Call Me Whimsical, I Can Sleep Tonight (December 18/19, 2009)

Chaos Theory is complete (if you want a copy I'm thinking about doing a second printing of it so let me know, if demands there, I'll do it). Go! is dead, well not so much dead but has taken on a different form. This piece will fall into a collection entitled "Box of Bones" but I don't feel like making a new blog for it.


Call Me Whimsical, I Can Sleep Tonight (December 18/19, 2009)


I can still smell the particles of your hair
as I dash back towards my hometown
fountain. It will be a story, to someone,
that at some point, someone chased you.

Is there anything out there that feels
like clay to a child meshing materials?
Is there anyone out there that makes
the city’s wind collide two worlds?

I’ve met them, all, complete, contact.
Searching for clichéd emptiness at the
bottom of their ventricles, not broken
bottles or half sipped distilled spirits.

This sunrise is different, later, darker,
not how we’ll sleep until two, but in light,
light that scatters out from stars, galaxies,
and your nebula the takes the nautical form.

We banged on drums as authority watched,
noticed, and knew that we had power.
What a concept, what a shimmering piece
of plastic that says we chose to be right there,
alone.

My bed is empty. My atria wishes for something more,
but we both know a figure just to be a figure is frugal,
is frustration in the form of quantum energy, more physics,
molecules, atoms, quarks, strange but ever so charming.

Don’t vanish please,
there is a cycle to complete.
Blooming, blossoming, carnivorous in nature.
If I only could connect
the cracks in the pavement.

If I only could know the difference
between short skirts and opaqueness,
Your dirty smile would
be a dirty pile of clothes.

A Poem For A Lion King Character

Well the MCAT is over so I can start writing full-time again.
Decided I would take a humorous approach to my life. Hopefully
I don't offend anyone...


A Poem For A Lion King Character


Sometime in between
the jug of wine and
a janky Chicago bar
you found something
practical, maybe it
was the cheap ass
suit I wore but even
the taste of sweetest
Amaretto won’t take
the sour out of whiskey.

Here’s to that awkward
night of making out
when I had an upper—
respiratory infection
and couldn’t go three
seconds without
laughing or breathing.

Let’s keep a sense
of humor because
I know I want to
fall in love with
the first thing that
has a Christmas
tree full of lights.

Here is to the sunshine
that kept me awake
and kicked me out of
orbit and classification
like that sorry excuse
for a planet Pluto.

I am going to lick
your face until it
melts into plastic.
This is going to be
my calling outloud,
calling for the wiki—
pedia pages about
that annoying Lion
King reference.

We will stand on
this porch until
you have a legit—
imate reason to
venture inside.
I will be seventy
mosquitoes all
biting the same
spot.

You can punch
holes all over my
body but it is fuel
for the fire I have
already doused
in lighter fluid.
More for you,
but all the glory
for me.

I am going to mess
your hair until you
look like you just
had sex with a cave—
man. That guy
from the Geico
commercials.

Connecting Stars

Connecting Stars


I


Popcorn in a cup,
I’m sure, so sure.
You’re looking for
a metaphor here.
It is still inside
your head, think,
your hair, stuck.

Don’t play it, don’t.

Enjoy your smile
for inside the micro—
wave keeps me
warm enough,
to imagine. Oh
what it is like to
imagine.


II


You are eating
something raw,
a face, an aorta.
Asleep, the fire
can’t stop wonder—
ing. Tell me
the only thing.

One thing that
burns eyes blind.

I can’t think any—
more, throw the
poems into a flame.
I won’t see the light,
they won’t see the
light of day. I don’t
want them to see
anymore sunrises.

Anymore breathing
inside me.


III


Cut my hands,
cut the strands of
hair I couldn’t
help but hold onto.
Cut our umbilical
cord and let free—
dom spill.

No time to clean it,
nothing inside, 2 am.


I’ll always be one
kernel, one kernel
waiting for the stars
to heat, but the stars
are too far away.

Just please, someday
find me and throw
the kernel away.

round up

(round up)

Fallen into tomorrow

and woke up ten

years ago with

the stockings on the

ground collecting

Candy canes and the

distillery compound.

Eleven sounded like

a good multiple of

seven, and a half.

Paternal dryness for

a better life, an ampersand

slide three blocks

down the side-slope.

Irony with a face but--

Figure traits do not

have electrostaticity

high enough to pile,

accumulate on top

of yestermorrow.

Tow the two weeks

until the pavements

see rain, a collecting

duct inside my kidney.

Don’t forget to carry

the (twenty) one.

Herion in the Narthex

Heroin in the Narthex


In the stamen, the corona,
Drinking spores of chloroform.

I don’t have an electron
to donate today, my pockets
contain only positive cosas.

Phrenology lives in me and
I want to trepan it so.

Asterocytes

Asterocytes


Breathing is
contagious.
It is a means
for identities
to ignite alive
with fragments
of past, pasts.

Pests under
your carpet.

A struggle to
please what—
ever lies above,
what likes to
say he lies
beneath us all.
Ants collecting.

My air conditioner
has pseudo-wings
and I’m quite sure
he can fly with the
right wind sheer.

Pink and Orange Peaches

Pink and Orange Peaches


A stranger in
the stairwell,
it was the
beginning,
it is when
I couldn't finish.

Ampersand,
your face
inside the lines
of my hand.
Your face
outside my

cataract.
too many
trashbins
full of the things
I could never
convey.

Another 90’s
ballad to make
the fingertips
seem like colors,
peach, orange,
and pink.

We are an open
parenthesis,
Blue sequins,
a great mathe—
matical sequence.