The Rain Cabinet

The Prose Locker #137: The Freedom to Make Noise

2012-02-06T20:53:00.009-05:00

Every pig-headed pet rock wants to salvage the fur on your body, but I just want one more drag, to be ever-so jaundiced by our ridiculous flame. I smoked my last one about seven years ago. Since then, I've distributed my time rather unevenly; it left me predictably unsatisfied, as it should no doubt go for such a self-entitled bloke. I went to various doctors who all told me that I was in your head. "No, sir," I interrupted each time; "I am just a drunk -- susceptible to slumps yet motivated by the sublime."

Look - I'm a fat and remarkably still piece of work these days. And dancing on your grave could never exorcise you from the way I play house; it is there, where you are so rattled by my pessimistic openings that your ears have begun to close. Now you are nearing the hour of which I once tried to use you to the point of years. To be sorry would be to kill off all my hard work, for the freedom to make noise, in my most-humbled opinion, is worth every bit of change I've ever taken from you.

The Prose Locker #136: The Blood of a Fool

2011-11-03T19:52:00.011-04:00

Often I'm awakened by the vibrations of my own conscience collapsing beneath its own weight. It keeps me up half the night, in fact. I do think of dying... but only for a while, and only in some randomized sequence in which I fail to council formidable forms of self-criticism or outward doubt. And when I think of dying, it's always this residual graying-of-the-hair attitude that lacks any rationalization - something to stop each new thought from wanting to so desperately blind each open eye. It gets bad (mostly during the day).

My English teacher once proudly proclaimed herself to be a child of God; she did this in front of thirty some-odd students. I was among those who certified themselves insane at the time, so she came as no remarkable surprise. But I could only beg to grab ahold of her ill-splintered of faiths, because I knew of thieves who always focused on where I would stash my deepest hopes, leaving me no other choice but to abandon the idea altogether. This has not, however, kept me awake at night.

Back then, I thought I could someday know it all. Now, it's just a matter of trying to establish an ability to remember anything I ever learned at all. I'm getting older, and more than a few faces are wearing my eyes down. I'm losing interest in evolution; that white man pioneer is no longer the father he used to be. I need the blood of a fool. He is the one who triggers this imagination; he is the one who, point-blank, erects my excitement over the long-haul. My mother is nearing her death, but her blood has become flooded with pathological belief. It has stretched her mind miles away from the thought of ever needing a son again - at least one who has morally escaped the majority of himself. I must now stand in line, awaiting the errors of my own descendants. Their blood is thin and weak and will no doubt orbit their hearts for far too long. And I could pretend to care less about getting more than I deserve, but commercialized scientists no longer sleep on the subject of survival. It seems I'm enslaved to an institution of democratic disease, not at all political; it just likes to teach me about where I go wrong. I must work, play, and die... accordingly.

The Letter Collection #3: Peyton and Reagan

2011-10-01T20:07:00.015-04:00

Dear Peyton and Reagan,

Why?!

It was working (well enough) the past few years, but for whatever reason, we were caught up with an officer in the living room, called upon by a spoiled child (anyone we know?) from her soiled room, no doubt. He was to arrest these passions and was to humiliate us on the lawn. Jesus, we once knew what it took to say what we mean, but society has had its way of spreading the truth - something of which I knew would condense my control over the two of you. In fact, up until now, I did everything I could, Peyton, for you to see everything my way, and it's not because I wanted you to look in the mirror and see my reflection, but instead it was my way of believing that I could change the world one person at a time. How I ever thought I could reach the world while spending all my time on you ... is still beyond me.

I'm afraid my daughter knows no clemency; she's too quiet for her own good, especially around other adults.

I stare pity into you, Reagan, but you have yet to complain; I'm sure that's something you keep all to yourself. You needn't remind me that your bear knows more of you than me. As I once heard my father tell me; I'm not a good man... but I'm not the worst either.

(Peyton, I don't think incontinence could embarrass us like this!)

We're all starting to move on, aren't we? What should be the last straw, and who gets what?

Peyton, I've pulled out your teeth one by one over the years. Now, you can't bring yourself to smile at anyone but me. And even if I dropped dead tomorrow, that smile would still belong to only me, and for that, it's important to know how sorry I would be.

Just make certain Reagan flosses tonight. She doesn't know how detrimental it is to someday exist beyond whomever she would like to become.

Love,

You-know-who

The Prose Locker #135: Dreamweaver

2011-08-27T20:34:00.009-04:00

My tongue can no longer convince you into swallowing. It's now a voluptuous wound - it's perhaps a cicatrix, one of which should be removed from both of our crestfallen cousins (the kiss and the kill). Besides, your aesthetic audacity no longer shares an affinity with what's left in the store's window; I guess that we were all so annihilated by your salacious curls, we forgot time would someday fail to exist. We should have just closed the blind.

Thereby, to sail into a scandalized decadence a-basked in the light of an effusive empress (only a scintilla of her former king, no exceptions) - that was once the dream of me. And her insistence would be as follows: "we take no other road but June; we lace no other boots but those worn by our mutually-respected libertines." Sugar was to be excluded, but sex could grow from nefarious demand. And we would at last hypnotize the crowd just to throw ourselves away.

But you, babe... you don't fit the bill.

The Prose Locker #134: Little Bernie goes vegetarian at 80

2011-08-06T22:51:00.006-04:00

Little Bernie goes vegetarian at 80. He has a wife--somewhere in Kansas--sewing her lips to the heel of a wooden hood. She appears to have slept on everything he's ever said, for she has, at last, mutated into what used to only be heartburn. And that may have upset his stomach, but he doesn't like to lose his head; see--it gives him a reason to drink, and he hasn't conspired against himself in a month or more.

Little Bernie now orchestrates his last resurrection--the only birth, he feels, the world has volunteered themselves against. They take back their magic; they take back their clearances. He whispers, "It's okay... even my wife never left 13."

Little Bernie has now had a few strokes. His body is limp, he settles for short sentences. Meanwhile, he likes to think he can talk his way out of anything. After all his maneuvers, he finds himself in the same room his wife despised. There, Mark humors him with specifics; Ernest equips his mind with a gun.

The Letter Collection #2: Alvin

2011-07-29T22:29:00.004-04:00

Dear Alvin,

This will sound a bit merciless, even sarcastic, but I don't care. Alvin--you swore you would never storm out of my life again--that you were certain you had eradicated your demons and had fallen in love--for a change--with optimism... and our indestructible iridescence. Here I am, six o' clock in the evening, wondering what destructive position you may have taken with the thought of being with me. You've tried so desperately to disconnect yourself from your own intuition--tried pairing yourself with all those silly, vaginal fireflies (meatheads, Madam Hercules), and has any of this afforded you with any less confusion than what you have already garnished from our time together?

I wish you would act your age; shave the beard... grow a tail.

I will not drink this week. So, do not be afraid to come down from your low-down high-horse; do not be afraid to use your key--available for a limited time.

Oh, and don't knock; you'll wake the cat.

- You-know-who

The Prose Locker #133: The Honey and the "B"

2011-07-21T20:20:00.013-04:00

No, I don't know how "available" you really are, but perhaps I could relinquish a few other gentlemen of this opportunity--doesn't have to be now... but maybe soon, because I would rather urinate on my cocktail than to continue showing my ass to you. See--over time, I've spent a lot of money in trying to impress you (no details ever published/privileged). I've even went to dire straits in making your daughter breakfast (after we slept in her bed, chasing your ankles across her Queen-studded linen. Her linen? Wow, it was hot--admit it.) But now, you're... different somehow. Why? I mean--just the other day, on the beach, you made a remark to me; you said, "how dare you squeeze your pliers onto my wrist... strap shorts and shirt onto my sunbath. I don't let the sun get more than it deserves, neither brutes nor wolves... nor sheep, little man." ... Uh, hello--I thought that was a compliment?

I would have given you space, but you would have drowned in it. And yes, I have an "ego," as you've called it, but it's funny--it's never very far from your lips, is it? I hear anecdotes from all your middle-aged friends, each and every one. They tell me they just can't shut your trap--they can't runaway from the reflection of whatever you do see in me. They feel your husband deserves to be further evicted from what he doesn't know. That's really the only reason why I still try muscling you, my dear. Yeah--I'm combing your flower... like a bee, buzzing in your ear... like a tank. How's that for cornflakes?

But don't assume I have a plan, because I don't. I'll just invent what you need--go from there.

The Letter Collection #1: Sabrina

2011-07-10T20:58:00.012-04:00

Dear Sabrina,

Summer has fallen atop your halo, dressing you happy yet contentious, as I've begun noticing with your past letters. Maybe your press-on nails are getting in the way--who knows. I suspect Walter down the hall has offered little in the way of a negotiated silence--always intrusive upon your time as of late; that's what you've told me... that's what you've told him. I've been hesitant to call, because I know how precociously rare your few chosen moments can be--that and I don't really want you to blame me for anything else, but that's another story for another time.

Finally received the CD you've sent. It's good. It's not nearly as bad as the one I'd sent you. Holliday hasn't piqued your inspiration, hasn't piqued your pretty little head, I know. She's brave though, you must admit. Anyway, listen--I won't call, but maybe coffee... just as a form of intermission? Perhaps imported, perhaps important enough to have been promised by a rosy-cheeked hooligan like me (Boy--I hated when you referred to me as that)?

P.S. Please don't allow anyone to see the next piece before I've been given a chance at wrestling it to the ground, so much that I've literally talked you into starting over (but, hey--remember not to take the fun out of your life).

Love,

You-know-who

The Prose Locker #132: Gay men are good at being polite to my wife--makes me look bad (which is great!)

2011-07-07T20:22:00.010-04:00

Your Chanel handbag is rather filthy inside; doesn't that bother you? ... little lipstick in the side pocket, an open marker stenciling your smudged mirror; that wouldn't fly with me. Yeah, yeah--but I'm not a bitch, right? A bitch folds her hand when you try to hold it. And to think, Chanel's such a pretty name, too. Good thing I'm looking for rainbows tonight.

You know--I've never acquired a taste for Spain; maybe it's simply their style of dress, I don't know. But I do know I like to stir the room 'til the bar's on my side. It's easier to spread the word: I brought Gucci, but Gaultier has me spinning at the moment. Are either even... Spanish? ... course not. Remember, if it smells good, it's dangerously close to dying, and it should be of one's duty to put it out of its misery.

Love the piano in the corner. The man pouring his elbow forward sure seems to have a huge number; you should give it a ring... and soon. If he answers, tell him I bought both your drinks. He'll like that. He'll like that, a lot.

"Why?"

Because I've spared no expense at getting rid of you.

The Prose Locker #131: I seem to think it's all revolving around me

2011-07-01T21:39:00.005-04:00

I seem to think it's all revolving around me; your continuous, cellular connections, your blatant, backdoor brigades--they imprison me like water swallowing its rocky children. My jealousy has been sentenced to death, and now I cannot cope with the bankruptcy at hand. There was a time--two wide-eyed contenders were forging the votes and shifting the blame. But enough of this; you know--I have to say this, and I don't care if I cry while doing so: I have never known life without you--you know this--and now it's all falling like a house of cards. My most masochistic of stains--in and of our past relations--have, at last, lost their novelties. You're not coming back... are you?

If you only knew...

I was born with a past of such hopelessness; I did whatever necessary to escape, but like all great getaways, mine has come to its end, and if I must watch you walk into his direction, without the spontaneity of your crooked cane, I'll just do it smiling--promise; I'll just be happy to see you make a man out of me.

The Prose Locker #130: That's funny--you weren't so scared before

2011-06-07T10:56:00.007-04:00

Lady, I'm tired of driving four hours in dark, holiday traffic just to have my child negotiate some desperate, emotional settlement between what you say and what I do. Look at him; he's a rotten piece of shit--inside, that is. No amount of love--especially with what little I've childishly been able to muster--could ever change his body's mind. So, I've let him go; I've let my love dart from atop his bed, straining both his eyes, releasing all sets of hands. I'll leave you to tend, because I think you deserve to... watch.

If only the diet had stuck, right? You were always the murmur in my wild, thorn-ridden side. When I spoke of healing, you would smoke the longest cigarette I'd ever seen. When I chose to eat a flower, you would find ways to eclipse the sun. Do you really suspect it was any different with him? Do you not suspect I was right all along? I'm not going to feel sorry for him, though. That's your job. It was also your job to store nutrients in his blood--those like the many raw eateries I chose to include--but preservatives and nitrates seemed to be of your moral guide. I--I don't take the blame. I'm supposed to be the man he knows will tell him "no."

In fact, here's a recent example of just how hard I suspect he needs me to be: last night, I voluntarily slept with a woman--didn't know her (she may've even been a man). After eating fruit and drinking sweat, she had me laughing hysterically over stories of a uni-browed uncle and a car-thieving cousin. You know--I didn't even think of the boy at all. I didn't even try.

The Prose Locker #129: I did not press any charges because I had a reputation to uphold

2011-05-05T13:54:00.007-04:00

You left your husband after crawling into the closet with a phone. This was when there were cords--garlands for your crotch, a line of communication to confuse with your finger.

But when you moved into my place, I slept with a neighbor of ours. She knew you were reasonably retarded; she even had a diploma to prove it. Although I felt like a smart-ass, she spent every day--while you would waitress downtown--making me feel stupid. Not like you--I mean, yes, you made me feel stupid, but only after I would ask myself why I was ever with you in the first place.

I think--and have thought for a while--that you should move out.

You and your damn medications. You would fill about as many bottles as I could empty. Your doctor even told you to take better care of your mind--that it was already in danger of slipping away. But you figured, "what the hell; at least my body is batting a decent average--two men driven home with the last two-at-bats."

As for me? You just went crazy every now and then, splitting my drunkenness like firewood. This was back when I could see how you could get away with murder; I felt almost nothing for you then, almost nothing for you now. And I did not press any charges because I had a reputation to uphold: obese dude in a Wal-Mart t-shirt that read, "Don't ask me anything unless you want an excuse for everything."

Guess what--I'm still full of shit... and you're still remarkably incomplete (dumb).

New Website (Update)

2011-04-19T16:14:00.003-04:00

Forgive me, I know it's been such a slow commitment on my part lately, but I've been trying to construct a new site; a simple, yet clean place to host all these entries, and to allow for more content. I should be close to launching it near the beginning of Summer 2011. February came and went, taking the debut with it to the grave. Stay tuned for a new Rain Cabinet, and thanks again for reading my work and following me along through all this mayhem.

