the black creeps in
slow - lugubrious
fingers/tendrils schluffing
over the light

into the voided acre
of working synapse
missing the gaps
that keep the lights on

your little voice speaks quietly
but incessantly and like
     dripping water
it incrementally bores a hole through
psyche and sanity
the only sane part was
    your decision.
the tap opened on it's own
and will shut when the whispering ceases

pit

the pit within the chasm
lets little light filter
through the scattered media
throw me a rope
my only friend                oh
you're not there                i
pushed you away           but
expected you to stay just within reach
                                     hubris
i am my undoing
deeper into the pit i go
kicking up more fodder - more media
i'll pull the rope with me in the hope
it's tied to another end

recognition

the black creeps
silently, seemingly effortless
undetected until it envelopes
surrounding all as if i crawled
into a trash bag
suffocating. opaque
but i see it coming now
i hear it creep tiptoe
i can not dodge and weave
it's presence is unavoidable but
i'm watching - all aware now

scaffolding

and there was this poem i wanted to write
and it wasn't really about the words
or the sentiments
it was more about the flow
it would drop and dive and wind around
and there would be these moments where it
would suddenly or awkwa
rdly cut
but it would be full of imagery and metaphor
and all that deep other-meaning poetry gold.
and meter. tons of crafty meter with dactyls for emphasis.
but definitely no tub of tidy feline anagrams.

stretch

elasticity takes all morning to pull in the sag
ocular crusts seem analogous to this age
fortythree
Blinking and rubbing moves out the crunchys
like once a little boy awakening
to wonderment once again

A call for volunteers to vaguely go forth
and muddle through the mire
wandering toward a flickering goal that
illuminates the path with
random bursts of direction.
The results are imminent
the process is now set in Jell-o
All are hoping for suspended fruit cocktail floaters
to grab and hold
but cling peaches would be far more apt

glare

that crusty glance
growled volumes 
general angst is churned
eyes dart - mandible grinding
enamel sparks like a worn
Independent truck on an unwaxed parking curb

endings of random sentences during a meeting

well, you know about the ICU
an open-ended date so-to-speak
we don't need to buy this program regardless of the philosophy
i think someone had a bad day
for everyone in the universe to see
to me, that is a sadder picture
that pasghetti is not a word
that doesn't fly anymore - that's old school
and the Super has a vision
that's the pinger!

wild eyes under droopy lids tell tales

and as i lean back
finding the sweet spot between
touch down and loop out
angry hornets in that
Chris King hub loudly buzzing
and in this lingering moment i am forced
to maintain balance but freed from
the ease of complacency

The condemnations of a hypocrite whose
actions may bury us all two
faced and self righteous claiming
the moral high ground with
feet firmly planted
in shit

the focus: a single issue - one
with several solutions yet
uncompromising because a
tiny narrow mind has
no room for understanding

1984

Mark Toronow hucks lit

Black Cat’s at you in his mom’s house.

You wish you had his Swan Song banner

in your room. His Metal collection—less Somewhere in Time—

makes you jealous. 

But you did score his Blue Max

With the California Lite’s, solid side out.

A blue UNI seat 

A’me grips with stolen donuts from

the bike shop on Academy

and graphite pedals 

Fascination st.

I dreampt that a mouse shit on my sweatshirt.

The mouse also had meeces.

It was at Kookners house. I went to move

Ma Mouse and her babies but they scattered

and ran under Kevin’s bed.

I tried to nab them

  they weren’t mice at all?

Nope. Pink tiny elephants.

I gathered them up and left Kook’s abode

and glimpsed a station wagon like BK’s 

‘cept it was LTD green.

One for m@

17 and Night Court’s on

The old man is whittling absentmindedly a

Cheap Chiwanese screwdriver handle.

I exhaled my mind out the basement window

And the TV is 

pulling me 
in like a blanket

London

Hurtled through the air

Across the pond

Left side ride for twenty miles

In the space of an hour

Mind says sleep

Body fails to comprehend

Sly and the Family lead

To Impossible Germany

Unlikely I sleep

Live in a haze

In the space of a week

Speeding tube, revolving eye

Buggys and mummys

Stolen history for and of empire

In the space of an era

Karl Marx’s cranium

among centuries of dead

second story public transportation

Camden stroll for some truck 

as I creep past

broken, daft guv’nors 

in the space of a memory

I needed a ride, Alex

Sheriff, city cop, state patrol: tow truck

What’s the difference? Impound lot location.

That’s why I’m walking

Asking for a ride from the impound lot

isn’t too much to ask. After all, it’s

your own fault. Ain’t it.

