Tuesday, October 28, 2014


Convey to me a way to say
that everything we did today
will last forever
in at least
the littlest way.

And all the lips
of lovers lost
linger still
in the shades of sky.

And all the world
is the greatest art
And each of us
play an essential part.

And each of our hearts
are weighed down
by the words that we
never spoke,

so speak.


Ode to Rei Ayanami

You often come to me
in my dreams.

Your blue hair flows
into rivers.

I live at the top
of a glass tower.

I try to hold you close
as I am blasted into space.

You smile to me
as you turn into ash

and become the soil
of the planet
I am falling towards


oh Calypso

i am still waiting for you to return
in the spring
i stick my head outside in the morning
            and i still exhale smoke
            like frost
            but i hate the way
            the boat
                        the oak
                        it’s singing     (and it was yours
                                                and it went on living)
                                                 and there was a twine
                                                attached to the mast
                                                above             (and you are the waves
                                                              and the siren too)
            and i tried to tie it to your wrist
                                                as i left (i said it was a bracelet)
                        but you wriggled free
            and told me you already wear a leaf near your fist
                        to stand for a soul
            and autumn turned it into rust (i tried to grasp the little flakes,
                        the fragments of your memory, but they were lost in the gust
            as the waves
            and the winter took hold of me)

and i am waiting for you, my dear,
to meet me again
in the spring
i am still chiseling away at the
iceberg you left me with
             but sometimes I fear
that i am just
and forgetting
and waiting
for the season to change
in my tiny little fishtank

Her perfume is wine.
            I intoxicate myself
                        as I breathe in.

Stained lips,
            gnashing teeth,
I am dripping
            in fermented

I am lighting fireworks
            into stormclouds.

I am genociding
my antfarm
            with floods of vodka.
                        (except for the pious
                        who still honor my love)

And I am sticking winecorks
            up my nostrils,
            and switching
`                        to scotch


And the Goddess of empty pleasures
gave unto me
a pack
of endless cigarettes.

And I watched with amazement
as she poured two holy liquids together
and called it, “wineka.”

And I drank this wineka
with a zealous haste
until my heart fluttered with warmth
and my eyes grew glazed
and lazy and wondering

like the cherry-scented thoughts
that were so soon lost to me.


A little less salt than Sodom,
but still
I feel as if this is our penultimate autumn
Two more hits
to halt the heart
the frozen part
that once stayed warm
from just a little more sun
Midas well rust the sterling
to still
 the waves
into green hills
And I will spread a flame as I sing
shore to shore,
save maybe some coral caves
worthless now,
as dirt in gills
your voice,
is to be forever found in winter chill
and unto death, you’ll never whisper a plea
just diffuse
and return
to the sea


I eat oak trees.
Yes, I eat them.
            And I eat them whole.

They ding up my teeth.
They chip away
and then cut
            the insides of my mouth
as I chew.

But it doesn’t hurt,
because oak trees are lies,
            and cats are angels.

            I’m afraid,
that you wont love me if I cant smile.
            You wont love the words
that will fall from my toothless mouth.

You will fly away like a dove
with no oak tree to nest in. 


and weeds
grow on my face.
When they fall out,
they leave little holes.
Those holes are reflected
on the page like little black
snowflakes and uprooted veins.


i lost my xenophile
ways in a sharp
of razor
that grow further
through my
flesh and
but they will
the other side
and form
on my back


The trains were very long

I stood
in meter
in relation
to the eye
in the ground.

the trains
proposed agreement
the green door
Latin subway cars
in the middle of
freight vehicles.

Directly under
the roof,
little grated
rectangular windows
and only the light
was in the air,
and a fast typing

This means
it lost
the fear of imagination winding.
Most of them are
engaged in armored

sleigh rides,
fast beast,
a small
country in college
far that way
with vehicles, and
those who went into captivity,
they are closely guarded
by the station
Roof snow
plenty of cars, but
stamped upon
him , and he was
pointed out,
after downloading,

a few days
ran to where
they were pressed
by the footsteps
of watery feces,
urine is yellow.

And on a white
background, silhouettes
of soldiers
of the NKVD
rough and strange. Was
taken by the soldiers,
to the end
of a bayonet to
the shadow rifle.

A huge crowd
behind him.
military force
all obstacles
broken families.

met a girl named Meta
and she said a few things
about metal

and about how we all hate cobalt
but still burn blue

she led me to a trail

she put lead in my shoe
and she weaved me to fail

wisps replaced her gown with chewed trees
but body-less she still sang to me
until i found gold and silver
fish in a river

i swam past broken bottles
in the ether of her iron

but i lost
my tin teeth
on the rocks
that are in the rivers
of her veins

and crawled my way to the shore
to leave a poem
with my titanium bones


The bard named Noname

Turns out,
King Arthur was a girl,
hair as golden as the Grail,
eyes as blue as England sky.
She held a blade called Radiance.
She smote angels from the sky.

I greeted her court
as a jester, a teller of tales.           
And I spoke to her
about harsh summer suns
and cold winter gales.           

That night,
I bought a round of ale,
And passed them around
to every last knight,
as I made my round
around the round table.

I asked in exchange,
for just one story
about their King.

they smiled and drank,
all saying the same,
“her stone, ‘twas the night  
as well as our shame
but the blade that she pulled
‘twas the dawn
‘twas the door to our fame!”

And I could say something more
about the moors
and their wars,
and hunting boars,
and about their whores,

but they paid me with kindness
so I stumbled onward out their doors.


Oh dish-pit princess
            I see you there,
            before your mountain
            of dishes.

That evil queen
            made washing them
            your curse.

And I see how the sweat
            makes your makeup run
            into black rivers below your eyes.

And how your hair is disheveled
            across your face
            like a spider web.

And how your crystal crown
            has fallen into a fondue pot
            from which it may never return.

But oh how I love you all the more dish-pit princess!

For even in the face of endless filthy dishes
You clean each one to dazzle like a star.

And so,
            I have resolved
            to rescue you, my love
            to break your soggy chains
            to have one hand holding yours, and the other a sponge.

And I will stand by your side until the end, whenever it might be,
            right after I bring these salads to table three.

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