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Hemlock is a hell of drug

Pierce me every second.
I only wanted
to care for my youth
but it was too late;
your breast pressed,
we danced like it was never,
nowhere, never happened
never will, but still
this artifact
like a suffocating tapestry
falling down
just before the jewel
touched my hand
and slept shadowy
-I was your constellation,
wept when I could-
or the sky sleepy
full of hope and clouds
and birds’ silhouette
finally at last singing
the hills white with bleeting
even if they don’t know how
resting and screaming,
blessed, beaming,
burned through me
and once last sip
to keep me here
seeing and living.

I have lived life in a kaleidoscope

I have lived life in a kaleidoscope
rotten with beauty
climbed silly her jungle gyms
spun playfully wicked
in her sticky grey web
pure as snowy leprosy
its clung refusal
marking me as danger
orange savory
molten by my own burning
slaked the ground green
with golden juice dripped
off every compartment
marked the corridors in red
saved maybe
the sky, that pristine blue
my eyes made of brown doors
flung open from force
of will and whisky wind
mystery black onyx
steeped in the dissolvement
iconoclastic nostalgia
complicit in my own obfuscation
an accessory to this
violet hiding reversing
come out to meet me
and shut them all up again
and color washes me
just color,

Don’t forget the words:

Part 1

I am the beginning

It was maybe millions of years ago, perhaps billions, time has a way with us all, rampaging. I can’t recall. It’s fading, ruptures these sweet memories with seconds that probably don’t mean a thing but keep happening. This life: My first book bag all strung out with crayons me crying on the floor, my first hearing-aid made fun of and beat up but didn’t care even after being after flipped into a dumpster, the dumb shirt I wanted in high school the 25 dollar nike shirt I wasn’t enough to afford my mother could care less righteously and still I bled and still bleed to come back and tell her it’s ok that it’s reebok’s, that my trapper-keeper is still off brand, and the sneakers you bought for me to make it all up are too much and I should have never have ask for them.

We sat underneath the trees, we’d stayed up the whole night before snugged up in the wet grass. My sharp angles against your soft curves, rested, perfect. It was spring when we said our last words to one another, with the hope to say more, and a promise. Like Persephone, Eurydice, Lot’s wife, you walked towards the gate of hell and never looked back.
I had the words, you the melody, that was our immemorial secret, my dear death in me, creeping as I am asking for you too soon.
I can’t even recall the name of the trees or the colors of the flowers, I only remember you sitting there like a piece of poetry that could never be sung, the fearless adventure the aspirated from your lungs, every word pronounced from your mouth a fairy tale from your tongue.

We ain’t exactly Adam and Eve but i’d give all my ribs for you. If this isn’t real then I don’t what real might be. As the sweet water dropped upon our giggling you inscribed me into a plant I couldn’t repeat the name for; you were always better at knowing stuff like that, naming, giving places to all their parts, protecting them all.

Oh sweet death, my sweetest angel and demon, you who I hate for leaving who I love for your briefest encounter with this most hollow and decrepit soul. Come back to me. Our song is ready, let’s play upon these strings again, and give the nothingness something beautiful to believe in.

She spoke to me, deeply into my deafest ear as if it were fucking in the darkest night with sonority and clarity I have never heard her speak before: “hold our song within you.”

And I let her go before us, my death, so I could selfishly always think of her, so she would always be ahead of me. And I living a lifetime of dullness, every tune every song, all music, flat. The words to my own I had, these lyrics writ, but the melody, the purest hymn in my soul that resonated when she was near, gone. But soon, we’ll sing as one.

