Timely

via Daily Prompt

I can hear it all ticking and flowing back to me
as if in the quiet moments it was lost

and now
with each puff
and every swig
the burn on the soft palette that I know scars permanently,
like an invisible tattoo that I trace silently with the tip of my tongue,
and the fire in the intestines
that rips through blood as if it were an obnoxious fly crashing into blue light;

and the stillness brings the flood
ticking and ticking and ticking
bringing with it:
decay,
change,
aging,
reminiscences,
final breaths,
first breaths,
endless cups of coffee,
so many fingernail clippings,
fleeting kisses,
closed doors,
opened doors,
hugs lingering for too long,
looks lingering for too long,
shared milkshakes,
health kicks,
New Year Resolutions,
discarded soap boxes,
snuffed out cigarettes,

Entropy.

And as the soft palette burns and the
intestines scream through acid and electricity
the mind pushes on,
the soul pushes on,
looking,
reaching,
searching for something:

Telos
(or some other bullshit)

and nothing escapes this pattern
this cyclical agenda
twenty-four
twenty-three
twenty-two…

count down the hours until it all begins again.

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Half-way Through a Bottle of Wine

Damn

oh HOT DAMN!

it’s the beats
the quick soft beats that seem to pad at your brain

that’s all I’ve got for it,
all I’ve got for it,
All I’ve got
and it fades with time
like pressing the blood from a hickey

and it’s sexy
like shoulder freckles
like eyelashes
like bunny teeth
like someone else breathing a whisper into your mouth
like feeling fingertips trace the rivers of your body
like holding hands in thin gloves
like a kiss with mint gum

and it’s moving through my mind like snakes
on a marble track
tracing the corners of my brain until there is nothing left to find
and I’m enveloped

and there’s a bottle in front of me
sucked down, half-way,
something empty
something full
something between where I want to be and where I am

and I’m not sure what the destination is
but the journey is taking me to the porthole again
and the red red color is flushed through my stomach
I’m full of it
and I’m lost in it
being drunk on oxygen and
meditating on wine

slowly,
slowly,
the world begins to fade away
and all of the promises
begin to fade away
and all of the city lights
and my dinner table fades too
and the disquiet sets in

and I find the bottom,
lift the glass ninety degrees,
let it all drain
poke my eye with the neck
lift up again
the final drop seems to dry before it hits my tongue
what’s left is a sugary
remnant of an old grape

and somehow it’s a part of everything that has come to pass.

Eye Contact

I’m feeling for it,
looking for the patterns in the light between the objects
something reminiscent of what used to be there
as if an old coke can
once stood proudly on the countertop
and now is
crushed
melted
recycled;

I’m staring through the air
through some sort of void
seeing your fear permeate the room
your unending hate for someone that you do not know
someone that you do not understand
it’s a black ink stain
disquieting the breeze made
by the air conditioning
and it smells like feet;

I see your color
rocketing through your crown
you think you cover your fear
by your blue jacket
but it is so deep inside you
no amount of polyester can prevent
disclosure of the truth

“suck my balls”
you say that
“suck my balls”
as if that would be the solution to your problem
as if someone with their lips around your sack
would create in you a sense of purpose
of fulfillment
of peace
of tranquility
as if it would calm the war that rages between your ears;

“fuck you, faggot.”
you say that
“fuck you, faggot.”
a sentence that reflects the hatred that you have boiling inside,
created from some kind of perceived slight;

I am so sorry that you feel that way
I hope that you,
one day,
will find peace enough within yourself
to make eye contact with another human being
and assume that they do not hold hatred for you.

Breathing Heavy

I’m running in circles around the quiet padded room of my mind
not in an insane way
in an effort to tire my thoughts out
reeling incessantly through the checklists of propriety
making sure that they are correct,
right,
something set to a standard,
and I can’t fuckin’ write,
it’s all blocked up,

like watching a natural dam of leaves
twigs,
moss,
break off and roll uneasily through a stream
something held back,
now flowing freely
but chunks pushing pieces of soul
out of the way
purifying and
tearing,

Nothing can be reversed

It’s all just counter-clockwise
just feet beating into the squishing room
and my brain is down
melting into the pat-pat
the pat-pat
of my shoes as they hit

I’m breathing heavy, trying for the moment
when it will all give out.

The Intimacy of Death 

Do not fear me.
And do not fear you.
But do not be afraid to fear the
intimacy of death.

For there is something delicious roasting on the fire.
There is a morsel of something
Left for you by the fisherman
Long gone to bed

And the clock has struck some ungodly
Single
chime
And you wait for someone to prepare it
To set it down
In front of you;
And no one comes
And the hard wood of the thick table
Is cooling with the tiring hours of a new day
And the candle has been snuffed
And you are starved from patience
And something is burning

And he knocks on your door
Quiet and timid
And you answer
You hear in his voice:
The creaking of a brass door knob
The gentle whisper of falling leaves
He touches your arm and you
Become somehow a separate part of
What you knew.
The Shack fades
You are now encompassed in a pillar made of your own body
And you cry
And you laugh
And you wait.

Waiting For it to Pass

I don’t know
I’m just holding on to something
a marble perhaps,
pressed sweaty into the tendons of my palm
and it’s displacing heat,
it’s cooler than I would have thought,
or maybe my palm is simply heated with upset

words seem to bombard me from all sides
and I wish that I had a typewriter
this computer, it works fine
but the words
the letters, they come out so soft
they don’t slap into creation,
nothing is punched into the page
there is only an intention of rage
or disdain in the words
and it falls away
cools off too quickly,
like the marble.

