The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

What Else?

I think you nailed it without meaning to,

how you said you lived somewhere arctic,

and that I would absolutely hate it there…

…what else?…

I think you spilled the truth over the brim,

how you put the blame on my poetry,

for inspiring your meaningless expressions…

…what else?…

I think you must have known from the beginning,

how you singled me out with your destruction,

because I seem so strong and hard to break…

…what else?…

I think it was a drill that you run regularly,

how the floodgates opened and flooded the course,

with a new mental illness and old childhood issues…

…what else?…

I think you must feel happy with yourself,

for being a weak wolf in a hokey sheep costume,

at least, I hope you are.

 

 

Threadbare.

In the weaving of the fabric,

that has been sewn by magic,

stitched by an unseen thread,

that strings from my heart,

to the thoughts in your head.

has gradually wound,

its way tightly around,

Any word written down,

infused into shades of dark red,

It’s a thing that’s profound,

that will never be dead,

It’s the basic compound,

On which forever’s been found,

And forever wildly bounds,

in hurried steps ahead,

of this weaving thread,

you bet we’ll chase it down,

it’s a distant sense,

in the past tense,

of being led around,

See the liters that I’ve bled,

See the patchwork on my neck,

It’s alright”, somehow,

that’s what they said,

You’ve been mended now”,

as I’m sifting through debris,

you showed up to stare at me,

as I rummage through the wreck,

not mockingly,

but longingly,

distinguished and correct,

your mind spun silently,

trying to throw a line to me,

to get me to connect,

and the threaded weave,

spun invisibly,

and I think you know the rest.

 

Padlocked.

You thought I wasn’t listening,

that your sentiment was lost on me,

you convinced yourself eventually,

that an evil lingered, baring teeth…

Didn’t you write mind blowing poetry?

And used for your muse, a snapshot of me?

Then my mind was confused immediately,

the flip to the switch that turns you on to me…

In no way did I anticipate,

To be smitten by you, for Chrissake,

to be bitten into, til my body shakes,

and left alone in an expanding space…

It’s a cosmically powered vacuum,

sucking the poetry away from we, two,

stealing the essence left that I cling to,

revealing rebellious dissent in high volume…

until the shine of the sun again forces ahead,

the steps of my feet through your head,

the lines in my cheeks as you blush me dark red,

your dreams are ever padlocked in a box under my bed.

Cinder Blocks.

I want sit at the hearth of your manhood,

and stoke the fire to dangerous heights,

stir at its white-hot cinder blocks,

fuel the embers of its dark corners,

you burn like fire,

in my heart – in my mind,

in my skin – a temperature rise,

emblazoned, emboldened,

a singe at the touch that’s so very right

beheld by the highest of the high,

as well as the beggars of the night,

you’re made up of the stuff,

that speaks directly to my concubine,

not a nano-second passes by me,

without warmth of a cosmic heat,

like a fire burning steadily,

slurping out my poetry,

like a vampire of pure lovability,

like a conflagration of flames,

dirty words and silly pet names,

I want to make you see,

tell me, do you see?

Is it “you”, or “me”, or is it “we”?

 

 

 

 

Blow.

I know which way,

wind tends to blow…

From day to day,

It changes, I know…

clever word play,

I’m taking notes…

I’m on the belay,

but missing the rope…

I see the mask,

beneath the mists…

A deep overcast,

A darkened glimpse…

of shadows amassed,

between our kiss…

questions unasked,

blissful in my ignorance…

my faith has already burned,

I don’t say any desperate prayers…

Certain things can’t be unlearned,

certain feelings can’t be spared…

have the tides already turned?

and you’ve left me sitting here?

I know, typically,

how the story goes…

it ends quite abruptly,

a chop to the throat…

heartrendingly,

and POOF! I’m a ghost…

just a shiny memory,

missing most of my nose.

 

 

 

 

 

Dumbly Mused.

My mind reeled sinfully as my gaze found its lazy way upon,

your eyes drilled into me through the haze of shady recognition,

how the shadowy cobwebs of distant times,

have smeared many edges and blurred out the lines,

but the instant I saw you,

and knew you saw me too,

the moment I bowed my head in gratitude,

it seemed a flash of lightning,

something jarring and striking,

took my knees from under me,

so I dumbly mused hungrily,

on distant things resurfacing in plenitude,

an emotionally messy,

however, very sexy catastrophe,

was the spark of fire ignited by memory,

was the bolt of energy flashing between,

in its own way defining the physical being,

in that instant recollection,

of that distant connection,

when our bodies intertwined nakedly,

and our times were confined to history,

while our eyes were still quite blind,

and we couldn’t hear a thing,

the sense of touch,

was left to us,

the warm rush of skin in flannel sheets,

and in that moment,

so long later down the line,

our eyes got to touch one last time,

I touched yours,

yours touched mine,

and you remembered me.

