(useless nothing)

Today, I’m a slowly draining bath tub. Clambering towards your knees. A grey-green mix of what you just sloughed. Can’t you just see yourself? Keep looking, let me crawl up, let me show you you. Yes, stay still, leave those orbs on me, you useless, dirty sponge you.

Yesterday, I’ll be a sink. Full of squalid, crusting dishes. Graciously smelling of what you wolfed, little piggy. I’ll be a reflection waiting when you wake, waiting when you get home. I like to grow, you know, so let me. Stare at me, stare at me… Aha! He gets it, yes, a statue to you, crusty, useless you.

Tomorrow I was trash, piling up on your sidewalk. You don’t know where I came from. I’m not even yours but you get it. You see yourself in me. Linger like me, pollute like me, come out of nowhere like me. Scanning my form slowly, you think I’m sexy, don’t you? You dirty boy. Join me at the corner so everyone can hate us, yes let me smother you. Mmm, yes, now you understand, you useless filth you.

Last year I’m a larval pile, gift of life. Lovely writhing, next to you, on you. Do you get it yet? Stand there long enough and we’ll take flight, dear relative, plant some more in your skin. Keep wriggling, twisting, shifting, you! Yes, sit there, wait for the water to boil. You think that’ll stop us (hahaha). Bathe us and bathe yourself from breathing, you boiling nothing, you’ll never fly, useless, writhing you.

Next week it’s a shot glass full of ash, cigarette butts and roaches, chilling casual on your windowsill. Yes, stay transfixed you. You want us to slither down that gullet, don’t you? You delightful, sick fuck, you. Yes, come smell us, ca-cough-ony that we are. Mmmmmmm. You smell our poison, kind brother, we smell yours. Ours is of the mind, like your own! Revel in our sickness and we’ll revel in yours. Drink us at the windowsill, you useless, burnt-ass you.

In a decade, I’m all these things, but tonight I’m you. Frantic, manic, hallucinating you. Think as much as you want, sweet vessel, I creep in those, too. Watch the shadows, see how they boogie, boogie into something darker, something watching? Yeah, look in the mirror you, that ring-eyed and greasy piece is you! Try to write, try to play, try to laugh, I dare you. I checked all that selfish, stupid shit at the threshold of the sun, winking you a modicum of luck as it fucked off. I lock the door and I draw the curtains. Yeah, of course your laugh is tainted! I feed on that, silly, sweet love, let me kiss you. Mmm. The good doc says we’re depression and anxiety, but really, I’m the truth. Inescapable self-loathing and paranoia. You bathe in truth, stare at truth, smell the truth, study the truth. You have to, you useless, white-knuckled truth, you.


Eyes barking as a rainforest, fresh, for its name’s chorus, “rain forest. Rain Forest!”

Eyes raveling sectors of time by confusing vectors, by bolstering spectres.

Eyes settling, unsettling, earthen. Eyes with buds, sprouting for breath, for air sweeter than oxygen – symbiotic in its life-long half-life.

Eyes tasting joy reflect many flavors: one sprinkle curiosity; one dash sparkly perfect-sad; two beams adoration; one reminder from the damned; several reflection; two cups coco; one-hundred hours bird-song; a hug and a kiss on the cheek. (love by reserve only – up to Eyes)

Eyes breaching the facade (built to fall only if a pair, fresh as these, traversed the seas).  Eyes pouring over timeless wounds, patching because they can.

Eyes singing bubbly children’s melodies and old Irish folk songs. Iris’s pinpointing self-destructors and loathers, rearranging the makeup.

Eyes latching, climbing, rescuing, leaving.


still seen

by all

the I’s.


I’m one of those bikers. The kind that zips past your car, idling at the light. The kind with a nerdy little helmet. A backpack containing a U-Lock, an air pump and deodorant (applied thrice daily). The kind that has to swerve in and out of the bike lane to avoid the double parkers. Has to watch every little movement because people in cars become cars and only see cars and objects and insects (like me) over which they must reign almighty. Maybe I’ve developed a bias. (hehe)

