It's only an attempt at destruction

There are many of us who spend last moments of every year in the glow of a dusty Christmas tree. Call it laziness for not removing traditions when we remove our faith. But maybe it's hope that we haven't lost anything as we sing a song whose words make no sense. It's no difference to the revolution of the earth around her majesty, the sun. They continue to dance in spite of holidays.

Always Making Duplicates

Tell me you have shape
under your scarf like an
awning.
Wind breaker like
a kiwi cut-open underwater.
Salvage the canoes.
Cut oars with cocaine
and wet rocks.
Then kiss the
ghost of my lips with apathy
not unlike sleeping
dreamlessly.

. . . . . . . . .

My life,
is often seen through
normal eyes who notice things.
Like the waiver in my gait.
Or t-shirt fabric.
This is who transcribes history,
strangers.
Without my tongue, you
cannot speak my name.
Without my scars, you
cannot have the plot-line, yet.
I've started a bonfire in a nearby
dumpster. The authorities will
be here
shortly.
So lets dance in burning plastic
while we watch our surfaces
turn into dripping/
modern sculptures.

Give Thanks

Where are you, gypsy?
Thunder is eating the tail
of thunder.
This is what it looks like in my brain.
This is what it sounds like in my chest.
Sagging windows are lit up,
partly due to
the hash smoke.
And the delusion that there is
something worth standing in the
rain for.
I spit in the rain,
but I do not spit at the rain,
sir.
I still shake with wet fists, letting
one cold finger after another
trace my temperature.
What is the Spanish word for rain?
I begin to count the ways I could
associate love with a thundershower
metaphor,
or perhaps memories.
But all the gypsies have left
before the monsoon could catch them.

For a letter I found in an old notebook

You should have licked me
before the tar & feathers.
I wouldn't have dyed your
tongue black
or stained your eyelashes
a fence.
I can tell by the foot print
dance mat your staring at
that you aren't ready for a slow song.
So peace be with you.
The only sound the procession will
hear
when they slam the lid shut
on your wicker casket
is complacency.
Then your tears will whisper
"we have
spent her whole life trying
to escape. Let us
tell you her truth!"
But all the people
will be somewhere else,
forgetting how
much they didn't know about
you.

What language

did Adam and Eve speak?

And can I speak it, too?

Rite Aid

The woman stumbles circles

around her shopping cart.

She is excited to use her

new mop in the group home.

“I used to clean things, too.”

Is the only courage I can muster.

And then I lie.

“I’m an out-of-work exorcist. No

money in demon hunting

these days.”

She knocks her cart

over, says she recognizes me.

Then beings to yell at the cashier

about how I stole her baby.

I turn sideways and stare at the tattoo

growing out of the assistant manager’s

sleeve. I hate being locked into

a story, but I can’t stop now.

“I need work,” I say.

“Do you have any possessed customers or

employees?

I discount for group rates.”

He calls me a faggot, so

I leave.

I should stop pretending

everyone is as bored as I am.

Life is too short for this.
Transcend the bullshit.
So here's the truth.
I am so frightened of dying I
often imagine every intersection will be my last breath .
If I ever said I love you, I meant it.
That includes you.

I am done with being immature, for the moment.
Please believe me when I say that every dream I ever had was shattered when I saw the backs of your eyes. That's a half-compliment, but take it as a good thing.
People like us are enemies to this world, and I like that. I like the way I smile at children. I like the terrible job I do at hiding my tears. I like that I still remember details about every girl I've ever listened to. And I love how big my heart is.

I love how big my breath is.

I want to crawl into you with a wrench, and clear the blood clots near your zest.

But that's not my job.

I am an acrobat and a chimney sweep, a word-weaver, a son, a kurt, a Kurt.
A poly-para-psycho-quixotician.

and as of right now,
capable of elaborating on the effects of shooting for the moon.
(In summary; cold, but well worth it)

love