god

god is a grave stone mason

spider

a delicate strand of web

from windowsill to cracked corner of white walls

thinner than anything

more apparent than anything

glisten in the light cast by a december sun

be caught by the eyes of a remembering son of a son

fluid flowing light run up and down your lengths

with each sway of distant tree branch

each small breath that moves the blinds

when did the spider make your arc?

where has she gone?

i know you are there, little spider

i can feel you with my cheek pressed to the walls

do you spin my dreams above my head while i sleep?

was that you that spun in images of nakedness and family?

those fevered dreams that found me bare beneath my mother

and the smell of a dying grandfather who repulsed you when you were young.

was it you who impregnated me and made me feel whole for once

or was it you who covered my body with swelling sores that pulsed and flickered?

how much do you know about me, little spider?

and why the tiny strand?

it's okay

it's okay to be awake on the west coast

it's okay to jerk off and listen to odd blood

it's okay to only eat cough drops for 3 days

it's okay to reconnect with the ex who can make you more miserable

than anyone else has ever done

it's okay to have a pair of high heels under your bed

it's okay to wash your fingernails down the drain

it's okay to solicit sex at 2 a.m. in 10 degree weather

it's okay to watch old war movies and sob uncontrollably about never

knowing your grandfather or knowing what war is like

it's okay to be a vegetarian without moral objections

it's okay to wish you were very very rich and could be on drugs all day

it's okay to say faggot and gay and cunt and nigger if you're ironic

but maybe all the time too because they're just words and no one knows what you mean

it's okay to live in patterns

it's okay to break patterns

it's okay to hug your brother in the driveway and cry

it's okay to be afraid to know more about your grandmother

it's okay to wish your father had been more traditional with you

it's okay to want to shoot a gun into the sky

it's okay to hate every single human being you see at the shows because

they have no fucking clue what a good show is

it's okay to be human

it's okay to be human

it's okay to be

it's okay

obs tangent

there are a pair of women's high heels underneath my bed

that i have no intention of returning to the owner

and on more than one occasion i have had the

uncontrollable urge to smell them

the worst part of living in the city is that

at no point in the day can i look out my window or go for a walk

into a field of tall grass and watch them bend

arcing painfully gracefully back and forth

and the snow will not leave us alone

it even finds ways into our cars and somehow into our socks

and sometimes i think we should make a snowball and bring it indoors

and keep it in [social commentary] until summer

sometimes i think there are poetic things about

the tiny little bumps on the ceilings of apartments

as if the sordid little lives of the occupants are giving the building goosebumps

this building is ironic or easily entertained

pillar

jutting between my ribs

i feel you, pillar.

a phallic monument lodged between

two lungs and my heart

and my heart

i feel you piercing my heart.

i can feel your presence in an empty museum

after dark with locks and a lack of lights.

your shadow looming over me.

i know you loom over us all, pillar.

you loom inside us all.

i wish i knew your face, is it regal and white

and are you perfectly smooth.

or are you black and twisting like a cancer

through my veins. (all blood in your body is black. there is no light).

but you know this, pillar.

i want to turn face and stare into your massiveness.

i want to run my hands across your lengths

and press my ear to your cool surface.

i want to tell the world what you are, pillar, and lift the shroud.

i want to flood the halls of your museum, i want to shine a flashlight

into my veins and see what color my blood is.

because, pillar, i feel you every day. and i need to escape you.

or to at least objectify you.

maybe you are god and you've been placed there by a careful hand.

"Do you send back a signal to outer space?"

of course you are silent, pillar.

is it wisdom or bitterness? please answer me.

please.

are you an esoteric observation, pillar?

"It may be the bending of tall grass in a field in August.

It may be the stagnant harsh glow of lamplight.

I'm sorry my hands aren't perfect."

can you be captured in a phrase?

in a poem?

in a motion across pages?

why won't you let me in?

i've put my fingers into dirt and into other writers

and i haven't felt you there.

where are you?

once i felt you above me as i lied in bed with my arms

outstretched towards you.

i felt your gravity then and i knew i could expose you.

once i felt you when i lied in bed with my arms

outstretched towards a lover.

"I love you."

Do you love me, pillar? Do you love us all?

are you a forgotten memory, pillar?

do you block all my thoughts in hopes of hiding your true self?

"I don't remember, but it feels familiar.

Like cigarette smoke on her jeans or a story your grandfather told.

