You can hear the
suburban chime, zirconia vertebrae, pearly white spine.
Glass thrown in stone houses, a regular suburban night,
whirring, rewinding. Chronicled childhood in olive drab paint,
monocle glass.
Wormwood and bottles of Shawshank
dissolute solitude. A wanderer who wallows in the maze
en route, delaying for tomorrow, never promised today.
A virgin diary, Anne Frank, Marie Curie disease, a tincture of rainbow,
even if the distance is blurry to me, he who knows the way to Zihuatenejo.
Furloughed father, demanding you to die when I say so,
26 pesos left in your wallet
lint and mothball, Merryland experiment omelette.
Laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o’clock shadow of death and follicle strain.
These boulders were supposed to be gone when I got here,
you shouldered me off, Sunday morning penny loafer with frost,
social commentary Gabriel-Lucifer talk,
metamucil retrograde, Jupiter star.
Bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to Mars,
you hold my hand, but I don’t even know who you are,
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar.
I’m so close to eroding, skin growth barely a scar,
in my house, the big wolf, lungs pulse ’til exhaustion.
I read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet,
I don’t know if he knows if this apartment is haunted,
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart,
maleficent maligned, distant and forgotten insidious offspring,
with ammunition in their lips that keep you off guard.
Feel the metacarpal love letters ’til your fingers fall off,
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor.
Fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before,
every time before bed I hear footsteps coming from deep,
and I hide in my closet, until they delete.
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me,
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to three.
Dysfunctional beings huffing in suburban breeze,
I know that I know nothing is in love when I speak,
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks,
when you close it and I haven’t heard it in weeks,
from bourbon to curtains burnt at the seams.
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, I scream.
What emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree,
what alerts him is the suburban breeze.
Category: WRITING
-
Who’s barely intact? Two hundred thousand nails puncture veins in my back, whether they’re human or metal remains to be asked. Yellow pages, your name severs sapience, saps like heaven’s angels. Vessels fray then collapse. Lord father, elevate us. Why am I so fixated on the past? Separate fact from fiction. Eradicate my relapse, rehabilitation at its fanciest, pinky out to brush ash from a cigar. If love lasts, then it’s farce. My last love seems so far.
May I have the pleasure of introduction without it seeming covert, or open my mouth to talk something while we’re eating dessert? Feelings deserted you, conservative dealings in cursive. From telekinesis to hypnosis, I barely feel what your words meant. Sink your teeth delicately into the flesh that’s corroding. If you feel that it’s urgent, please feel free to unload. It’s not you or me, my dear. The psychosis, developments fleeting, camera obscura bleeding negative print. The lightest exposure came from your chest. Was it a dark heart or delicate skin? Delicate skin.
-
I feel so disconnected. Pictures of stars are trillions of seconds old, heliocentric. We spend our time wishing we could revisit a setting. I could see it in decimals, each dot a pause in a sentence. Hold my hand, avalanche. Bring me the check when you’re finished, mezzanine at the theater, velvet seamstress, Madam Gutierrez. Qué romántico eres. Carve my heart, au revoir mi mujer. I spend the evening in tears, like it’s common procedure. Every droplet is a sonnet, every water stream a cathedral where people gather, or they scatter, whether it be former or latter, and they pray to their Jesus, and I pray because I have to. There’s order in madness, rhetorical hope in the sadness, like a volcano that’s dormant or a star going dwarf, just part of it all, endorphin hull, heart to starboard. When we talk, disembark. Your lips press mute, Mrs. Vixen, so dissolute, pixel-perfect, lipstick in blue. Vigil for a virgin, vicissitude, picture me as I picture you. Don’t listen when you talk, kiss your ears when you moan, so petite, heavenly, pour the shot glass, and reload. Monkey see, monkey’s cheek perfect on your ocular bone, ’cause to me, you’re as sweet as a strawberry dose.
Through the darkness, on horses, cobweb corrosion, cut through the bark with my sword. I’m sorry, my forest, double entendre, knot in my throat, not even sober, harlequin clone, dark knight imposter, I’m already Joker. Early onset Alzheimer’s, forget what you told me. Along the lines, we’re ostracized, but we’re all really lonely. Wave down a taxi, drop me off on the corner, call me when you’re home. Wait for me at the door, don’t leave me alone. Lay down – the house spins, false belief, methadone, marmalade, cherry tree, cigar leaf, telephone. Qu’est-ce que c’est?
Fasten seatbelt while seated, mi amor, stand to applause, an encore, such a valid response, you’d barely feel it. You moved on, so very far. I checked my bags at the door, viewed the empty decorum, sat at the bar, recount the experience, watched the only bag revolve round the oval. Let me fall, so very scared. We should want what we fear.
Thanks.
-
I salivate at the thought of atom lasers and waves of splattered rainbows,
The way they collaborate on an acid halo,
technicolor schemes that I’d envy more than me.
Oh, what it is to be, a color never dreamed,
enactment of life, elapsed by the clockwork collapsing of time.
Facets of ‘why does it all hurt?’
A village helps a villager; if the villagers hurt,
Do these pills help the piller if his pillars are burnt?
His bridges are burned? His highways corroded,
How do I ride into the sunset if I can’t shift out my motor?
Road to hell is paved with gold embellished shades, it’s so subjective.