The Prose Locker #128: Let's try decaf... for once

2011-04-02T20:16:00.003-04:00

Your cover is blown--your plasticity does more than to corrupt you. It envelopes the vows; it highlights your willingness to rescue he who has marooned. Was it so hard to maintain a modest faith to all of yesterday, when the price was right, when the child was conceived? You know--smudging an analysis of your condescension will have no immediate effect on me, only long-term consequence. You know what would happen, too; that's when we'd target each other's stare and insist on looking back.

You're such an escapist; you'd do anything to sleep in. You're the pain of a prescription, and you pretend poverty happens to everyone. What ever happened to your love of natural selection? It's the lipstick you wear--it has me by the throat. You're never on time for me anymore.

The Prose Locker #127: Love and Death: Part I

2011-03-18T20:05:00.012-04:00

Your sad eyes go a long way--do you know that? I want to remind you of something, if I can.

I first noticed you noticing me notice you... well--it was way-back-when; your mother was drying her laundry if I recall, as you were always inspired to aggravate her once-a-week, Sunday evening, outdoor charades. Though even having never known I was shoveling soil or planting seeds on the outskirts of your property, you would have never chosen to stay indoors--not where an artificial rose garden served to drive you to the point of crazy. I know--I've watched it terrify you more than I'm ever willing to admit.

The world, as either green or gaunt, was whatever had been left behind by that series of heart-wrenching hobos you'd sworn to abide--those family burdens, falling like seawater from a swan's heel. On the way out, you told me you had bad knees, yet for thinking of yourself as being slow, I had much difficultly in keeping up with all your tender philosophies, escalating well-beyond your own control.

Smiling into the razor, I still showed no signs of growing cumbersome over your eccentricities, not when you were well-prepared to explain them in as much detail as you possibly could; meanwhile, my limbs lied buried beneath the sands of your favorite beach. Were you never concerned with being found there--never fearful the sun could have given your position away by loaning you its shadow? I was concerned you would be found. You and I were like bears burrowing out from within a winter cavern, fishing for the Summer's Labrador and his keen sense of direction. "May he someday take us to where the city is lit by cruelty," you once whispered eagerly. "You mean where the boats can cruise the strip for bait," I asked. You stood slowly into your halo and softly spoke: "No, darling... where the boats are laughed at for their limitations, where our children can someday cater to our self-serving conditions, where ladders are left outside unlocked windows of an overflowing bank." "You're so stupid," I thought, smiling toward the corn.

The Prose Locker #126: I know I cannot continue to manipulate you, but it's a habit I find too easy at harboring

2011-03-06T14:28:00.017-05:00

I know, I know--I cannot continue to manipulate you, but it's a habit I find too easy at harboring. See--there is not a single threat I have ever made--usually carved, you're right, by the "Y" chromosome--that you have not dissected and prosecuted in an open court, as well as no more menial moments of I-know-this-and-you-know-that; they were left impeded by a judge who rents his most prestigious condo to your father's mule--exactly where I believe your father's mule to belong, by the way.

Any or all magic happened only as we muscled beyond the neurological colosseum of our optical engineers--those pesky brain pilots who always fly us into the no-fly zones. They have bestowed upon us an aisle that has cut too far right; remember, we don't do well with what is right--at least that is what you declared on your way out the door.

But if I'm being honest, I think if only I had the money I needed to survive on my own, I would have tossed your philosophies into the wind ages ago. You know me, though--a soup-sipping survivalist who puts himself first... a seminar for the scathed who puts its people second. What else were you really expecting? Christ? Child of a higher God? Sorry, but I don't have a single bone in my entire body reserved for your religious repertoire. I'm afraid you'll have to marry another, or you can pretend that whatever I'm talking about fills your head with enough questions that we both disappear from each other's sight.

The Prose Locker #125: Baby, you're vintage... and I can't fix that

2011-02-16T20:28:00.022-05:00

The butt of your look is a blindside to the emptiest of my travels; it sits mostly exclusive, via the diamond, via the dollar, and the choice you're so keen on considering... well, it's dependent upon two opposing variables: an aesthetic onslaught of wealth versus wit, or an anatomical onslaught of cock versus cunt; sexy... if you can stand for that sort of thing.

I want you to imagine the impact of all my previous dames taking the mound if to only pitch an unjust fit; their efforts are married to the opportunity of disengaging one's public flower from one's pubic root. Don't you think it would be pessimistic to pretend I was hurt by the past? I mean--do you, for example, still find partners willing to re-encode themselves into adolescent sprites, or do you merely force them to forsake their moral matrix for some hairball scheme--harassment that won't even last the night?

Still--it's my uncontrolled temper that pushes you from atop your halo with little-to-no explanation--just my evil errors eroding the Earth, ending the energies that excite your most explicit ecstasies. Sure, I'd sleep next to your condescending daydream--and I have--but what are my chances at ever entering your subconscious? That's where the real healing is done, isn't it? And if not there, then where does a man go if he wants to infect the sick with his simulated serums? Wherever this may be, may I never, along the way, find ways to spoil your self-esteem.

The Prose Locker #124: The magma has risen here on Sycamore. There is not much time remaining. Should I meet you somewhere?

2011-02-15T21:23:00.019-05:00

Dear love of agronomy,

While having recently been crippled by her cosmetic warhead (yet again), she has finally laid upon my lap a pair of legs--both monotonous in their breathing, both seemingly ashamed at what they have done to me. She said over silence: "It was as if I was a perch... adrift in a sea of rock, and there, inadvertently developed a man-crush on the Marshall it called 'whale,' but I should have known he would take me down--an obvious nod to all the time he spent plotting with the mermaid."

But this feeling I have--this empty and under-handed vase with all its flowers removed--why has it yet to cease her anxiety? I thought we were past this nut-cracking narcissism--this calculated suspicion. How has she correctly assumed there still lives the best of me while I stand behind this affliction for you? I look the fool. I look the part. And where--obviously sulking in patience--are you right now? Please write back... before she tries making love to me.

The Prose Locker #123: The boy is conscious if the man is dead

2011-02-11T10:30:00.015-05:00

The country's largest store was near the town's longest river; I had to walk six miles to get there, with no guarantee they would share with me a single shell. Meanwhile, the leather on my back was excruciatingly preserved, tied by knots the size of fists, but I decided to leave it to a black and retarded man, emaciated by something he heard from Congress. He lived with an ear to the ground. He lived in the cathedral of a Chevrolet crypt; this was almost two miles into my trip--the short break was no short-cut, so we did not speak for long.

Hammer, my dog, was also in the bag--his head bobbing as a hollowed cork, bathing in a municipal of snow that was falling on an array of moments where I would quietly check for consciousness. For every moment I had paused my feet, he softly nudged his back... checking for consciousness.

After hiding Hammer while at the store's counter, I hurriedly shuffled my feet out the door, worried the clerk would change his mind. I then sat Hammer down, was able to lift his frozen chin out the bag; I was quick to kiss his nose--again, checking for consciousness. He glanced up at my blue eyes... but it was short-lived. And I knew he would continue to give it a shot, but I thought it was my responsibility to be on my way had he tried.

Near an isolated dozen of Montana's largest spruce, I pulled him from his suffering, and nestled us into a winter's shade. His wheezing grew warm on my lap; my eyes watched his respiration slow to a stop, only to start again... and again. As I combed his fur, I thought in great depth of my father, theorizing over what his reasons were for leaving my mother and me. This, too, was short-lived--like always--but something stayed on my mind this time-a-around, something... positive. It was the most beautiful thought I had ever had.

Smiling, I sat Hammer on the snow, stepped back and drew up my arms. I saw his eyes fold and his tail curl. There was a mean jerk, followed by the loudest scream I had ever heard. Afterward, I thought: "Red, white, and blue--yes, indeed. Liberation at its most vague."

Poem: Credit goes to the bird (and its distinctive point of view)

2011-02-05T10:30:00.018-05:00

A darkened brow burns holes into the snow;

its landscape,

but a pasture for the blind.

The patriarch collects consciousness from a creed;

his confession,

pulled from the jerk of a broken vine.

A daughter sits shadowed by ovarian hogs;

their pardons,

but a speck of salt in the abyss.

Her young borrows its genes from the floor;

its mother,

a memory that will someday forget to exist.

A drinking giant spears a naked wall;

its reasons,

but an answer to the questions ahead.

The matriarch centers her thoughts on leaving;

her sobs,

a vivacious voice that sides with the dead.

The Prose Locker #122: Another... and another...

2011-02-03T12:05:00.005-05:00

Both kidneys are considerably caked in what I term as a cosmetic casualty; they have no idea what I'm trying to do to them. Let's just say, I do it for the laziness involved. Some say my pride has been used to create biological panic; as my liver--a spiked vegetable in a jar of red wine--has finally been conditioned to kill. It dangles on the corner of 53rd and 8th, lukewarm and lost. It's an ambulance built on sugar and fat.

An "unleaded lawman?" Please--I can go down on something a hell of a lot worse, and if need be, there is still a fist worth of faggots who I can call on as friends. They don't mind turning me into a boy. Hey--it's my responsibility to stay clean, but not too clean.

You know--when the moon sends its gravity to the spine of a star, it's still here with me, in some form of reach, no thanks, of course, to the helium in my head. But I often feel ridiculous in that, when both hands are so full of all this Earthly shit, my mouth serves to act as a muscle that milks the moment for yet another excuse. Anything to get another opportunity to set myself apart; I mean--just look at how my mother has taught me to speak. It's pathetic.

The Prose Locker #121: Raw food (It's beginning to affect the way I speak)

2011-02-01T21:54:00.008-05:00

Sadly, the disease has found a bigger bungalow in which it spends its time, planning ways to spite me. I have yet to order myself to death, but what did come before me has, and no fetish can fight this fate. From a worm's point of view, I allowed my body to fall near a patch of seeds--dead seeds. These seeds are arranged in no particular order; they merely sleep where they sit. They have no virus to bug them, no weapons of mass destruction to wrestle away their philosophies. It's an existence that needs no introduction. It wants no identity of its own.

Along the way, I've permed my skin with boils. They have weakened my chances at finding love. At every center, lies the hope that I can exchange them for a series of better mistakes. No promise has been made, but I suspect I will be let down.

Meanwhile, Halloween arrives, still a silly situation; it does not know what to scare us with. If it at all knew what death could get away with, it would cease to frighten even the most vulnerable of victims. It would simply become a Christmas for the dark; celebration no. 2., followed in part by a Cancer for the mouth; letters X, Y and Z.

The Prose Locker #120: Thank you for the poem; I'll read it later

2011-01-28T20:21:00.013-05:00

Your last entry read: "Dear, William, please--I beg of you--reconsider the wrath of your sexual appetite. I cannot bear your temper, your treasured cigar. Please, if my word means a thing, seek--by pleasure and permission--my sister, my daughter; just make sure her soul fits your size."

I did not bother for long with your generous and gated, grammatically-gracious Greek. I've never wasted one iota on a long-haired chromosome, nor have I ever fed on her bacteria just the same. You know--you speak of slamming that head of yours in the door, or piercing your vulva with a bullet the size of Europe, but we both know what it will take to see me leave: that bedbug--front and center. Just invite that mister of yours over, and we shall get to a place where we're all comfortable with each other. As for the little man, may the big man split his apple and steer semen toward his stomach. I know--I'm being a child. What are you going to do about it--write another poem?

The Prose Locker #119: Went for it; put it in from behind; she even said she had AIDS

2011-01-22T10:37:00.006-05:00

I used to think I was drunk and dreamy--I wouldn't have touched a thing before that inception; maybe I indulged in watered-down vodka, but just merely a sip or two, and I had already fallen out of control. There was a time--a party in a basement. Tabitha was drinking Tab at a table discussing tabloids; she passed on ecstasy, wanted to tell me of a personal story: she had once hired Mexican genitalia to guard her from herself. Though after it failed to disengage, she smothered her son; he was only five. I was entertained by her honesty.

Later in the night, while mixing tongue and cheek into the lyrics of a karaoke ballad, she used most of her time to eye-ball my eye-ball; she eye-balled my glass; she eye-balled the crust on my lips. She needed help off the stage. I was too shy to comply--just pretended I didn't notice.

Stirring ice-water, I then felt finger-nails swiping my collar, and to my relief, she was asking for a car. I'd instantly thought of coffee cups, fast food napkins, works boots. But then I noticed the bruises on her breasts. I asked myself, "What of those things could really be of concern to her?"

A string of Mid-Western motels, priced as an awesomeness... and a bit out of reach; only one was found affordable; only one room available. I waited in the truck while she checked for police. She gave me the sign, she gave me a very nervous sign. I stopped scratching my head and started scratching the door handle.

After kneeling near her knees, sliding her heels off, I noticed a crack pipe in the top of her stocking. Glaring up, she used her lighter to accentuate the blush. I felt so... illegal. So, I waited for her to light it, as I suspected it would detract from any sexual obligation.

After taking time to toke on her tool, she had yet another confession (I was coughing over the first sentence or two). I finally heard how she had recently been diagnosed with AIDS. She said, coolly, "Don't worry. If you catch anything, we'll just move in together." I began thinking of those work boots, those fast food napkins, those coffee cups; they were beginning to frighten me. I used them to take off my pants. All she had left were ashes and AIDS... ironically intact... on the bed.

Time stopped. I had no protection from what time was holding over me. She began to lose patience with me, and before I could reconcile the charges brought upon me, I had pled guilty. Sentence? Life with no parole. And, unlike what she proposed, my time would be spent in solitary confinement--only a window to watch over me, a window to watch me wait.

The Prose Locker #118: The "Nigger" and the "Wigger:" A Love Story in Black & White

2011-01-20T12:15:00.004-05:00

"No body better than a body of black or blue brand." That's what I think--no, that's what I say, Mister Jock, Mister Conservative. When and if darkness chooses to set, it's up to my enlightened elegy to find a way to maneuver pass the Food Stamp prison you've sentenced me to, and there, near Section 8, I breed with a big, bad, black bitch, whose blood-borne illness is just jacked by Buick's and buckshot--which reminds me...

