Contemporary Killings

in using the masochistic blade of chivalry i am dining my bloody death stench. the hate of antipathy and indifference is killing me, like cold caviar churning upstream. i need to get out. help me get out of this. i feel nothing. i have felt nothing. i am not in love and every time i say it a piece of me is discarded. i think i might have to kill someone to escape. it is not that i don't care, it's that i don't care enough. monogamy is not what i want right now.

Ordinary Walks

You slowly became the affect

My small incandescent bliss.

You over time evolved into a hobby,

That thing I did in the evening;

Walking the streets looking for

You to tell me why I was looking for you.

Played Division, ours none. A

Black & White bell on your dress.

Or stale letters still sitting on a coffee

Table waiting to be addressed.

Some irk of the taught. Pulling

Out the evening tide.

You never came quick when I called

Tuesday afternoons alone, in Evanston

Where your mother never knew you went,

My suspicion grew neigh. But I never left again.

1:26:09 (Hate)

1:26:09-  

I hate your hair.  The way you never talk out loud.  

I would think you had Asberger's if someone told me so.  

I've talked less to myself over the past five months than words to you.

I hate the way you don't bite your nails.

Your skin, it's smooth and well polished, it bothers me,

I hate your brown eyes, they've confused me.  They have never made me

laugh.  If smiling was it, I hate you for it.  I hate your absence, the abscess,

you are a pull in my groin a tremble in my voice.

When you drop by in my unexpected, I tear up, skin-dry

and an extra pack of cigarettes to get through seeing you, five

extra dollars I have to spend.  I hate knowing that their is a girl like you,

why did you have to go being so goddamned fucking perfect?

Extinct Birds(Our Mistakes)

Extinct Birds(Our Mistakes)

Are we there yet?

Soon we can share a toothbrush, before

long we'll even taste the same, a little bit of vanilla

and some French bread will take us a long way.

I guess donating blood is out of the question

until you come back from navigating detours.  The rental cars too,

are going to be unavailable, but I find purpose

walking in the cold to see you.

It hasn't been this heavy-set in almost

two or four years, hours of waiting at the drawstring 

blind, twisting back-and-forth.  The new view is already outdated, and

I have had to find new ways of coping.

The new blanket I brought here, the violet tie on the floor, and

especially guest pass with your name on it- reasons to step outside.  I

am dying for you.  A little bit of dying can be a good thing.  Some room

away from the rest to really see what this all will look like from a distance.

9:08:08

9:08:08- I was a composer before I met you. When I didn't know that Tyelenol was a perfect picture world you kept inside your purse. Let us talk about that party where we ate Vegan food, I'm running against the wind through an all inclusive party where your Brother Mother and Dad swore it was the last time since they caught me smoking cigarettes outside on your door steps, and Casey might have been the catalyst but I swear I had no idea that Rainbows came in all shapes and sizes I thought we were just going to go there for one night. Your birthmarks and your radios were playing throughout the summer and I mentioned that I like Marilyn's only after I saw the one laying in your bed, two pillows and a pair of white suspenders our voices suspended in the transition, some blankets and a bathtub to a yelling noise from up the stairs....scream and shout, the cleaning never got done, but the same socks and the same stars, and the same people will wait outside on doorsteps singing songs that you only know because you were introduced to fame by familiars, now is familliar a taste of a texture? The redolence of VapoRub? Or the hypocrisy of open-cakes?

