Leaves You Blue/ Empty Sentences *work in progress



“You ridicule yourself and your laughter bursts out like hell fire

                                                The sparks of your laughter gild the depths of your life

                                                It is a picture hung in a somber museum

                                                And sometimes you go to look at it closely.”

                                                —Guillaume Apollinaire, “Zone”


One morning,

I’ll pierce both my wrists together with chains.



I feel closer to the ground than my desk.



my skin melts from my neck, and no one is present.



no one noticed the slow decay of my life.



I might just disappear with what’s left of my heart and my pride.



shards and bone to be rifled through, and carried below.


No matter how,

I worry it about my room; I will be embraced by the dirt of this gloom.



met in women’s fingertips, she placed prints of her being all over my face.


Oh how,

I wallow in the heat, as skin melts from my neck—rotting away.



a single word on a tongue; curled, encased, with everything I wanted to say.



uttered for fear of losing the meaning of me along the way.



of heart so medicine, shown as clear glass to children.



a girl of matchsticks teeters to a candle stack of broken backs.



I hold a hand gripped of fear; and please, pray for me, help the girl understand.



darkens a tear of shirt, and with angles, a fresh red smudge is given.



so the men can comprehend the no-floating sheets that still may haunt me.



come standard, and she leaves me with nothing, but I will shelter no tears.


Carry on,

glorious piano-driven dynamos, slick-wristed prodigies: it is my heart you play.



away the knurled, weird face of swollen, weak saints; dark the faith of incorruptible body—the strung-out fence we hang our teenagers on.



tender to me, with cords all leading back to my room.



a child of a shadow of a shadow of a shadow of blues.



the lonely: I worked a corner of the corner of a corner of the dead eyes searching dusk for you.



down me easy, wither the running legs of a fool, who runs ever onward for you.



a table top, a black-labeled bottle, a rusty one-armed scissor, a dirge set to the guts of blue curtains.


Brought to ear,

feet are oak and proud, in the middle of town, singing, “We are the songs, We are weeded out.”



still hold her dear; and the laughter quakes in the sordid dimensions of a crowd.



a blanket of dark parts, gathered to a nose, and inhaled.



she wears, to a bath tub—cold, and collected, dripping between breasts; we talk.


All in all,

it’s a collage of corneas, spread haphazardly on all waters, all comers, in rain.



Covered in earth; the known shivering dust bop of our desert.



no hands, no hesitation, no marks, no chores, no lips, no drums beating blood through the body.



and you could never tell true, with a pink baby held over you.



baby, I can’t keep a grip above myself for long.



grip, is a kiss—you encourage from afar.



with back and brace in to it, and corpses all in a row—there is still grace what I gave it.



floating on the surface of a face, slapped and prodded for the beauty it keeps beneath.



near back doors locked from within, I bear keys for you to pinch.



drive on, a special stop on the coast, with my own set of keys, I can’t help but leave.



I write it down in pen, so it bleeds when wet.



your hands stained in bed—ink on the pads—leaves you blue.




Empty Sentences


I’d like

                                                            to scribble for you


                                                they’re charming

                                                            and pay quite a lot.

                                                But I

                                                            mastered myself,

                                                                        and crushed under foot

                                                the throat

                                                            of my very own songs.”

                                                —Vladimir Mayakovsky, “At the Top of My Voice—First Prelude                                                   to a Poem of the Five Year Plan        



The surgery was successful, but the glass only holds so much liquor left for the recovery.


Collated cracks of an ass, over a bed frame, huddled to hump out a dream.


Standing stock-still, muzzle to muzzle, she harbors a secreted message behind teeth, white, for me, in easy-lay dreams.


Whore-son, I am, teetotaler, I am not: a complex individual for sure, who combs the tree line of depravity.


A scribbled line about stars and shoulders, retraced, over and over, for the pure joy of it.


In love with the half-moons under your fingernails, and the skin that orbits them.


Give a beer to Mona Lisa: watch as that smile grows.


I felt an echo, so I wrapped it up like a linebacker, and its form changed just as quickly.


Blew as deep as romantic dogs barking on a low-rise tenement building make-shift office window, I did.


Unspeakable the bottomless bottom of a dumb saint mind: write what you know—I will.


A vision of chest, shivering over breasts, in the vice of a romance, long given without rest.


Dreaming from faraway corners of swept-up room as reaching curbstone hollow man.


In tranced poetic held breath on paper wet, she guides my every syllable to dance along to the beat—a beat of vices & virtues.


Interior monologue: don’t talk too hard next to anyone’s ear.


Interior monologue: try to be the jewel center of interest in whatever room you enter.


Interior monologue: be pithy, as long as the situation requires it.


Interior monologue: read tome after tome of other poet breath.


Interior monologue: provide a heart for others to suck, if they so choose.


Interior monologue: listen Beatles all the time, every possible moment of yawn life.


Interior monologue: refrain from spending more $ on fake girlfriends on interweb.


Interior monologue: Watch more Blade Runner, all the time, for more happiness in yawn life.


