Meningitis Vaccination

Too beautiful to be a passing note, even suffocating in polyester I’d stay or castrating into the night I can’t stop writing,locking omen shared into this heart pulp,
slamming it into your nervous vein.

Vulture

Down, down, I funnel
on the carcass of Prince Charming,
slain by poetry and mid-night wondering
into the darkness to glean,
gathering the strings of dreams
put on hold
for another spoonful of depravity.

Only wires and air

And we bow down to these vaginal idols,
every moment of every day-
dream there she is–right beside me,
and I don’t even know her.
Such a pantheon to worship:
to assume there is a perfect goddess
is betting on Mercury
waiting, waiting for the return letter,
checking every conversation for an address to permanently live.
Oh! to be unmade by the batting of lashes and the curves
of roads that lead and twist and detour
signs left by others point, but behind
the wheel seems to be the only pointer,
pulling up beside a car zooming along to the same curves,
but a different road each time,
never to meet again.
Maybe if I collide and call Allstate, we’ll get to talk,
I could glance at her home address,
or at least she’d yell at me as we fill out forms.
It would be better than this
mechanism called radio with its chord-less voice
of only wires and air.

Mobstones (debt would make it easier)

Thanks to Paul, my Christian name is a Christian name,
grateful for his “before story:”
Everyone sits in a circle,
“Hi, my name is Saul–er– Paul, and I persecuted Christians.”
Everyone claps.
Were there Stephens before this one, do we,
children of a Greco-Roman-Judeo-Christian Western World,
care?

Or what of Corinth–Love–or the Roman Road?
Sometimes I wish to just kill someone,
to get a debt to span centuries,
criminals make the best evangelists, you know?

At least the guilt would make it easier to take:
a micrometers-from-death jihad thrashing,
a fire roasting in a New Guinea swine pit, or
a free burial (like Stephen)
under mobstones

Can you force me to epiphany?

In your Lucid Dream, she was your savior:
a nude supermodel standing in the doorway,
(is it distracting to the message?)
for those defined by emotional intimacy–searching
under a rock somewhere, someday
where the 30 year dew will have ‘mil-ded;”
‘after you’ve driven off a bridge at 80 mph”¦somehow you don’t let happiness in without a full body search,”
insecurity ignites with alcohol, you know,
masks on the front, masks on the back
‘I don’t know if I can be your friend with that mask on?”
I’m not the only one hiding,
fearing one could be taken away,
like the half-empty consequence of predestination,

waiting for another ‘Document1″ to load,
a finger to curl around and a shoulder to smell,
a face to trust after my reconstructive surgery and
if my intellect hung by atomic magnetism to my sanity?
will innocence be charming then?
for sweet sauce would be bland without the sour.
I’m a pleasure delayer–maybe? Is God?
Well, we’re still here. Aren’t we?
oh, to know this image more than it knows itself
and to ask what is happiness?
The little things: there’s nothing bigger
(everything is little to Him).
Immortality as entertainment””this can’t be the future,
but it is the present church: ‘Look at this. I’m frozen, and you’re dead.”
–’It’s a problem,” Penelope says with a smirk
and a kiss, and a vow to love me forever.

‘You just never seem to be there for your friends until they give up on you.”
–well, that’s because they don’t need me when they are high.
‘Don’t you know that when you sleep with someone your body makes a promise or whether you do or not.”
–My life is chewy twizzlers. Add some food coloring, and call me in the morning, honey.
No! Challenge me, change my view:
teach me!
if you can,
for I don’t know what to enroll in or
whether it would be quicker to just read
or watch a movie?

can you analyze why I sniff
your shoulder, and what I want in
life, entice me to entertain
you and not to convulse in
guilt,
tally my thoughts and find a sum?

The diameter of these circles

I hatewhat I see
too fat
too big
they stare
at me
from the mirror
as if I can control
the lines that form
as if it changes the curves of my brainwaves

My Mount Olympia

When the lint on the invoice envelope’s edge, looks like a man running for you,
I want a mother, I’ve always said, to hold me and melt me into her breast
for the heat rocks me to sleep
as if I could do anything but rest
bordered in your arms
you bat away the bees
around you that swarm
to taste this ambrosia
that never leaves me starved

Time scuttles but doesn’t slow

What more am I to do than walk around and pick up chards of friendships
Popping into lives that I once had reserved parking in;
Like a cop at a crime scene flashing his badge,
‘Your last year in one minute, please.”
Time scuttles but doesn’t slow on trips home
and it’s not just an Eastern to Central.
it’s less to do, more time to wastemore grace, less will.

The recent mail

if I had just discovered a fresh letter from the post,
there would be more pining for
I would love you more if you had introduced yourself yesterday
or if I knew less grace less often

I don’t see much of you,when I do, we don’t talk.
I’m running–I promise I love you
and I would tell the pagans this–
if I saw some every once and a while.

An unlit firecracker decomposing in an underwear drawer

fire spells relief
shimmering in the night sky–
if I’d just eat or kiss or maybe even belong
I
‘d be happy.
running from entertainment every Friday,
opportunities to bless, to leave Jesus behind
treading where I’ve tread before,
yes, circular””but not waiting for you to depress
I
t r a n s v e r s e a translucent chord:
the roommate invites to talk with the room-less in smoky bars,
the friend invites to watch the movie about camaraderie,
alone, hugging myself with artistry
desperate to produce
a great life
I
write.