Like the rules to a card game."

i felt you when i split my hand open on a broken bottle

when i was a toddler and surrounded by the haze

that was maybe a dream.

in quiet hours [it'll be good someday]

i go from queasy

to horny

to blank

to hot

and i jot down my thoughts

confused by the knot

of the plot that i bought from the

girl or some name i forgot

and i scribble all this dribble

from my chin onto the page

and pretend that my age ain't

what's got my rage all in cages

but put out on stages in the stages of waged youth

and i gauge all my hate towards my peers

as i leer and i slate the date and write it down

to relate what i can to others or to sate

what i engage backstage as the judgement of all that grates against me

that was all bullshit but i wish i could write

minimal flesh

fingers

fingers

fingers

neck

not noose

not pulse searching

shirt collar

taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaught

fingers

tongue

pulse

pulse

pulse

pulse

fingers pulse

loose noose shirt collar

pulse

tongue

lips

pulse

hips

pulse

hips

loose around

pound jeans

pound

flesh

pound

flesh

regret the noose

lose the thought

taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaught

pound

pulse

flesh

fingers

around

fingers

mouth loose

mouth loose

mouth to neck

neck to noose

kick drum

kick drum

taaaaaaaaaaaaaught skin

kick drum

snare

snare

kick

snare

snare

noose snared

lips

snare

leans

pulse

jeans

lose

pulse

lose

pulse

pulse

pulse

snare

pulse

pulse

snare

and the obligatory connection between a crescendo and a climax

and i fall into a drunken orange glow sleep at last

apartment window

day light spills

catch the unfinished jigsaw on a cut up coffee table

tea stains on a splotched surface without the history

without a culture or a maker

just instructions times new roman black on white

and an illustration with rounded edges

light moves

creeping inches

no not creeping but glacial flow across the floor

across wires into walls

dead skin and pocket lint up in the air

and whatevers got my lungs so filthy

no sawdust or tiny angels with tiny little harps

and a tiny little melody

and up the walls like moss

and up the walls like mice and the slow drip of paint thinner

when im on my back and theres ceilings in my eyes

and thats me alluding to french art movies

and over the shelves and the liberal arts college approved book collection

poynton and awakening and anything else

where a white woman kills herself

because society is patriarchal and this is not the point

and the light disappears at the corner of the wall and ceiling

and the orange pours in

artificial harsh

articifically harsh in a poem in free verse

and it doesn't touch anything

mechanical gear devoid of all oil and grease stillness

like your grandfather in the casket stillness

and it doesnt pulse and throb

when it throws your shadow up on the wall

for an hour ever 4 am

much needed whatever

as i was falling asleep i half dreamt that i would write about this giant pillar that is inside all of us. and it is in the middle of us, in the middle of our rib cage and lungs and hearts and in a museum that's shut down and locked. and we're all standing around the pillar and holding hands and looking outward and none of us ever see it. maybe we see the shadow and maybe we feel its looming presence but none of us ever sees it. except for me. and i turn around and i run my hands across its cold rippled cement, tiny bumps and craters, and i put my ear to it and listen to it deafly. and i describe it to everyone and its exactly what we've all been missing.

i have an imagine stuck in my head. it's of my apartment and the light that comes in the living room window. in the day time when the sun makes its slow arc and casts in the light, the projection on th wall makes a slow rise and fall on the opposing wall. the light is always alive and bright and pulsing. it has a slow motion like someone wading upstream. then at night there is an awful streetlight that pours harsh orange artificial light into the room. and the projection just sits there perfectly still. mechanically still. and sometimes i stand up and make my silhouette in this orange glow and feel akin.

some phrases are in my head. "virgin disco" and some others i forgot. so that's the only one right now.

i can feel my bowels loosening already as i write this down. i wish i were really writing it down and not just typing it but i forget too much that way. i am a slow writer. i wish i weren't so afraid to do anything all the time. i wish i wrote down things right away.

another image i have in my head is of having a woman sleep in my bed. something like the recluse. and i dont take advantage of her if she is drunk or her of me and we dont have sex or anything like that. she just sleeps and i sleep somewhere else. the next day when i am alone again i take a shower and am all fresh and relaxed and my sinuses and senses are all clean and i lay down in my bed naked and face down and breathe in what she smells like. and sometimes it is earthy and full of cinammon and something comforting old. and sometimes it is sweet and bright and i get an erection. and i never tell her about it or see her again

i have an image of a man who is in power, political power or business power or drug power, who hates women so much he pays prostitutes or whoever to have sex with him. but instead he just ashes his cigarette or cigar into their vaginas. and then i realize i am aping bret easton ellis. and that i am too much of that person than i will admit and i am a coward and cant talk with women.

i want to write another magic realism peace and i want to edit my old stuff. that's what i am doing tomorrow. i am not sure where to go yet. i will text whitney for a location.

i want to make music and be the creative lead. i want to play drums very well.