It was in a Ku Klux shed near a Klan-ridden wood--1987, the year; she broke my back and put the pieces into a barrel--firewood, she said; fire would help to suppress those jagged edges. There on the stomp, I sat only meters from a pair of Skinheads eating sausage for lunch; there, I sat licking my lips and scratching my crotch. The camouflaged four-wheeler matched my two-best teeth, and brother-to-brother, those 'heads began to grow silent, intimidated, and in time... jealous. That's what I've reduced my audience to: peeping Toms who peep over the wee-wee to see... if their urine has had any affect over me. I guess it does my big, bad, black bitch good when she can eat sausage, too; look at that! Ten inches from dialing 9-1-1, and she still can cream her pants. Gotta love what the Earth can grow.

The Prose Locker #117: The Age of Fog

2011-01-13T10:00:00.005-05:00

I, the misshapen moth in a state of medicinal mourning, said--and I quote--"take my wife and you shall see a tired, ornery soul that refused to bait the adultery that once offered to save me, refused to drink champagne with the dish-washing dingbat that smelled of lemon-scented lotion--quite simply, refused to destroy what sought to destroy. But take my wife to dinner, and here is all I will predict: you will be punished by Pagan politics that pretend to pour passion over the cuts on your wrist."

It's not that I am troubled or too hollow at milking her for a minute of mercy; I take it that I'm just mad at the world (and you know how that can go). I throw fits outside the post office, tear bills in half and drop them into an empty parking lot. I married a woman with children; we lived in a circus and performed strange acts, making it difficult for others to digest all the shit I've dropped into a dime-store diary. If I have anything to say about it at all, I did it for only myself--so much in fact, she's now desperate to dial numbers no one has called in years.

I was a happy man, I'm unhappy in saying. I used to dance with sticks of dynamite in my fingers, with hungry hands on the back of my shoulders, and the only thing that ever came out of the experience was a familiar anecdote: a shrinking of the head--the memorial dropped from the modulation that has slowly moved me into now.

The Prose Locker #116: If rape was the act of a gentleman, she would fire her attorney and marry her father

2011-01-05T20:36:00.019-05:00

I first kissed her itty-bitty blood beak--a bleak and balding situation, a long-lived symphony in need of a larger stage--leaning against her mother's back who was pouring her father's beer. There, we were able to stray anonymously--sloth sliding into shame, sending sirens over a strange and shapeless day. In the past, she would make a pass. In the present, she passes on any sign of physical pressure. But like a shark cornered by a fish, I can only erase her demands by way of dehydration; this leaves her to argue that I care only to wrestle with her reasons of reluctancy for the sole sake of manipulating her quiet and religious flair. Boy--if only she couldn't see the forest for the trees.

Laminated by way of habit, she loves to wear hair in her face, and every time her mother asks for my opinion, I try my best to give an honest answer: "Yes, it gets in the way, but so do you, as does both the phone and microwave. In the end, it's hard to imagine me connecting with anything that does." Meanwhile, father has taken his last Alka-Seltzer, and is sure to notice my clothes on the floor once his eyes have fully opened. If only the party knew how to sustain its people, if only she kissed back--I could shower; I could kill; I could bag groceries for a grandmother of twelve.

The Prose Locker #115: She's fat and she's fine

2010-12-30T17:07:00.007-05:00

She said, "... just swallow it for God's sake; I know what I am," and still, I kept visualizing her at the stove--hung like the balding bark of a river's skull, hurt by the things she cannot stand to see. Tragically, her skin has separated from the bone, and every time we discuss the caloric side of life--ironically--we're both having more than our share. She wants so desperately to peel away the skin, but time has dragged it away from her grip. Her hope now lies in the corner... like a rolled American flag.

I have never offered her to dance, but have seen how she would bend backward had I ever mustered to courage to ask. She reeks of concoctions, but often uses it to her advantage. For example, I used to be afraid of breaking the law, until she found a way to keep us afloat on a pair of expensive sofa cushions, for which I admit to having taken for granted. As with lice, I just scratched and scratched until the hair was gone.

Yesterday, she testified in the mirror, "Kill me!" I couldn't help but think, "... might it help?" That's mean of me, though.

(even though death is found in the living, I see dying as a mere disappearing act--one where even the magician is found clueless)

The Prose Locker #114: The Wolves of 1984

2010-12-12T12:38:00.022-05:00

Those scholar'd suits--short-sighted but sorry--were just too cute and cavalier--"a million" lives, they suggest, embedded into the bowels of the Earth in 1984, and like a gold and gullible garden born beneath the sun, everything of value... easily gone to waste after the sun decided to fall.

That colored boy, cultivating 'til death, was what the Oromo starved itself for while fighting to filter concern and plot a defense. They felt the white man could improve his tan if only he were willing to sit in the sun, bandaged in grass and broken by God.

Once, while the wolves lied dying, the weather was set for farming coffee and watering mother's hair, but the Muslims ate their way through and swallowed every child whole. "No medicinal magic for friends of the flood," "no merciful maid to carve the moon," "no martyr to marry for his meal;" these were the epitaphs found atop every stolen jar of grain. Meanwhile, the parlor practiced its negligence to find only water, seeping through the cracks of a marbled commando who ran from the fire and fell into legend.

Christmas trees were erected but fostered little hope. The shade was given by the sun, and if they refused to sit in its wrath, they would simply change shoulders and gossip of shadow and shame until night bestowed them. Then--and only then--could the wolf give his voice a break... and die in a dream of doubt.

The Prose Locker #113: Vietnam 101

2010-11-29T12:22:00.014-05:00

Fifty-five years into a Christian'd century, a group of vegetational cultivators fuss over the colonial colonel who's breaking his back in order to breed defense from their Buddhism; their tent-pole is of course weakened by the knot of an American noose.

Four million pairs of sandals were exchanged for leathered high-tops, but it did not increase the height of any particular point of view. The eternal message was a mimicry--the worst kind of scream--quickly annihilated by the whispered demands of its opponent. Any movement to aid the king would perish for the sake of mercy. Their gift is in dehumanizing their involvement; they publish their children into the foreground in hopes of steering the barrel from their father's mothering protest.

Johnson sat plotting on presidential bones, but starved the story of its importance. The billion dollar paper chase had just begun--flaring its blond arms in front of a series of drawn stars, as if to communicate peace to the Earth's accountant. Genocide... permanent and penniless, though profit still preyed upon by the predicated pilots of Rolling Thunder.

The last life to lose was taken by a boy who was born in a draft--the color of communism forever foreign to his eye. The Western region would later warrant a rescue; ready to die, it finally fell victim to an impenetrable poet who spoke through a camouflaged radio. He, alone, collapsed the camaraderie of united sons--his hallucinogenic effect tying their shoelaces to the leg of a Vietnamese pig.

The Prose Locker #112: The "nigger" is back--or did it ever leave?

2010-11-24T20:24:00.021-05:00

When I was young--really young--I would often imagine I was a black-painted Barbie in love with some Nile-ridden messiah, holding back his mathematics--a way to spell words for which no one else could read. But in wallowing thru adolescent lip, did I ever claim to know it all? Most would argue, "yes;" others hope I never need to ask.

Lately, it's been leaving me tender--nostalgically involved, nostalgically renewed. I've never felt such... animosity... circling the cave in my conscience; there, a black bonfire brews beneath the bone and borrows from the blood:

This woman--this African poem--she plants a rainbow in my neutrality, saps the strength from a collection of clouds that were drawing my kiss to a section near the sun. She glides her wrist pass my eye, and grabs the needles in her bag. All of the park has now inquired; the bow of their retinas casting shadows on our spoken songs.

Her toes tear apart the grass as she arches back and says, "let 'em look; they want to participate, but have pronounced themselves as the prey."

Her grass-coated hair is a testimony on how I feel. No--I never asked for much, but I also never gave away anything I was given. Thank God for moments of Godlessness.

The Prose Locker #111: Born without a bra, buried without a bra

2010-11-14T18:45:00.009-05:00

My ol' lying lady and her long loops of larceny--she no longer has the time to borrow me from my achievements. It was my own supply of energy that saw me out; it was better than drinking, better than drawing my own conclusions, and it has taken an enormous amount of time to perfect. It was, at a time, a bit poetic, or prone to pleasure, like a pilot falling for the earring in his partner's ear. But now, his testament would read, "Butt out, boy. It was just fascination."

Dancing her elbows upon the floor--that dank darling of both dust and doom--she feels a bit faint as the doorbell rings. It is fast... and it is fate, fading into the living room, fishing for her feet. I tell the officer, "she'll go willingly; just don't pull her hair, and please don't forget to wear the gloves you were given."

The Prose Locker #110: A sundial of great solidarity

2010-10-25T12:52:00.005-04:00

With history, we accidentally, but often formerly, ascend to only the feet of our futures; for history, then, can only be achieved by keeping descenders at bay. It has my name on it -- your name on it. Collectively, we're told how to argue. Nothing upsets the balance of this argument more than spending too much time on analyzing the demand itself. Though, we still do; we submit a lot of energy in dictating and destructing the lines of communication, that we forget to communicate our imaginations by separating them from the science involved. That has been the legend, thus far: the capitalistic conscience exceeding its own collar-bone. We nit-pick the nit-picking, and we neutralize the neutral by regulating authority into their lack of effort. I see myself as a sundial; I do simply exist for the sun, but do color all shadow in my own way.

The Prose Locker #109: The whipping post

2010-10-05T19:32:00.011-04:00

His coffee-colored elbow edges the Cashmere into the backyard of a creek near the woods, where barbed-wire bulks up the weeds as a form of invisible branching. By yielding, his feet has dodged the mud, that of which still drowns the ditch that lies ahead. It is there we start the celebration; it is there I find reasons to doubt the existence of God.

In a single afternoon, the drunken farmer, pieced-together by his navy-blue suspenders, finds me huddled near a tree, hurting -- pain from the stomach up. He ties me to the back of an alligator stop sign, he pockets his chew, and steals Cognac from the flies on his glass. I cry, I cry the entire time. He never stops his mouth from running -- not until dark, or until the final nail has fallen. And I'm not one to pray, so I so easily forget how to think for myself. Had my mother lived to know, she would have probably married him. I could have been his very best man. I could have been his only son.

Poem: The Rooster

2010-09-26T19:17:00.011-04:00

Quite adjacent to the lamb,
man so easily ignores his contempt
- that of what struggled to set his own watch free
struggled to end the dream
without first learning how to fall asleep.
It was in that morning that he felt the most applied
for Autumn had struck a cord in his eye
and the land was finally configured to his tastes.
All desire to accuse his friend
could finally be postponed,
for at last the sky came to match the mud on his skin.

The Prose Locker #108: New night, old narrations

2010-09-25T20:26:00.011-04:00

As I sat by her knee, I knew I would eventually give up. She talked funny, and she talked out of turn. She threw laundry in the wash and popped gum in the bathroom. I kept my gut sucked in, but even as I lost the weight, I couldn't lose the focus. In-and-out of the kitchen, I made sure to complement her on whatever I would see -- the ironing board, the kettle, the waitressing garment hanging over the sheers in what appeared as a last-hope effort to get it dry. But I just had a bad taste in my mouth, so much that I became nervous over the smell of my breath. This was no Ménage à trois, and no unnecessary cousins were to be involved, so the crows had flown to the carcasses, and she and I were left in the nest. I guess that's just me -- emotionally possessed with a service for others, and I always allow it to go too far... and too slow.

The Prose Locker #107: The whore and the wasp (and the cacophony is deliberate)

2010-09-24T19:14:00.029-04:00

That submersible sex-pot, that serendipitous stewardess -- always shielding the sun in order to serve the moon -- slams her skit into the Sergeant and hurries to hunt for his hose. She, a schnook, forgets what the snake can summon. See -- she's been paid well... and often... so it's nothing unlike the rest. Stipulations have changed, though the sadist has remained the same. It's always a safe bet, too: she vandalizes her vegetarianism and vomits on the doubt in her mouth, though suddenly, she finds the strength to swallow the wasp whole, all the while trying to choke the sting in an effort to stick the somersault.

Her breasts are unleaded, her spine is an umbrella. Together, they form her cosmetology. It's but a brand-new brat butting heads with a brand-new bird until the cash has been caught. And every night, there's a new carcinogen abloom, and if left unaddressed, it's likely to cause a concussion, which will catapult her from the cartoon and into the casket, a fact she hates to observe and fails to obey. The wasp welcomes her on how to withdraw, but the wasp will have to wait; she's just too close to comfort.

The Prose Locker #106: She is the gnome of my nebula -- just incredulous, if not a tad incomplete

2010-09-19T21:24:00.018-04:00

She smokes from a secret pack and salutes the salesman in her mind. In the parlor of her lungs, she splits apart the paper in an effort to pollinate the grass. And where wisdom walks, she wallows in the whatnot, worries that her wedding ring was a mere candle, committed to circling the confusion of her chaos. By the fading thirst of her favorite cacti, bottle caps are nothing if not regrettably left turned over, bearing a kind of cold karma into the carpet. This satire may have improved through the years, but has aged her considerably. As she wipes her face, the grass seemingly plants another weed up her nose, staining the scent with something so sour, she refuses to acknowledge that it was ever satiable in the first place.

So as to -- again -- add yet another wrinkle to this whole thing, here I am, laughing in her face over something that gives her the courage to cry, and here I am, pretending to participate, if only to silence the concern in my head or direct my angst toward something a bit more... perfect -- something a bit more alien than attitude or aggravation. Galaxies ahead, I shun the ego and shorten the blast; I only wish I had a little more time on Earth to understand the terror for which takes total control of the wheel and does everything it can to drive her insane. But it's nice to see she's still driven to succeed at -- well... anything.

The Prose Locker #105: You will find more victims near the cabin

2010-09-09T18:25:00.017-04:00

The bottom line has a long and loyal following. I know, that with myself, there is a hint of vanity involved. So much, in fact, I have yet to reach the point where, by showing me how colorful and cunning that of which has been my submission, shame will lunge hate into the crowd and destroy my odds. I must detach any and all conceit, where light has been pouring through my fingers and keeping my eyes closed. I should continue to farm in cycles, and I should form percussive splits -- all which follow the shoulder and shorten the strike.

Thank Heaven for monstrous muzzles, seeing ahead and milking the mistakes for what they're worth. If violence always came this cheap, I would lose my waist in order to walk off into a day without war, where all politics carefully construct the beauty of my mantle as if to celebrate their cigars. And there, the mustard-colored cuticles would spread ice from glass to glass, the letters would blow pass the boat during a night of deep wood-carving. The pioneers would breathe and they would build -- friendly fire in place, to warm the blood and cool the blame. Finally, the big, bad bear could hibernate his cold-blooded infancy -- he could cage the wastefulness of his horseplay.

