But Don't Worry, Darling

When I ate
the sweetest
fruit I ever ate I
bit deep
and filled my mouth with
soft flesh
and
the
juice
ran
down
my
chin.

When I lick
my lips
I can still taste
phantom nectar,
and then none
of the fruit
shipped to the supermarket
in floating chlorine bath houses
across rough
trade routes
stirs
my appetite.

Humbert Humbert

I'll never get
Humbert Humbert
's hard on
for Lolita.
And it's not just
that I hate the idea
of getting dirty
looks
from the proper sort.

It's because
I
want everything
he does not.
He hungers
for more forbidden
fruit.
The ripe pears
and melons
that tempted old Humbert
Humbert's gag reflex
make my mouth
water.

Misanthrope

His hair is the sun
bleached tall grass,
which had clung
to his scalp
as he lay in the fields,
age eight.

But his hands
are cracked
from bending steel cables
to his will,
a will bought up
and bent out
by Wagner and Warner
Manufacturing, INC.
for the
past
two
decades.

If he ever delved
his finger into the cool
rich soil
of his youth,
the dirt
would only cake
his raw joints
and burn,
burgeoning
infection.

Hamlet

When I was young
I flipped Hamlet
the bird.
"What a useless fuck.
Just do
anything
as long as it's
something."
Back then I knew
exactly
what I'd have done.
I'd have gutted my
Greasy traitor
uncle
but spared my Mom.
It would have been
a play in one
Act.

That's what I
told myself.
Now I think
that deciding
can be a bitch,
and that I would rather jump in
a coral reef
head first
than risk my soft belly being rubbed
raw.

Hamlet still
pisses me off
but for a different reason.
It's the way he drove himself
and eveybody he talked to
bat shit crazy
by worrying whether
he was fucking it all up,
both acting
and not acting.

It's such a drag
always getting riled
up over what is, and is
not.
And maybe his Dad
was just an asshole
anyway.

Black Coffee

Sitting on a cracked stool,
red as the dried out blood amber
of the northside Vegas streets
which had shrivelled
like a moldy orange
outside our usual cafe
I mistook
the patter of her chewed nails
on the speckled egg shell table top
for caffeine jitters

I sipped my thick, stale
cup of black coffee
and asked about the weather
in Vegas
and whether or not she missed how
the Virginia landscape flashed
in our windows
when the lightning
struck.

She nodded slightly
laughed coldly
and smiled
like she felt
the rainstorm blowing
in.

I couldn't get to sleep last night

I was pretty furious about something. You ever have one of those nights where you know you just need to get some sleep and deal with something in the morning, but you're so angry or upset that you can't slow your mind down enough to rest? I was having one of those nights.

Anyhow, I wrote this, to help exorcise my fucked up cycle of thoughts, and it helped me get to sleep. It's basically stream of consciousnes/free association. But it was sort of intereting, so I thought I'd throw it out there.

You don't have to comment on it or anything, unless you have something to say.

I just like to put things out there that I write. I overheard some people talking about burning old love letters. That's sort of what sharing my writing is like. Once it's legitimately outside of my mind and available for other people to read, it's got a life of its own. It's not a symbiont anymore.

Toss/turn

Turned around,
or tossed aside?
Limbs of my mind
Tangled up
in a six quilted
Pantomime.

Fertile bedroom plots
Squirm with scientific
Methods, to madness,
Testing my limit
Which equals
Undefined.

A lost pen left
no work shown. Just
Blotted ink on the tongue
tied up from chasing
words to help explain.
But both sides split the difference,
staining twain.

Morning light never learned how
to cast black magic hypotheses,
just aspersions
on last night's heavy eyelids.