Displecament (for Mandel)

Quietly interrogating the stitches on this baseball moments before it crushes my skull I realize that the meaning of this game is true love for the gods of velocity and that my kinetic displecament will act as a testimony to my revelations. I am the messiah of 2^nd base, worship my corpse.

Out of the page angular momentum, micro movements, line of sight, ice cream cake, parties downtown, fishing for pussy and catching crabs. Collect yourself awareness and let it burn, oil, slickin' my chains propel my frame ever forward for hours and years waiting for shadows to swallow the only foaming seat while graying wound white handles fade. 

Third gear, 4^th gear, 3^rd gear, fourth gear, and so close to crashing this time I’ve dive bombed for cement walls and lost courage but someday the’ll call me back to fuck them senseless with my flesh, bones, heart, stomach, brain case, eyes, ears, lynx, throat. Such a pretty thought. Who doesn’t love to fuck sharp edges without having the decency to ask for utensils?

Violated by white keys their vendetta is timeless, I am an A flat, the scourge of their paradigm the enemy of this subjective reality. This is their death, to live atop, to feel the hammer of every string missing unsung notes as quim and angel melody call me back and strike them. Strike again. Quietly interrogating the stitches on this moment I realize that I am my corpse.  

If I'm gone (for Tamra's first child)

If I never meet you here are some things you’ll need for life:

Two days a week to yourself

A hobby no one you know cares about

A hobby someone you love respects

Someone you love who respects one of the hobbies you already have that no one you knew cared about

A friend for good days when you want them bad

A friend for bad days when you want them bad

A friend who's always having a good day so you can complain about how awesome their life feels in comparison to you’re own but more importantly so you can feel vindicated when you realize they’re supposedly positive demeanor is just a front for some deep rooted dissatisfaction.

A deep comprehension of the nature of existence and the inherent conflict between the subjective reality of your consciousness and the objective reality that controls every aspect of your life

A deeper understanding of the nature of existence when you, ten years later, you realize that you’re initial comprehension was laughable at best

A bullshit radar with minimum 85% accuracy, I hope they have a robot to do that for you but if not they’ll certainly have an app for it.

Dreams, and when those fail better dreams, and when those fail better dreams still

Birth control, condoms, or the pill, or IUD’s, or the alien birth control robot worm monsters we’ll all have implanted or whatever is available when you read this and if someone tells you to not to but you’re old enough to be curious, just google it.

Skepticism, of everything, especially religion or anything that is self validated by human beings as opposed to science or logic (though skepticism is very important that actually doing science and logic so keep that in mind).

Hugs, every day.

A fight song, a get pumped up song, a get stoked song, a get psyched out song, a *insert slang word for enthusiastic* song.

Ownership of your self and an unshakable conviction that no one controls your identity but you. Not your mother, not your father, not your uncles, or your grandparents, or your aunts, or the world, or anyone else.

Empathy for anyone and everyone and everything, but especially for what you do not understand. Generally this means you’ll have to go out of your way to understand those things which you currently don’t.

Un comprensión de mas que dos idiomas y sí yo se que by the time you read this learning languages may be obsolete but knowing someones language in the same way that they do will always be helpful.

A good place to sit outdoors

A good place to sit indoors

A good place to sit and contemplate the world

A good place to sit and contemplate a good place to sit

A good place to sit and contemplate a good place to sit and contemplate

A  song for breakups

Something to read on beaches

And most importantly of all, something to share with everyone you meet. Something beautiful and amazing and joyful.   

Recoils (for Allegra)

My skin recoils. Touch it with finger tips, cool or warm, it contracts to a point, a whirl of brown canvas speckled black and peach. My skin knows love, the love of belts, of switches, branches, fists, the love of kicks and falls, scrapes and jabs between rib cages. It knows the love of soles crushing ankles, of back hands to the face, hands larger than mine. My skin knows fear, of a tender brush across the ear, fear of pecks slight and wet, of arms around its center and gentle compression. Apprehension at a smile and the panic of sweaty clumps we use to greet, my skin knows it well.

When you talk, the tender caring voice that quiescent my spiteful din rings through. But I wish I felt safer with you, that our hugs were damp grass under cottonwood shade, not a pop quiz on personal space. If I could speak with the elegance that I feel when you mock me for being too kind or tease me for having an absent mind it would be ok; but I can’t. And my skin crawls when met with soft pulses of sincere affection.

