for Alicia


subcutaneous melancholy

neuroleptic melange

how you soothe the vibrations of my thinking mind

beautiful prose: its lights turned out, filament cold.

to nurse from your courage just a drop

midnight, and the absence of sound once there

torments me so

i shake violently, and against mine own will mutter:

"in vino, veritas"

bicycle spoke eyesight, bloodshot

prolificity once more obtained

i write so no soul need hear.

lured once more to the sweet honeydew of unwakefulness

spitting out chewing tobacco

rain-covered coveralls

the silence of space above me again

hoping to chance upon a kindred soul upon the night-laden beach

no stars, but turtle eggs forewarned

rain becomes a spitting and sharp pitter-patter pit-pat on my bare skin, and i laugh

warm saké in my right hand, i quaff, and curse to the gods and the black mirror sheet of ocean

and the sea she spoke

"love yourself, buddy"

and kissed my knees with her milky waves.


cigarette tar, scorched lungs

encapsulated in these words a life, oh so many minutes therein spent

when did we become so predictable, when did our predilections become decided for us

no one notices that opposite sides on a die all add up to seven

i feel foolish, carrying dice and cards where no man will play

not spades nor skat

the modern poet is bare: he loves words and ideas, but not much else

i toss a pair of dice off the third story, and wonder if it's evens or odds

i tried to write with a feather, but i've not a proper inkwell; oh well

i steal paintings by signing my name

love is: is? was? when?

turquoise vaccuum of the night sky, all the sound thereunder gone somewhere


o, subtle delectation of my hubris

what commands you extol, and whyfore do i greet these with arms out-streched as to a lover?

that loathsome desire, path to self-inflicted ignominy

sulfery and strangely fruity my breath, gods, have i imbibed poison yet again!

what verb, do you figure, plays its part in my annihilation of the self?

is it called "missing"?

saepe nihil cogitas!

whyfore should one miss that which begets not weal but woe?

glaucous retinas, pupils hemmhoraged from over-dilation, dried blood, butterflies.

real, imaginary, it didn't matter.

the proclivity to fall in love with a sweet, sharp illusory voice with every catch of the ear she grants;

i focus on the carbon caterpillar crumbling on the cliff-edge of my cigarette.

dessicated lips perform arid kisses: tired bodies perform empty dances.

non-standard nomenclature, and they call you crazy, those regnant experts of physio-psychological topography...

no one pursues art, only salaries and sex

i tossed the heart you gave me off twenty two stories, as neither you nor i wanted any part of it.

we kissed; i'd have rather jumped and kissed the wind


is not warmth a basic human right?

partial opioid agonist dentifrice

foreign atypical neuroleptics.

is it not all so strange?

but nobody seems to care, not enough to ask, at any rate

i'm afraid i've outlived the welcome of my tenancy, coming back here so often

waves of individuals come and go, i feel as though i must trudge through the bog of human lives, become assimilated in the machinescape of their affairs

i've not a mask more to wear

have i too, found myself at odds with the grammar of life? am i a misplaced prenominal, awkward and clumsy and wrong?

all i leave is the drafts of these poems, unshared, unread, and unloved.

what a sad gesture! to write and never be read, to be battered with fulsome false flattery, being compared to roses instead of the midnight tinge of kamchatka lilies or gingko leaves

completed gear cycle: work, talk, sex, entertainment, obligation, deceit.

no one tastes the rain or the flowers

no one has time for anything


wind caresses me with its mischievous wisps

as the sky waves goodbye in scarlet amber with its last light

yes, perhaps today is a good day to die

i love the way you look at me when you pretend not to notice: you always give it away


the savage peaks of foamy white cumulonimbus stain my eyes against the listless blue of late summer sky, and i am at one with the loneliness of self intolerable

forlorn though i may appear, i am well-to-do with the screaming of italic braille chalkboard slashes in my mindspace, for, you're never alone if you're quite mad

thumbs outside of pockets, oh how fun!

but truthfully, as i tease ashtray with cigarette, i'm not quite so mad as to be unlonely

and i am all the sadder for not being madder.

final, i

in recovery they say that sobriety is cigarettes and sex; why is it so?

goodbye to the drunken nights and drunker promises, to the feeling of understanding the world, and how to write about it, too

money and cars and women and cigarettes and overtime and exhaustion and abject tedium

it seems to me that sobriety is yet another tooth in the gears of society

the pursuit of art is abandoned for installment plans on objects pushed onto you by everyone else

lord only knows i'd rather have my kvass and hallucinations.

final, ii

men's bathroom, chalky powder, bliss

glossy-eyed and gaining speed we


in artificial disco-ball twilight

faster, faster..

slashing into the rink ice we

laughed, and played

and you fell over a few times but so did i,

so it was okay.

stealing into the night, awaiting the bus i


the old homeless guy wasn't there tonight:

we'd never see him again.

your showerhead was weak, as usual, but i'd almost grown accustomed to it by then

so it was okay.

i'd hog the water for a while, mostly because it felt good but


because i loved to look at your breasts and hips and ass covered in dew like cold morning

but you weren't mad at me, for leaving you in the cold part of the shower

so it was okay.