(pygmy strokes)

My brain is a howl, if by night. a mew come the creak of the day.

But it looks like my lamb clothes were lost to the weekend.

Which leaves me nothing, at the moment, to say.


(principled affections)

My brain is the body on the bloodlet floor, dead-eyed and naked, crying loose the shackles of war.


(ankle asylum)

My brain is the rat gnawing staples in the head of our last stolen hero before he calls out for an end.

Wholly fleeting...


(prep the end line)

My brain is the storm that starts the welcome world again.

And i am failing my rituals again. fuck. i'd forgotten all but all about them. forgotten the drinks. forgot the dates. forgot ten years back muttering something to mother about her dead friend and watching the whole thing spiral into absurdist rant on the tragic while i just held my breath and waiting for everyone to just stop crying for a minute so i could sip my cigarette and coffee and wondering just what kind of world i'd be living in without my precious three.

I'm not so sure that i ever did.

I guess i just went on living, holding the sob stories for the right late night end times i needed to express just why the fuck it is i don't know how to share my sorrows so right anymore.

Not so very sagacious, i suppose.

Or is it?

I don't know that i'm necessarily one who is removed from his emotions as a manchild trying to make his best without revealing too many clues to them.

Some things are private. other moments just pass. the rest is fair game for the taking. relating. mocking on the basest plane. anecdotes. cheap jokes and poorly relayed stories about how the chihuahua became a poodle and i ended up with my dick being shook by a complete stranger in the back of some shitty bar on christmas fucking morning.

Not that i'm adopting the moniker.

I've been a jerkoff, but never so profound.

I guess i'm just looking for one more scrambling connection between who i am and the best i've ever seen in the ground.

Or hidden behind a bed.


(token avarice)

My brain is the ballad drunk left bleeding in the sun while furtive words leave fertile ground for the lull of a matchbook psalm.


(muddled in prayer)

My brain is the line of tawdry angels keeping me one step ahead of the ghost that's been chasing me since i was six years old.

And even now, so many years coming (somehow) clean from certain lines of those ridiculous trappings, he still seems as real to me as that day in the backseat leaving the symphony for home or comfort or whatever the fuck it was were gearing towards (i don't remember. that part was long lost to the weight of the story).

Because this is death week.

First carl. then marie lou. then kiki.

In seven days i lost the three most prominent figures in my development. in my being. the fuckers who taught me everything about decadence. about living. about joy and drugs and fucking. about cigarettes and cocktails. about singing off key. snuff films. caligula. fighting. the politics of lies when it comes to writing worth a damn just to get your point across even if your first audience is the subject deflied for character development. about loving. about strength beyond strength when faced with your own body's opposition and the corrupt policy of social graces that still believes that there are sins in this world we all commit by just following our heart to some fucking orifice without bothering without the official sanction of a cunt representing the holy spirit who wouldn't dare spit in the nearest cathedral for fear of being associated with such insidious shits. about being a man. about being me in spite of my own shortcomings.

To be proud of them. to trumpet my failures as loudly as the matter of success they couldn't have really given a damn for because money wasn't a fucking thing (though there was the occasional lick at fame's swollen teet) worth considering so long as there was enough to eat and drink and speak of fondly even when they were dying.

The only one i said goodby to was kiki. i sat beside him in a room of queer mainstays, junkies and my mother. i was seventeen and he was the last.

I might still remember it perfectly but not so well to relate.

Everyone was crying (some bordered on hysterics though i had never once seen their faces or heard their names as i helped carry his hulking frame up the three flights of stairs to the fucking aids clinic to hear the next wretched mark in his fate) but i just sat beside him, whispering. i tried to crack wise now and then (though he probably wouldn't have stood for that thinking i was trite in my determination that he would, in fact, smack god in the face for sassing him the wrong way) but, mostly, i told him i loved him. his nose ran. i cleaned it and found myself amazed that even dead he could still be sniffling.

I didn't tell him i'd miss him.

In fact, at the time (and i still might even i ever learned of death, accordingly), i believed full well that speaking of the souls departure before they have time to break off into the next bardo is a prohibitive measure to peace.

Instead, i left him with a kiss on the cheek and i rubbed his bald head.

That was the first day my mother and i ever shared a drink.

Gentleman's jack.

It was delicious.


(right cities)

My brain is a thalium kick for the detox kids still wondering what it is we see in all this slow-killing of our memories, our bodies, our place in the grey future of old age where they plan to dance and sing all through the twilight we're so egregiously defying with all our cocktails and cigarettes. our cocaine and red meat. our savege love of blood and pussy (cock if you'd like...its all the same to me).

All the delicious vices that propel us and our occasionally meaningless lives into the hopelessly legendary stories that mark us for the madmen that most folks never bore the scars to believe.


(armor spent)

My brain is the cusp of that new york star this kid remembers fourteen years ago for the first time in the shade of brooklyn where he had to learn the steps to a new fiasco that would last him across state lines and into this dawn (believing) releasing him from his old coarse play.


(frozen seams)

My brain is the first day growing out of an end to the days we walked as children.

And i fucking hate it.

Hate staring at the lonely sky, thinking over all the time i wasted being in love when i should have just disappeared. given into the night's reckless whims without the burden of a heart bleeding over with desire for the one girl in the world i should've never held after that last kiss on avenue a.

Fucking dreams. fucking memories. fucking floods of emotion welling over me even as i try still not to be angry when i should just deal with the fact that i allowed myself to be fucking hurt.

And i only wish i could allow myself to do the same.


(green preserving)

My brain is the brick that warmed the shards of our deeds left long undone.


(forged cowards)

My brain is the dust on spent eyes promising...


(boring unicorns)

My brain is a pace in the maudlin whirl of unkept accidents.

And i am the fruit of the repetition.

My pattern precedes me. my reputation, not so much as i'm still figure out that nasty little sunmabitch again. not that it matters. i'm just curious. aimed at wonder (and days and days as a strange, sleepless casualty of light hallucinations that don't so much interfere with my day to day as haunt my bed with images of ants crawling over the walls and threatening to fall down and consume me as a fetid piece of meat settled in the sun, baked but still dripping viscera from the fresh sockets torn by the beetles for all the times i used them in my silly game of scaring grown men out of their skin and off my property [before i could even call a room my own]...never a trick really, so much as an endurance test on both are parts where no one really got hurt except for the few times my teeth got carried away with the appetite for fiercer attention even if it assured [or, perhaps, the better for] me a parial place in the adolescent race). nonsense. non plus.


Perhaps i'm better off wrestling the bed than letting my fingers rattle my senses again but you know how hard it is to stop this runaway train from leaning into that last curve on the precipice above the lazy hamlet of crippled pillagers who know their fate from the boston tea leaves they still read in the stains of her wine drunk face.

And fuck and fuck and fuck again.

It is a curious complaint, this compulsion. so many days i wish i could just bore the right hole into my skull and spend the rest of my half-life living right with the dead from paycheck to paycheck but then there's the rest. there is the passion. the desire to make one piece of something great (if not quite yet).

At least its mine.

I guess and guess.