Interior monologue: accept the loss of things forever, especially family, friends, old lovers.


A football helmet full of new pens, given to me as gift from co-worker, friend, guru John Grady.


Memories as poem lines, as empty sentences, as mantra-lyrics said over and over to Word.


By morning, 1981, Ginsberg wrote of old fucks and chests, and I was born soon after, in October, a boy with deep, poetic breath.


By night, 1997, Ginsberg died Buddha-calm, and I was 16, a teenage wasteland of soon-neurotic tics, and future poetic death, made rampant run, on track or at home.


None, but horrid clock strike, none, but what she warned me of, once at a time; none, but those who know, those who remember her as such.


A cut of ear to be placed by the bar stool I’ve only recently left warm to the cheek.


She remembers 2005, as I remember 2005: sticky, new, ripe, emotive, and full of fuckery.


We wrote an unfinished screenplay; her bits were good; my bits were the backbone of it all.


I listen to The Savage Detectives on the way to Karina’s house—keep re-listening to disc three— the exact amount of time from broken bedframe to girly bed sheets—and I forget the story every time on the way back.


Northern downpour calls for boat shoes and old girlfriends to try and not be so cold.


It is no longer about a girl named Savannah: Savannah is just what I’ve learned to call it.


Two fingers pressed to bottom lip, pushed in towards bottom teeth, and left there for a while.


Catching Z’s as they fall from above a bed frame, before they scamper undercover, as I know they’re like to do.


There is a certain level of disappointment inherent with checking social media webpages every ten minutes and finding nothing, no one waiting to receive me like I’m jewel center.


Holy contours make up most of the reasons I don’t care to draw.


Smuggled last words past enemy female lines, that’s how I remember your backyard.


To see a picture better, only hold thumb and index finger as circled third-eye, and stare.


Happiness once called every day, it seemed; nowadays, it won’t return my messages.


Every day can quickly become emblazoned experience, existing as normal mornings stepping out on you.


No shame to be had, I revel in every fuck I’ve ever had.


American sentences: what a great Ginsberg form.


Barefoot in the black outskirts of a bad dream, she never told me which way to go from here.


Interior monologue: exercise your triceps, biceps, quads, calves, throat, tongue, teeth, brain, heart, stomach, fingers and cock.


Interior monologue: itch the collar of that relationship you can’t stop thinking about.


Interior monologue: study for that adult-life test; you’re several decades behind.


Interior monologue: remember to thank everyone for constant support, constant affronts.


Interior monologue: stop eating shitty food—you will die younger than you had planned.


Interior monologue: stop treating your son the way you were treated by your father—otherwise cycle continues.


Interior monologue: watch Ghostbusters II with Gavin on birthday.


Interior monologue: ask her for bedroom favors in exchange for grammar advice.


Interior monologue: read more Kerouac, and Belief & Technique for Modern Prose.


Correct more people: nauseous is not correct (you mean nauseated).


Tangle hair between knuckles, then pull it together into a warm nest to hold.


A cigarette cornered to mouth and sucked like a tube to the surface of the earth.


Rainbow-ed as advice to see with different shades of eye.


I’d give anything to start over from one point in my young life: teeth.


I used to write about cross-country, track, tennis, soccer (girls), baseball (Christian), golf and softball (a few times); now I only write about breath, parking lots, heart stuff and poetic pants fogged to computer screen surface touch.


Write like no one notices, write like no one cares; write like no one remembers it, write like there is no tomorrow, but now, as yawn life ceases to yawn.


White, like crystal-meth white, white as the-skin-of-Christmas-in-Ohio white, she says, to a room of angels, hovering.


Spread like the ass cheeks of the Red Sea, spread like Canaan across the desert of the Sinai, when offered to the chosen few who travel there, it spreads as the dirt of Ur was once spread.


Poetry of the Facebook masses, ignored, not surprised, nothing really surprises me anymore.


And we’re friends, and you see the things I write, and we just pretend it doesn’t happen (I’m sure that’s how it’s been going, nothing much has changed then).


Once I get going, it’s really hard for me to stop: I’m not poetic inertia, I’m poetic stimulus.


Reading Ryan Adams’ poetry, alone, by a fire I found on Netflix, and remembering songs of his that have definitely made me cry while drunk.


Ira Levin has a permanent pass to any of my birthday parties he might like to attend (he could bring Cormac McCarthy, cause the same privilege is extended to him).


Noxious hands are held above waist till the sun’s weight pulls everything below underwear lines.


Her warm, flushed skin was tracked by panties that I removed.


Her skin was tracked by panties that I removed. (Alt. ver.)


Her pink skin was tracked by panties that I removed. (Alt. ver. 2)


Drop to my knees, push apart what stays me, and dive right into the center of her hirsute cavity.


Loneliness composed as undisciplined word sketches on savage memos left far behind, as genius postcards of earthly films, peopled in Heaven, for girls of worthy begging (or just open to reading)—the empty sentences of my youth, angeled in worldly Poems.



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