i am riley's wasted sunday

your mouth is so eager to please
but your eyes seem to protest.
you spend so much time on your knees.
when was the last time you confessed?
all those years i slept on couches
i was just playing you.
you never found out about it.
tonight my body is soaked straight through.
i pulled my hood up over my head.
do you feel threatened yet?
i'm sickly and bored and tired and violent.
i was lying when i told you the rest is silence.
so let your eyes slide down your face
and eat the tattoos that you can't erase.
get off the bed. it's already stained.
don't complain. don't fucking complain.

september burns red

your love is a floating lantern you hold by a string.
so let it fly upwards til it silhouettes
or run with it. create trails of afterlight
in front of the sedative shades of sunset.
tangle it up with someone else.
or wrap it around your neck.
wait until the cord snaps taut
and every color gradually fades to red.

dustin kensrue is one of my heroes

i never walked in graveyards.
i never had enough friends.
so i went alone. i burrowed far underground
below the dirt but above the river
and i found the eyes that no one's seen,
even though these are the men
to whom you owe your sense of pride,
your scout's honor, the way your kid smiles,
these are the green-clad ghosts who died
not for you, but for the way you'll live your life.

i don't know where. jungles. deserts.
the scorched earth above me.
someone knew a long time ago.
but where is the import?
where is the urgency? where are the flowers
and the marble tombs? if i'm disgusted
it's not because of the worms.
there's no one left to look at them
except me, maybe, if i can bring myself to
open my eyes. far underground.
they're not sleeping. so why am i?

a tattered hand and a rancid mouth.
i want to be shaken but i'm afraid i'm too jaded.
they tell me son, imitate death's true face
under the washed-out plots of these united states.

among the characters: los angeles

i haven't gotten to the children yet
but if feels as if i've been
hearing them for days. there
are so many pictures left to draw.
there are so many pictures left and
each time i draw one i mouth words from
thousands and thousands of year ago.
does that make me as smart as them?
the ones who were smart enough
to invent war.
i've written so many women but
the woman (and the man) have already
written me. because for all the smiling i do,
the mumbling, the hands in my pockets,
all i have is faulty medicine
and faulty building blocks to match.
black fields, black mouths, black strokes tonight.
i need to draw but all i can do is write.

turns out my first impressions were wrong (dear travis,)

a kid
him and his big hands
with the hypertrophic scar behind his first knuckle
he never talks
(for fear of safety?) (for some black reason?)
and he never smiles so
i am wondering what he is doing here
learning about gilgamesh and enkidu
and how gilgamesh wept and rent his clothes.
maybe gilgamesh (even though he was made up
five thousand years ago)
hits just a little too close to home

"i guess i should be one to talk. there's nights that i can't even walk. there's days i couldn't give a fuck."

there's nights that i can't even walk
so i just lay in bed and try,
over the murderously cheerful laughs
of the college-age children swimming around my room,
to hear damon albarn and the fireworks.
but once i find the note it's already too late.
so i submit myself to the momentary pain and

the rest is silence

laboratory

some things we are taught
like carbon is rarely any other color than black
eels will appear only if you give them glass to eat
blonde means all-american, automatic tired smiles
plaid hands you courage and asks nothing in return
and no matter how many times it embarrasses you,
the fact remains — you are not alone.

don't say you want to be a teacher.
everyone has taught me so many things already
and i'm not going to forget any of it