Bullet Train Hoping (Hopping)

Bullet train hopping to heart attack.
Riding the rails again, showing you Heaven before
swift delivery
to slow Hell.
Push-pins going through my fingers tips with a cloud of hope floating out of reach.
To claw at.
Dust breathing ghost whispers linger in my ear; Where have you been?


(I missed you too.)

Block.

Torrents of unbridled recall flashing across the terrain of my notched spine in sync with your finger tips, like a vivid memory of a violent car crash, but the powers are not so negative when I remember the everything that comprises every me when I'm soaking in every You, and the wreckage is beautiful and for once I wake to dance among it.

I Fear For Your Wrist Watch,

Everyday the landscape is evolving
and the stars look different every night
but really they are the exact same
with a new view from the bottom
reminding you that you are running
out of time to count them all
and that this is only the beginning.

Maybe a Tractor or a Back Hoe.

I was out there wondering how much longer I had to burn
and how the fires don't look so pretty when you are in them.
My jubilee burns out every once in a while,
and I get mechanical aching in my gears
my jaw locks up

decides to hibernate like farm machinery put away for the winter
and the wells dry up
and my skeleton sits in a tool shed picked clean by rats in the night time;
the right time for me to be playing solitaire in a too-warm computer chair
wishing I had a stable leg to walk on.
I am sitting here wondering how much longer I have to burn

Bright Green Smog Filter.

Spectral people walk the streets on thin concrete with a pulse like molten rocks floating on lava. Bodies disjointed, solid limbs held together by veins of mist while walking with robotic legs carrying a plasma torso. The air is thicker than we are and the industrial wastes streaming from hundred foot towers is dense, not unlike the clouds of thought clamoring for attention storming in my brain. You are cart-wheeling in a grotesque fashion; Your body rolls with your direction, head never upside down but at some point below the knees. Every thing You thought You knew was wrong.

So Hot.

Like an over-exposed Polaroid
left to bleach on a dashboard,
I may appear dull,
but I have life left in me and stories to tell.
But the sun has a heat like hate
that might just burn me up one of these days.
The anger gets so hot sometimes.
Outside rage may be the death of me.
Please be my moon.
(The non-conflict seeking kind)

Sharper than Cheddar.

Hungry and hollow
Bones chewing air grinding against each other
Your sternum creaks from the effort of sucking me thin
I can feel the ends of your teeth in my mouth
Worn down at the tines from the stress of your words
That break your incisors
That dry out your tongue
That will never come out
Did you have something to say or just something to hate?
Or were your ribs looking for some padding?
Or some substance for your actions?
The wind won't feed you
It's just taking your words away.
And breaking their brittle spines
I never knew cheekbones were effective razor blades
Until you ran out of things to say
When there was nothing left of me for you to eat

[09 May 2006 | Tuesday]

Oh, how it hurts to blink-
(But oh how it glistens)
All that glitters isn't gold,
It's the glass of our shattered lives
Still starstruck in our bloodshot eyes
(We've been playing hearts like terrible songs
We wish we had never written)
Sometimes inspiration is ugly,
But the street is beautiful to me
It's as close as your next heartbeat
With the painful satisfaction of tomorrow's tattoo
We're the sparse characters of this alleyway fairy tale
We bleed sex, drugs, and vodka
From wounds of rock and roll
Children of the night like liquid black
In the streetlight
(Boys will be girls)
The pierced preteen with a face of eyeliner,
With the aftertaste kiss of sin and lies
For once the truth escapes her teeth's prison:
"I haven't done half the things I've said I've done"
Me either baby, I've done twice more.
..>..>..>..>

I'll Have Some Grated Mozzerella.

I have three aligning focuses of pain.
My head,
my heart,
my warm gooey insides.
I bet they'd taste of cheese and marinara.
Intestine Pasta.
Maybe I'm just hungry.

Love like Giving In.

So kiss me like you are hungry
With a tongue alive like drugs
And burnt by yesterday's coffee.
And hope.