy another row to the front of us who I watched a while, too. He was quite immune to the mortality of the occassion and too young to’ve known either of the dead, it seemed to me. A sick ripple ran through my front and I thought how hungry I should be, how little sleep I’d had. It was important to keep my composure for my friends and the relatives of the deceased — but I couldn’t suppress a snear as I watched the transfiguration of our dear host and the eulogized dead reenergized. My eyes snapped back to the shroud thrown over the casket; now or never, brother.
A bouyant thought, I thought, as it materialized again a few feet from the dining hall’s entrance, then the bathroom, and finally a few short inches above a toilet bowl. I supposed between each fresh heave that the stall was only big enough for one. It felt reminiscent of the last time I’d mixed multi-vitamins and orange juice, but the sacriligeous nature of this particular vomit gave it a much more existential flavor. I returned to the table afterwards and waited for the ceremony to end. They carried him off shortly and put away their Book of the Dead (more of a three-ring binder) somwhere in the vestibule, to be removed and its front page replaced with a freshly xeroxed update, ad infinitum (their words not mine) until the page was full.

Oh, Bleeding Heart

the knot knows how to tie itself
and I know not how to untie it
my fingers, too thick to pry loose
the ethereal twine
scratch useless
and in vain
at the knot tied round’ my viens.
It pops and stand out
in the back of my head
protruding through the soft spot
the collision
of my grey matter spine.
It’s violent, obscene
and it’s choking me
with a hard on that’s harder than mine.

Sea Foam Poem

there’s a gull crying
above a ship
at docking
flying near
the smokestack
dirtying its wings
it’s brown
and mottled
and stuck with things
encrusted salt
and bottle-caps
the seafoam’s form
it brings

there’s a stinger
in my finger
dug down deep
to where
I pointed there
a jelly-fish
was washed
up by the sea
tendrils touching me
scraping on my feet
the barbs dig deep

there’s a feather
in her hair
that’s flying free
upon the breeze
it’s blowing here
and there
wherever that it please
and may go
the breeze may flow
out there
by the sea

there’s an old man
sitting in a rocking chair
biting down
an oyster shell
a stone
he wished
would do as well
no pearl
within his jaws
was locking
by the sea

On Bob

Each song is something he’s had and abandoned
He’s left nothing unsung
Each word he speaks scrapes of how his conscience was 
in the days that he was young
To practice on ourselves
he’s left to us the notes he strung

like an echo distant in the night
to bring us home again to when
the world was black and white

From a bathtub

Soap scum is
two in the morning
a strange bathroom
or an acid trip
or an acid trip
it is
the light switch
on the other side of the room
it is
an inch deeper
than one
it gets
left over
after laughter
after one’s own joke
it gets under
your skin
your hair too
you have to wash it off with soap.

Whiskey

A higher proof
of a higher power
if power is proof
if proof is truth
and truth is power
of a higher proof
It’s in my whiskey sour

Bourbon

So why not have a drink
I asked my empty studio bedroom apartment
and I walked to the sink
for a glass I’d left there still half-filled
and I watched myself come in the mirror
the room growing smaller behind me
Jim Morrison did it, I told myself
Hunter Thompson too, I was play acting
and why not (indeed)
my mother did it, came the response
I could hear through the door
my roommates talking in cool tones
and I wanted to go out
but feared being bored to death was too high a cost
for the leftover shrimp in the fridge
And grinding my teeth I stood up.

I had a dream last night most troubling
the building was crumbling
and the sun was setting on a stranger intruding
and me searching for a grocery bag
it was red like the sky and I knew because
earlier I’d swum through a tidal flood
it was the last day on earth
and the buildings were turning to sand dunes
and the sky was on fire
but I didn’t want to go out
and I just didn’t trust the intruder
and I thought that if his words were true
then I’d still rather die at home
and I wanted him to leave so I could die alone
more comfortable here
to die in the clouds of smoke inhalation
than die on the ground of slow immolation
but they screamed at me to go
so I searched for my coat
but I couldn’t remember which one I’d worn
when last I saw you
so I had to abandon it too
yet it lingered in my mind this morning
staying with me till the afternoon

four hours and a half since I woke
to the smell of gun smoke
I was shot out of bed and the sound
of my head on the floor
and the sounding of my neighbors pounding
through their bed next door
I started counting to make sure
they weren’t stopping soon
and then when I determined they weren’t
I worked my way out of the room
and I tried to resist as the vision I’d twisted in dreams
now in day-dreams consumed me
but thinking of you really blew me
and being so blasted I’d barely have lasted the day
but for the three glasses I took to escape
now I’m barely awake and still dreaming
I’m thinking I’m finding my way to the edge
but maybe I’ll find it again in the morning
I’ve just fallen out of the bed

Branded

Your name’s like a brand in my ear when I hear it
it’s hissin’ and sizzlin’ and squirmin’ and burnin’
and you’ve left a mark on my skin that ain’t clearin’
and I’m standing by with my head bent back
and the smoke in my eye makes the sky turn black
and it’s rollin’ and burstin’ and blowin’ and burnin’
and my mouth’s open and even though it’s pouring I’m thirsty.
And every time I hear it like you’re screaming it at me
like I’m fallin’ and kneelin’ and reelin’ and callin’
your name’s diggin’ holes in my brains
every letter’s down deeper B-R-I-T-T-A
how can it stop if still two there remain
but I’ve no say in passing that way
that’s the lesson you’ve taught me
no ocean could stop out this flame,
it has caught me