Wave hello to your soul in separate planes,
I don’t know.
Stuck in a layer of concrete, put flower petals to the metal,
A gentle giant so powerful, yet afraid of his heartbeat.
Accept what we think we deserve—excuses for bad behavior,
Human nature to constantly be stuck in reverse,
it gets worse. “But it gets better,” nothing to learn from forever,
the soul’s dark, Wholeheartedly wrapped in fatigue,
thought of happiness being something that you have to achieve,
Awkwardness, my bed cries with me when I’m sad in my sheets,
Trail of tears that supersedes the native retreat.
I create a path of logic built on a mountain of lies,
Mountain lions call me out on my pathological lying.
Fake it till you make it, hate it till you love it,
Love it that you hate me, it jets the fuel I huff in.
Was taught to cherish things that were romantically scenic,
Sucked nostalgia dry ’til nostalgia was bleeding,
Drank the blood from a chalice and soaked up its privilege,
Youth gave me a run for my money when I was broke to begin with,
A loner with dimming hope, so dull it begins to show,
A biography of my life would expose darkness over light,
Like an eclipse, with a plot twist most would think morose,
Eskimos have 50 words for snow, I acquiesce 50 words for hate,
Most manifest themselves in bloody knuckles, bloody gauze, and tape,
Learned to roll with the punches, but humans weren’t meant to roll,
A ball inside of me, that snowballs bigger every time it’s cold,
Every time I hold myself when I’m at home.I’m a droll, dry-amusement, type of guy with nice intentions but with bad conclusions,
Soft-witted, mild human, sophisticated tall thinker, with a soul that’s sly and stupid, Controlled environment, spry delusion, I’m told, it’s tiring, To expose your entire being in poems, and in higher reading.I never said goodbye once, cause I believe in good karma endings,
Nice guys finish last, but you learn more when you’re not as condescending.The Chromatic Dreamer’s Journey
–––––––
-
I paint whole lives in the blink of an eye, summoning statisticians just to decipher my descriptions. It’s all a tangled web of numbers and analysis, a solitary journey through the dimly lit library of existence. Obsessed with the binary, I calculate the formula to dominate you—crucial at worst, but at best, it’s the pinnacle of your numerical worth.
I dissect your strengths and weaknesses, casting them into obscurity, where light cannot penetrate the abyss within my heart. I lay them out like puzzle pieces on a cold, unforgiving cube, examining the three dimensions you offer through the lens of my knowledge-forged optics. Your collage of keys becomes the data on which I thrive, drawing insights from voice inflections, initial impressions, and those crucial moments when I intervene—almost like a robotic mind at work.
I conjure visions of you cradling infants, or perhaps not. My gaze pierces the future, watching myself kiss you while I dwell in anything but the present. My actions are guided by the lack thereof, and I immerse myself in the intricate facets of your persona. It’s a world painted in molasses-thick imaginations, staining the glass with satin, where every uttered phrase becomes a spellbinding reality. I collect grains of your essence and lay them in my mental bandage, a mosaic of your essence forming within me.
The world collapses around us, and my cologne clings to your bed, embedding itself in your every breath and garment. I command your every move when I sense the pheromones that betray your desires. Beneath your flesh and bones, I unravel my own velcro-like skeleton, laughing at the words “I love you” and cherishing the sound of your laughter—a tender, ecstatic dance of synapses. I scientifically dissect your indescribable features, constructing a timeline of my longing to connect with you. It’s science fiction, it’s transparent, it’s illuminated—something akin to the actions of a drone soaring through the spectrum of colors.
I embark on lifeless odysseys of love, breaking down the fractions of the perfect touch, succumbing to the tithe of your influence. They say that 90 percent of human interaction is nonverbal, leaving me with a mere 10 percent—arguments, clerics, and the ever-unfurling nonsense. I wish I could silence the ceaseless torrent of earthly knowledge that defines our existence.
Humans are baffling and messy creatures. I react in real-time, studying sociological patterns to sharpen my intuition. I set impossibly high standards and observe the world like a bird perched in its nest. I light candles for every soul I dissect, running a wax factory deluxe, the madman scribbling in his iPhone notepad about his own emptiness. It’s man versus machine, a clockwork climax, and the hands of time point towards me. I strive to be myself, but sometimes I’m lost in the intricate calculations of when to breathe, when to make you laugh, and how to recreate the past with painful precision. It’s an emotional car crash, a toaster with arms.
I envy genuine writers with their human touch, while I remain trapped in a robotic, sickly obsession. It’s an overwhelming cauldron of cynicism, boiling over with self-doubt. I yearn for your love, hoping to escape the confines of what I am, what you know. It’s alright; I’ve yet to transform into sentient prose. How long is a century, anyway? I long to become something beyond the predictable rhythm of heartbeats and the breath from my lungs.
Our discourse unfolds in a time frame where parallel universes collide, and I hear the silence between our passionate breaths. I glimpse the world behind your closed eyelids when you dream of depths unknown, and I sometimes wish for my demise before our inevitable encounter. I’ve constructed a labyrinth where two lefts make a wrong, and if you’re right, then you’re wrong. Everything is awry, and the only path to rightness is embracing my true self. I bleed out the buzz of my alcohol-soaked thoughts along a winding, scenic route to self-discovery.