Put that in the Books!

He booked it.
He booked it through tree leaves
and vacant streets.
He booked it by sinking seas
and heavy, rising Gs.
He booked it with both feet
slamming on blank sheets of open space
without hearing his steps
or seeing his compass.
Without legends to follow.
Without boots to make his descent
more comfortable,
to avoid dead grass and weeds
stabbing his feet.
He booked it.
He booked it in hotel rooms
where the smell of clean sheets
only hid the stains
from plain view.
He booked it in fifth gear
through freeway traffic.
He booked it until his truck could
no longer corner and screamed,
"I give up!" as it rolled over
and over and over.
"It's over! Come out
with your hands up!"

Punk Rock Bought It

Displace space,
beats disgrace place
and time, face
climb. Nut case,
fist raised to
chase disgrace.
Change the bass
line, up tempo pace.
Beats laced, chimed,
faced, climbed, raised.
Change the bass.
Up tempo pace.
Up tempo pace.
UP TEMPO PACE.
It’s a volume race,
and yours is no disgrace.

See me breathe

See me breathe
in 70 degree weather,
fog to split sunbeams
that hit me
with every color.
Frozen prism breath
protects me from UVs
with ice-beams,
no heat penetrating
You’re shivering.
Should I be sorry?

Bells for Youth

Are you dancing to your dirge?
Digging your toes in the wet dirt?
Claws cut, disrupt
Visceral function, drained.
Take your spectre,
skin graft, machinery.
Take your deaf night
and dance away the junction.

Flies don't stick to etched glass.

Spiders etched their webs
onto windows
with hopes that the sunlight
would make their lives bright.
They crawled on glass,
once sand,
and used lazers to
stake their claim.
They slid around, but
it was alright;
their lives were bright.
The sunshine illuminated
their hairs and warmed
their bodies.
They danced and crawled and slid
as the rays burnt away any problems
that would arise.
They would never fight;
their lives were bright.
But one by one
they started to die.
They starved and
they fell apart.
Dried-up
exoskeletons
on window seals.
The sunlight
made their lives bright.

Bag of Sand

She is not a bag of sand.
She won't keep your pick-up stable
as you drive through winter.
She won't save you
from the coming flood.
She won't hold the curtain
for your performance.
She can't be replaced
when you bring a bag
to the beach.

She can be embraced
and carried
without your back getting sore
if your posture is good.

She can generate her own heat,
and you can feel it
it you understand
she is not a bag of sand.

Open your body

Open your body
and place your organs on ice.
Look at them.
Look at your lungs,
your stomach,
your heart.
Look at your eyes,
looking back at you.
Look at your brain,
sitting helpless
on a melting foundation.
Powerless to ruin
your life.

Burying the Bottle

I'm burying this bottle
next to childhood shame,
pornography and suicide.
Next to sparrows on windshields and
fathers, unconscious and bleeding.
Next to the old puppy,
wrapped in a blanket,
on its way to the vet.
Next to unfaithful mothers.
Next to bright futures and
a bleeding heart,
dripping down a sleeve.

I'm burying this bottle
with the epitaph:
“Here lies a roller-coaster
with too many g-forces
from too many loops
and too many neck-jolting turns.”

I'm burying this bottle
until I need it again.
Or until you are thirsty.

I hope I'm not a stain.

Bags and boxes of garbage
piled and stacked to the point of tipping
the attic is clean
almost
there's still dust in the corner
and those stains on the two-by-fours
will never be gone.

Those stains that still sing
and walk and talk about everything
you have ever been and
everything that has ever been you.

Those stains that cling to your attic's supports.
Those stains that form the shapes of ghosts.
Those stains that you can't see when the light from outside
is too bright.

Bug Eyes

This is what I do in lecture hall classes.

Muddy Shoes

My shoes were covered in mud.

Yellow blades of grass

stuck out like antennae.

Globs of wet dirt flung as I hopped

from stone to stone,

dry spot to dry spot.

My shoes went through rough trails,

in black night, with sinister limbs

hanging low. Scuffing soles,

and cracking sticks.

My shoes were happy shoes,

like a working dog

with a job.

They worked hard

to be happy.

They sloshed through mud

to be happy.

But,

it was only mud.

All that remains

are stains.

Mud stains

and hope stains.