Guidance.

weed socks.

“Fifteen minute wait but we have some seats at the bar,” 
but is a drink in the hand worth a fine on the bank?
Sisters at a table, sisters in a loft,
I don’t believe in divine judgement,
I don’t believe in fate.

Keep your door unlocked half of any alright day
and they always break for lunch at three.
You’ve got no time for someone who doesn’t have time for their own.
I don’t believe your excuse.
I won’t believe the enemy.

Sardonic eroticism wasn’t enough for you?
I’ll exhaust you to your bones.

Drew up a calendar with fingers on skin,
you were the greatest happenstance after a weathered jubilee.
but rust ever overcomes.
I don’t believe in pathos but, 

you don’t believe in me.





Tuesday, January 24, 2017 Comments

Esther

A crack in the armor and all my years don’t seem so significant.
Let the light slip through and wash the mud from your eyes.
Slipped through your fingers,
gelled on the tile floor.
One last time I’ve brought you to your knees.

Atom bomb line dance and words are collateral damage.
I’ve got something real important to say someday soon.
Leggings damp from frustration,
I won’t be shattered here.
Maybe another time you’ll see me pause to let you speak.

Constant epiphanies and a five hour thought process;
makes a little, makes a lot.
I won’t be shattered here.
One last time I’ve brought gifts to your door.

Maybe another time you’ll hear the bell.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017 Comments

and chain.

that unmemorable second passes where words they have no outlet.
set aside by inches like the miles sewn by a parent.
you say a bed frame is worth finding, 
can’t say I’ve been able to stop thinking of my timing.
if there’s another worry who knows if I can bring myself to care?

this isn’t ugly. this is just my season’s best.

those minutes remain where the podium light still works.
new bulbs purchased, park the cars on the curbs.
you said you just made your bed in the morning,
crumbled resumes to see who’s joining.
I yell back a response but I can’t tell if you’re still there.

been at least an hour since the ellipses shuddered and writhed.
I’ve got liquor bottles for pacing, you’re got Greek time.
they said you would blush when you read,
only thing worth saying never got said,

listen to me: this is ugly; this is what you should not wear.

Comments

matinée d’ivresse


“every good soldier enjoys a cigar,”
Rimbaud, cross-legged, offers Guevara a spot on the floor.
enough coffee spoons to explain the temporal difference,
enough words that you won’t want anymore.

elegance, science, violence.
you’re always saying “wait.”

“they promised to bury in darkness,
that tree of good and evil.”
summer morning sun like drunkenness,
maims the hangover with a gavel.

elegance; not one for obvious violence.
you’re always saying “wait.”

began with confused laughter, maybe even how it ends,
the kettle comes with handle broken.
“hurrah for the beautiful body, hurrah for the first time,”
cheers made, but nothing spoken.

“after the deluge,” Ernesto rubs chin and pauses,
“it’s the anemic for which we shall prepare the tombs.”
“no! not quite the point,” the boy fidgets,
but still it ends with a riot of perfumes.

elegance; the science of real violence.
elegance; you’re always demanding that I wait.
elegance; you’re always demanding that I wait.

and so, I wait.

Comments

we come from heights; to laugh and curse.

"For you, great things are in good as in evil.
But we live beyond good and evil, because all that is great belongs to beauty.
Even “crime”.
Even “perversity”.
Even “sorrow”.
And we want to be great like our crime!
In order not to slander it.
We want to be great like our perversity!
In order to render it conscious.
We want to be great like our sorrow.
In order to be worthy of it."
- "Toward the Creative Nothing" by Renzo Novatore 

Comments