Today, I got called an Ass-Wipe! It has been a very, very long time since I’ve donned that cape. My all time favorite is “Horse-Fucker”, but that’s another story. I’m lolling along a pretty popular street around lunch time, traffic level is low. The sun squirms through the leaves (tussled by half-hearted wind); little shadows dancing with the road. I’m approaching a red light when I decide it’ll be a lazy ride home, maybe I’ll take a scenic route, it is Friday after all, what the hell else am I doing? A car has parked in the bike lane and another car is parked at the light. I squeeze between the two at something near 0.6mph. I need to catch my balance directly at corridor’s end or I’m scratching up both cars, so I use my right hand to push off of the car parked in the bike lane. Freed, I balance at the light until, from behind, a car door opens and I hear, “Hey… what the hell do you think your doing…you…. Ass wipe! ……… hitting my car…?” I get my feet on the ground and swivel about my means of conveyance. My face must have brightly shown innocence because when I turned around he immediately softened up. An older gentleman, white everything (excepting the eyebrows – deep, rich black), tucked-in, blue button up, white khakis, dress shoes, thin black belt. He has greenish eyes. I’m guessing he’s 60. We are both confused and I stutter, “Uh, oh no, no no no. I just uh, it was my hand (raising my right), I can assure you I did 0 damage, I promise, sorry to’ve  done that, really, no…I lost my balance…” He kinda looks at his car, somehow defeated, and sits back down and closes the door. I half-way looked at him and halfway looked at the hood of his car, a black Honda cr-v.

My handprint in hot dirt.

Sonnet II

Vicarious, a breeze will thrill their hearts.
Sleepless limbs will touch, “A place for the birds
and nothing more!” (now tangled, ne’er apart)
they’ll swear with vacant, O! how vacant, words!
Behind spry spheres a happy moan will dance,
Its pulse… Desire; Futility… its bones.
A lone, salacious hunger fuels its stance.
Stop, they’ll try, but no soul known wilts by stones.
How close can four nefarious clouds be,
Thunder whispering, spreading Lightning’s lies?
Livid, a gust will with their hearts be free,
screaming for what were once the clearest skies.

They’d see, if not for cupid’s shrouding whips,
the torturous temerity of lips.

Sonnet I

The artistry, with which mine heart doth beat
Mine mind ere it embrace thoughts that are mused,
Is deftly placed where our eyes care to meet.
Mine heart that beats, mine heart which beats by you.
Then guide me down that most suborning path;
You are Poesy, of which these words do ache,
Your ambrosia by which this spell is cast,
And your perfume of me a drunkard make.
The soul with which you see the world and me,
Is the same soul under my very breath.
O, how careless I was to think and be,
Before your grace retrieved me back from death.

So now I let your beauty conquer Time,
And in our ears may it forever chime.


We truly put everything on the table: cups of all sizes and shapes, pipe tobacco (in and out of the bag), plates of plastic, religion, a printer, plates of porcelain, death, weed, life, ketchup, salt, pepper, race, staff paper, pencils, dreams, pens…

I join the cockroaches at the table and even they don’t hang. They scatter, the bastards. I’m not going to kill them all, really, at this point their my cohabitants, my brethren. I’ve seen them and they’ve seen me. A system I’ve developed, for the sake of the scales, let’s me feel better about killing. I’ll kill one, I’ll let one live. When killing one I say, compulsively, honestly, “Forgive me, rest in peace.”

If all us bean-humans were to die, cockroaches would be one of life’s propellants. One of Life’s promising perpetuators. Maybe they’d get as big as us, or bigger. They’d be fast, organized and strong… freaky-smart, too. They have these little sensors, I swear, made of dark energy, surrounding their little (sometimes) bodies, that informs them of any peering eyeballs (plus intention). They always know when I look at them. Always. What’s more, they seem to know when it’s a murderous gaze (hint of rage) or a sympathetic glance (splash of romance). They either dart like oil on angled water, away from my river of anger, or they laze along the walls, cutely looking for some-sorta-shit-stain to nibble on, bathing in my curios beams.

I try never to tip the scales (skip the tales) because balance is everything. Who am I to play the life policeman? Who am I to think I’m eating alone? Who am I to think I’m more than a cockroach? Most recently, I suffer from a gagging soul upon eating meat. These intrusive thoughts of my skin and muscle flayed, being gnawed to the bone, kept bearing fruit. Thusly, I’ve been forced into a psuedo-cessation of eating meat. All my life, I’d never had a problem, I don’t know what happened. Now I’m becoming someone I used to struggle to fathom: a veggie. I bought a whole load of greens and grains and I’m working it out. On thinking about the nature of things and beings and I can’t help but think we should strike a deal with birds and wolves and fish and worms and study each other. I remember that violence and death are, have, and always will be, part of the balance; a struck deal wouldn’t last long. Part of the energy transfer; the life continuum. I still eat meat if it’s been prepared for me (shan’t be wasteful) and I plan to eat meat if it’ll help me better participate in and understand another culture, even if my stomach will bounce the check.

Prah Bleghm

New new problem,

It’s an aesthetics thing.

Check me out,
Growing fast,
Probably, I’ll last,
Maybe I won’t.

Route my integrity.
Route my indifference.
This is my life.

Hate me.
Give me a clap.
Clap on the shoulder.

New, sorta-new problem,
It’s a physics thing,
I can’t seem to sing
like I give two shits.

Up. Up again.
Had a spin.
let’s measure how
How long I