Part 2

I was a gravedigger

Why not? clocked off at the head by my Ma. Silly dead and gone, might as well clean the graveyard pains, the silver and gold that splits and cants, the little pieces of brightness that weighs them down. Mak, he helps me, or else I help him, i’m not too smart nor him. I’ve a shovel, strong, but think of you, shit, shouldna cussed my fair lady but I hada just to get it across, maybe april mayhaps march, I crawled up into graves sinister like you know there’s hurtful willo wisps, fairies, somtimes revenants, zombies, one can never be to careful really. She was a spinster, reminded me of you, all laid up ina lace top, it took 6 hours to dig her up. We cased the place for years, a few here and there but this, this, you, this was you and this was us and this was our payload digging it up out of the ground like the shine, and shiny it was, your darkened hair was still there, I stuttered about my duties so much that Mak knocked me a good one. But I couldn’t stop unraveling all the succulent jewels bit by little bit, I felt it slipping from me and yet your touch. In that sweet grave you embraced me, I knew I was silly, dumb, a folly, useless, and when the shovel came back of my head and I fell upon you, I couldn’t not, he stole my clothes and buried them in some other lot, left me naked, oh lord how naked I was, and you already mortified. The dirt was hard in my back, it hurt, it still aches, ever I feel that earth weigh upon me more than it was then.
And the impropriety of my naked dirty body dumbfounded, lain next to yours, I could not bear, and wept, till the seeds in the soil gave birth to flowers and us the sun beneath.
All the silver I stole from your fingers gone and the one who stole from me, laid to rest no doubt shortly after. It’s the worms I recall first. I called them each by name, Jeremiah the young snicker, Jehoshaphat the wise olden I ate him soon as i could, Uriah the strong one who would died first because he couldn’t get through my nose, Josiah also wise, he got to my balls, I couldn’t stop him exept he ate me up and I crushed him between my legs. They sound evil but I deserved every swallow, every snail, every mushroom way atop, should have salted my remains. I was better than this. Everything I did, it kept calling out to you. The sand. The decay. The earth still growing. Even the peonies placed upon the gravesite for this sweet woman I tried to accost and am now putrefying atop, I thought I knew better but I didn’t. I just kept on doing what I was doing thinking maybe something would change and you might come back again.
But I knew in the darkening damp as I lost my last breath beside your side, there was one name I could have spoke for one last worm there was, it was mine, I was the worm eating through all that was good.
And you spoke it clean and clear sure as the devil’s nails scraped against these white graveyard bones decrepit and frail, “I forgive you, I am not silver, nor bone, I have nothing to give to you, because there is nothing that I hold.”

Part 3

I was a Priest

This which was once a body, Oh holy Lord, oh you who are above all and greater than any and who have been confessed to all sins and have received them within you and blessed them with your anointed oil such they would be done away with and flung fro from the further as the east is to the west now we hollow commend this body up to you, and let it be as bugs that have burrowed into your skin and crush beneath your feet, as birds have flown into windows and got knocked out till they cannot breath, let her body be given up as rabbits and coyotes slain by crossing the street, little squirrels that did not know what to do, perhaps snip snip them too. We commend them all to you, and commend myself for being me. Let this body be mine, might as well dear Lord, rose divine is short some divine it’s.
This body which is no longer a body, we give to you, oh Lord, we consummate this thing which will ever be a thing now, because we may objectify and subjugate and move them as they did not move themselves, from grave to grave, place to place, I might dangle them by strings in my living room. you might dig a bone up one day and say “this is my dolly.” There are no limits to what you may do to this thing which is now sitting there, placid, uncouth, cursed, beautiful, untended.
But, you shall never mar her name, her beating, this passage. Like a lamb, and still lead to sweet pastures and endless water, slain. You will never speak of her, she will be as a witch burnt but a saint crisp, nameless, and we will not give her up to anyone but ourselves hold her here as the holy ghost does and gives us strength to do so.
Too gone, so gone, before her time. We mourned her even before she was gone because she mourned herself.
What can we who grieve and mourn and are ashamed for not loving more, guilty for not giving more, what shall we do now but be all that she laid her life down to do? That she was blessed. we should be blessed. she joyful? same, that laugh we should attempt to imitate, serious and sad, she contemplated, we should be introspective and process our innermost, kind and compassionate, she came to us, giving nothing and wanting nothing. Let us do the same of this body this thing which was flesh and dwelt among us, give meaning to that which gave meaning to us all.

