synesthesia

PROJECTION I

we stood around in the cold
like a bunch of kids
waiting for permission

I left only the parking lights on
when I started to drive you across town
and could’ve got us thrown in jail
with the half-burnt bomber in the ashtray
and you were speedy as all hell

I felt like I couldn’t keep up
with the demand, and we volleyed the
aloofness back and forth at one another
and I left a party full of strangers;
nice enough people but I didn’t know them
and anyway
none of them were you

PROJECTION II

I had been tensing my jaw all night
and grinning wide while I moved
self-aware in the fake fog and the
humid darkness looking for a girl
in a green sweater I met upstairs
and then followed with my eyes
all night, then that friendly
sweaty guy hugged me, and
she shrugged

ORDINAL LINGUISTIC PERSONIFICATION

I assign arbitrary personalities
to numbers 1 through 9, and
when I send out a message
I drain the bottle first
then with great care and focus
I scribble something off the
top of my head which
I will later regret or
find better perspective
on in the future

mugwump luv

hooked up to a nectar-dispensing device that swells you briefly, then leaves you craving more sugar, more stares, more bald-faced attempts…

my dried husks of mobile intention blow away, turn to dust bunnies fucking in the desert

tumbleweed sounds permeate your tunnels and sewers

cannons rock foundations of impermanent creations and you put up all the posters, girl. propaganda for a youth movement riot over weed-covered public spaces. space-themed cookery, estate sale, realtor’s children, lemonade escape

electro-groupies get felt down deep, never deign to sleep, escape routes planned before the motorcade even parks

transmit across false goal-posts my admissions and intermissions of a plot too redundant

good kitchen sex

long weekend stretched on
into monday night
good kitchen sex
gourmet pizza
cheap wine
catching up on
television shows lampooning
the religious

back at the office again
overhearing conversations about
dress code violations
blood drawn in last night’s basketball game
no one will clean out
the fridge that smells
like death that we all
store our food in

other people's hangovers

six am
on a sepia road
iced over

my headlights are soft
in the pitch parking lot

I wonder if those cops
at the coffee shop are going
to write me a citation for
weak or burned-out bulbs

at least my guts
are inside me
not fighting their way out
in sour pools of acid
working up my esophagus
and my nerves
aren’t fried this morning
no shakes

little earthquakes open up
the pavement borders
between the panels of sidewalk
underneath me when I
step around the city thinking of
her in the throes of agony,
puking and gripping the bowl,
doubled over and taut flesh around
her midriff wrinkled
into little fat creases,
long neck straining,
veins and beads of sweat
and goose bumps and nausea

an angel
poisoned
perfect

engraved invitation

if we can’t feed the dogs from hell together
couldn’t we at least
be friends with benefits?

it’s a long stretch when you’re away
every fiber within me marking time

trying to find excuses
and strategies for
self-improvement

frozen in habitual
loyalties and indulgences
I fall back on the same laziness
you would love to overcome

like an animal sensing its
own bloodline in the pheromones
you shy away from a man with
all your same weaknesses

stand up straight, boy,
and take the prize
if it’s in you at all

evolved among
rape and aggression
I vainly, eagerly,
pathetically
await my invitation