9:08:08- 12:24am. A woman and a postcard met on a street corner. She was not a prostitute in case you were wondering. She was wearing tight purple leggings and a light blue frock that went nicely with the white t-shirt she had underneath the gold necklace around her neck. The post card was from some city she was going to go to once on a train but instead she got off at a different stop. There were some words scribbled on the back, and although she found it on the ground there was something familiar about the words, and not the words so much but the hand writing it was written in, the writing, it looked familiar. She went home after staring at the ground for fifteen whole minutes. When she got back, after she got inside of course, she sat on some orange cushioned bar stools along the counter of her living room/bedroom studio apartment on the West Side, but not a bad part of town, it was just West. She had prepared a cup of Peppermint Tea for herself, but had left it in the microwave too long so she had to sip it really slowly like it was some type of potent apotropaic. Before her third sip, she decided that she was going to go back to the street corner where she had seen the post card, and if it was still there she was going to pick it up with her right hand, because things off the ground should be picked up with your right hand, and if it was there she was going to take it home with her. The street corner was, in fact, the street corner at the end of her street and so she arrived there quite quickly. She looked down at the ground trying to remember exactly where she was standing, it seemed to her that the post card must have moved. She was slightly bummed out, because she had left her Peppermint tea at home to see if the post card was still there, and now had to go back home to her idle life of Arts & Crafts and conversations with friends. When she approached the gate to her apartment building there was a boy outside. He had on a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, blue shoes with white stripes on the sides, they looked like bowling shoes, but she could tell that they weren't, that they were just some style of designer shoes. He had on a cotton t-shirt with a logo on the front, and a worn down baseball cap. She had never seen this boy before, and he was holding her post card, or the post card that she wanted to be hers in his hands. She looked at him in his beautiful green eyes, she believed Green eyes were beautiful not dangerous like brown eyes, but heavy with experience and love. He spoke.

-Abigail?
-How do you know my name? Have I met you before? You're cute, what are you doing here?
-I'm Tom. I sent you this postcard, you didn't get it? You didn't get it.
-You have to put those things in mailboxes if you want them delivered. Obviously you didn't follow the instructions that weren't on the post card.
-Sorry. I wanted to tell you that I liked the way your hair looked, but you leave the house so late, and I'm always out by 7 a.m. so I just wanted to send this over.
-That's sweet. A little awkward, but sweet. I just made some Peppermint Tea, do you want some.
-Love some.

Abigail entered her apartment with a gleam about her, not that she hadn't been happy or excited to be home or to have friends over before, but excited that this boy, this character in her neighborhood had gone the extra length to get in touch with her. He smiled nicely at her in a way she really liked, and she had met other boys before but she really liked him, it was something, and she liked it. She tossed her tea in the sink and prepared two cups of tea for the both of them. Instead of sitting at the bar stools they sat on the futon in her living room. They sat there and talked for several hours, and shortly after the sun went down he had to go home to make dinner for himself. They exchanged personal information and talked of a tea date in the future, after she walked him out she went back and sat on one of the bar stools in her kitchen. She reached for her cup and brought her fresh Peppermint Tea to her lips, took a sip, and found beneath her cup the postcard. The words were illegible even up close, but the writing was still familiar.

9:14:08

9:14:08- 9:21pm. The way you purse your words inside your lips, a special diamond set of dinnerware I feast upon with my eyes. The voice of your 100-acre wood, and instead of forever in the pocket of wallet sized journal, I voice myself in hurt of my inner monologue. For is it not the two of us which dance so eloquently in the silences, our exploding words, sonnet bombs come to mind, our exploding sonnet bombs in the hands we smooth against each other. I cover myself up with my eyes on you, the several cups of tea we share often engaging in the places of our mind we visit together. You are the flavor of night, of covered windows, of empty pillow cases and pain. I vibe off your infusion, the waiting so pale with rage that I angst in the empty to feign the errors of my trials. Like the golden abstinency we smile first name bases running around avoiding details to, and the tea we sip softly 200 degrees of freedom at the rolls of your hips, soaking in the evening light.

I do enjoy fading in the crowns we wear. The thorns of the cold outside concrete cigarette smoking putting us in cold September comatose. The cross-hairs are growing nicely. I find a placebo embroidered at my fingertips, some words pulled off my lips like dead skin growing into fertile history in the making. We play with paper planes the shades of restless Autumn Days, 1000 words so strong my pen bursts at the seams, and I don't close off, avert my glare so bright and blinding my squinting settles sunsets fair.

We make jokes about the passive-aggressive guest, but it cleanses the palette to paint in dreams of kitchen table dinners others wouldn't dare dine at. My skin is raw, naked, and threaded with time, the numbers of my childhood that hang openly on my walls like open wounds I play Candyland around, and even if an offering fell Sartre Rock in the shape of a blind shadow, my soluble goods are forgiving when it comes to the things I put myself through.

Even if I were to stop for the scenery I'm supposed to be sewing into my Native American maize of a storyboard set for two, I wouldn't mind at all not having that Do Not Disturb sign turned around on my eyelids for fifteen more minutes of a sequence of events I'm beginning to thoroughly enjoy.