 

Big Differences.

Growing up, every year on my birthday, my Dad would make a point to become overwhelmed by sentiment, and then force his recollections upon me of the day that I was born. I typically spent the following few moments listening to him describe what life had been like prior to my birth (a dramatically dismal and rainy scene in which he, my Papa, and my older brothers spent their days feeling incomplete and longing for the missing piece to the puzzle of Life that only I could provide). My father never held back from parenthood, and he did everything with gusto when it came to his kids – his only daughter, especially – so the birthday strokes came on thick and lasted pretty much throughout the day until I went to bed.

Anyway, I think about this often (at least once a year); and can’t help but to compare these types of memories with those that surround me as the parent and Boo as the birthday girl (her 19TH birthday is tomorrow). It makes me dwell heavily in the land of self-inventory…and I can’t help but to wind up feeling guilty and shitty because I honestly don’t have such sweet sentiments in regard to my Life as a mother to Boo. I always used to eat myself that way because I would secretly feel quite different about Life before and after Boo (in comparison to those annual mountains of sugar that my Dad always fed me, at least).

Just been stuck in Plebian Mode all day over this stupid comparison, I thought I’d dump it out into the Universe and see if that helps it go away.

Inward.

You don’t need
to know the science of
how a supernova glows,
in order to see,
so vividly
with clarity
these scars;
I sport them
proud, like how,
you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
Cuban cigars –
Dom Pérignon,
yawn…
this bores me;
shall I go on?
act like you don’t
secretly adore me,
forcefully,
bitterly,
lips sewn closed,
you’re confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not like
it’s rocket science,
my compliance,
I’m submissive
dismissive,
ever renewed,
do I ring true?
You bet I do…
Again,
Big Man
spin my head
around the room,
you’re mad because
my spirit doesn’t
comprehend the likes of you…
But you know the feeling…
good and well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Mr. Passive Aggressive
in designer
spit-shined shoes…
never did I question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine both do –
combustible
ignitable
you’ll see no surprise
in my open eyes,
I’m already onto you;
too ornery
too lonely
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they happen
to stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
no time to talk to,
the Ace up your sleeve,
make my heart
childishly and stupidly
waste time in belief,
of anything
more than what,
we were, already,
turn inward again,
backward
wayward
can’t open your eyes
unable to stir,
the ash back to fire,
this place is absurd,
chasing the promises,
made inward.

Jeg ber dere.

Jeg ber dere …
If I had you alone for a while
I guarantee
I could make you smile –
A broad, wide grin
that’d stretch for miles…
You’d be my daddy,
I’d be your love child;
Under the covers
a universe so wild,
believing and seeing –
the other side
of the coin –
tender loin,
my need –
overrides;
beg and moan
pump and groan
til the tears come
to my eyes;
A stroke and you’re in,
Now the pleasure
begins,
You take away from me –
only to
give back in full,
again.
jeg ber dere…
Suction from
puckered lips
pressure from you
finertips,
deep inside,
now – HOLD
recognize…
take it back again,
I beg of you
“Sugar, please?…”
You decide then
to let me
finally win;
you get me
to heights I’ve never been;
Please? Come back in…
I’ve left the
knob unlocked,
my door’s wide open
and I’m pleading too
jeg ber dere…jeg ber dere
Aye, you’re mine;
touch down
on the stars
in my skies
lick your own sweat
from my forehead
every night;
jeg ber dere
please do this right
I’ve taken to
the likes of flight
underneath
the Victory Wreath,
that you wear
in your full right.
Don’t hang me here
on the old clothesline
with all the things
that have worn
away with time;
too much sunshine –
too much open space,
jeg ber dere
I don’t belong
in that forgotten place.

Hurt So Right.

Oh so much pressure,
building up
inside of
my eyes;
Know that I measure,
many crumbs
in spite of
my size;
For whom I treasure,
to perceive
tonguing the seams
of my mind;
Steeping with pleasure,
belting out
aloud and proud
my cries;
Too low down to measure,
climbing up
the liquid tendons
chopped cleanly rough;
Oh so much pressure,
blue, passive-
aggressive
I love the ride.

Tie.

