ugly

your gums are showing,

your eyes collapse

like an embrace,

like a curtain.

you turn,

you have to turn.

none of us can stare victory in the face.

cards shown,

battle plans spread out,

the piggy bank just broke over your head.

who would want you now?

seeing your ugly smile?

no picture, no painting,

no, not even your own mirror

will witness your blister.

gasp at your giddy.

you where meant to be that animal.

the feverish pearlescent shadow of your fitface.

do you think I'm a fool? Because I AM a fool.

I'm also smiling in secret.

scratching and wincing. I can't get rid of

my sick sick smile

who could know?

so quick to the tool chest,

yellow plastic shovels,

quick to the ground-

quick to the clearing,

brushing back the leaves and clutter

you toss your head back in sky-

bending, straining in the

packed mud, get down there,

all the way, six feet, six days,

six winks deep in the dirt.

rip and shred, the smile weakly peels

off your cheap cheeks and spills,

like chalk dust trails into the ditch.

your ugly smile

makes you a babe.

a super babe.

have you seen yourself?

it's up there. all of it.

disaster ready.

be warned.

I might try to carve your face into shape.

I just might press and press,

until laugh lines become laugh streets.

laugh borders to cheek kingdoms.

I will hold them there to remind you

after I disappear

when you stare briefly at yourself in

a car window or the lake water at your feet-

I was there. in your eyes. for a moment.

long enough to ruin your cool.

deep enough to see your eyes shine.

and real enough for the light to blow back

and tear through mine. thank you.

a step

crunched cases,

packed faces,

sipping elbows-

-to the races!

eating time,

feeding mine,

every other

minute I'm

taking steps,

oh, please let's

fill the cup

to the next.

it's the rush:

men and girls,

women'n'boys

in order fills.

crinkled plasts

and flavor blasts

a winking sleeping

bruise bleeds past.

The race for sunlight

turtle stance,

vomit trail,

and druggéd glance.

I keep the hearts

of my beats down,

to a slower, please,

to a sense of ease...

chatter sticks,

flips, flats and lips,

lists, lids and lashes,

pathetic starch ships.

in the row, cursing

birth, the search

morning past it's

own shanty dirt.

It's a damn fine

morning, here

on the road. It's

looking clear.

Keeping time

with the purses and

creased sleeves

of wanderers:

I am as false

as the good

morning - breathing,

an ornament.

So the task.

the plan. blueprints.

plans for further

stacks and stabs.

I have a silent moment.

duck my head under

the waters edge-

whoooof!

A crystal beam,

sounds drown

to a golden brown.

(exhale)

so tired. again. staple my eyelids up and keep hustlin.

shooof, shooof, shooof,

blinking for bravery. birds in the branches keep my shoulders rustlin.

kshh, kshh, kshh

(inhale)

get. that. for my mouth.

just write it down.

water tension.

you break it, you're by it.

lately the sky's been full of knives.

waiting for a cloudless, comfortable day

to bully.

•••

We've been bruised.

Unused.

silently catharting to

the moving picture shows

of the passerbys.

we have a shade tree.

enough room above to stop the rain:

water or hotter,

and below,

the fertile living room of dandelions.

you hand me a memory,

sharper than some have been.

you stir, then breathe once.

You've had this one for a while now.

it's a keeper.

it's cold to the touch,

and light in my palm,

"i was really frightened."

you have a knack for

owning your fear.

always cool,

ninja princess,

like a three piece suit

with iron sides, equipped,

with swiss army eyes.

precedents aside,

you don't have to act strong.

I know how it goes.

how silence can grow.

scream it out and re-possess yourself.

heat seeking missus

not a quake

or a shake,

but a snarl,

don't mistake,

my intent,

not incensed,

just a dream,

the advent:

someone stirred

some, it cured,

like a mixture

like a word.

Besotting me,

re-potting fees,

re-plant from

former libertrees-

Don't you know,

a silent show,

to best applaud,

you simply glow.

You mustn't let

a single soul

drown the trumpets

your whispers stole.

Not scared of heights,

or tendre sights,

the tambre's wild,

in your eye's lights.

Not a quip,

or a sip,

from a spoon,

from the tip.

But instead

from my head,

deafened kind,

what you said

"hello"

plunge,

sink,

submerge,

submurder,

deeper, deepest

back of my eyes,

bullet train to the back of my head.

remember those glances forever.

do it.

I try not to.

to run.

to not run.

to forget and ninja-scurry

to the past, lost, loved loves.

to eat the present moment

like sweets-

to digest and move on,

like sweets-

but this isn't food.

it isn't consumption

it's irrigation,

the metal age,

agriculture,

government

you're building a world on the slanty insides of my skull.

So I say again

"hello"

hope it's as loud:

shattering,

shuddering,

stuttering,

muttering.

You make me speak bad english.

So just remember that when

we meet at the embassy.

I have documents to translate.

and it's growing dark, late.

My coat is just so (to here)

and just so (to there).

But there are places to hide and speak.

at the end of this stanza,

turn away and count to ten.

out loud.

then imagine asking me

the pivotal.

the next.

the true.

and when you turn back,

the end will speak to you.

**********************

I gave a sigh;

that's a thing you give --

when all that's left,

you leave to live.

Puff sleeve

It's a little catastrophe-

each meager melody.

Artists are these hopeful bastards that live for the glow of storytelling.

Hopeful in that magic is real to them.

Bastards in that the actual making of magic renders them false.

Artists live for a mutual freedom that exists in the distance between a canvas and it's viewer.

The freedom for each to shed a pre-existing identity.

'Before I saw a Pollock, I thought his work was a busy mess. But when I turned the corner at the modern, I realized that I, in fact, was a busy mess.'

Who could be bold enough to suggest that we are unhappy or incomplete? Art.

Who could be innocent enough to plead for us to stop fighting and abusing ourselves? yes.

We are continually on the defense. Mostly from ourselves. We stand outside our own doors, waiting to let in. Waiting to be escorted to the dingy living room and offered a seat. We will most likely sit across from ourselves for quite some time. And then, on a a large breath, we will ask "Where have you been?" We will glance quickly to our aging knees and scratch the cold, neglected patch of skin behind the ear. the left ear. "Oh, I don't know."

We need a way of communicating with ourselves. Communication is the foundation of great relationships. The relationship most vital is that with oneself. If there is a lack of openness with oneself, an individual can begin making terrible, ill-informed decisions. Where we work. How hard we work. Why, then, we work. For whom we work. All a part of a persons identity. All part of a persons needs.

Art, turned outwards or kept in, is the soul manifest. We all need a way of safely breaking back in to ourselves.

ugh. more later.

I can't always know if I know.

Point of reference.

A point.

A contact killer. Sweetness.

I can only run so fast. only so.

Which I suppose better be in my favor.

Bullets, Bears, and Bi-Planes will always gain too easy.

But the sweet.

the sweet is a different kind of lassoed love.

GET OUT.

no.

yes.

gosh. I can't handle the sides of most things tectonic.

Against you there's little chance of survival.

You know that both doves and darts have wings.

But a kiss that flies at me both coos and stings.

Twisting like the words of an ancient law book. As a letter fades into the dirt. breaking apart with moisture. Ink mixing with the minerals. dripping syrupy scents of the frantic, granite coils. Symbiotic themes of rebirth. She wants to see. She wants to sink in. To sink. To find. To end.

to end.

to.

thank you for understanding. at least the madness. not everything else. That's the best for now.