The Prose Locker #104: My mother and her Napoleonic neglect vs. I, from the window

2010-08-29T15:37:00.013-04:00

With her enormous eyes emancipated from the cellular corruption of greater concerns (like AIDS), she sometimes slept in the barn with brute cowboys; she favored pig skin over the Butcher's Broom. While still lit by the sun, she slid most of her smokes pass the sage and invisibly inhaled the irritant. Through pure coincidence, the leather on her back began to darken her skin. She patiently thought about what to do, though, as with mute melanoma, the follicles were too fun to forever foil; so she insisted on their growth.

The butterfly has bought the best money can buy. Included in the price is an unforgiving heir who carefully contradicts her advice. He doesn't believe in this contradiction, but rather feels obligated to have her feeling as though she is not alone. He's not beyond repair, but he's getting close, and if he doesn't soon shut the shade, he may inadvertently invest himself in her shadow... for life.

The Prose Locker #103: Excuses, excuses

2010-08-23T17:35:00.018-04:00

Fertility is found crumbled in a wicker basket near my work clothes. It appears that I beat you to the punch, and through a rather straight line, at that -- or at least that has been the case thus far. The ocean in which your orgasm will arrive is surely dug ahead of time, and that is typically mundane of you to think of me like that. I sense you may even delight in wanting to always spread things thin, while the knots in your hair -- that Italian-styled sham, chemically caked in some clinical color -- tightens my wrists and swallows my youth. Our personal responsibilities are as necessary as the neighbor's peep-hole; Through it, they see I am punctured, but know me as punctual, and if they never get the opportunity to see us leave, I'm sure they would vote for you, and only you.

In a long-and-lasting effort to seize permanent control, I'll give you any child you may think you need, but you must not forget that I often father your least-favorite excuse -- "I've got me on my mind, so please leave a message." If your satisfaction can wait, if you can start moving your theories aside, we can be on our way. Then -- and only then -- will our children begin to fantasize about the favors in which we will soon owe them. When we used to speak about our parents, we knew we led ourselves on, but even now, it's something we try hard not to discuss, if only to give sex and its sweet notion a chance to conclude.

The Prose Locker #102: The Santa Monica Pulp

2010-08-17T21:21:00.017-04:00

She took me across the road, and in doing so, I had spoken to a man who felt the need to fabricate much of what was his past. He blundered through the story, as if he had something to hide. He was awkward in his verbs, and italicized when it would benefit his reputation. I glanced over my shoulder, and allowed my eyes to drag her forward, if only to emphasize to him... my sexuality. Meanwhile, I can recall how safe I felt by never learning his name.

He vitalized the beauty of the Bay; he pocketed my time as though it was his own, muttering about the Golden Gate gamers, who often lost their lives at one level or another. He held a pencil in his lips and juggled the lead between his teeth. There was but one occasion where he had spoken of his personal relationships. I stood debriefed, but felt no reason to counter the image of what was obviously directed to the curb.

He mentioned "pulp," and how his community felt so encouraged by such definitions. That "pulp" -- the nerve-bearing basement in the most hardened of shells; "It's also the most sensitive," he said. I found relief in my comprehension, but through guarded confidence, still felt out of place -- out of context and severed from the ear. He was handsome, but nothing to write home about, and I think she agreed, if even to a fault.

The Prose Locker #101: "Brittle and bewildered," as the old man said

2010-08-16T00:51:00.025-04:00

As I remind myself of the dire need to recall on how particular toys tunneled through my biblical landslides, I work hard to lengthen the memoir -- an inter-coastal exposé, if you will -- and cheer for how strong its ability sat in distracting me from its own inadequacies. As through way of an otters' backstroke, I once scrolled my retina down the stream of the pistol's spray, but in searching for a laugh, I could do nothing to stop from having to get wet. My foot, running backward, fell flat unto a pet's spine, and in keeping with the kin -- in keeping us both alive -- I failed to see my mistake.

The labyrinth I've swayed has, indeed, been sorely missed, if only to have yet another opportunity in looking back while forwarding my regrets. The pillow my head has staked is that of which has become my only success, but downward, by the foot of the bed, lies an entirely different side of things. I sense it is there where I can shake off the clock and all its imposing demands, though as new days dawn, I must live with the man it has made. The toy is there -- somewhere -- though its face has been swapped for the hopeless mediocrity that darkened the playground of its soul.

The Prose Locker #100: Controlling what you see in an abstracted arc is a cruel but clever specialty

2010-08-14T00:56:00.009-04:00

If I do choose to awake from this strong state of self-servitude -- if I take the advice of which wards in great, venomous supply, and choose to focus my energy elsewhere, I'm terrified that the sweet scrutiny will swiftly subside, and I will be forced to confront the condensation of my critics. Yes, they yell, but in a long and quiet yarn; they pardon my grammar, but only to question my point of view. They are but a seed to a greater savage -- sworn to secrecy by the shadiest of sanctions, those found slouched in the corner with a comb. There is a gift I can possess, one where their mouths would close -- one where my mouth would close, and the only words left to speak of would be those found in the hand that heeds the beauty of their harm.

Most of life's eccentricities can be compared to a short, stud of a spear; most of the time it takes a loss, though eventually it finds a way to bleed. I have found -- only recently -- that its only prison is a place where most of its subscribers are honored to have at least survived yet another day. Point being; the least I can expect in this second half is just that -- to afford an hour in which I am allowed to ask for a minute to myself. There, I spare little jargon and erupt in what can only be a fatality of great, mental depth, focusing on clarity and control. Much like the Phoenix, I sit in scarlet and cloud the death of cinnamon. The closest I get to a second birth is a mere moment when my femur flies ahead on its own, and dark distance, then, is deposited in my dance, in an effort to both sear away the past and sort out the pain.

The chance to comply belongs only to a coward who needs to calm his glands. The oath of writing without the rain is a promise he fights hard to retain. The nudity abstracts his ability to point out his profession. The burial of his disasters finds a way to abort such demise. He has always been committed... but careless. He has always been confident... but candid. He is but a blanket in heat, and the bottom line stills remains: the redundancy of his unreadable rants still serve to make him bleed, with only an occasional option to bathe.

Poem: The Mouse

2010-08-08T18:30:00.005-04:00

Circular eyeball... bare and brunette,
hiking its skirt and sorting the view.
Amid the flood
of a house in bleach,
it strong-arms the man
in order to defend his mold.
Subtracting the hue...
he locks arms
with the courage
to wait for dark,
where vengeance is tight
and response is low.

He shall not return the prize,
nor rewind the right
to charge the wall.
Though, the cyst will be for good,
and satisfaction
-- it goes to sleep
by the sound of a spring;
at last, saved from having to carry on.

The Prose Locker #99: When a Sir can harvest his needs

2010-07-21T20:38:00.032-04:00

Pleading against the pilgrimage of her femininity only serves as a robe to her bath; she hopes to hose off the faith and shave away the sin, though without ever having learned to swim, she, as well, never learned to drown. I have rescued her by the hair I-don't-know-how-many-times. One dankly-drawn evening, I spoiled something I was suppose to conceal -- hurriedly, I said to her (as she exited the pool), "Hey... he's gone, to court with his client, to fornicate with his fling." She tightened her towel, while both her eyes sat upon the edge of a night sky. She sure didn't seem to explain what it was all supposed to mean, but it was something I came to expect from her.

Long ago, I swaddled away my reliance (had to). She was always telling me things I was not suppose to hear. Every Halloween, every Fourth of July, all in the best of times, we sat star-lit, surrounded by sweet strangers. Only had I been more of a man, could I have then punched my way through, I guess. Today, I am elated by the beauty of bondage; I am sworn in by the sex of secretarial sergeants; I care little in convincing myself of escaping a vulva's kink. This world has been forever trawling the depths of my integrity, and just when I begin to fit in, up from the deep comes another catch -- caught in the fact that I cannot have it both ways.

Sadly, the condominium courtship has long been ironed by the weight of old age -- where we are unable to continue... undisturbed. I still visit the scene; I fret the flower, but face the facts: nothing ever rallies against the rat's race of a real relief; nothing ever makes much sense outside the scenes in my mind. I know -- I must mow the mourn and dry the dream, for I have to learn, that to grow alone is to forever fuse one's thoughts to the memories of someone else. Only there can we remain in-tact.

The Prose Locker #98: The librarian is not what he seems

2010-07-13T19:49:00.018-04:00

A cruel and inconsiderate deficit drives me to the oak-varnished door near the place where people park their bags. I stand harboring a battle against muscular contractions -- a fight to memorize particular parodies, those of which are staged in a lake of phobic laceration. As easy and as often as I deny the world's facts, I'm just as easy to feel a little small by what I hear. What if I can't corner the cranium in a game of craps? What if burglary is my suggestion? The time limit, no less, darts itself across the sodium of my skin, and reminds me of how old I really am. If only the turmoil could subside; if only the hydration came a day before. I've always wanted the vagueness to turn itself inside-out, but with little left to conquer, there's no real room for anything I speak to further rhyme nor raid.

I could spend my entire life animating the lead in my hand, but something has to go to waste -- something just as important and something just as entitled. Fathom the abrasion as it beautifully balds away the death it exposed, and you can, then, inherit the ability to sense the pressure of which I pry. It's much like this -- I'm a white kite brushing pass a pale cloud, just begging that the string is let go, and finally, there's no one to stop and see if I'll land. There's a secret weapon in my concept, and it's best if never shared.

The Prose Locker #97: Africa and I: A fractured ode

2010-07-11T22:36:00.014-04:00

Enslave what little mercy is left, but I, on the other hand, may still fall afraid in firing upon all cylinders. Then again, I haven't gone beneath the knife in quite a while, so perhaps my prediction is premature. You Guinea-nested gunslinger, you infectious insider, you're yodeling in my head like a simmered spice, sipped but still not swallowed. Tucked in a chair on my vast veranda, I refuse to borrow any more patriotism, neither wrapped in bread nor written in braille. Though, whatever breath stays buried in me; whatever bone breaks me into a pair of breasts, I hope you can realize the importance of your impact. Those diamonds found between your toes are but a resting point for the Headless Horseman, who's careless and candid, but, at last, classically-trained. No matter what magnitude of misery your cells care to collect, it does seem the West will forever excuse themselves from having to service your needs.

Near open flame, your children don't really discuss me -- never have. They'd rather brag about the color of my skin. Somewhere along the way, my American pastimes form a donnybrook that divides us all. Only then, as I've wrestled them to the ground, does my stance snatch the warmth from their camel-back crusade, which was once carved by the courage of those left to die in the shade. While I muse pass their sleep, the entire picture is left accordingly; My imagination... left raking the coals and racing the cubs, just to see if and when the elephant will bruise their side -- just to find myself... a lasting part of their message -- a sweat-soaked servitude to whatever stands as my own sins.

Poem (in prose form): "By way of the Devil's guardian"

2010-07-06T19:40:00.018-04:00

My mother's hair had already turned gray;
she carpeted the ceiling with bottles of discount dye.
From deep within the basement of a root (and -- pay attention -- not once upon it),
sprang a face even I could no longer recognize.

She favored me
more than any other mistake.
Reptilian butterfly -- the talk of the 80's, and that of before,
all attached to an ovarian conduct
never willing to slide beneath an opposed view.

Buckled by the beat of burdens that bestowed her,
she painlessly left her food to stew... and to swell,
and while I sat beside her on Sunday,
she behaved as she'd always behaved.
Though, at times, I began to pinch her fat (leaving no stone unturned).

The Prose Locker #96: For the writer, it's jazz, not pop; it's stew, not soup; it's me, not you

2010-06-30T21:14:00.013-04:00

Separate me from the critic, and I'll be left with little-to-nothing to do -- especially on the social front of all-things near. See -- when tired men speak, they tend to speak to tired ears. Proceeding to conform and proceeding to confide are equally divided by the listener. It's not really important that they choose a side, but rather they exist on one path or another. Writers tend to sideline this hypothesis; they're so entirely vague at times, they dispute the philosophy each road is built upon, and while it may seem foolish to not live a life in a lane that is, in the least, moving to one direction, the writer voluntarily agrees that going nowhere is at least better than standing still.

On the other hand, if sparks were to fly -- if they were to ever board the star-train, then perhaps his difficult decisions would vanish, and friendly fire would invade. And there, he could extinguish his hostility, exchange it for something worth exacting. Finally, something to write would be only necessary if someone needed something to read. That's the real emotional aim of every good poet... to allow the rest of the world a chance to be understood, while he stalks his soul with the belief that his own stage is quietly being built by those willing to give him the time of day. Though, patience is better served cold, and often, it's mistaken for hate.

The Prose Locker #95: I see someone who can't be seen

2010-06-19T18:22:00.011-04:00

In the great, wide distance -- where the politics of blind men do what they can in bestowing the local news -- am I, left straddled in the pudding that has come to be known as American soil; I rest frozen by the jealousy of foreign fragility -- tapping my knee, pulling my lip, all amid dreams of waving from a bus that can float. Fat chance, as they say; Nothing can change those who refuse to rely on luck.

It's a "she" I see -- a bit decadent, a bit disguised, a bit derailed from the dominance of her deciders. It's as if she's at fault for falling from the friends who once welcomed her to the fallen.
I cannot prove that her agility is of a natural essence, but with what has been revealed, it's painful to think of letting it go. I almost wrestle it to the ground every time we speak, but something intercepts me, something in which I rush to refute -- something so insincere, I almost don't care to breathe once it grabs a hold of me. As with the hottest rock prowled by the coldest wave, I am distracted by everything the sea brings to shore.

The Prose Locker #94: The chores that come with charm and cheek

2010-06-11T17:34:00.006-04:00

I found her favorite flower in the bowels of the basement. Dust began to grow on its stairs, like hair on her toothbrush; accidents do occur while inept or intertwined. I immediately rushed to the phone and begged the girl to give me my privacy. She forced her judgment, while I - left in a huddle of sunlight - sat simmering on hold. Crying like a statue, I stared through the blinds, dreamed of lying next to a flood of foreign females. She never once broke into silence during what seemed to be yet another previous paragraph in an ongoing novel for which had no happy ending. I kept thinking to myself: "I never touched someone like I wanted to, and that has always kept my mouth shut."

