ten fourteen

in shells
of selves

i cup
these
neuroses

grains
of sand

pearlescing
in unsui
and

sweet
salt
water

ten thirteen

it’s a civilized
cave-in,
so
no
need to worry.

watch the commercial
munch
chips in denial.

denial tastes
like dr. pepper

& double-pattied
cheeseburgers.

hold the onion.

this kind of
life wasn’t meant

for strong flavors
or any

discomfiting
de-delirium.

build the bubble.
block out,

blunt

all the rough
edges.

ten twelve

life
at the point
of tears.

eyelid
cliffhanger;

latch on
to lashes,

or fall.

cottonstopped
on a
heave of
bosom,

or carpet
crash & 
trampled

underfoot.

ten eleven

i don’t need these
arms or this skin
& bone
anymore.

i need a
long stretch,
a dilution
of self

across all
the planes
and plateaus

transparent
transcendent
transience.

done with
bodybound
functionality

& the story arc
of this
dimension.

ten ten

a writer is a
one-man crowd

lives without

& within
series of
concentric
circles
concentric
cycles

all twisted up
in cyclones
of self
of selves

on shelves.

ten nine

speaking of stutters
they’re all in fingertips, an
excuse,

the anti-rhythm of patience,
of directions i’m moving in.

move for
movement’s sake;
move because stillness
is still stifling &

sometimes you have to
shake that creative
juice
loose

prep those fingertips
for a nimble
numb untie
of the

noose

knot

really a
noose but the
daytangle of
monotonous schedule
& all that

adult responsibility
three hundred dollar insurance
coverage, cobra
slithers away
with so much of my
money.

spits in the eye of
every escape plan
i just
can’t sir.
cancer.

so you gotta have it,
gotta keep plugging away
at the everyday

for pay
the grey

turns to
gray

& you
stay.

ten eight

a timid pen is good
at pulling a weak line
from an empty page.

better yet:
give me a bold tip,
and a confident
imperfection.

say it with passion
or don’t say it
even if it’s wrong
even if words stutter.

i’d rather be
heard shouting
than whispering
brilliance
at nothing.

ten seven

this is a boring postcard
from the locale i just visited
in my mind.

something i grabbed
to give you
to say hey
i was just here, just now

here’s a picture
like all the other pictures.
a hello, for hello’s sake.

a cheap thinking of you,

because the gift shop
was out of shot glasses,

and i’m keeping the t-shirt.

ten six

murder me whimsically

for the replay value.

if this is a death scene,
i’d prefer cult classic
b movie camp

over psychological
thriller and the

stuff of real nightmares.

ten five

those ages i wrote
so many
bottled-up feelings.

secret wishes for
secret crushes

locked in
indecipherable
metaphor &
unintentional
simile.

this age:
an entire autumn
unspoilt by
expressions
of affection or vacuums
of unexpressed
affection.

a very
october feeling.

i am:
cozy inside
grey cool corners
colors behind fogged glass
spicy, slightly
overripe
warm open earth
chilling at the edges

ready for harvest
and the blankets
of winter.

ten four

i watch
now-sick
summer’s green
slip away
for autumn’s
erubescence.
ruddy twilight
blushes under
a perfect
grey veil.

ten three

barometric
pressure, a tight
upper arm squeeze.

inside arm, not
the skingrab
you’d get used to.

feels like
that hard swallow
sensation,
when you gulp
too fast
a rock elbows
through your
esophagus.

but this

not in your throat:
it’s hard, sharp
unproductive wrench.

pain without
destination.

a hurt
without result,
eventual
accustomization.

it slips away:
absence
unrealized.

not bonespeak,
the whisper of marrow
to calcium,

but bonescream:
alien frequencies
of titanium where marrow
was, protesting
biological framework.

foreign decibels.

hard reverberation
repeating bruises
on soft walls.

ten two

one bud buried

deep

in a small canal
screams alive
scares silence away.

grabs anxiety
wraps it tight
in a packed crowd
in the dark

for a show
of transcendence.

unending growth:
the bloom & fade
of tirade,
serenade,

shuffle, repeat
and finally

sleep.

ten one

efficacy is a child
of the greed
of time
and the necessity
of accomplishment.

i don't know
what this means
other than
i had to get
something
down to get the
dreaded first line
out of the way
so that i could
actually write.

i have decided
and have decided
to stick with my
decision
to write

one poem
every day
for the month
of october.

bed is whispering
at me
and i am going
to have to hash
this out quick.

eleven-thirty is
early for me
but late for a day
full of listening
to idiots

screw over
the family, the
kids they
have. that i
wish i could
have.

they say if
we all threw
all our
problems into
a giant pile
for everyone
to see,

we'd scramble
to get ours
back again.

but i might
let mine tumble
into the dust clouds
and grab
for something
unfamiliar.

just to have it
different.

just to have
a new burden
to hold onto

and to learn.