Belief in a friend. to live up to your 

personal ideals of virtue-- practice

your truth-- it’s too much.

once, paper routes were for children

I know Hugh’s blueblack cold

Early Sundays of my youth

Stacks of newspapers and inserts, equal in height

folded and rubberbanded into two carrier bags

One tied to my handlebars

the other muled over my shoulders 

Print scented hands slid into worn gloves

snot-freezing air dissipates the fleeting warmth

The ritual precarious balancing act of the first cranks

bags sway as papers shift 

acquired skill makes momentum a friend and not a foe

The street is clear where the cars have been. But

sidewalks are more random, either

A white moat, filled with crookt ice-edged footprints

formed in the moments of melt

Or shovel graced highways with driveway exit ramps

each chuck lightens the load, 

The gradual lightening and light

is a welcome reminder that I’m a quarter of the way

purple skies are kindred to my freezing toes

Each are measurements of time

One of how much I have left

and one of how long I’ve been out.

#3

Her arms lay on her chest, resting on the powder blue blanket that was tightly wrapped around her legs and torso. Both hands balled into little fists, rising and falling with her quick and steady breaths. Those eyes roamed and absorbed the features of my face, her pupils slightly expanding and contracting, resting a tick or so, and then moving on for a new focus. The pink t-shirt gave the watery blue of her eyes the captured light of a fading twilight. Between them, her nuk pulsed in quiet, irregular bursts, followed by the slight sound of exhaled air pushed from her tiny nose. Her fine, barley-there hair, was wetted with the clean side of the washcloth used to wipe the remains of her cereal from her face. Styled with a sweeping motion by two calloused hands into a temporary mohawk, it complemented the brown bison skull printed on her shirt. Her world became pinched; fading from sight as her eyelashes intertwined, like her little existence has done with my soul. 

Daily. Constitution Ave.

Pop Tart breakfast and

mutual nods on the top of Avondale.

Push n roll

Eyes water, wheels bark.

Too much howling makes flat spots

that keep their own time between

sidewalk cracks.

The sidewalk is 

A timeline of my 

Scholastic career. 

Madison, Irving, Mitchell

President, Author, Pilot

Minutemen, Patriots, Marauders.

Child, Adolescent, Idiot

Manuals wile the time

Sprack n float

Ollie the curbs and swerve 

One last boardslide on the wall

And walk around the 

daily gathering of Metal fans.

34-18-28 until 3:15

Uphill all the way home.

Can we get a ride, cool kid?

The temperature dropped

The crickets began to chirp

Light turned ashy grey

Sun became a sliver since we are too far North

and that concludes eclipse day

and as i stand in this river
wearing my kit
shorts are waders
trainers and a re purposed backpack
the hand-built rod from a cheap blank kit  is an extension of my hand
turning my feathered creation into the seam
where always there was a thought of the rise
and the hopeful arc of the rod


now i'm just thinking about that thing

consumed, vaguely aware of it's power

 

je$u$ trafficked my kid
turns out he's a carney
his church is in a warehouse
strewn mattresses and needles
oh my god! how can that be?the faithful moan incredulously
certainly the work of satan
they clearly see it's cause/effect
but without looking in
they don't want to see
that their institution engenders
the crumbling of society and hands je$u$ the keys to the ferris wheel

on work

this place was once filled
with reverence for each other
a high-five family
but time drags the river
and shit floats to the surface
now it's merely a collection
of personalities feigning interest in others
scattered and disparate and led by a floater
engendering no faith in once was

 so it goes
another round in the chunder
look around and see the same
times seen before

but i'm resolved
i'll peer over the rim
i'll show up
and resist the urge
to gh o s   t 

because i know now
what's at stake
   it's everything it's all
   it's totality it's me

out of the black
    above it looking down
as long as i can keep
   my wings from melting
   i'll keep the light around me
and she'll stay

what is said is seldom what helps - 
It's the connection
i need connection i've heard all the words
they say important things
they fill the space with fodder
wordsplosion verbal blanket
but just hold a thought for me. tight

Keith can't stop thinking black thoughts
neither can I
because now as the song goes
we're fucked
progress now an illusion
the dickish nature of zealots states:
all good intentions are weak
"a kick in the head as i hum a little tune
yep
watch me fly"
so you don't see me cry. Jokes! hurry!

Those old days
when sunglasses blocked
the harsh glare and blinders
kept the peripheral at bay.
A good thought was never far -
just below the surface
You could see it an pull it out
at will
It''s so viscous now
and the black dogs bark incessantly
and it hurts too much to muzzle
These days
looking through thick ice
through naked blustery eyes

How to shut it off:
- unplug it
- press the power button
- flip the switch
- drop it in water
- throw gravel in it
- shoot it with a shotgun
- throw it off a cliff
- drop it out of an airplane
- swing it around by the cord and smash it into a cement pillar
- pour syrup over it
- rev it up until it seizes
- light it on fire
- choke off it's air supply
- mash a bunch of potatoes in it
- walk far, far away

there's no person closest to me here
I'm hoping to blend with the walls
conversation requires
so
much
skin
         If I peel any more
         my soul will show
No one will see it anyways
through their muted eyes

powdered milk can't hide
the taste permeates
regardless of the ratio
but it is better
than goat's milk
purchased from some lady
on the West side in
glass bottles of the mason variety.
it's yellower

look down
and the world dissolves into
ribbons of fodder
streaming past
curving in front and behind
never making contact
But whistling past so you know
      it's still there