polaroid portrait #2

I am cigarette soluble
an ex-dystopian author
with a caffeine fix
a nicotine buzz
bloodied knees and unconvinced knuckles
fighting a cognitive dissonance
unbeknownst to intellectual override

ex-lover's tanka

not you I miss --
but sun-kissed skin
lying on our bed
the smell of old book
and spring

A Ghost's Eyes

I put away our photographs today
turned them face down
and put my back
to your memory
I said goodbye to you,
the final goodbye,
in a city far from here.
drunk.
on the phone.
but you are still with me
you followed me home.
I put your face into
the desk drawer
I put your face in a place
I can no longer see.
I threw away the key.
except I put my tax return in the same
drawer so so I'll have to break into my own.
and there will you be.
your callous, ever-loving, ever-laughing
face
staring right back at me.
I put away our photographs
I locked them where I cannot see.
But you still touch my dreams each night
and always, always,
you are staring straight through me.
(get out of my head.)
(you're ruining everything.)

the equation solved

in this syphilitic city
once my haven now
grown too small the
anarchists are baiting the capitol
the police are baiting the students
or is it the other
way 'round?
either way the story's spread
either way, the future's been set
only one thing left for this town --
'tis better to just burn it all down

Being A Grown-Up Means Nothing

come on, Iggy, don't let me down
don't tune my guitar down
one step, two step
half-step, you bastard
I lost my tuner last week
I can't do any fixin to your breaking
and you tell me
"your face changes when you
put your glasses back on --
stop hiding behind lenses"
But I won't because
I am three and I am
petulant and I want
another lung cookie, dad.
You keep telling me to make music
you keep telling me to sing songs
but you never leave me alone
for very long
and my muse prefers
nakedness,
but she's shy and turning
your back won't do --
so would you please leave the room?
and while you're gone, I will
open my bedroom window
because I am six and I am
petulant and I want
another man's arms --
my muse prefers nakedness --
to be in front of him.
And he'll dip me backwards
and buy me flowers
and teach me the body poetic
the body electric
because we are seventeen and
we are petulant and we want
to know what its like
to keen.
And when you come home,
you'll just be alone because
I'm alone
my muse prefers nakedness
and the solitude of pines these days.

Untitled; Nora Furst

Beneath the feathers
cradled in the elbow between
muscle and bone you perspire
fingernails adust
veins blued
retired to a chemical we are not
without desire and dissonance
just lacking in clarity
and a persistance of
worlds shouldered and terror
bared
tell me where were you the moment you discovered a
resonance in your rib cage
detracting from the song
in your skull tell me how
did you create emeralds from sand and
squirrells from avocados
i am no magician no musician
just a cacophany of threats and lullabies
just a retarded penguin slapping my wings against my thighs
of course there is beauty in
watching new freckles appear
tasting your boy's sweat
knock-kneed and
sweet of breath
discovering the subtle texture of your friendships
the folds in your soul
battling the red ants of your mind
an ice cube on your toes
the eyelashes of a wild mexican bull

09.05.08

speed.
speed.
the road eclipses.
I have been outsourced to my future self
and she is a driver
as I should have been.
speed.
speed.
the road.
eclipsed.