Part 4

I was an Executor of a will

I do feel like the hangman, the executer, noose in hand. The axe handle reading my fingerprints ready to react.
So many disappointments I have to convey. I am. “I’m sorry, your father, He left you nothing” well he left me heartburn and a proclivity for mother issues, a fuck ton of debt, but still goes here I guess, and it kinda gets easier.
I can hear myself go through the motions “If you’ll just sign here Mr. Smith…”, “His legacy was prominent in that it was carried on by you his children,” “Ma’am,I know it’s hard, you’re a twice over widow but if we could just take a walk and sit on that bench over there maybe you’ll see the papers in a different light. You like to feed the ducks don’t you Misses,… excuse me, Miss?…”
The dull poop brown of my suit helps convey to people that I am a piece of shit. I am excrement, they might scratch their butthole every once and awhile but they will forget me and they should. I’m only present when they are bleeding or constipated.
I will give to you everything you need and take a percentage. Or else the state will take their cut and I will get paid either way. I wear long rascally socks, ain’t argyle or nothing but they get the job done nonetheless. I have a PhD in neuroscience I’ll never use and I forgot about soon as I got out, the importance of this is love, have you ever felt like this care center has ever disabused your rights? I mean let’s be honest have they overcharged you for needles? Did you stay with your aunt a lot? How many times a week would you say you were fed?
“Your mother. She’s gone. There’s no easy way to say this, one of you is now old enough to make her own decisions, the other you will stay with your father until you come of age. I can make no apologies, and I feel your loss as if it were your own. Nobody should split you two up, clearly you have a bond. The state… at least the state didn’t prevent you seeing one another. Your mother… she would be happy to see you well. Sign on the dotted line”
It’s not really ambulance chasing if I’m always looking for you? is it? They’re all yours, I see your face, disgusted by myself, I can’t do enough, can’t give enough of what you would like to give. Every child me. And yet I’d probably still profit, evil, deeply, deepest, wretched I’d come and grab hold of you and die, but you would likely reject me, properly, because I know the melody of our song is to praise and bless, to give homes to those children who belong somewhere, even if I must home them myself I will. Death, my sweetest love, tell me what to do. I will sign whatever papers you need me to.
I head home, there is no sound, old coffee, a cat maybe who also hates me, this ragged couch, I pull the comforter over but it doesn’t do its job, all I can do is dream of you. And cough into the night, waiting for you to take me.

Part 5

I was a mortician

So young. Oh dear, these scars. You’re prettier than this, I got this. Little rouge little color, it’s perfect. place the hands just so, her favorite dress, lift the lips, embalming fluid makes for a sweet last gift but the best is seeing everyone looking on, I get it, it’s hurt, finally here again, death is here. you can’t stop her stench.. Dress it up, make it pretty, put a wig on her, it still smells like you, sounds like our song, you’re there somewhere beneath all of this. Take me now.

They’re here now, One thousand and thirty four caskets, I never looked in one. For fear of finding you. I never heard there names, I never look a cadaver in the eyes. They might as well, and I did place, have coins upon their eyes for Charon to take you along that sweet boat ride into her darkest cavernous dawn. I wanted it. All of you. Not the passing bodies that fled through to the earth quickly but feeling of the earth grating through those gilded gates, the gold and pomp eaten by nothingness, your soul unsatisfied but filled with emptiness, and I hoped at every second that emptiness was mine.

Every day, I wake, present myself in suit in tie, inside and out, I am dry, pure decorum, for the dead. I dress to impress someone who will never know. I gather her accruements and place them, ankle, finger, neck, and so, sometimes if there are tattoos I get a new artist to brighten them so everyone feels at home and the beloved seems as they were.
They always look better than I, and that makes me happy but also sad, as if they are going to ground better than I have ever had. Such pretty faces, what gorgeous eyes, standing there for all the world to see. It’s as they’ll live forever, and I will die at last and meet my maker. But there’s something I can’t can’t get rid of, something I might have missed.

my heart is not a light switch

It’s salt and sometimes rain
claptrap latchkey hairpin
might be crooked least
till it’s made to be proper like.
All the well meaning still
pulls the sludge up with you
might as well stay thirsty
or learn to drink dirt.
It’s that star that’s too much,
the redness in your cheeks,
slap on your booty,
nasty ass ring in the tub,
sand between my toes,
and in the crevices
you never want it to go,
or maybe you do.
It stays lit af, of course
it don’t stop soon
as it’s over, why would it?
If I pushed you away
I did my job just right,
turn me on, let me go,
long as you leave
on the nightlight.