She left me a long time ago, and since then, I've not volunteered much time in catering to the small stuff, like making the bed, sorting the drawers, or shopping for hygiene. My mind, like then, is troubled by the Western world. The media has spoiled me into thinking that I can have my way, but it's rarely the way things turn out. My way, however, is a paradox -- an uneven column of varied ideas, none of which apply to anyone but myself. I deserve to deserve, but why should I commit to any suggestion other than my own? I just want to hide in a cave somewhere. Maybe there's a cave in Europe; maybe it's in Africa; who knows? All I can see, though, is wallpaper, coffee... languages I cannot hear.

The Prose Locker #93: Screws are loose

2010-06-04T19:43:00.048-04:00

I, the carpenter, tie my nail-hammered-heart to the cupid-cryptic-cello, and fill with fluid in a oh-so-familiar frame. There goes the unmistakable void. Besides, Captain Capsule and his kiss-kiss cannot counter the courage of a courting beast. Meanwhile, I just drink. I drink to die, but I also drink to sleep. The difference is written in the poem -- promised by the verb, pronounced by the noun. There, I sell you on a few of my thoughts: let me binge on broken business; there's really no boy left to mend; only I, choosing to sulk on the memory of metal-to-marriage, soliciting my crimes through the winds of a summer built by sin and shame. Why can't I, all year long, just bore the thick side of a winter's skin (just that, my God) -- the offer I once had a chance to refuse, and did?

The Prose Locker #92: As good as it sounds, it's really not my style

2010-05-21T17:51:00.013-04:00

Sun-burnt and serious -- and within a mile of what is certainly forged through death -- I can easily come to admit: there are bad thoughts, raking neurons from the darker half of what lies as the yard in my skull. It's a breeze for others to read; a song for others to learn. Magic and memory... often mayor'd by a particular pardon (the liquid pardon). Now, my mother moves me to what is mad -- does so by preying on the ideas that once stood in her way. I can hardly blame the booze. I can hardly see the booze. I'm really just... winging it -- you know?

I need out, though -- need out if I'm ever to finish what's left in the 'fridge, and if that's not enough, I'll, at least, need a way to prove that I was always stronger than the earth found in my skeletal remains. I am merely programmed to peel. I'm also a bone for someone else to pick, so the table tilts -- boy, does it ever tilt -- but never has it fallen on me... as of yet.

The Prose Locker #91: The Bum

2010-04-13T22:40:00.016-04:00

Her keys were left hibernating in the crack of my brother's couch. Here and there, I'd stay late; I'd hear them fall further to the floor -- banking off the hinge in order to sleep outside my reach. Then, while trying to remove them from the edge of an iron elbow, a robotic ring-tone rescued my arm. It was as if the intended caller cared just enough to release my wrist as it started to bleed -- as if he or she even knew.

"I'm no good at this, sorry..." That's what she said. It was fun to decipher her distant demeanor (Yeah, as if the psychology in my life was worth first prize or even less). I talked soft, and I talked fast. I had hoped to induce some self-inflicted invite, while parting my legs and pinching my tongue.

"No..." That's what she said. Hanging up, I drowned the last drags and thought back to the couch. Finally, I put my dick away and threw away the phone. This was family, after-all.

The Prose Locker #90: Art isn't for the gay... and neither am I, it would seem

2010-03-29T14:34:00.018-04:00

'That's right, blame is as effective as caffeine."

Something very shaky drives me to a halt, but I would rather devote myself -- rather painfully -- to some form of store-front selfishness than to ever explain what exactly I mean. I just sit from time to time in places where I often discover to have visited before, where anomalies were left aggravating the antiquity of some modern rule. I readily risk the rarest of reward by raging war against the rendering of reason, and I'm not very good at that sort of thing, so I strike "truce" ahead of its time; perhaps more-than-damaging to one's own argument? Befittingly, sleep has its positive effect, but by way of blunt force, I'm nothing more than a self-conscious spasm in one's wide-open eye. I awake to pry on those small, stem-sized things. I nap throughout the course of a day, as if to reduce the importance of light. I also despise the suggestion of teeth, both brown or pearl. They concur with the comrades; they deliver me to a decisive death, and I'm a bit particular in what I choose to ignore, so it only serves to make things a whole lot worse than they need to be. I'm a polka-dot patron, full and fluttered on the edge of a striped floor. Every few seconds... movement.

The Prose Locker #89: Gum on the guardrail

2010-03-22T00:05:00.030-04:00

I once looked into what ran south off my mother's brow, and, almost continuously, I cried. I did not allow my pockets to breathe as she stood shouldering my excuse, no. We both knew she would have to convince herself that I was insane, because never before did I negotiate with those who loved me. Teeth from my mouth always drew their sounds to a close. It was a long, cruel haul, and boy, did I deserve to dwell upon the distance of my dreams.

Now -- I alienate myself with questions of length, but am only fond of a few words. I'm sewn to the satisfaction of losing my mind, but it would still be nice if someone would write off my mistakes. I saw my sister fake her way out the door! What good did it do for me to turn her in? Someone else should oblige; just some strange soul to tie these loose ends. I take my pictures in hand, and I sit near a drive. Dear God, I've been pawned away by the prayers of paperback priests, and just to admit; I fathered a son who set his sights too high. I know just about nothing, and he seems to know less than I. But here's hoping I can see his father's grave before his head protrudes with grief.

The Prose Locker #88: Got a fat man? Trade ya

2010-03-12T20:44:00.007-05:00

In his eyes were the remnants of reassurance. He was once flattered to even be considered, but drank himself to sleep before the molecules could spoil her spark. She complimented on his paragraph, spared no expense in blow-drying his metaphors. She said she would, and she came through almost immediately. It was worrying him, and he knew it would be soon over. Pillows began to intimidate his posture; curled and carried by the camera in his head. His fitness was varied but vehement -- forfeited for food, forged for freedom, failed by faith. She knew his in's-and-out's, and just how it affected his illness.

Like prom-parted puppets, they sat between meals, gargled with giddiness, and shuffled their sins. Secrets were buried beneath a bowl of oatmeal -- all their secret servings doing more harm than good. She liked how his abdominals were cinematic; invitational handwriting made of flesh and fertility. Backwards they smiled; backwards they grew. The alliterations... auctioned for making sense. He was blind but not boring, and that, he thought, could scare her back. He just needed the time.

The Prose Locker #87: I entertained the error of emphasizing a lie (she was close to changing her mind anyway)

2010-02-28T01:17:00.017-05:00

I sentenced myself to the attic of a Dodo museum. I swear it took me some time, too. And this as reason: my girl - a domesticated dream for either funeral or friend - was young enough to complain of a basket of crumbs, so all came to disconnect as we donned new scenes in order to evade the therapy that would tear time apart. So conventional and so characteristic of us to honor those who hurried back, hip-to-the-music irony straddling our Volkswagen and sewing our hair to the curb. It was fun, for as long as we could find ourselves being frank enough to frame the act.

On a hilarious day in April, she began hollering, "You lie!" Yes, I did. I was exchanging one hurt for another, if only to respond to the awful liberties born by a dozen-or-so men who streamlined a secret compartment covered by smooth skin. Though my public shards of a short-lived frown found her fumbling her own faith -- once energetically esteemed, once idolized by manipulation and age -- I was, at the time, the Caesar of poems, at odds with subliminal sarcasm and secrets of Satan. I recall resting at my proudest for lying on those fractured or sick. Meanwhile, she thought Corn Flakes could divide the voices, dawn itself upon my hungry teeth and drag my kiss toward her big, red toe. She was too wrong for me -- too wrong for anything but herself.

The Prose Locker #86: Oxygen is too patient

2010-02-14T21:57:00.009-05:00

All but the buggery of wandering worries do eerily eat upon her breasts; she and her spacious sanctions of spoiled spots. She aches, she cleans, she pretends to die. She finds the perfect excuse -- a puberty parade, where secrets sponsor the virgin by violating its searing sarcasm and sorry savings. "Let's fuck in an acid age," she begs, and then goes to hear a mundane mourning for the carpeted cataclysm where Germans idolized the impact of ice cream. "How dare sex be this cruel to the Monday members," she thinks. It's embarrassing to confess, I know. You'd much rather starve when science comes to surround you.

The Prose Locker #85: Sensitivity is often sought by the cruelest commissioners

2010-02-06T11:17:00.012-05:00

Just down the Johnny-Walker-Red-where-have-you-spiraled-me-to discussion, I, again, fingered my fingernail until it was dried and dead -- the surging sake of deleting small damage. Oh, lucrative cuticle... you, horizontal headache, where was the day where my point was finally taken by the directive dud it held down. As by final footnote, I've fixed something -- anything -- in which I once found easy to ignore, but as foreign language grew intolerant with waiting on me to grow hopeful, it came to be more populous in breaking the continuity of an irredeemable wave that neither surfed nor slept.

I now see the nightmare in that poised, little girl (near moon and kiss). I see her dress foaming at the mouth. The ginger is snowbound; suddenly studied by the storm, if only to send her shopping for a new pair of shoes. I'm laughing all the while, as if I ever understood her needs.

The Prose Locker #84: The sea should be seen

2009-12-29T02:19:00.013-05:00

To encourage you in engulfing the coast with a voyeuristic embrace is just nonsustaining. The experiment must be exchanged for something more credible; something so immune to mortality, it exclaims to the dead laborers, "Hone on thy salute, or surrender thou deck for reaping rock!" And if fear catapults the idea, stand by your weakest stroke and allow the sea to impose as I imply, "Do smother the sod in her speech, but please leave room to breathe."

On the other hand, Boston -- as ever-upon its eastern toes -- is for one final sail, while a swarm of pirating cosmos corner the senior canoes, if only to intimidate the beach-front (once scouring for soil as fast as the coral could vacuum their eyes) with lobster and innuendo. Wealth means that the waves will not wait; wealth means each man could perish if their interests are not tied to a world left unscaled.

So... in encouraging you is to encourage those Captains of ill-counseled fault. In their boots do we swim in turbulence and live in defeat. No life has been lived without having lied just a few feet from that which threatened its reasons to live, and by the grace of big, blue birds can one sense another day.

The Prose Locker #83: No muscles allowed (A holiday scripture)

2009-12-21T02:36:00.022-05:00

I can only wonder, and now oblige, the separation of trees that was once foolishly responsible for acts of restless rebellion -- busted and bronzed amid the mundane mortuaries of the mind. Although drowned by liters of liquid snow, it would come through a domestic autopsy that I would prove myself wrong in eluding secrecy and losing socialism. On another hand, the toy I called "truck" was -- in the lowest of conceivable doubt -- purchased second-hand, and I recall mother wrapping her mistakes with tear-stained decisions made by an amateur of welfare; all the way up to her enjoying the finale of a series of formidable favors (They were usually pasted to the floor of a moist mailbox, that of which smeared the date but spared the name). Though as dead as she behaved, I think she made light of it all, and when opportunity came to exchange what she had, she learned to keep things to herself. "Very good," I once thought.

Seasons later, I, alone, grew into lumbering summits of reactionary entitlements, and there, I would find a need to service society with such exclusive bouts of dank sarcasm. Then -- finally, I bid fare well to the gentlemen near the door all-together, but while tediously teetering in tubs of testosterone, something new occurred to those around me: It was safe to think about losing at the time, but it soon suffered my superstition toward serenity, and by the time I knew the date, it was a mere trend, or trekked turf, deeply disposed of ever-so gracefully, and even collaborated with for the sake of death.

As for me -- as for me, now... I miss kissing Santa Claus on the lips, and making out with him in my room. I miss thin arms and striped toothpaste. I used to think that today I'd still decorate tomorrow with something even I had never before seen; not even a thought to descend upon me, in fact. Now, a funeral's cast is forcing me to forget of what I once adored, by which they steer from me the sand in their hourglass as it falls through my jurisdiction. In fear, do I think quietly: "If I had to be something at all, would an infant corpse be completely out of the question? And would it be too controversial to explain why?"

The Prose Locker #82: Hey... Ma' -- I know one shouldn't ask, but can I come?

2009-12-15T22:58:00.010-05:00

See -- way over here (down here!) -- I'm sporting old habits again, and even though you told me to get a life, it does sort of hurt when life finally gets to me. I haven't lit your cigarette in a while, but it feels as though, if you were to die from inhalation, it would sort of take a lot of fun out of the whole thing. But first -- remember, I'm one for aging backwards, whereas feeling old comes as nothing new, so it's going to take me some time to accept how you've decided to earn your elimination.

I have an ashtray in the garage, and if it turns out to be celebratory, I'll gladly ask for the going rate, if only to avoid you while your indirect motives dream of taking me down. I think it's what you'd want -- no? My -- this -- scripture comes secondary, and it may or may not take a while to be understood, but I have hope that I can acquire the skills to do so, if just for me. That's all for which I -- anyone -- may ask of this.

The Prose Locker #81: T.V. killed the tramp in my step

2009-12-15T00:24:00.010-05:00

Noticed:

International food chains are as soluble as human lives. This may be why I forget how much money I forgot to make (or was not allowed to earn). In many instances, I'm real honest... to the point of punishment, but after honesty has worn me down, I'm often too susceptible to the facts, yet again. A fact -- for purposes of singularity and/or print -- is this: I'm a practicing puppeteer, a two-faced slime-ball who loves to engineer his worthiness for grim orchestration, tirelessly heard through the hands of an upset encore.

Regret ... (sort of):

Let's get real -- I can do without Bob Dylan, but if he wanted coffee, I'm sure I could fill a cup or two. Meanwhile, below the Bewildering Barge at Solution's Sea, I once drowned as an epileptic ache, but with a talent for speaking in song. Now, if only I could bombard the Boulevards again, I'd have it made. Seeing a signature on screen just doesn't have the same ring. There's something about the way real people breathe; I don't know. Perhaps -- with Bob Dylan aside -- I should cut someone a break and see if they keep their shape.

The Prose Locker #80: Spaghetti and Sausage

2009-12-10T01:37:00.017-05:00

I. At Home

"Sex is a phrase often and wrongfully turned into a word. If taken by the balls, its purpose is to disillusion the evidence found in overcoming its policies. We're too embarrassed to take the day off, so it would seem that, by night -- and quite inevitably -- the case would go cold for most involved."

A Living Room Death Scene:

Here, a woman's hallucinogens were discovered too inept for sky-wide adequacy; at least this child's (a daughter, by the way) mother told the minimalist of a rocket doctor... just a single night before ("So, please, up the dose"). She -- the mother -- even sawed off her tongue in an effort to fool police. It was a nice try -- said the priest, as his son saw silence through his seizing glass. Vagina exposed; veins enlarged; volunteers explaining fair vindications on unsettled property lines. The pasture was green -- the pasture... left in a box upstairs upon moving in.

