Thursday, June 26, 2008

poor ol' Kenny

He saw so many umbrellas when he fell from the sky that he thought the ground had grown a multitude of eyes. They opened wide. Dancing, water proof, multicolored vinyl beetles with pupils. The rush of air pulled back his lips into an ironic smile that he caught in the windows of the building he had just jumped off of.

Every night for two years straight he dreamt about this moment, and now it was finally happening.

Figures it would be raining, he thought.

A bird flew just underneath his torso, squawking madly and losing a feather. He tried to laugh but the rush of air had completely vacuumed out his voice.

Holy shit, he thought.

He suddenly realized how fast he was going. And that he had forgotten to go to confession. His Roman Catholic Grandmother had perpetually warned him of purgatory, and worse-- hell. He never completely bought it but went through with the motions just in case.

He couldn't remember if suicide was a mortal sin, but if it was, he wasted a lot of years reciting bullshit. And if God wasn't real, he wasted a lot of years reciting bullshit. And even if God was real, but he wasn't Catholic, then he wasted a lot of years reciting bullshit. The odds seemed against him either way.

Oops, he thought.

And then the standard pre-death memories started flashing before his eyes, too quickly to digest. Driveways and trains and tree houses and fences and then everything paused at seventeen years old. He was staring down, and he could still see the streets and umbrellas but he could also see threads on a quilt with ants crawling along the stitches.

"Baby let's get up there's gross bugs," his high school girlfriend had said.
"That's how picnics are supposed to be."
"I thought they were supposed to be romantic!"

The rest of his thirty-six years of life didn't have time to play.

And in that split second before hitting the concrete he changed his mind about wanting to die. But of course he did. Wouldn't you?

Thursday, June 19, 2008

desire

i think about you far too often.
though you were entirly too easy to get over.
being around you this much a year later, breaks my soul.
you have mood far too fast.
i trail you in the dust when it come to love.
jealousy bleeds from my eyes.
jealous of your new found love.
i cry to let my weakness leave my body.
this smile is only fooling you.
my broken heart is tucked away deep inside my shallow breathing chest.
as my lungs take in the fresh air, of each new breat, my heart barly beats.
this body needs love.
these lips need to be embraced.
my hands need to be held.
but right now,
no love is better than your love.
and His love is better than all love.
this heart will soon be remembered.
thanking Him, and praying to Him.
i now know my hearts desire.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Tanks of Rust.

verge of death
end of hope
foreshadowing clarity
discrimination of the soul
hole in heart,
eternity growing larger
plain to see my eyes are gouged
spoonfuls of indigence being force fed
asleep at the wheel pondering dreams
conjuring thoughts of malodorous things
violence in my blood and daggers in my genes
pyramids of laughter being silenced by the scene
victimless crimes the infamy of design
the temperature festoons the highest line
covered in rust, dust, and slime
can't find the strength to get up and climb
eighteen wheels moving fast
pick a ride and follow the tracks
i'm heading out of here on straw that breaks backs
last lap and final coat, tell me where to shack
i set my self on fire for your capricious posture
now not knowing what to do, i sit and wait
drinking quickly to erase the pain of silence
no answer when questions asked and that's the issue
send mail to get mail, i wasn't expecting this.
ashtrays on the third planet swell to the size of seas
burning trees with souls filled with disease
filling whole hearts with cement, i no longer believe to repent
pills of anger and solicitations from beldams
posing no threats but causing all to reinvent
bedlam in the kitchen, sorrow in the cement
cement in the heart, violence in the blood,
pain in the water, relief in the whiskey,
it's not the sun, and it's not the moon
it's right in-between the stars and the fingernails
the expanse of nothing
agoraphobia and my deepest concern.

open ocean
haze at night
backwards image
mirror in the hallway
pens and paper for Yves Tanguy
a kiss to Matta
love letter to Georges Braque
and thoughts about Van.
and the one thing i'll never have

i have eighteen minutes left...
dress me up in plastic.

~Does anybody know?

Love,
Digress.