Thoughts swallowed
down the throat
They are bits of broken glass
and spoonfuls of chalk
they don’t go down easily;
they are things that have to be burned down with
hot smoke
or washed away with cleansing​ alcohol,
and they fall slowly
like an apple core in the esophagus,
creating limitless pressure in the chest,
until it falls into the stomach
and I can feel it all
start to burn away
with stomach acid.

And the conversation melts into something that could be considered civil
but I’m boiling inside
and I’m digesting the apple,
and the shattered marble has cut my throat,
and the chalk has made my mouth thick
like old, dry french fries,
and something has crumbled.

So I’m sitting and waiting for it all to pass.

If Sex Were Something Else…

If sex were drinking,
you would know that I am a finger of whiskey
poured at arm’s length
into a rocks glass
tossed down the throat,
A burn in the gut
some instant of fire
a celebration of a moment that lingers in the mind.

If sex were conversation,
you would know that I’m
a heated argument,
some kind of relentless
give
and take
until things fall
into beautiful understanding.

If sex were a meal,
You would know that I am
a Cabernet Sauvignon
paired with a medium rare steak,
A steaming baked potato,
and crunchy broccoli with melted butter

If sex were reading
I would be a book of short stories about
Time and Space;
Looping stars,
Watching planets revolve around some center,
unknown to me,
unknown to God.

If sex were something else
maybe I could tell you what it meant to me,
Maybe the communication wouldn’t be lost in
the sweat as it evaporated to the ceiling,
maybe things wouldn’t fall away,
walls wouldn’t be constructed
sentiments would be understood
parties would feel gifted instead of cheated.

If sex were something else,
I would roll it up in rice paper
light it up,
smoke it, inhale it,
and exhale it into your mouth as I kissed you.

Siezed in the Night

In front of me lies a vast expanse of finite offness,
I can see a far off spot of light,
Something distant as if it had been
scattered across the plain of my view

With it a parallel dream of my past existence
Something looping quietly, dreamlike
in a plane unknown
where a threshold of stones,
placed and sculpted by hand,
framed my field of vision;
and I looked out across a smooth lake
open to my own future,
small smooth stones stood level with the water
[Stickers on a mirror]
And I was reminded that there is something beyond this,
a destination,
a dome-like building
covered in stars,
shimmering in and out of my existence,
within the deep open portal,
something kaleidoscopic,
drawing a parallel with the refraction of
cut diamonds;

And I’m here on the roof of my car,
my mouth is dry,
I’m reaching for a glass of water,
And I tough the sweat on the cup,
it turns my vision purple and the
sky explodes into a coral reef
ink into water,

In the background,
the remnants of a single crashing wave
click through my brain,
something is on fire in my synapses

Then a feeling in my intestines
the rush of blood to a wound,

And she’s there,
just pulled off her back pack
leaned down, rummaging, searching for something
I’m searching for something in her
in the background, the mountains are pulsing
She blows a hair out of her face,
something nonchalant
somehow still beautiful

And I’m staring at Orion,
Looking for his nebula,
What else could be hiding
in the space between the stars?

I bury my face in a pillow,
I drown my own breath in soot,
the fallen collected ash from a burning past
and I will my molecules to mold
into some form of phoenix metaphor.

Some form of Truth

Yes, yes I believe you.
I believe that you’re right.
Even before you said that just now,
I knew that what you were going to say
would somehow resonate with me.

I can’t quite explain it,
Consider it an intuition.
Consider it a reverberating
message from the universe.
Consider it
Something unspoken that lies
in the space between
the molecules that make up
my orbital cortex.

I knew that the lingering
shake of my body
and mind,
as it pressed through
the infinite universes​
above and below me,
would somehow help to
connect me to the fact
that I am supposed to know you.

That there are certain forces
in this world that we do not
cannot
understand,
and those forces are what put me here,
and what put you there,
and what gave me, for the first time,
a self-engendered sense of freedom
and I can only imagine,
what gave you the need to speak a truth,
that certain people are put in our paths,
certain genuine people,
and perhaps I am that
now, in this moment for you,
you are also​ something similar for me.

Speed On The Curb

I see people turning fast
Turning inwards
Turning to themselves for answers
Looking to the wrong towering
Substance
Abusing the signals
Watching lanes and double lines fade to black
Sinking through the road into the compact dirt beneath

I see people rushing fast
Ten seconds
Some record time
Taking speed bumps like yellow lights
Accepting challenges
That are warnings

Not a one sees the
sepia tone spring time that I am so find of
They don’t hear the echo of the crashing waves
They don’t hear
Hundreds of miles off the coast
and we hear it,
(Do you hear it?)
Something reminiscent of a shell to the seeking ear
Possibly more like a pressure.

I see people’s tires fall into the earth
Beating like the sun, relentless
And they don’t quit
The brands glued to their throats
To their chests
They don’t quit
And they suck down cigarettes
Like Frappuccinos
And the pillars grow erect and white from their head
Connecting to nothing
Holding up the sky
Placing a barrier between their feelings
And their mouths

I see them press harder on the gas
Some of them,
The hopeful ones,
Drive fast
They try to run away from what is
Inside of them
And the faster they go
The more momentum it all has
And they turn into a marble pillar
Rocketing down I-75
Wishing they were suffocating.