Word

they will never understand

they admit to they know not 

how to open the book

they confess to they are not

allowed to open the book

they surrender, they will never

figure out how to open the book

what pulses deep within 

the leather bound cover

the searing light burning

within each timeless page

that severs the connections

of what one was before

with what one becomes after

the flickering knowledge

that engulfs the very spirit

igniting the reader's thirst

for more and more and...

just can't be ignored the

search through the tomes

the biggest bite one can take

of that ever juicy forbidden fruit

all the scribes have penned 

their blood in the streams of ink

each written word a scratch

upon wisdom's prison cell

where other saviors have failed

and apostles have missed the boat

it's the written memory, rapping

on everyone's inner door

dare to lift the dusty cover

dare to let it come in?

 

Snowflies

 as it grows in my belly

the want for what could've been

falls softly on the winter lawn

it's all frozen in moments

moments as many as the snowflies

that dance outside this February window

their intricate one-of-a-kind wings

flutter and fail, porcelain pale

as the corpses piled up

in regret and such

the midnight moons that dripped

into burning morning hues

and all the versions of you

but oh how tattered the mirror grew

how the reflection cracked

the ice underfoot on this February pavement

where the snowflies stick and melt and die

with all the hopes spent in fear

all the words spoke in fear

a life probably lived that way too

as it grows in my belly

this want that steals my sleep

watching the frantic life and death

of snowflies in the street light

Dripping

 these great manifestations

what, you reading this

and me typing this

and every little

fragment that falls in between

and out of sorts with the rest of it

that is why the world is coming

to an end

because it came from a beginning

bringing with it all these manifestations

and if you are to be happy

secure, in love, and that

someone must be miserable

though we try and preserve

we try and hold on to the smallest

percentage of matter in the universe

that is, what we are able to see

we want just that to go on forever

only 20 percent of all this existence

when we can be the continuous

wind that blows through these halls

we can be the stars that blow up, die out

and ignite again

because we are, and all that matter

we look at everyday doesn't really matter at all

we are merely drops of water yearning

to understand the ocean

Vermis

 I will miss this will

this bacteria influenced brain

the constellations on this skin

with cells made from the distant stars

I will miss this fear

of all the others here

who have driven their own cars

who will miss their skin of fear

I will miss this name

that's brought neither shame nor fame

but is mine just the same

just for here, just for now

I will miss this hunger

the feast of fools all partake in

whether it be love, lust or some other sin

we consume and consummate 

and commune and consume a bit more

I will miss this one

for there will never be another one

never has and never will, this will

this fear, this name, this hunger

for it all and nothing less or more

UBU

 walking through those doors

my eyes had been opened

but I was still just looking

through the shop window

it was all a celebration

of being true, of being you

but I hadn't a clue

who that was yet

I mean I shared a lot 

with everyone present

but the glamor, the bling

the attitude and masks weren't me

maybe that was why they had all come

maybe that is why I had too

to be someone else

who wasn't rated less

to not be a second-class citizen

to not feel the backside 

of your father's hand after he

found out who you really are

but to feel the acceptance

from familiar strangers and

love of self that you had

thrown away long ago

because every stare told you

you didn't deserve it

every sermon from the pulpit

every discriminatory law 

every joke made at your expense

sold you the lie that you're not worthy

 but the beating pulse

of the rhythmic bodies

the queen named Bruce

serving drinks at the bar

you watching me

watching him watching you

the tragedy of future lovers

and unforgettable loves that never were

the sweat and heat and flesh

and tears in lonely cocktails

all of this queer chaotic scene

told you not only are you more than worth it

but there's more than just you

you're not the island you were born as

not anymore, no longer

you are part of the most brilliant sea of souls

that illuminate the darkest parts of this life

Dear Michael,

your birthday was so close 

to my favorite holiday

and you decided to leave all of this

so close to my birthday

that would have been 

a really shitty present

if you had intended it

but I know I wasn't even close

to being on your mind, then

I wish I had known 

what had been on your mind, then

not sure if I could have made you stay

not sure if I could have offered

something that would have 

changed your mind

and what a fucked up place

to leave from

I mean Omaha of all cities

but I guess that wouldn't have

mattered much, then

I know not a lot 

mattered much, then

except for the pain

the inescapable emptiness

of course I'm just guessing

but just in case you can hear

what I'm telling you now

just in case by some chance

these words get to you

I know the world misses you

and that it's not better without you

even if you thought that, then

and if nothing else

I would have wanted to call

you friend

Re-habit

 he has a bad habit

he stole it from a nun

23 years ago

well, she never used it anyway

and to him it feels

like the fibers of cloth

in the belly of a moth

the sinking feeling 

that perhaps he did 

something wrong

at some point

so he's just waiting

for the finger to point his way

but he hasn't seen it yet

through the bottom of his glass

for that's how he views

a lot of his life

through the bottom of his glass

as the drowning feels better

than the sinking

well, he lives in a desert anyway

and the phone hasn't rang

with a nun on the other end

asking for her habit back

 

Pocketful of change

 currency is just a faith we all pay

for the flesh

and faith is just a currency we all attempt to pay

for the soul

the confusion of these results in religion

in all its gawdy array of manifestations

and nightmarish words of knowing

what the great mystery actually is

and worse yet words of what 

the great mystery wants

but currency is no saint either

it's just the opposite face of the same coin 

it shares with faith

currency itemizes the worth of everything

when so much of existence is completely priceless

and not a single cent can purchase

the first or last breath

a regret or the lack there of

a missed opportunity of the lack there of

emptiness or completeness

currency can't even buy the faith 

that is the make up of it's very existence

that takes the human psyche

in all its floundering absurdities,

inhibitions and desires

which brings us back to the price of faith

that so many find themselves indebted to 

and there's only one coin one can spend

to realize the validity of that