The advancements catch me in the twist of a spoon around the corduroy tones of clothes that wear out those three boys pushing a dead car down the downtown streets, and I love life I really love it the way the characters are developing, the way the faces come out of the days to vocalize their independent narratives for the moments following my own antithesis of reason, and while the rain may still be coming down tomorrow, and the next forward movement to retreat the door frame is a cup of coffee at the Cafe, I furrow in the lot of company and companionship around the corner, and up the stairs.

9:14:08- 11:26p.m. Before I quiet the mind bank of the over flooded rivers of Binge, and Eagle out the dinner reservations with closed-caption audits, I want to play the erudite binge, and bind my clauses with leather and Red. Were I a broken piece of sea glass to play charades with, or maybe the arenose beachside of the erosive Chicago wind, I may have formulated on the vain attempts of your cinema-expertise, but I find your levers and stars to point state-side; quiet your fucking jaw, keep your hands to yourself, I'm a junkie for my own indiscretion.

How the beasts howl and scream at the hollow white moth of the sky, poor little prairie doves falling from the arc, and I won't, I won't have it, I won't play pause on your inconsideration or your melodramatic roar, if your clothes don't fit, certainly don't push on my yellow walls for sympathy, I'm disgusted by absence. Yours. Is. Appalling.

On the tape deck, with a blue frock raising chaos on the snow white day. The. Fairest. Of. Them. All. Laughter makes perfect a footprint worth talking to, and the noble mien does cometh on the lawn, while the organic sound of after hours holds the glow the pupils don't dare pass. Warming up for heaven's gaze, uncluttered movement of the time, a lesson learned, a song divine.

9:14:08- Later.

A crow.
in a soot covered, black-wheeled broken jawed wheel barrow
shrieked at the tree where the dead squirrel fell.

Buffalo '66

And on that same day
that crow was seen eating at the limbs and beak of another black crow
outside on the dead brown grass

-

I wore a black leather jacket with two patches safety pinned onto it. A James Dean one and a Blue one with a word that can't be read. It seems that he is always more or less in frustration or is frustrated. I feel totally fucked-but in a good way. And it is not a matter of explanation, but rather a statement of exclamation or excitement. And how lovely it is; discombobulation. My eyes are watering all these ideas that've been pouring out of me all day. Totally fucked. But in a great way. Smiley Face. Smiley Face. And I ask what you like about it, what regulates here? The potent states of my adoration.

There are 4's all over my phone. They make me happy. They make me like jewelry and knives. They make me like open fields and burning leaves. They make me like the cold and the rain. They make me like my Mother and a drug dealer I used to have. They make me like urinals and blondes. They make me like throwing up and red shoes. They make me like the jokes and the Padres. They make me like Teddy Rukspin and the Dunce Cap. They make me like masturbating and bedtime stories. They make me like sleeping and real quiet.

In 1984 there was a lot of crying. A lot of people cried in 1984. It was so sad the amount of crying that went on in 1984.

And so....like a porcelain doll with a broken face and a microphone spilling Frank Sinatra all over the fucking living room. I retreat to the cold rain battered air, to stand among the stale names, and smoke a single cigarette before bed. 

9:14:08-Even later. I walk down the corridor of my apartment at time of night where all the bedroom doors are shut. My sea legs still swaying from the elevator ride, or maybe the water beneath me.(The Very Bad Things Will Happen Speech) And had there been one more knock of the gavel it may have cured my skin. So, I'm walking in my apartment, all the doors shut, no sounds, except an isolated shriek of the 'L' in the background.

My body is warm under three layers of clothes. They called me the bumble bee. I think it has to do with the $10 top with yellow and black on it. I think that's it. Or maybe it's something else. But I think that's it. It slightly bothered me that kid. That one kid, he bothered me slightly, it was something he did, something he did that bothered me quite a bit. Well, not a lot, but a bit. That kid, something was wrong with him or is wrong with him, but it's cool, whatev...

A man calls himself by the name of his boat
we know that a boat is supposed to be a girls name
but he insists to be called by that name.
We allow it because we've known the man for some time
but after awhile it becomes awkward, we think of this man
in a way you don't want to think of a man, especially
a man you know. We call him, weird.



