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.

Second Form of ID

Second Form of ID


There is pollen in the air but no breathing yet,
just winter’s residue leaving imprints on fore—
heads like evolution outside seven am. Blue
jeans imprinted with sandals, two sets of lips
and the pixie cup of love. How it couldn’t
be cold enough to portray softball in the air or
magnitude of an asshole taking aimless swings.
I once was a child on a swing with white hair
that loved caterpillars or unclosed parenthesis.
Please. That boombox button doesn’t belong
around a neck, the world is already clichéd to
a point where chocolate melts at absolute zero.
The potluck lick from Mayo doesn’t have such
a ring to it. The hollowness in the middle calls
for a locked bathroom’s caulk-gun stick-up. A
morning glory I lit seven years ago is still about
to burn your fucking eyes out. Please. Change
your name. 35 cents. A long distance phone
call. Hollywood is an anagram for your dolly.
Almost.

Analysis of Gravity

Analysis of Gravity


Interpretive dancers
scare me with their
sporadic movements
that knock bookshelves
to the floorboards.

Treble mixed with
bass and some
rhythmatic life,
but maybe I’m just
not letting the music
give me any wings.

The best are the ones
with ribbons colors
of old 80’s fabric,
twirling and cycling
until even they get
can’t stand the sight
of a tilt-a-whirl.

But maybe I am just
a bit impartial for my
own personal attempt,
Natalie Imbruglia made
me believe I could fly
from building to building.

I woke with two broken
femurs and cadmium plates.
I was high on amphetamines.

Capture the Flag

Capture the Flag


Crayon pigment along
the riverbend dragging
me into a pile of cowboy
hats. Some friends to
pile on top of the minute
hand of a magazine.

Boston is killing me for
the time it takes for the
sun to recover from the
notion of saving daylight,
why won’t someone save
an insomniac?

Sea storm with gale winds
bashing the buoys,
breaking the point-slope
map from here to a middle
of nowhere, in the midst
of pirate bays.

Capture the flag that only
flies in the period where
Saturday dusks fade into
the Sunday dawns, take
me to the place where
Saturday nights turn into
Sunday mornings.

A skyline where difference
Is all but subjective,
The last drink that makes
time have an amnesia affect.

The Last Night In Orlando

I woke up in Florida
Woke up in rainbows.
Thinking about the
Small text inside techno—
logy that I thought.

Omaha can’t be that
far away, can’t be
that unwilling to smell
the hurricane or dew
falling from subterrain.

Don’t push me off the
edge, don’t column
me off into somewhere.
A beauty too far away,
Rhode Island too small.

My faults over a vault,
A pomegranate sitting,
paused, waiting for the
push play. Push some—
thing, the push anything.

Jack and Amy are doing
what they do, and I,
I am loving the solitude
to write about you,
the time to rethink air.

Every year brings fresh air.
I can’t wait another second
for the drops to hit my
forehead or for you to
not laugh at another joke.

I say ready.
I say place
Your worries down.
God says bump then set.
I’m just waiting for you
To say go.


-For the same old same old.

A Bulletproof Telephone Booth

A Bulletproof Telephone Booth



Call on fuchsia
to confuse me,
just for the time
being.

Call on the micro—
phone plated to
the ceiling, my
disco ball.

Call down the far
away star, high
on amphetamines.


dot, line, dot.


Pollen answers
and responds where
do you want to
be taken today?

A place where
there are no bees,
just blank red
octagons.

Secret Handshake With Lake Michigan

Time for a new adventure.
(the underlines are suppose to
be spaces, this thing just sucks.)


Secret Handshake With Lake Michigan


Let’s go!
Run around!
Exclamation.
Polymerize a
phase shift
plan for the
_____Ages.


3-D puzzles
of places you
cannot plan
to ever visit.
Blindfold
black with
the elastic
band cutting
______off
Circulation.


Doesn’t any—
body want to
jump into the
subzero waters.
Oh what feeling
for the ice to
form around
___our bodies.

The Last Axiom Of Chaos

What a long and wonderful journey it has been...


The Last Axiom of Chaos


Plaid patterns on my pillows
disclose the cigarette smell
that embeds itself on my clothes.
I plead that the drugs aren’t
breaking through, causing
my hand to bleed more or less.
Could the karaoke just kick
the habits into the parabola’s
depths, the bowl’s black hole
where yesterday is a paper air—
plane next to Tuesday’s canvas.
Red liquid, brown spirit, don’t
drown the ground so quickly,
don’t pitch the tent before dark
because I’m sure there is some—
thing worth waiting for. I’m
sure that every theorem will be
disproven by a great mind and
tonight seems like a good night.
Goodnight chaos, goodnight
my butterfly.

Mouthwash

Mouthwash


Lemons on a tabletop peel
themselves open until the
anxiety passes and diffuses
through the gases of planets.
Your face familiarizes every
time the cup flips, every bit
of temptation that tilts the
scale to the point where it
tips and the windowsill’s
flowers wilt, water them,
water the mispronounced
lager alongside the distillation
apparatus that can’t make
the clouds clear enough to
take the parallel lines off of
your wrists, the perpendicular
thoughts your mind wonders
on and over. letting go is
the acid of fruit on the table
or the cigarette butts that we
all are putting out on our
forearms, in our minds, where—
ever there is space to dispose.
just remember my fingers
won’t ever be crossed, just
remember the blankets that
slumber comes with protect
us from our own destructions.
lemons in an open wound.



01.12.08

Eagle Nebula

Eagle Nebula


I peer into the Pillars of Creation
and oscillate between ideas,
ones of addicts recovering and
those who think the toilet bowl
tastes like a fine New York Prime.
the mountaintop needs his fix,
the ice doesn’t let him ever show
his true colors, its bushy eyebrows.
bears in caves overdosed on day—
light, living on limited supplies.
Don’t tell me how many teeth
to show or the range when it
is time to start quitting, melting.
the spill on her dress is nothing,
there is no thing worth huffing,
then puffing, and trying to blow
houses down for the windmill will
suffice, for every mammal is addicted
to breathing and pulsars. For there
is a comet waiting to end it all and
high altitudes won’t feel a thing.





http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Eagle_nebula_pillars.jpg