There is something wholly satisfying in a moment of childhood nostalgia shared between siblings through the recollected eyes of adulthood;
There is an ancient mentally embedded sensation woven into such an instance akin to the finishing of a most gluttonous seven-course feast of the most filling foods and drink;
It is the momentary revival of our most purely experienced joys in Life, our most simply created smiles attached to memories that science has hinted will be vividly with us until we expire in old age;
It is the reminder of band-aids and muddy knee scrubs, bedtime stories and a belief in the impossible;
There are truths revealed through the adult moments spent together in casual and comfortable silences in which words are not necessary to just BE;
These truths bear features of each sibling, dead or alive, as they did in early life when hardships weren’t yet upon the heart;
These truths are the tie that binds.

Big Things.

We got big dreams,

me and him

Someday big things

are bound to happen

We’ll grow big trees

As legal aliens

On some big beach

With the Mexicans

We’ll raise puppies

instead of children

Rotts and Boxers

by the millions

I’ll finish each day

still right next to him

he’ll happily inspect

the tan-lines on my skin

He drives a Tonka Truck

I teach words to the orphans

we got big plans on the brink

me and the big boss man

Trumped.

 

A play on the many words,
that we’ve each said and heard,
many belly laughs,
and silly photographs,
over distance that’s absurd,
We’ve been down Sesame Street,
with a lazy dog in the front seat,
international,
hardly rational,
Skynyrd and b-track AC/DC,
you know how you kill me slowly,
and I kill you the same, reciprocally,
spent up calling cards,
beachfront train yards,
and trucks with tires as tall as me,
kisses throughout every darkened dream,
boats without oars and old fishing stories,
pasty and born-again,
sun-burned Mexicans,
full of all things solid, to remain just as solidly.

Fishing Boats.

I’ve never washed his laundry,

or tasted his sweat in the dark,

I don’t clear his dinner dishes,

he doesn’t fuck with my car,

he’s never seen me naked,

I’ve never whispered in his ear,

we live in different time zones,

yeah – he’s there and I am here;

We never watch movies together,

I don’t get to sleep beside him,

we have no friends in common,

no secret spot that we meet in,

we don’t see the same sunrise,

or the same one sink down at night,

our streets are lined by different trees,

we don’t observe the same wildlife;

it’s strange to know such vastness,

of space between, lined by surrealism,

space solidified by the grace of time,

passing in between me and him,

he never slowed in his loyalties,

and I never changed my mind,

any union between is cursed by the Gods,

through an invisible territorial line;

yet, somehow I know this man’s essence,

I hear the ticking of his heart,

mechanical and permanent,

fused with light from dusted stars,

in an abandoned office space,

the crime-scene of an epic opening,

bullet holes in the glass that separated,

this man from connecting with me.

The Bartender.

I know he digs the way I think;
the shoes I wear; the foods I eat;
so much in fact is his smitten instinct;
he will default back to getting down on a knee…

He knows all the words to my favorite tales;
he rides into a room on no one’s coat-tails;
he’s immature – but he cleans up so well;
we are both too crazy for each other to tell…

I let him get away with almost anything;
all he has to do is bat those sweet hazel eyes at me;
flash me back to the bar he tends at night in Queens;
the mouth and mind of Walken with a heart like Huckleberry.

Root.

(Photo by Americana Injustica - Monterey, California 2012)

(Photo by Americana Injustica – Santa Cruz, California 2015)

I have already, myself seen,

the things that you describe

when you write your poetry;

the sadness, and tears,

the move from overseas;

it’s not your words

that are ever lost on me –

it is these feelings,

the sweet things,

shining,

from you at me…

scary to me –

because alone, I be,

it’s very hard to allow

anyone else

close enough to me

to either love or despise

to spit in my eye,

and then you came on by;

and somehow,

you seemed to speak

to the roots

of my trees…

your dreams and mine

intertwined all the time,

a patterning,

a celebrated defeat,

I bow to your feet,

I do, you know –

it’s just fine

for you to let go;

I will not hurt

these truths that we

reciprocally know,

it’s not your words,

my darling premonition –

that keep worrying…

it’s this deep down curiosity,

ticking,

tocking,

chopping,

to the very center

of what’s feels

right and wrong to be.

Ghost Dive.

"In the Fog" Capitola, California 2014

“In the Fog” (Photo taken by Americana Injustica, Capitola, California 2014)

Had not you been stolen
away from its sands,
who knows then, my dear?…
where your feet might let you land,
I can see
your face beneath,
the kelp and reef
quite possibly…
drowning
in old misery;

Were you not whisked away
to a far and foreign place,
how might it have become, I fear…
the smile gone from that face,
I can sense
the elegance,
buckets from whence
you counted
grains
in beach tents;

What if? You had no mother
to make up your little mind?
a different man, you understand…
born of a different experience, unkind,
I can feel
pain: so very real,
it’s deep, it’s instilled
but, you’ve conquered
forgiveness
titanium within thy will;

May your prose always shine
Ever-more than just a shimmer
may your wetsuit ever-protect
skin and bones of its swimmer;
I can dive
right alongside,
deeper than shame or pride
to show you – the faces
ghosts
left far behind.

