Secret Moments in Covert Places...

A Moment of Reflection

Humanity? Humanity. Humanity
is a cruel creature
that solitude pacifies
for short snips of time
until it irritates those well-watched
clips in your mind
that cry, angry and hushed,

then within silence, subside.
The undead thrive,
social vampires and zombies alike
suck sincerity dry.
Ineptitude prospers,
frustrations are fried.
We writhe away life.
Who is this GOD? Is it just I?

Out of these masses,
growing fat on streams, these feed fiends
Who is a puddle?
           And who is alive!?

Spilt Nerve and Spilt Nights in Good Night Bad Morning Light

The atmosphere closes in around my temples.
I push my throbbing hands together
to feel my heart beat while my head pulsates
with the imprint of the last conscious hours
hanging over my cognizance
like a gyrating cloud,
leaving the night before
in a vaporous cloud of dope smoke,
hard kisses, and unfinished revelries.
I drown in the candor of a water-filled
Coca Cola cup, and chewed iced slipping
the slope of my throat, with a slick quick grin.
Traces of levity linger lightly on my being,
just barely visible to the attentive naked eye-
fleet quiet secrets slightly evident in the fluorescent lights
of the diner,
idling softly on my skin
as these discreet, sweet things
that hold promise often do.
Like hushed sighs
or eventful waning nights.
The laughter of old men engulfs me
as they sip their coffee in a circle
and share their sales, Antique Road Show,
tell their tales in tattered baseball caps
shoot hyperbolic fishing stories without aim,
with graying hairs, through thick frames.
I still haven't found what I'm looking for
but my brain jumps a mountain range...
and estranged children find comfort
in the smile I abandon in my wake.
A place where nostalgia and shadows
of little-known secrets play.
In distant pine trees and town's back alleyways
where I carved my hearts, shot spirits,
and graffitied my name.
Goosebumps rise,
and slow yawns patronize
my lively ways.
In the shallow light, I give into the ambiguous unknowns
with deluded ease.
In the clean soft morning light of the diner,
I find comfort in being deceived by naive
and simplistic surety.

Late Night Decisions

While drinking, I decided I was going to be an alcoholic writing painter. When I start drinking (around 2 p.m.) I'm going to mix my whiskey in my oil paints. Then when I get plastered, I'm going to set my paintings on fire and the liquor will ash them all to smithereen-made dust. I'll shed a booze and inspiration saturated tear, and drink to my painting, of course. Then, when I awake, the Jack and paint will numb the pain of my drunk doings. There goes another painting.

A vicious cycle.

The Monumental Insignificants

Writhing softly as a cantata whispered,
skin fuels friction-
a rhythmic, rising action smooth silk collision.
A guitar riff electrifies,
tranquilises,
paralyzes,
the blood slipping through our veins
like buttermilk sun rays
licking cloud edges on a mids-morning day-
blinding our moon-lit skin, braided,
in a warm, delicious cacoon,
noon-lit room, seeing.
Soft lips scoop and fingers slip, lose grip
clinging to our every mistake,
rapture just a breath away.
Spilt milk
and crumbs of memories linger.
Poignant instants among the fuzzed out blur
of the mights
and the night's moments you lived,
electrified.
Crunching through
licking the salt from your fingertips
not one misplaced slip
and taste buds tingle and mingle
with the tangled flavor
that swivels your eardrums
and taps to your toes
bounces off the walls
laughing all the while.
Slamming Jack and licorice-a-like liquor,
feeling inside
like slithering down a warm slope
of fluid words.
Magic to your ear buds-
a guttural whisper escapes into the empty
and makes the silence more genuine.
Teeth scrape cartilage
with the slightest, most deliberate pressure.
Eyes, heavy-lidded,
glazed, reflecting a glossy peachy keen picture.
Breezes bob gently past
the sheet-thin blanket of heat
we fell through.
And the lava in the lamp continues to move.

12:46 a.m. 8/2/11

Broken-toothed alley cats cross the backstreets
and loneliness creeps up my spine
worming a hole inside my shell.
The verge of tears teeters an inch away
while a calmness I hide hushes me, settles, stills, and quiets
me to an okay range while
I play, lost and faded like a wallflower in street lights.
Disoriented. In a bright supermarket with endless fluorescent lights flooding infinite aisles,
like a child,
trying on a coat of old age
she can't change out of
and my mind jumps a mountain range
and I feel like I'm running, traveling indeterminate lengths in place
my bike a hamster wheel
the world is my cage.
I belong no where,
but under the sky
and it opens its' arms wide,
but my fingers can't clasp it
and I can't hold its' hand
no matter how hard we each try.
So we sway alone to the moon's miles-away tides.
The stars call my name
and graffiti holds it in place.
A purring, aching desire twists, never graces my lips
wanting someone to remember
that we're one in the same,
but I can't recall anyone whose blood crackles alike through their veins.
My brother is gone, with bags of abandoned, half-eaten Frosted Flakes in his wake.
My sister never knew anything of anyone beyond herself and her own selfish ways.
My mother, which one? Each leaving, uncaring, or seen only with a scowl on her face.
My father a slave to his own weakness, kids he stranded, and life he can't escape.
I give into the night,
in a fatigued wave-without a heart in its' crest.
Butterfly dreams flit through this hundred watt lit chest.
Highways run adjacent to one another like alien road strips
and ethereal headlights are celestial galaxies
with an intangible transcendence
that remains attainable only through 'star-gazing', daydreaming, or
wishful thought someone forgot.
Bike tires sinking, spinning, the sky caves,
I open my eyes, and float away.