The 14th of September (Very Late)- I have my MFA in Open Face Surgery. The haunting states of the afterlife. The way the latest hours of night have a way of bringing out your inner child, your inner fears. The dark. The way it still manages to bring out the demons. I still have chills on my skin from evils no man can create, the kind of fear that only the terror of night can create.

It is late. And I still haven't closed the night. The film still running through my ears, over my eyes. And sleep is something that makes me dizzy to think about. It's 3:12am and it's not really even the 14th anymore, I've been lying for quite some time now. Forgive me. Please.

9:18:08

9:18:08- My cock has a photographic memory, it's name is Martin and it lives on a Rabbit Farm in the rural Czech Republic, it is, a rooster; inandofitself. I traveled North to conquest the Pseudo-E sky and inhibit myself on the lawns of Banks & Alano. The day, if it were a subject of conversation, was filled with single set ear pieces, bright-eyed story telling sequences of gasoline dreams, on the sidewalks of my Portuguese fore-fathers. It wasn't that, but instead was a reference to that, the fore-fathers that is.

I am a shouted whisper in the dark, from one friend to another in corduroy Autumn. Plain train automobile pajamas. I like the flavors, I like their temperatures, the way they feel twisted around the skin, and how they keep me at attention; nothing worse than being bored. It's not that the night was young, but rather that the children were trying to sleep, and plastic masked faces interrupt card-carrying storytellers so often it becomes a treacherous feet to eat at cardboard boxes and homework floats.

Can your boats
on the mountaintops
be the, tip of the tongues
you write your names in
with the inks from your
under legs?
the crab backing
on the
cardboard
exfoliants
by the bathroom trashcan
in the space between the
toilet and the wall.

Will the tomorrow
of your prison brick
be the, candy dance, implore it now, 
quite like the shadows of a 
chiseled belt of sand
on the wrist
sentenced to a life
of elevator rides
and scarves.

The mice
and
their heart attacks.
written on the walls
written on the walls.

Breakfast, is a waist of time
like the spurious conjugations growing
in the opaque pants pockets
of a genius fit.
Screaming, laughing, fucking, in
the hollow stare
of the moth cloud, 
in adoration of us all.

9:18:08- Welcome to the Kingdom of Slay. The faint sense of virile strength embedded on the hands today. Blood on the casket weave trickles heavily from the teeth, and the voice of the undergrowth trails off into the streets. My voice is closed-caption. My extrovert facade is intellectual, collapsible but I point out the differences for your anger to be a part of things that I wish upon a capsule of a substance you use to disappear from me. I am but a man, a child like a boy, and the notes of my substance are more than you can handle, so don't despair while we tourniquet ourselves in the words that force our tongues to close the mouths of our undiscoverable secret telling ear to ear in busy places while mission statements are the mending connections to the things that we're learning most about each other. I am late to the bridle.

9:18:08- 8:50p.m. The points of my return. To society or the analytical moment where my dead eyes fall on the strange black entanglements which capture me like the urn between my legs burying fascination within the facets of my strange infatuation with sequences. I can't wait for the treason. i be a liquidated entrance, the clause, a sent reminder to a song that I play over and over and over again so as to disappear in the stale abyss of featurettes I call my life. My breath is the memory of daggers gone and dead. By these hands of mine filled with piety and strength today, bare knuckled braggarts of the pestilent eve.

Oh, how the beasts
squawk and toddle
tip-toeing over 
cement factories, in the prurient moonlight.
Watch them in their silks and tapestries of the brain
carrying on in quids and cynicisms.
Their electric mouths beckoning out
to the folds of the sheath
its lines withdrawn and aching nurture
there on the street
where my pupils learn to watch them pass.

9:18:08- 9:35p.m. My sheriff love is profuse. Like the diligent escape plans I execute constantly. Were I the piece of gum which beds itself to your inner-gum so well, you might say I'm an adverb for association, but it is my word which heals the head, my name which blinds your eyes, my lungs which steal the voice from out your lips. Forgetting about the 2nd grade my colors are more than a million.

The State of Gein. Hunger much more than verb to the raise, the rise is more clearly than the binding which struggles to overcome the cryptic additives, an accent on the skin towards a belt of leather which wears itself so surreptitiously it might be called a State.