I wish I felt safer with you, that your hands were lemon slushies on my cheek but dermal softwares calibrated for concussion; but still . Te extraño cada dia, cada hora, cada vez que veo fashion forward gutter punks in drawing 101, with big smiles and industrial silos brimming with quips.

I never had, for you, the love that spoils to hate, that equates admiration with possession and cannibalizes passion to shit out as regret. On days when I can’t leave my bed or hear a human voice, that isn’t a formless critic ripping me to shreds, I’m glad you’re far away and that the me you picture is stronger and less combustible.  

Sometimes I stare at welts from thin edged steel and think of cigarette burns at parties. And wonder, if you know that bridges long neglected can not be burned and conflagration sweeps my countryside on 5 to 10 day cycles. And ash collects and clumps around my joints and where my skin is pasty white and gray it recoils.

I know you don’t remember. We held torsos and it felt so real for fiction for so long, a bus ride, a wind soaked cliff and glassy expanse. Our hugs were damp grass under cottonwood shade when oxycoton pried my cage and smashed it on mafic shores. And I saw you, closed my eyes, woke in yellow California sun and felt my skin, and felt it burn.

And though I left you when our homes pressed me in, know that your love is my measure and that none have made me not feel cactus pricks that fissure this brown box which holds me in.

The Hard Step (for Pants)

Dear Irene,

I never really know what I’m feeling, just that this feeling will change. On a whim, it might be in a cool august shower on those days when mountain down is filtered by haze.  I guess you could compare it to a sunset; predictable but never the same, and in truth just a fusion born fire that glows on an eons delay.

On those days, when waking up was herculean and shaking out my shoes brought malaise; and each step from the hearth was a battle and the war lasted till the 97th pace. I looked. And I looked to you for guidance, on how not to fall flat on my face. But I broke every bone in my body stumbling, through my internal maze.

On those weeks, when everything is filtered through petals and awe strikes like lightning

over

and over in the same place.  When my road bike becomes a blue angel and small talk becomes a character driven off broadway play. When I drink too grand with a stranger and teach myself how to belay. If my eyes are fine points of static and words flow like songs on the island of Lomas, know that I up fell a missile and sooner than later it will impale me.

Dear Irene, I never really know where I’m going, just that I’m going your way. And I fear that I’m weight not an anchor, when you sprint up the luminous trail.

On those years, when “it’s nothing” builds up cranial pressure,  and floating becomes your refrain. Take my hand, I’ll guide you back to, safer waters, a place where the warmth never fades.

Machining (for Tylina)

Tell me, does it ebb you?

There’s a ferric scent. It ebbs at me, drills me down, wears me in. But they brush cool water on my surface. {Bathe me in bitter fluid and wash me with sickly oils }.

Blocks of hafnium strong. thick. raw.

Skin won’t inhale petrol { rinse me off and let me reflect you, wash you in your luminescence}.

I promise light and weight and please know that its poisson has no teeth. Then the bit returns.

It wears me in.

You drill me down so careful, watching for dragons breath, touching my cool surface.

Your index barely covers the gap, meticulous. Such a slight groove

but there’s the core and does it wave you in?

Does it show you gnarled oaks, buried roots drowned in diesel thickened muds? { lay me in grass, I only feel blades,

but to want so much more…}

Oil slicks wash over the leaves that cache me, waiting, clicking, re-clicking, and clicking, re-

wishing { find me crouching splayed and distorted, I've been scrapped with diamond tongue depressors, torn like weary linen from whole}

­­

It splits the warm tissue under my tongue, and pus (cold) fills my pallet with swirls of fresh saliva. I am modest for you, I clinch my dried and crackling lips. { watch my porcelain reflect your luminescence}

Dull gray clamps keep my place. It drills me in. ­It does not give me form. Only shape.

Tell me, does it ebb you?

You are so bright, flushing with each inhale,

Pulsing with quakes as you exult.

It churns long circle teeth, we waver. I envy your smooth ruptures fused  in sparic micas. How do you solder when it begs to tare?

{ hear me silent, listening. And does it wave you in}