A Bedroom Shower Scene:

Fog has lifted from the floor; she then skirts her comb with hair, and nuns come to her mind. There's a shock installed; there's a violence suddenly asleep below her nose. In reflections much like this, there's a symmetrical curse genetically in need of repair. It's crossing waters, it's a commercial caution collected but ignored. Vanity would say to these girls, "This... but a waste of your imagination."

II. The Interstate

"Fashion is like the flu -- it comes back even if you don't want it to."

The Friendly Proposition Scene:

California was a far indication on how youth could sustain the pressure of a long drive. It was in the car, after mother died, that she easily belonged to some cognitive wasp, looking to storm her with strength and supply her with sun. A monkey's wrench was but a moon on the rise, and one thing led to another, though the idea was best left punned. She was even told, from the front seat, how well other boys could speak, but language was one thing; a sentence another. I don't blame her, really. Cookies and milk -- yes... but you can hold off on the cake.

A Nightmare-on-the-side-of-the-road Scene:

Rape was undeniably centered on her mind, though far from becoming realized. It was immediately sheltering her from loneliness. An acre of absence spread to her feet then back to her head. It was an honest mistake to trust herself, but whatever could be done was left in adagio, so she scattered her fingers, bored the driver, and eventually got in. She was an idea taking flight -- one as high as a weed and as wide as a womb, never to see the light of day, never to be born again.

The Prose Locker #79: Man / wife / pizzicato

2009-12-06T02:17:00.020-05:00

Saw how a witch nearing welfare took sick stabs near the dogs on guard. I just had to party in small-town light, and there I suffered the conduction of a cartoon composer. If only I pardoned the heroism which at last was found to be fraudulent, I'd have freed my fortunes. And poised by a residual rap sheet, nothing ever mattered as much as language or skin, so heartbeats often fell beside the ignorance of my day-to-day routines. Sex -- sex was a pretty mute cause, meaning I couldn't stand to arrange these things myself, so it was usually left for the perpetration of popular people.

Smells were changing with every passing pleasure, and some favors weren't worth the questions that were due. In private, it was the same ol' story: we would fuck like feathers, just to feel nothing as we faced the laughter of spreading ourselves long-term. We were sheltered by the public and broken into small shards by the collegiate counselors next door, both of whom came to corner us with a casual collection of honest ridicule. Aside from this, the telephone was, at times, off its hook (purposely), and our only setbacks were the clothes we despised. So, it was safe to suspect that, by removing all doubt, we would do fine with fanning our organs through an ocean of old furniture.

Finally -- as her volunteer, I continually came as wet and as warm as one could come, but, ironically, the only satisfaction she cared for was when I kept my mouth shut. Hypothetically, I liked to tease the butt of her tit while I pondered my next move. Of course, she knew I was fast asleep and wouldn't dare waste time on something so timid. And to further denote; her lips were always caked by shavings of a Playboy costume. By God, I could have sworn I'd kissed tough threads before, but us meeting like that was somewhere in the rules, I'm sure.

Only now does deviance declare me dead, and while my tumultuous tantrums have indeed tortured me to some kind of end, it was -- by far -- the only guarantee I ever had in proving I was once alive.

The Prose Locker #78: Five years on decaf

2009-11-14T01:17:00.009-05:00

She patiently pets her hair while it harbors the hill of our headboard. She starts to sing me the song I once wrote while drunk on Darwinism near the piano's scalp. Lyrically, she's absent most of the time, but in some sections, she's quite... pitched; placed in line with theme and variation -- numero uno through sarcastic subornation. She glues her earwax to the corner of the sheet, laboring herself as to hide from a peripheral spy. I could water her face, but I'd rather go to sleep, and I do.

Morning comes in the form of another milk-carton coupon, expiring itself by having lost its way to our porch for a month or more. It stirs trouble, it soaks the floor with samples of what oiled the fire just last week -- only samples, since work will -- like always -- push us out the door. At least during lunch, she's lifting it off her chest. I like how I'm not too certain about it all, since I know how I can't get even with everything I encounter. It's just sad. I want to know what's motivating her, but that's difficult in discovering when I know how badly she hates me.

Fast asleep in the shower, it gives me a moment to myself. I figure: if I have to play ball, then accidents should be allowed to accommodate the alien of any given point. Maybe someday she'll refuse to wake me up -- I don't doubt it. Until then, I'm still looking into the situation, if only to honeymoon my honor long enough to marry another.

The Prose Locker #77: The Gemini

2009-11-01T19:50:00.022-05:00

At last, there was salvation worth saving; that evil conjure of calloused skill, peeling eggs off an early morning hour of a place known for guests and games. Did she ever think understanding me was a waste of her time? Well, have it penned: "... was on her last beer when I encouraged my queer stint of cornering; I never found satisfaction in where cities take shop, and the horse -- at the time -- had an ace up the angel's ass, which was beautifully resting near an acre of dead corn."

By the way, it still rots in the sun, and I often give birth to baby bites near the naked side of the neighbor's shed, while a horny hill of angry ants remind her of how poor and tasteless I will usually be.

Like lips, my epileptic ego still opens and shuts on the carpenters who -- almost daily -- sand the joke of her Jupiter jargon. Meanwhile, I earn my mistakes, but they really need to jive with a joust of jabs and jeopardy, or I'll just forfeit my interest of a cosmetic coupon that I know she does not intend to honor. Her looks still look like a look I left lingering on the long-side of left field, where the party was held in a pool of dung, if only to surprise the maid near home plate.

Hurts to grab a bus like I do; this, while she rides back in search of Aphrodite's father and groom -- picking seeds out the teeth of four squared men who teach her how to shift the muscles in her jaw. I have seen how well they work in the heat, to admit the least. She'll be okay without her boots... I think. But I don't care, really.

The Prose Locker #76: A skunk fucked the Jesus of nostrils

2009-10-30T01:30:00.016-04:00

A skunk fucked the Jesus of nostrils, and whether that's okay with us, is not okay with me. We came but to crush her pointless potty-mouth found in a cake of letters, iced by rules and abuse. We encouraged the best chance at AIDS, if only to reach the point of an end credit, and it smelled like a scent close to smoke or bone (not as long or as white as for historical homage, but as honest and as black as for 12 hours of news).

That scene of peeled-from-the-pill, nude-colored skin, fell through an oil lamp as an eyeball lie waiting in the oblique. There... our chance for checking in with the law grew late, though the tape ran short near fifty-first. She would have made good money had she brushed off that dollar found near ninety-third. I felt the knife was left for respect, if only to tag the crime with one last apostrophe; of course, connected to an unused word left purposely explained.

I was -- near this felonious facet of time -- smoking grass near the highway, and that's where the turbulence enlightened me: "The poll is usually designed, or dared, by those (the rich, in their fashions made private through a game of timid tennis) who need an absolute army of explanation -- nowhere true in the reverse. We're fairly aware that crystal meth can kill us, but we see only what it's capable of supporting (this... always over our chemical breakdown). It's but time that is compromised -- only... time."

The Prose Locker #75: The no-milk, no-cheese effect

2009-10-26T04:41:00.003-04:00

Try to force your fellow back thru his Tylenol. Try separation thru the Dalmatian's hair; that's when giddiness will harbor you with bad effect, and losing weight will go as hard as an orgasm as it falls to the floor, as in need of a shared gasp, as if obliged by the ankle's fly (Oh, flight of one's hum, the skeptical suck we knew would dry).

Ergo... did see your mother slap you on the wrist. She made love to your only friend. The tank filled her bed, and you were hollering next door. I watched from a hole in your window, as you tore papers in half, smoked grass stored in the closet's cup. To join you as a syllable or phrase, we both need more advice, because our happenstance weathers me... if only to collectively crush this option of ruse and affair.

Don't lose your lipstick on an overnight face. I hate to see what it could do to you. I'd hate to hear the sound of my wet pants, as I kneel on the cavities of urine; the dollhouse babysits the flavor, in pink hair made of baboon, so spray your sheets with Lysol and wait for the toilet to flush.

The Prose Locker #74: Full-Blown Memoir: Trailer tales that bite back

2009-09-23T01:57:00.010-04:00

And I kinda ask -- when wasn't my mama not sick of being sick; so sick of sickness, that while a bunch of shit served to fuss with her, it made her smoke? She had a new moss-man make her feel good every damn night, but it ain't the same when bills need paid and he refuses to leave. The lights got to often stay, and the pots were old-fashioned 'nuff for the salt-infested gumbo to be stewin' through the nose of all on ol' Coteau Rd, but by each mornin', I had to go to school jus' to piss my pants. That's right -- soaked by a brief rain, yet I ain't heard a thing but thunder from every cloud in the sky.

Night was-a-fallen and 'tween my punk fingers was a cockroach shoe-trap, and here and there, mama caught me catchin' somethin' fierce -- too fierce to smash, too fat to scream. She trusted I'd used the back door, and I would indeed -- slippin' through the trailer's hall, catchin' the naughty hangin' off her pal, Dick; like Étouffée off the head of a spoon as it cleared the top of the table.

My mausoleum still sits as a pair of streaked drawers; just a cousin to my drugs, when it was common enough to be lickin' voodoo out the ass-crack of dead crawfish. Stuck in my tooth, like mama... in a picture of her buildin' cards on the coffee table. It's so fresh now. I was a medicine ball rollin' myself into fearin' a Cajun brand of slang, and that shit I can still do without, but I miss mama's cookin', though no way she's gonna budge herself into finding me -- not way out here.

The Prose Locker #73: I'll have whatever you're having... and fast

2009-09-19T01:30:00.006-04:00

Apple-colored anchovies are aiming their armies at your aphrodisiac. I can do much worse, even as a slut with egg-shaped eyes, for whom drops by as the sentence makes you sick -- to go down with whatever pants you leave clean; to hide my spoon in your busted handbag. I'm brutally aware of the warts buried beneath your lice and hair. I somehow suck at this, but in a suck do I salvage a kiss of sweet shit -- shit in a grade worse than what was left of me after answering "yes" or "no." I only notice these damn drugs when I dope up, wherein my mouth sails a stream of spit 'cross the back of another disc. There goes, again, another chance at my favorite song; though, you're too thick, it seems -- you're that small snot on the outside of your cousin's radio, and I always find what makes you tick as I turn down the dial. You are like the sewage I once found in your sister's bra.

May much weed choke your cheek; lips just suffocating my nuts like a hammock torn by the rain. I love to sweat this, and like game shows, it does not interfere with the better parts of my brain. If I'm to be at all honest, I was already someplace else. It's there I like to tape what it's like to tape your mouth shut, while matches melt the mustard in your throat. And those thin teeth near your breath can push my spike south, while I fantasize foulness to a limit I cannot trust. It's so good I must leave, as to not admit to much else.

The Prose Locker #72: Too inept to infiltrate a "fuck you"

2009-09-18T00:54:00.014-04:00

So you say I've controlled your mind, but in noticing your point of view, it seems to contradict these views of mine. We are the galaxies we live upon, too proud to sleep in gray, too close to what was born. - D.

There's no sense in surrendering us to exhaustion, but I'm afraid to fear you anymore. I recall every early dream, where I was lowly lounging near a spider's strut, shared by sunlight that saw straight through. That's then, when I bought a watch to time how long you would watch me push. Now, it feels like pawn-shop profit; the oh-so-good-looking-wrist I never knew I had was the warrant to your arrest. I just can't stand to have you catch me off guard.

Remember, I never saw much in your mother. She smelt the fish on me near the earliest of ends, yet I sat most of the time to smell like something she smelled on herself. I had hoped to go unnoticed, but you always kept an interest in mentioning me. Still, I'm so jealous of how good you've done with a life that bad, and I can't even establish an aisle of my own -- one so safe, you strip me of a smile just by saying so. How the "ever-more" became too "insane" will always assault my plans of proportioning the importance of your pain, but I'm still every bit of man you ever stood to be, waging war on a lack of reason for sharing sex with sympathy.

The Prose Locker #71: She doesn't like the idea... but she likes the color

2009-09-14T02:59:00.011-04:00

Too many cock blocks and sick-sided squares in my society now. They live on small, green cans of nitrates, but form opinions on dietary scripts just one page long. Just eat, baby -- just eat... meat. And how I must place a dare upon her -- that face trying hard not to reveal a name; it's muttered, as to not cause the show to stall, right in front of her family's smile. I've been watching what she laughs at -- turns out, it's a black man in low pants, swirling shopping carts 'round a month-old Mercedes. She chuckles -- she makes me laugh so hard at the youth I like to attract. It's funny and it's sexy, but my clothes are so thin, it really doesn't matter if I take them off, or tediously tease the edge while quietly beside her on her girlfriend's couch. So, it does seem I remain as a calm, white casualty, neither lubed nor lured by her iridescent tampon, while it switches places with my toothbrush in order to show me a good time.

She thinks outside the box, and it's there, following a pornographic carnival -- filled to the balloon with white homosexuals who love to guess my weight -- that she starts playing with her belt, as if she thinks less of the whole idea. I bet a "fag" is just what she needs, though; someone who can pay the bills, make her breakfast, drive her where she needs to go, and all along, for her to just flirt with telling him the truth. I absolutely love that about her. It's so fucking real -- It's something that I cannot do for myself.

Article: The education found in a box upstairs

2009-09-02T02:40:00.010-04:00

What is with all those people collecting forms of knowledge through circling the stomach acid of the 'net? Let me explain that. Stomach acid -- as a bizarre and unrelated analogy, I admit -- is both crucial and disgusting (in a visual sense), and that's sort of how I energize my thoughts for things like Wikipedia, for instance -- both a blessing and a curse for one's informational pursuits.

This may all be a carcinogenic episode I'm experiencing, fueled by the world... wide... web, in general, but it seems to affect me all the same. Within all the information found on the Internet (usually grown for landscaping purposes over personal need or supply), it's mostly a game of "he said, she said" -- a contradiction in terms, even for the most educated of authors. Health is a fine subject for my defense, merging with the majority of my hostility, as well. There's no real evidence in the digital doctor's point as its written; not really. His only proof is science (with whatever that means in the grand scheme of things, and a separate discussion by itself), whereas his collection of questioning capers, most of the time opposing his view, are merely backed by faith or greed. These are those elitist clans found posting their natural cures that have all garnished thousands of on-line followers and/or new remedies for a better tomorrow. We're all playing the Aspartame hop-scotch, aren't we? It's a rule not to step on the lines, but the rule was written in them, just the same. Thing is, none of us know.

