Happy Belated Birthday

your veins

glow curvaceous and mean

under thin skin

clogged with neon.

bones of electrocuted cartoons

rise

en route to the sacred

sky machine
pinball quarters
cherry stem knots

blink and ding intestinal pink
high score
broadcast in minty green digi-teen

gum goes black on asphalt,

trash trucked out on Tuesdays

Nothing new takes decades to

percolate through layers of modern waste.
the freedom is just as terrifying as 

mold 
on the dishes in the sink.

grandma's house

died when 

you moved in.

she moved on 
to

Blue Skies via 

Otis Spunkmeyer in the lobby  and 

Complimentary Muzak

There is an

un-shave-able waddle of flesh

underneath my chin.

I imagine you, enraptured

by

bedroom musk and my

regressive views,

latching on
champing down
Matamoros bridgework be damned,  

pit bull bitch

coming of age

corn syrup falls,

installed 
when that kinda thing was in,

Nar-co-ti-cize

time

my metaphorical book of deep wisdom,

my unanswered question

one hand hipped

one browed

in defiance of the South Texas sun

burglar bars threaten to burn me alive

tentacled within these sheets

where your legs once governed

the sum of your memory

my lopsided cake

3 candles short

11 days late

my shadow darkens as i eat the memories of Tampa Bay conventioneers

pure reason is bloodless

give me

that walking hemorrhage

there--kissing,

centering her face with both hands, 

easy, man, easy.

delicate

on cheeks

this is classic 
antique store public display

draped with plastic berries

but super-authentic hay

she might be an angular Picasso

in the flattering promenade light

tooth and clout of a mountain face

weapon of choice

an ebony knife

  

reality is that I constructed

grief in her eyes

while crafting 

next year's Christmas message:

deceased spider monkeys

distended by heat,

burst forth

pink grey miniature

viscera, doubling

the sunset palette

intestines, in cursive crumb-

caked with mud

spell out two little Instagram wishes:

For happiness now

For a world without end.

can't never not be my lover

no guitar solos please 
slap my jaw 

with bass and tambourine

deal medicine in sing-song,

with a sneer, man.

in Brogue,

brother,

cause the ocean is cold

Chrysler Building

cold. ribs

are blue under rust

nestled

just so between vice

grip thighs. 1928

in black and white

fire glows orange on rivets

at quitting time

men

fling them

like Sunday ball.

today

you manage to say

I Believe

I Can Fly!

11 times in

21 seconds

it takes

to fall

3000 feet

from the penthouse

suite/Burj Khalifa

Bowie jumped

arms outstretched,

from a tower of stacked speakers.

fell to earth on

his ankle.

his face,

Axl Rose

rearranged for him

much later.

the effect of

causes dated many millennia

before woodcuts of stricken

children littered

Teutonic forests.

before lisa lisa & the cult jam.

on my way to Tampa Bay

DFW 
and a lake house invitation
from an Oklahoma dude, 
via Rain Forest Adventures
Costa Rica 
zip line tour.

Oklahoma boys

breaking hearts with
expensive shorts
(not the hearts) but 
cornflower blue 
pecs 
like obscure logos 
on their way to Rome.

women 
moved stone 
to extract him from 
his mother’s arms, alive.

blindfolded and ear-plugged 
he writes the scene where he scatters 
his twin brother’s ashes on fire island. 
cuts the love line from his palm 
and prints his 
bloody hand on the page
like a fourth grade boast. 
tah-DAH!

the air goes out of the room. 
the pause. the dish:
Diane Sawyer tweezing
Barbara Walters’
nose hair,
digging gristle from her back tooth

among a pestilence of flies,
fried clams,
and a gang of manatees 
dragging the Hillsborough River

mediocre, passive aggressive book seeks revenge

secular holiness razes religion
scrubs society in the crack, 
behind the ear.
a pussycat hardship,
bursting with real fruit flavored gravitas,
supplants/revamps world views.
un-strafed souls
now in control
pit the maulers 
with the brawlers
and yell, go!

birds and other fly creatures

everything gone 
flaccid
my droopy blue 
suede
strap on

little anchors
in clouds
tiny worms with wings
choke the fly
crows
like bags of black keys
not meant to amuse 
you
never know when to screw

when called upon I act
test
fuck it with lips
and teeth
slashed
less like price,
more like tires
named for rain and snow

tiptoe thru

the sage brush,
caress the raw mess 
left by
deep cuts 
caressing and counting on you
has never been what to do

the cognitive dissonance of a woman in nurse's scrubs chasing you down for a beating

I found myself

engulfed in flames

seeking verisimilitude by

dipping matchbox cars in gasoline.

fire prevention week

meant posters on on the walls in the halls

Stop Drop and Roll!

said

My accomplice, excited to finally get one right.

I buried my charred clothes,

pencilled in new eyebrows--

suspicious & surprised.

the high hum of her little grey fiat

pulling up the drive

what in god’s name have you been into,

she said before the screen door clapped shut.

