Vortexual Experience
A bent waterspout and no condom
A light switch labeled "horny"
A cannibalistic desire with flat dulled teeth
Chains and locks and throbbing veins
Blood bubbling but not boiling
The crab skewered by the arrow
The sprite regurgitated the rainbow
The wood grain splintered by the ax
She spells my name in unraveled thread from the frays of my pants.
She falls from the balcony of the apartment building into a pit of cicada shells.
She screams my name on her way down.
Did I cum?
Did I bleed?
Is everything exactly the way it's supposed to be?
Formaldehyde
I hold you
behind glass. I gaze into your eye
by eye and cradle your hand in my lap. Your lips float like clouds and your breasts are mounted and perfect. On the wall
hangs a full-bodied picture of you
before jars.
You were mine
before you knew. I wrenched you away.
Detaching you from the rest of the world, I suspended you in time, as innocent and pure as a promise
that I would be with you forever
piece by piece.
(This poem could not be formatted to fit properly on Prose. See the picture to understand the proper line breaks)
A Ballad to Ballard
The way you say hey
ties a knot in my stomach.
When you slide your sunglasses down your nose
and look my way
with those napalm eyes,
I could explode: heart & flesh & all.
I sit strapped in my seat, craving
that moment of impact.
My jaw hangs dead like a body in the closet
when you reveal
nothing
but black lace.
Your eyes fire pistols,
blasting bullets through my back.
You strangle my legs with yours,
and our lips crash together like a convertible into a hatchback.
My seat melts into a bed;
the molten vinyl and mangled metal surrounds
us like a crown.
As your eyelids unfasten my seat belt,
you peer into me
and I realize,
I just might die
before I can fuck you.
In the Basement
i see nothing, though my eyes are open.
The walls are so cold, they almost feel wet.
Morning? Evening? Monday or Thursday?
i've slept and woke forty-six times, though i know that may not be days.
There are sixteen steps in the staircase.
The staircase is twenty seven and a half paces from the furthest corner.
The earthy and musty stenches in the lateral corner no longer sicken me.
Sometimes i hum little tunes, but i mostly just graze my hand against the grain
of the concrete walls and think about my momma.
My eyes fly to the light like a moth as the door atop the staircase opens.
The shadow stands there, eclipsed in light, blowing smoke.
Another can
clunks
down
the
stairs.
I ready my can-opener.
Green beans.
A Misunderstanding of Poetry
Fuck Poetry.
Me n' Shakespeare used to sit at the pub swapping sonnets over a pint.
Give me a funny-lookin' hat
with a feather in it,
then I can say: thou, whence, becomest, thereforehenceforth, and
honorificabilitudinitatibus.
I'll make you beautiful, Poetry.
I don't read poetry
in bars.
I want poetry
to be,
not to
not to be:
Epic and classic.
Battle and gore.
Sword and shield.
Heart and valor.
Love and loss.
Sometimes I just don't understand you, Poetry.
Dude,
ya know,
like,
seriously.
Is that poetry?
That is the question.
Yes.
God damn it, Poetry;
I misunderstood ya.
A poem needs not bide by recipes.
So take a sonnet and stir it up, add ice.
You drink it down and puke up poetry.
It can be anything, because poetry is about expressing yourself anyway you want to.
Poetry is not limited and never should be.
There is poetry in
pumping
gasoline,
riding
a bike,
making love.
Poetry is war.
Poetry is conversation.
Poetry is obsessively organizing your sock drawer in color order.
Poetry is at the bottom of your glass,
bursting with every foamy bubble.
I look around
at what used to be nothing,
but now
I see
something.
I see Shakespeare in a barstool and a glass of beer.
I see Poetry.