I increasingly grow frustrated with the amount of information out there -- right or wrong. Maybe it's spoiling me, or perhaps it's desensitizing my curiosity for whatever I was suppose to accidentally discover through my remaining years of perpetuated ambition. I remember before I ever stepped my fingers onto a keyboard, I was actually surprised a lot of the time... by anything small enough to make me giggle. Now, I commonly expect everything, like it was programmed in my DNA upon conception. I don't think I'm the only one, either. I've heard tales on how well-educated people (those, even, who were overly trained by their own admission) find it very difficult to relate to a lot of people in society. I wonder what this will do for several generations to come? It's hard to tell. I'll either be cured from most of the things terrorizing me or my body -- by some smart-ass juvenile who holds that secret, home-grown remedy -- or I'll watch psychiatrists demand more wages for their work.

The Prose Locker #70: Wish I was a dirty dog

2009-09-01T00:38:00.007-04:00

Bad, bad girl, you. Don't forget to brush.

I can't multiply as well as I can add, nor subtract as well as I can divide. Too many maneuvers, if you ask me. It just makes it hard to count on the things that matter the most. And if that's not enough, I got my driver's license a year too soon, and now I can't help but remove myself from the havoc of being a child at the wheel. I think it's me and responsibility; we don't like one another, but we sort of have to put up with each other's purpose. It's much the same with trends or socialized fashion: I always examine through the screen too long; too hard, and when I finally enter the back door, ready to blend; ready to capitalize the market, it seems all stocks are sold, and nothing further warrants any risk. So, there I stand, left with clothes that are too exclusive, even for the elite.

Wish I was a dirty dog while dancing in a tuxedo, like vaginal silk in a game of Texas Hold 'Em. (It can be puddled in sweat and still look so sweet). I imagine I ask for too much. I should be thankful I can get by in a mode where millions can be made or broken, whereas the alternative: not comprehending the damage my brain has chemically sustained, wondering why my costumes or customs don't inherit any respect for myself. At least behind a desk, you can still do things unimaginable, and these things are never really written about -- they exist, but not in words.

The Prose Locker #69: No defensible dollhouse, no quintessential question, no fortune for my fair lady

2009-08-24T03:13:00.014-04:00

I can stop following the scent of her Claire perfume. I can wait to scratch this bothersome nut -- like a good ol' boy -- since she hates to see the south in me. As of recent, she has gone mustard (really letting herself go), and that's okay -- really; I'm easy to get along with, just as long as I can remember why some shit gets so stirred while other shit stays so starved. Though listen -- it's her native tongue mixed in last night's gumbo that has me so perked with interest. She never licked her bowl as though she needed to stay hungry for a few more days, and maybe that wasn't her approach at all. Maybe ... maybe I'm the boring, mile-long stew, stewing over everything that she's become so fed up with? Maybe that's why she wants to leave.

To braid her fingers is wonderful, but wacky. I know she would much rather talk 'bout sixth-grade business (or how zillions of dollars can actually find a purse near K-Mart's parking lot), but my vocabulary has too many vowels missing in order to form a complete sentence, so she tends to do the talking. To top this off, I'm alarmingly jealous that she brushes her teeth so often (and long) now, and while she could vomit down my own throat, I'm beginning to feel that the feeling is not mutual.

I predict so many things. For instance, she would strike up on big, black men with a sexy stroke of sin, a suggestion of sodomy; tell them how well their clothes fit, if only they gave her a light first. I would know the truth, though -- she would merely be travelin' and gettin' by, and I guess I would do the same damn thing -- strike up big, black men, but while the purpose would remain the same, the outcome would certainly differ. It's in a sweet pair of jeans, climbing horseback colonies that she even stands a chance. I hate how fucking smart she gets to be. I bare witness to sick and twisted crime all day long and have nowhere near her experience... or anger.

Poem: The Bolivian tomboy and the romantic 'Uncle Billy'

2009-08-14T00:30:00.014-04:00

I'm a white nigger on a slope of discharge;
a cognitive warning for Western rights, if strong means were still on course.
And every dog in my mouth hurts;
they're white, too,
but they chew apart the masonry
that my Tomboy girlfriend licks clean with cocaine
-- true, her bra smells like sweat and fuel.
I pass out by using her... negatively.

El Camino de la Muerte
... slaughtered by weakness.
(so much for daring the devil -- we Tweety Birds; we escapists)
Meanwhile, the boy sits in charge, crosses her legs
and multiplies the men she's seen
by one;
mere water targets by a well-deserved mile,
if an equation can fit my name.

No jungle wears youth like this.
No Ma'am finds leaves to paint so blue.
No boy still keeps his hair short enough
to smoke the lust from my brain.

I need his cock, as she needs mine.

The Prose Locker #68: The writer is the block

2009-08-05T01:20:00.009-04:00

I can type as fast as I can talk, and while centuries stand to remove any sign I've taken claim, the reason I'm still speaking has a lot to do with the success in treating it all like some bad cold; when the sinus hurts, it's a relief to sneeze. All tripods stored beneath any proprietary message were first clutched with half-sized candles, answering to the evidence that I was voluntarily mixed and mourned in a way that only I could understand. By the way, it's all bad writing, and a bad writer cannot focus on improvement. He can only survive by learning to litigate his way through the aisles of anxiousness to find the utmost faith in his own ability. By then, he's too worn by the criticism to calm his callousness, too old-fashioned for poetry to sell.

Late in my consciousness, a storm may or may not develop into something sincere. It'll ruin a dozen lines on a half-page point-of-view, but it will remain my only excuse to express another common idea, previously captured by catchers of the sweetest rhyme. My fans lie waiting -- those I've allowed to stick around -- and while I shape some sentence into a sarcastic remark, they'll loyally deposit themselves back to the nature of their needs, while I shoot hoops for an hour more. Honestly, it has always been this way; self-interest acculturating itself while wanting continental catering to spread like an arsenal of air in a chest of fear. It just doesn't do much for many others -- does it?

The Prose Locker #67: Most importantly...

2009-07-27T23:36:00.005-04:00

Most importantly... don't treat me as though there's something I've not disclosed to you! I've had my brushes with the law, but it doesn't mean they -- the law -- had any rhyme or reason to subject me to their reports. I came out; I wanted that child with you, and they're many places with where my intent could've survived, yet, I've refrained, and haven't shown the world the reasons why I subtracted myself from opportunity to opportunity. My liver has begun to roll toward the corners of some bohemian crossroad made of cheap food and plastic breasts. I'm not the survivalist I used to be, and that hurts you, maybe even kills you at times. I'm not the essence of the ever-after, but a mere sparkle of its past. I still dress nicely for you, though, and you barely stick out your neck anymore, or put it on the line for anything that you believe in. Perhaps I'm asking too much, but I just wanted to, somehow, point out something, which was obviously too soft to support by neither dream nor vow.

The Prose Locker #66: The water has warmed, but it's filled with salt

2009-07-27T00:41:00.006-04:00

She politely pours a cup of wax -- as warm and white as a shot of cortisol -- on the edges of her fingernails, and while I physically pretend to denote fear, it's really the furthest thing from the truth, or my mind -- I'm fascinated. It's the mystique of her bra... falling through her white, wet blouse; it's her nationality that bestows upon my needs. Acting on some Seven-Eleven budget, she sure knows how to spend her time with other women, and if that wasn't all, I'm more satisfied that her motives -- the genesis, if you'd like -- come divided into both, tough taste and tactical torment. These are the moments, where forms of foreign ice flirt with the stud of all monologues, eager to preach, but not explain.

Weaponry is a division of her style; all sorts of vibrating mechanisms ready to explore, ready to pulsate the cognitive mutiny, alive and assigned in the crevices of our genitals. Yet, all I really came for was a common lecture on her part -- the kind that indicates how I don't belong near this type of town; that I don't inhibit the guts that could lavishly lunge myself toward an unexpected terrain, filled with a lack of morality and psychological tests, and still have fun. Yes -- I'm just a coward in connection to Western habits, and perhaps her assumptions are correct, but I just came to talk... and watch (and watch!). Is that really worth focusing on whether or not I could excavate some long-lost desire on her personal part, slumbered and lost in the bottom of some ravine? Look -- I don't care if she's Asian, I just came to... watch (and talk!).

The Prose Locker #65: No more cartoons?

2009-07-26T00:53:00.010-04:00

Easily the worst part of a decision -- any irreversible decision that comes as an insult to every sense known to man -- is found in the easiest of things, for which are eventually discovered in color, brightly identified in some private scope made of memorial and mush. For instance, I can effortlessly remember watching my mother -- she, in the realm of 30-something -- sleep side-ways on her favorite couch, coughing through her teeth, crying for a dream to finally come true. She really did make that rent on time (as usual), but would she remain cleared and composed for the entirety of such expense? Yes... as I remember, she would. It's only now, one thousand miles away, that time seems to fracture all lines of concern with big bouts of anger born of antiquity. I wish I could be around, forgetting to watch her face change with every year that stands to pass.

Within the eyes of my child, I can visualize the throne as it empties into my head, warning an entire family by psychically compounding the ideas behind my inheritance. It's such a painful position, I must admit -- being in such control, lacking intelligence or ambition. Meanwhile, I always wonder if I'll remember everything I once tried to remember, and if remembering to do so will paralyze all other aspects of my responsibilities. I really hope not, because if it does perish, or even proves to be perishable, I don't think I can raise my daughter at all, much less my own face off the blood that bathes my bed.

The Prose Locker #64: She's the coin with a catch

2009-07-21T02:40:00.005-04:00

I love when people turn their heads, awkwardly astray -- long as I can witness it, full-form. The other day, for instance, I was staring at a woman (damply dressed in both blond and blue, while rain began to penetrate her lipstick), and as she started to rub her toe with the tip of her heel, I finally wanted to understand someone other than myself. In a slow sequence of symmetrical sanction, we abused our point of view so badly, it was then irresponsible to think that we could ignore our stupidity any longer. I just wanted to see her naked (a... single... unseen hair; it would have been worth a long, long cocktail 'cross a bastard with a history of back-door departures, all born in a bruised bath where bounced checks caused bad breath).

People like I've just explored tend to argue and sweat, considerably. Perhaps I'm wasting time by noticing, but it's not like I can be selective in colonizing my instincts. I'm too partial with despair, and it gets hard to not show-off, and while it tends to extract me from those who may care, I am currently in support -- days and years too long in length -- of the same ol' astrological excuse.

The Prose Locker #63: It's a heart attack I'm after

2009-06-29T00:56:00.006-04:00

Far out in the open, very little -- nearly none, in fact -- impresses me enough to watch in some sort of astonishment, or awe. I think over the last, few years, I've fallen on frail figures of both age and disappointment. I think it may be normal, but I've nothing to compare it to, and even if I did, what would the comparison mean in the context of my chocolate closet, which holds everything I adore... secret? Meanwhile, there's only an ounce of science left in the butter of my faith, and I'm so sorry for churning like this. I know everyone else is, too.

I used to thrill myself, in and around nostalgic napalm, built badly by reason and rage (for which I could almost psychologically succeed if mixed properly). My mother used to tell me how many fingers I'd need to pleasure everyone. Now, five isn't quite enough for the satiable salvation of myself, and myself alone. I try, too. I'm always giving something a chance, but by the end, it's almost as recycled as the urine I seize while desperately dying of thirst.

Every time I hear of something wicked on the news, I'm often traumatized -- to a delicate degree -- that I wasn't involved. It's back to some local corner where I sit, waiting for my chance to spark. If I even glow -- with collective commentary coerced by the crowds! --I've made a huge difference for myself, but even so -- sometimes, in my deepest thoughts of wickedness, I want to simply light someone on fire, just to have someone else -- besides myself -- judge my ways.

The Prose Locker #62: I don't feel so... necessary?

2009-06-22T02:46:00.026-04:00

What's with the joke I've done placed above my position? All meaty monuments in and of mind are but a fantasy... published on the lines of my own face for the sake of recognition. Seriously -- there's not a bit of reality within my efforts to either inform or include anyone I meet -- at least not sincerely. I can write a poem; I can read a poem; I can sleep with a woman, both hard or soft, yet by the end of the night, the only pleasure I receive is in discovering how bankrupt I really am, and finally to describe to myself where I can find the door, once again. Meanwhile, I'm all but ready to discipline this illusion. It's insane. A sea of spent shells swamp the sewn toes of my feet, each one having a name that starts failing to familiarize itself to that of my memoirs, yet I still seem so tall in my mind. I've played for keeps so many times that it's almost boring, now, to play at all. Somewhere, somehow, I'm alluding everything that means something to me, and everyone urges to remind me of this, enough that I grow weaker in noticing it for a second or third time.

Hey - I'm just a Southern boy -- fog-headed and fragile -- learning to forget the places he wanted to know. I'm fortunate enough to recognize all these behavioral traits, but much less fortunate in forging them toward the fire, which seems poorly lit for unidentified reasons. I know -- that's so pessimistic of me, but it's within that pessimistic attitude that lies the nature of my conduct, and I'd give anything at all to -- most times -- be someone else, if it only meant that it would keep someone else around, enjoying, not in how my personality can perform, but how it can persist in keeping all parties permanently intrigued. Maybe I should work harder, I don't know; blisters on the bottom, a bath of beautiful bullshit with blank faces found in some local bank. Look - I'm having a lot of trouble in equating these small ideas into something more substantial and subtle. It really is killing me.

Yeah - I don't need help

... as much as a bible would need a chapter on Bourbon, right?

The Prose Locker #61: Enough with the make-up

2009-06-18T23:09:00.003-04:00

I'm so tired of these "cool" contradictions; these elusive tales of tantrums locked in translation. It's a bit out of my control, like a pair of teeth in a mouth of water, but if I'm ever going to establish myself as something for strong concern, something tells me that my shrink will stand as little-to-no help in it all. So, I've been dreaming, again -- yes -- dreaming in the distance for some white form of toast. Meanwhile, there's a long, dark donnybrook between my mother and I. See -- we play cards into the night, invisibly keeping score with quarters and ice, and just before her phone's to ring, I'm already in Los Angeles, dying strands of dyed hair, cleaning the corners of my crotch, in order to act like someone else.