Plausible deniability, observation, diversion:

Umm... this and that. You look tired. Are you hungry?

cannibalized eulogy

love was not control

It was liberty

the people she loved,

knew they were loved

an autographed punch by Muhammad Ali

you want it to

swell
blossom blue
both eyes shut

I need my body

to wash dishes,

drive to work,

walking the dog forever underwater

noses poking for air.  maybe the

tide recedes

New life, uncharted, uncertain without her

paste me on a packet of forget me nots

you, despite hostile terrain

could raise a signal bloom

to stop the lumbering tanks.

by the kiss of your disconcerting smile

spirits snap back two and

four score 

with

sparks that rattle

two-bit  pretenders.

we wanted to keep up,

but how can cubs

with rubber band paws

compete with dashing

mama bear?

the heat in your Fiat Brava

kept death and winter

at bay.

lipstick & smoke &

juicy fruit gum,

cordovan leather

belted at the waist

I miss

your rusty laugh,

donkey/Buddha

brawl about

who gets to reveal

the secret meadows

within you

that deserve to last forever

in debt to "The Nature of Things" by Lucretius

farewell statement

while his tongue burns inflamed by poison

nothing malfunctions

that was not already 10 seconds to God.

I’ve not calibrated for his exit

so our conversations remain 

unscripted, free of the subtext which flatters

the mundane

until he loses the 

energy which he was so glad to gain, 

a pass he 

earns

to be such an asshole

as only he can turn abnormal cells

into currency.

you better hope you don’t get better.

you got people signing up to whup your ass 

the hotel lobby is technically a free place to meet

if you have at least one cousin staying the week.

your ramparts are down

and the same crusty Volvo you had since we were 18.

Google says we're just 4.3 miles from your house

and I come 1500 miles for this:

I couldn’t see

you didn’t hear

when I said I 

love you.

I heard semis sing 

in odd intervals

over your shoulder, I-75 fractured

by pine and negative space,

deciduous trees flashing leaf        

in this brief winter intervallum.    

on freshly lined blacktop

Holiday Inn Express parking lot

we shook like civilized human beings

All Natural Assassin School

all-natural assassins
take no aspirin

the message sharp-ied above the urinal

says.
also, the party line insists
the test is not a measure of intelligence
so much as a game
of
light your oblongata

or get off the pot, 

which was Ante Annihilation’s
catch phrase, aka Jules Rodriguez,
who retired on a roller derby
pension.(ah the snakes cursed
that poor old gal. snakes for intestines
they said) she was an instructor
until they caught her canoodling
with ethically challenged,
cross town rivals
‘the preservative assassins’

How on earth
this tight lipped syndicate
operates incognito...

but it is they who passed
me through the physical prowess
portion of the pre-interview process
due to mastery of board breaking &
lasso making.

on to the classroom arena via
escorts, broad-shouldered and bow-tied.
unabashed,
size-me-up-sideways
types, allinarow,
prick up
when the deep down body
voice presenting from a mini transistor
situated on a metal lectern
cracks
to life: Hey! Sit up straight
ya buncha Barney Fifes!

the valedictorian raises her hand, 

registers concern. wait. 

I won't take aggression 

through this medium. her desk folds
inward upon itself, popping, compact-

ing reducing, reducing
until she's gone.

when silence 

is again regained 

the voice assures us, 

you may begin.

When you find out what these kids are jumping into, your jaw will drop!

The narrator
takes a break from his wares
dips
sticks and twine into the solution,
and presents as if he were christening

an orchestral movement.
opens this contraption to the breeze
and a bubble the size
of a unicorn pony bounds away into the distant horizon.
it’s difficult 

for him to create this enchantment children
seek so fervently to destroy

a keepsake wallet-sized print-out
of his second infarction’s EKG
reminds him of mortality and a frame story
for an epistolary
about that one, small, family
of strangers we finally
let in, a mother and her child

the child developed the strength
of a middle aged tree,
but the ratio of candy to bruises
never changed
in his favor.
The narrator sounded 

like this: I’ll take you away
from here right now,
but you’ll have to forget.
And you can’t remember
where we’re going. 
Deal?

The townspeople whispered
abortion when the child grew
into what the e-newsletter
described as “a reminder of misallocated generosity”
under the headline,
“Details Reader’s Digest Won’t Print”

the candy was the story
because if the candy wasn’t the story,
then all those bruises
were for nothing.

and the story on her end?
souvenir t shirt scraps
lay on her lap
unquilted
like a flattened cat.
she can sit the kitchen
of an evening,
watch gas
flares at the refinery
light the sky. useless
to them but like
what's coming up next on the HDTV
her attention remained rapt

he displays mosaics for sale

outside the town wall.
bottle cap plastic
spoon pieces, sharp
and sun bleached, broken,
glaucomic,
Happy Meal shards
fixed to plywood in regimented
blocks of color

vice principals stop on their way back in--
administrative assistants, team-members,
sales associates, band boosters--
to visit his makeshift booth.
apologizing in their way by purchasing
one of the 5 dollar works
he kept in plentiful stock.

camouflaged of desperation
but crackling with urgency,
citing rights,
they each demanded to know,
sotto voce,
do your fantastic stories work?

Yes, the narrator sighs.
yes. but
grab a lollipop on your way in.