Does it matter that I’m a good poet?
That I can peel back your skin with
The edge of my tongue
That my fingers can pry
Into your heart
All thumbs
Hitching for your subconscious
To hop on in
Does it matter that I’m a good poet
That I’ve mirrored your secrets
Under harps of saliva
That I take the time to overthink
So you don’t have to?

Does it matter that I’m a great dreamer
That Jesus comes by in a John Stamos disguise
Or the disguise of e.e Cummings
Or the jolt of
A tumbling tower

Or the colorful mask at a ball
Or the proclamation that I AM
Fortune’s fool!

Does it matter that I hate the silence so much
I create my own buzz?

And it’s your noise
Lingering in my inner ear

Your mouth in my cavern
The pulse of a breath so heavy
You desire the oxygen lanced
From the lung
For the buzzing to stop

But I won’t let it

I’ll drown in it, goddamn it

You need to breath loudly
as much as I need to hear it

Without your noise
The emptiness would take over
And I’d be one of those annoying enlightened types

That like themselves.

And once that happens
Will it matter if I’m a poet?

En Vogue

I want to die because the earth is not flat
I want to die because I’m a slave to health insurance
To be sedentary is the murder of the soul
But to be aggressive
To fight back
In tundra weather
Russian fatalism
I’d rather condone
I want to die because the snow
Is too heavy
And it feels like nothing
Over all my face holes.
I want to die cus there’s no snow
I want to die
Cus I’m in uncle sams land and I like it
But they cut the arms and feet of
My sugar cane island
They syphoned it from gold first
Then let the cowboys come thru
With X-ray vision thru cells
And conquered the hills
When their voices were loud as thunder
Gag me spank me
Colonize me gently
in the seat of the neighborhood barber
I wanna die
Because I still bought an iPhone
But I knew
I wanna die
Because no one will ever fall in love with Me
I wanna die cus everyone else keeps doing it.

Persephone

I smell like spring time hurled me
out of its bowels
Like everything crushed beneath your foot
On wet soil
Jasmine wafting out my strands of hair
My skin glistening with coconut oil
Lotion of citrus,
I murdered an orchard
And wore its skin
And lilies made their way under my thumb
To my neck
Wrists and inner thighs
I smell like spring time
Vomit.
Come take a whiff of me
After the rain stops.

Purple Robe And Chain Of Gold

I bet if I
Subjected all the prophets’
Dreams to freudian
Interpretation
All that’d come out of it
Would be penises
And vaginas
For all the horns and eyes
The kings saw on the beasts
Daniel was ordained
To tame.
Could exile become
The love language
Of a man who’s function
Turns everything holy
Into daddy issues?
Patricide matricide
The ram and the olive branch
The Ancient of Days
With pure wool hair
Is that what our famous
Oedipus would call
Ego?

Let all those chains
Clink to the floor
Spasms of iron as
Molecules contract and expand
To make the material
Quantonomically identical
To that furnace
Our dreamers
Took a tan in.

Hides full of fat
Not properly speared
Is that too
An omission of the conscience
For the clear need of flesh
Penetration to be exact?

And have we missed the
Writing on the wall all along
Analogue or digital
The divine finger
Has refrained from the well deserved
Tsk tsk.

We believe
In our dens
And our lions
And our well meaning kings

You deserve a glass of wine
After all that tribulation

But you’ve only accepted
Vegetables

I’m uh
Natural born
Preacher
From the boom
To the nearest
Steep uh
I’m a root
Cauldron
Specifically automaton
Tragically
Eternal
Finesse
Has waxed December
Into somber
Sober
Remember remember.

I’m uh natural born skidder
Knees with marks
From sonic
To ambulant
Healer/reader/breeder

Breezing tonight
Might vs right
Merlin taught me
How to fish
How to be military
In the emergent property.

Sometimes I think
Dreams are the sickest
Shit in town.

Over zealous
Like the world could use me
Persistent
Dripping on puddles allows
For disappearing
You can feel my molecules
In this micro pond.
Keep seeing those memes
About star stuff making up
My body,
although I am a constellation
We’re not special
What makes up a star makes up a body
Makes up a shit.
But you are so very important.

Consider your foot,
The biggest challenge for robotic engineers
Proof that time
Is the proponent
Of existence.

Are you outside of time?
When you dreaming
Tacit, with little permission
From the overlords for a break.
Ah but they are made of shit stuff too.

Shit is the great equalizer
As is grace
The grave
And time.

Do not feel special
But feel important,
The throws of time certainly have
And who are we, made of all the shit,
To argue with time.

When you met me
you gave me
all your red leather
made me look like
New King James
Red letter
Made me chew on the
fat of the better
Burned it up for the
Somber Trifecta
trapped in sheets
of taffeta.

Shimmer on those
mountains
a blanket of expelled sea.
How you capture the frozen
to then set them free.

Here they rest
Crystalline,
Wrapping every slope
pore, crook.
We forget that grace
makes all things new.

Nothing is exempt
from the avalanche.
The old cannot survive

though you’re convinced
you will miss it.

Mercy is not Gentle.