I have stayed up
a lifetime of sunrise
alone, the only face open
knowing, it’s not up to me,
such shattering,
you start to notice
soon as it doesn’t matter
maybe a cloud or two.
I’ve no more pages
no ink left to bleed
but then, soon as it’s over,
isn’t that the
purest blank sky
you’ve ever seen?
I get to wondering
if there might be
some blue
left in me.

Every second oblivion

Two errant levels of hyperfine
energy, passing so closely,
singing out electrically
across the divide
of nine billion cycles
swinging so near
but never enough-
just barely missing
the touch of their wispy tendrils
made of infinite fingers
sweeping the nanoscale
emptiness between themselves
until at last they grasp
the only thing
they’ll ever share:
decay. A universe
dissipated in a literal second,
transition by radiation,
smoothed as a pebble
that finally found
its cold stream to dip in
or a dried tongue
to hide beneath-
ready to forget thirst-
till water is wet again,
and the next moment

Smaller and smaller pieces

My father always said
pick your battles like you pick your nose,
often and then wash your hands;
almost counts as much as hand grenades
and atom bombs, but what does he know?
Trust is a weapon, conceal
it till the moment is right to strike,
it needn’t be true to wound.
How many pieces make a whole?
And if these pieces are small enough
what are they made from?
Uncover enough fission and maybe
I’ll cease losing myself.

On Idolatry

Will I sing
or will I shatter?
Am I made of clay
or of mettle?
A gram of poison
a liter of medicine,
check now
does it make it better?
Where are your gods now?
I respond, resounding,
we’re pretty much
resisting, witnessing
the indiscriminately incarnation
incarnating my next coming,
surely there’s pleasure diffusing,
but there’s in the end
some suffering finality
vanishing, a semblance
abandoned to
an inaccessible
Graven in stone
marred but not rent.

Perfect Erasure

Perfect erasure does not subsist,
it only erases itself perfectly
its mark which is not a mark
fades immediately
not even in fax paper
greyscale gradation,
it only provides a space
for new emergence
like a time traveler
fucking his grandmother
and then killing her, right
after committing suicide
but be assured it’s
east from west, sin
thrown out of the ballgame,
turns out you can yell
at the ump all you want
but the results are still the same
soon as you’re here,
you’re tossed out again
into some proverbial cosmic
inscription that looks like
the terse babbling
of an infant, all doo doo
and da da jumble
and by the time you’ve
finally got your bearings
it’s struck from the record,
like a scratch that keeps
repeating, and skipping
over the darkened ridges
until it’s only irritable
echoes played back
never erased, but
continually writ
across your face.

Loss is Routine

Perhaps I can explain
more aptly what it is
I mean circuitously;
let us work backwards
so we might ascertain
exegetically even,
that is, lead us out
from the Holzweg,
the woodway, so we
can finally see the forest
for the trees, or
vice versa if need be.
Routine meaning
beaten path, coming from
route, road or way
from Latin rupta
see rupture, that is
break, fracture,
see corrupt, from 14th century
-albeit more poetically-
French unhealthy or debased,
uncouth, directly stemming
from broken Latin, to destroy
and spoil, past participle
of rumpere, to break,
which is a nasalized
form of Sanskrit rupya,
to suffer a stomach-ache,
and Old English to tear.
Rote meaning habit and custom,
colloquially seemingly
forever having being used
as in bi rote, by heart,
of uncertain origin,
sometimes said to be
connected with aged French
route, which we disseminated
above and also rotary,
romantically rota,
pertaining to wheels,
be it a potter’s wheel
or for torture, Lithuanian
ritu, I roll along.
Loss is from Old English
los, ruin and destruction,
from proto-Germanic
laura, from PIE root
leu to loosen,
divide, and cut apart,
with the strict etymological
sense of dissolution
and weaker, a failure to hold,
keep, or preserve
what was in one’s
possession or under one’s
protection; a failure to gain
from lost, and lost
from again 14th century
to perish, from forlorn,
forlorn produces loren,
meaning to be deprived of
and so we can plainly see
Loss is equal to routine
in all the ways that
we speak, and we can’t not be.