Yes, my eyebrows warrant a wax, my ass could aid a trim. I'm so artistic in my oldest pair of shoes, while all my neighbors run as the sirens begin to fumble the curb! I'd offer that old man -- who couldn't leave in time -- a stick, but I'm too eager to impose good health and loyalty, and as equally fashioned I do stand, to the relief of a self-righteous ramp, raised toward a vigilant vase filled with violent vampires. I take to the night; I stream urine on some girl's back... as tricks that make us both laugh. If I could just not watch the errors of my peers, I just may fit in. Not only fit in, but maybe feel good that I do. For now, there's no sense in dragging this on -- no sense in applying any more blush.

I've got the rape kit

2009-06-12T00:10:00.005-04:00

Mother's proudly combed by the coffee's tooth.
Her broken spy pilots the care of a two-sided lawn.
Immediately stoned upon the grass,
she endures the moisture in order to dry his clothes.

Deep within the largest pore - between the entrance of curled hair,
between the loss of athletic pride
- comes the regret
to redeem the sparkle of strange taste.

It's not going to rest.
It's constantly fucking with your head
in a forked excuse to claim otherwise.

For instance,
I had a sense of virginity, born with the self-esteem
to collaborate with an entire herd,
but something scientific
has caused this strength to stall.
And, hey, pussy's an over-rated suggestion.
It's become a catalog of pale remark, a pocket of pop-star honor,
purposely spelling every word wrong.

It's no wonder they've tortured these mounds.
It's a bucket filled on an empty road,
and it plays havoc with the bankruptcy of rain.
It's the same investment
which could supplement the Wild Turkey
for the grits made of retarded bones.

The Prose Locker #60: I'm falling through my pants

2009-06-11T23:19:00.002-04:00

Allow me to be honest - I'm not sure how clean I can keep my nose these days, especially while so many success stories gently gravitate toward my failed delusions. When interested, I just turn into a monstrous magnet, I know; an endless aim for someone who decorates my head with cruel comedy, just as my eyes adjoin themselves to a vaginal vacuum, and I'd rush to bed with every opportunity at hand, just to dream about a lot (a parking lot in size, for a matter of definitive detail) of lesbian liaisons gone looking for long bouts of laughter, broken by the water in the lane(s).

This other woman... back in an honest home... stretches her feet across the chair, separating clothes she can't wear. I'm too lazy to admire her. I'm too patient to pretend that I'm any worse, but I've noticed my share of things. She's been the chiming chalk at the edge of this beak, while all our dreams refuse to sign off for morning (or mourning). I've tried so hard to smile, but it's so cliche to draw a picture of this. Maybe I'll forget; maybe invite over a few friends (blond, blue -- braids just a bitchin'?), in hopes of finally dying in bed.

The Prose Locker #59: Now, they're even

2009-06-11T07:07:00.007-04:00

If I were to slowly learn to promote -- like a mad horse in added age -- my own self-esteem, who's going to guarantee the safety that inhibits those rights? The only difference between my ambition and my anger is that small, square sore, holding a tub of British bumblebees for whom desire not flight nor form. Forty-nine hours later, the water will begin to run, screaming at the soldiers who forgot to clean their feet. Like a fork, they'll stick to it. They'll find what they're looking for by drastically dawning themselves with a deep, dark day (and I can watch this sort of thing all night long).

It's a wide-open virus, where the sergeant will eventually open his frail fingers to steal the wool off my skin, merely for the sake of need or notice. As I begin channeling through the facts, the helmets will roll down the aisle, patiently obscured by a teenage prom. Foreign denominators, damned by the dumb, will do little to impress me. At least that's what I have up my sleeve. It really is a miracle that I count at all, when all I recount are records worth raking away. So, I'm tired of not being in the smoke, signing my life away to the center of corporate challenges, where survival means murder, and murder becomes a mute meadow for both mercy and men.

The Prose Locker #58: A Digital Kind of Girl

2009-06-07T22:30:00.009-04:00

She wanders and waits on the building's brick, skimming through the pictures of PC Magazine, ready to criticize my lack of subscription. She listens to fine wine as it travels through the marijuana tunnel that's grown from the turf of her throat, while preparing poems that explain on how drunk I tend to get. She learns to collapse through confusing composition, dealing individual ideas toward my narrow tastes. She thinks Scotch will ruin my sense of style, so she divides me from this agenda, only to invite me to the snorting cowboy who piques her imagination at least twice a week. She favors coffee at night, milk on the weekend, and consults with me on how many fantasy leagues I've ignored. She's so red in bed. She's so willing to play along with my private perversion, but yet... I can't even touch a single bone of hers.

Reading Poetry: An Art of Animating Literature

2009-06-06T22:23:00.013-04:00

Robert Lowell unknowingly holds within himself -- and it'll now have to stand posthumously, I'm afraid -- more than a few singular reasons which have always had me proclaiming the utmost respect toward his abilities. He used to walked through the wide, poet chambers of his time, glasses as thick as his articulation, metaphorical phrases as long as a friendly fence on an American ranch, while classically speaking over the marbles that sat between his cheeks. However, we're not going to discuss too heavily how crafted, textually, his volumes of work came to be. Rather, I'd like to use him as an avid example of where poetry can verbally go when the reader focuses his efforts on how much further it could live once it has escaped the teeth. There's a rich supply of color embedded in the poet's throat, and if the reader can sustain the cardiac feed while supplying his audience, then it's safe to suggest a start.

First, I mustn't argue with the potential modesty of myself and include my own verbal style, as just another example, within the latter areas of this post. Hopefully, I'll not persuade nor perspire all over the place, if you are to get my meaning. I think Robert Lowell reading his poems "For the Union Dead" and "Epilogue" still stands as an awfully large reason why I wanted to be a writer in the first place, and it would also not be able to contest any identical aspirations I still have for the future. I recently scored his aforementioned efforts with some orchestral music from that of my own tastes, and while it wasn't to offer a ladder to his efforts, I felt it added a sort of musical sincerity, or signature, within the spoken cores of his honesty. You can find both MP3 recordings below, via SendSpace:

Epilogue
For the Union Dead

Please, notice how Lowell ends "Epilogue," as a further instance. He simply says "Thank You," and with that, one can sense how he's on his way to refurnishing his lungs with a fresh breath of air, but ever-so-lightly does this occur. It took some work, did it not? It took work to read that poem so elegantly, yet extremely unique by all accounts. I've always stated that a reader of poetry must inherit a sense of both honest humor and soldiered sarcasm at some point in their lives, for without one of the two leaning on the other at all points in time, it tends to bore the listener rather quickly, and during a revolutionary raid of tumultuous television and raging radio, it doesn't take much suspicion on how fast that boredom can arrive.

Now, to become too theatrical while reading is to submit one's self to a bit of poor man's criticism, where the focus gets exchanged for fingers... all pointing in opposite directions of the writer's desire. I've likely been guilty of this myself, but it certainly was not my intention. As a matter of fact, I'd argue that the best of my work has always been attached to a much more subtler gnome, found within their disposable genesis', and I tend to know my material word-for-word before any recording shall take place. I want it to feel as genuine as a guarded secret. It's not enough for me to know what I'm going to say; its style must live and stir within my blood, like a flu forcing its virus to race against the slow-handled shake of my teaspoon. Therefore, a storm of study may need its exercise if one is to master this elusive effect. It all may be a mere case of melancholy, but I'd rather feel a bit cliche if it is that the cliche warrants soaking wisdom in a skinless wash.

I've had my verbal moments, I would suspect. I hope there's still something I can say in a way that just casually waits for the word-war to subside, slowly becoming recognized through time as a moment where the great mimic comes into play. I dream of him hovering over my chosen syllables, soaring past the cynics who remind his audience of my name. I'm shaping myself right now... rapidly. I'll read and I'll read -- I'll read while Lowell softly sleeps, where the temperament of his termites work to inspire him all over again. Nonetheless, there will be craft, perforated and on board. I'll summon the baby from my beaten basement, engage it to my lips, and honor this profession with a slow signature all my own.

The Prose Locker #57: What could be - and will be - the last drag

2009-06-01T01:17:00.012-04:00

Leave her ashtray alone, and I'll promise to suffocate her myself. It's my greatest fear; having it all forge ahead, like a flu in bed with a queen. Could I see the time from there? Could I reel the hands to match my needs? I do realize the way she hurts, but anything I could want to do faces me with the utmost of fortunes, and that's a reputation I will not fancy. The mean meat of a new night, the bad bottom of a good glass, those are the places that make her feel good. Meanwhile, I'm staring from a starved envelope, where stamps go flying through the fan, awkwardly adapted to the empty portions of a papered farm, and by the time I'm to hear the news, I'll have forgotten why I left at all. I'll just pick up the pieces and devour the lines that made her smile.

The smoke in her drawer, the batteries left by the curb, the motions stuck on T.V., the pumpkins drawn by hand -- how would all these belong to my mother, if by some chance she fled home? Would I inherit a reason to enjoy her once more? Would any neighbor she's ever had come to confess of all those coffee-table times, birthed by both trickery and tantrum? I'm not completely certain of the details, but I believe the elegant equation always had it out for this scientific beauty, brilliantly buried in ash... brutishly born in awe.

The Prose Locker #56: WANTED: Accordion player... desired for questioning

2009-05-29T00:31:00.009-04:00

- "I guess I just don't know."

- "What don't you know?"

- "... don't know what it's like."

- "Would you like me to show you?"

- "If I were to say yes, would you tell anyone?"

- "To be honest... yes... I would."

- "Then, no, I'm not letting you show me... and besides, why would you do that?"

- "Because I wouldn't be ashamed of you the way you seem to be ashamed of me."

I'm not out to pleasure these fingernails (they're dirty enough), nor would a wine-infested wheel barrow be sufficient for a soldier, because I think that any discovery or delay of mine -- any in the least -- would cause me to lose my home, lose my clothes, lose my mind, lose all parties involved. I'm readily available, though; eagerly awaiting; postured and potent, but the rain falls off my broken bangs, and it's then that I start feeling like a man again. However, it was a woman who flowered this touch, I think -- perhaps she was merely a feminist voice from an elementary dog pound, where all the angels chart the deaths that are born in a basket of bastards.

But sucking dick, I suspect, is finding out how little you can be, and retaliating on the space involved. If the rainbows were meant to please, its within their scarce nature that one should find the clues as to why misery desires to live -- alive and confused... 'til the end of time.

The Prose Locker #55: Her pretty dead body

2009-05-27T20:05:00.011-04:00

... told her again and again, "Do not salt what has been nuked! Trace no covered corner of what stood as a piled plate! Brush those teeth... immediately!" Sir, she was not inheritable. Nothing I could ever say sat with her long enough to convince her that of what was done should have been ruled away, and if I've done anything wrong throughout all of this -- anything at all -- I should have watched my mouth; as she caressed the cone, I should have played not a fool, but a mere witness to her indulgence. I could have easily taken a long bath (It was up to me).

Now, as my truck pulls out the drive, I'm suddenly in regret. I've no reason to lock my front door -- there's no woman perched on the couch, helpless in answering the bell's call. I should get a drink... but I'm already fifty pounds overweight. I should find a friend... but I'm too stubbornly quiet. Besides, I wouldn't hear a thing anyway, not since she last screamed her own name.

Poem: Bring not the breasts to the bath

2009-05-26T01:13:00.006-04:00

Put that cigarette in my shoe,
next to the keys.
I'm not going to allow you to breathe
for as long as we intend to exchange this Scotch.
(You tend to look up when you exhale,
and I don't like that.)

As a matter of fact,
don't dare boast a shave.
I'm taking a trip,
and some warmth may fall welcome.
(I'm a reptile in leotard
and with that, my fur went for the drain)

Cover your breasts,
for I haven't finished talking.
If by the end
you sense a reason to show off,
then I'll be more than glad to leave.
(See -- we're so tight, it's killing you)

Poem: In Flames

2009-05-26T01:11:00.003-04:00

I'm so in love with what I see
but I think your eyes are braille
and I can't touch you like that.
You make moves on me;
so pose toward my paws.
I think I found a way
to make you laugh.
You're paid to go down
in flames.

I'm losing my job
to watch you sleep;
Can't see if you're tired,
but I think you're at ease.

Your mouth hangs on my face
and it sounds like peace
but you can't count on noise.
I've found us a reason,
at least.

Poem: Candle's Coda

2009-05-16T00:10:00.004-04:00

Multiple mercy, poised behind the liver in which
stands before your back,
and for what?
I feathered, or fished, your canal -- amid fashions far and aged.
I was on the thought of reason, you see?
nowhere near the bank,
where I could afford to explain myself,
because the sun was as tired as the day
in which you sponsored me.

The Prose Locker #54: Place the cello near my head

2009-05-15T23:27:00.008-04:00

It's too traditional to starve the climax of what that climax may deserve to explain. The climax being manually strangled by facts such as these: I'm so many rotten teeth by now, and if you could only see or sense what I've become, you'd likely beg -- tremendously -- for a sign of pardon, like purposely pouring Palmolive on the neighbor's dog in order to rid it of its fleas, but don't hold your breath. Yes, I've been that bad; bad in that the cavity in my mouth has hit the roof, and if I'm being honest, I think I was born to sporadically suspect that it could happen -- coming at some point in time, shoving gloves upon my fists so that no fingerprint could someday be found.

The invisible sting in my chest comes from an aluminum can, stolen for its receipt, figuratively forgotten by the exit and end. I'm chewing food with my tongue, swallowing so fast that the torment tends to escape my attention. It has found its fraction, for it subtracted what I needed for something I believe would have canceled it out. I can't begin to recall how it started, but somewhere along the way, I've led myself here, screaming at your Mercedes, "I'm so wet, let me in!"

Poem: A Sad, Southern Subtraction

2009-04-30T10:58:00.016-04:00

Carved, curved... country girls -- feeding girls asleep on spotted rock,
we as they are all the same thing across the measures of our land.

But listen,

My alien day (before the ways of now) was spent in water, numb and
nosy,
and I fired the bruising of your employer.
I sadly separated the sky,
for I was going for the ground,
the security of common ground.

It melts in the sticks,
cans the carpet
for blood belongs as its proof
while I watch from a new state of mind.

I'm so eager to leave, so eager to leave this pair of fools
in which I stand between.
Call me dear Queen - you dear bug
stored in Cajun steam.
I just love how profound
-- unheard or unmade --
you could often let me down.