Try Little.

fight-club-copy

Herfra til her, beskidte dearhas
endnu ikke modtaget en værdig ord
se den måde at Ican
producere vinger og flylike
det allermindste, poetisk fugl.
Once in a while, you flash me a smile
and I’m smitten all over again
but most of the time
your impatient, closed-mind
tries little to rein that ego of yours in.
You seem to forget, that I’m no Juliet
never claimed to be a butterfly
your face is so fine
with a heart, so unkind
tries little to learn the reasons why.
You aren’t alone, many have come and gone
with languages that I can’t understand
you’ve chalked yourself up
to that shiny, trophy cup
tried little, to know who I actually am.
Once in lifetime, comes a heart like mine
the likes of you struggles to recognize
so like a camera flash
just a ghost in your past
here and gone before you opened your eyes.

Inward.

Huh?

Huh?

You don’t need to know
the science
behind how a supernova glows,
in order to see, so vividly
these scars;
I sport them proudly
like you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
the Cuban cigars –
yawn…
this bores me;
don’t act like you
do not
secretly adore me,
forcefully, lips sewn
confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not rocket science,
my compliance
is a choice I make,
ever renewed,
ring true?
You bet I do…
Again, let’s spin
around the room,
you’re mad because
I can’t comprehend you…
But you know that
feeling…

all too well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Passive Aggressive
in designer shoes…
never did question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine do  –
combustible
ignitable
it isn’t any surprise.
That you’d be too ornery
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
make my heart shock
harder than –
a hundred bolts of lightning.

Jeg ber dere.

Snapshot312

Jeg ber dere …
If I had you alone for a while
I guarantee
I could make you smile –
A broad, wide grin
that’d stretch for miles…
You’d be my daddy,
I’d be your love child;
Under the covers
a universe so wild,
believing and seeing –
the other side
of the coin –
tender loin,
my need –
overrides;
beg and moan
pump and groan
til the tears come
to my eyes;
A stroke and you’re in,
Now the pleasure
begins,
You take away from me –
only to
give back in full,
again.
jeg ber dere…
Suction from
puckered lips
pressure from you
finertips,
deep inside,
now – HOLD
recognize…
take it back again,
I beg of you
“Sugar, please?…”
You decide then
to let me
finally win;
you get me
to heights I’ve never been;
Please? Come back in…
I’ve left the
knob unlocked,
my door’s wide open
and I’m pleading too
jeg ber dere…jeg ber dere
Aye, you’re mine;
touch down
on the stars
in my skies
lick your own sweat
from my forehead
every night;
jeg ber dere
please do this right
I’ve taken to
the likes of flight
underneath
the Victory Wreath,
that you wear
in your full right.
Don’t hang me here
on the old clothesline
with all the things
that have worn
away with time;
too much sunshine –
too much open space,
jeg ber dere
I don’t belong
in that forgotten place.

Moonlight and PTSD.

What might
tonight’s
insomnia-ridden,
wishes for dreams-
of happy things…
eventually lead me to do?
I may end up running uphill-
away from me,
begging for you;
Might I find myself
in serious need
of emergency help,
when my heart
stops beating by itself?
Possibly, my PTSD
will create so much anxiety,
uncertainty,
lack of any sense of safety-
such a nightmare to fall asleep.
Shhhhh;
pretend I do not breathe;
play dead inside
of my own head,
when will it be morning?
Perhaps, the chaps
who bait the traps,
will wait down by
the creek for me;
but then again-
I can’t stand those men,
and none of them
can easily tolerate me;
What was that noise?
The Man and his Boys…
tumbling around inside
of my stoniest weed;
arched backs,
slash-hacks,
unstable,
in tailored tweed;
Flip the book pages,
lock-down the hatches
infomercial orgasms
while playing with matches;
finally…
when the skies are pink,
and my fearful mind
bangs itself to sleep;
I will sleep, somewhat
Though rather fitfully…
wrapped
inside of the quilt
that I intend to
steal right off your body.

Hurt So Right.

Pump.

Pump.

Oh so much pressure,
building up
inside of
my eyes;
Know that I measure,
many crumbs
in spite of
my size;
For whom I treasure,
to perceive
tonguing the seams
of my mind;
Steeping with pleasure,
belting out
aloud and proud
my cries;
Too low down to measure,
climbing up
the liquid tendons
chopped cleanly rough;
Oh so much pressure,
blue, passive-
aggressive
I love the ride.