Marked
up
She didn’t answer my
text.
She won’t.
Back in 2012 I texted
her
As soon as I finished Ratner’s Star
And she told me she
loved that,
Moments like that,
when alignments
Routed the etherair to
productive colors
And the world’s Hell
was somehow inoculated by Duration.
I’ve lost touch with
so many people.
You dip in and walk
away, unless they do, but who first?
My closest
relationship is with her
Who isn’t my lover,
and with a website
Devoted to chronicling
Vanilla republics.
Time is on my slide.
Right now I’m reading
too many books
Some I’ll finish, some
I won’t.
I’ve come across the
word “Blighted”
In at least three of
the books I’m reading now.
I also heard the word
“Blighted”
In a Morrissey song I
listened to
Months ago, when I did
nothing
But listen to music.
Now
Is now. Am I losing my
passion
For music? What’s the
gain of that loss
If a loss it even is? And
where is that young
Woman right now in the
gnomic Out There?
Snow-shielded
I found time’s wasted
time
In the brush of a
keening girl
Unflattered by their
blooded compliments
And the nomadic fruit,
that is
Her round eyes
A train station
freckled by memory motes
5 men hooded in a
field watching the tires burn
They hummed one
dangerous ballad
I saw them and was
slain
Black hoods and the
Emperor knife
Lifted above a forest
churning and morose
Each man half-bird
Sit down in the center
and revolve.
We could go for hours
I woke to her shaking
me and screaming
Moss had eroded their date
Endlessocity coiled
bracketed by volume
Women pig women in
eyes and shade only
I saw a battle in the
sky
Paling orb
When it cleared who
was the cherished Ambassador?
There were too many
roving birds
Across that awful sky.
I carried you.
Thank me.
Don’t go in there,
that room is
A threat to us. She
has fallen silent. A ring,
On the center of
trust, is our only falcon.
Not a thing will save
us.
Can
I
Can I prey on you?
Would there be a
better option
The end of an elegy
Stokers tired of
stoking
And furthermore
Not to sound bitter or
anything
I came on light
Got it everywhere
She is in a
semi-passionate repose
Eyes cocked left, her
left
Breasts blue under
shucked fabric
I hope I never have to
meet her again
She is what all the
leaves made
My love for this is
the stain
Rattled bounty,
tightness falls
It doesn’t matter
where or who
Everything comes from C.
I fell underneath the wheel
Of a poem. The same
wheel that
Killed my dog. And we
never saw
The lines bloated and
a little titch insane.
Debate the matter until
our eyes heal
A friendship ruined by
the denied
Increased taillights
marred by tenant’s ash
Store bought grooves I
never thought to poach
Like my ex-uncle’s
amphibious pornography
I remember viewing
from across the room
Here I am. Looking
forward to a
Book about water that
probably won’t
Be published for
another chaste year or more.
How does ruining
happen?
Here we are, children
of the haze.
A blue person wrecked
the trap and
Made the blushing lie.
His nudity fetish
sponsored their homecoming.
It was torture having
to explain. She told me
Our generation was
cried out, like the widow my family disowned.
The night didn’t want
to impregnate you
Motors wrecked all my
plans.
Fiona likes girls,
especially the ones who
Spank her silly.
Diplomacy isn’t me
But I’m gaining on my
debts. So
I ask again, after
ignorant sleeping:
Can I prey on you?
Bent
Suddenly
there was a market for us online if we choose to go looking for one. Like all
pornographies, we could choose between “Soft” and “Hard” crying. Softcore
featured girls shedding transient tears, their eyes pinkish as droopy music
played and they got over a fight with a friend or some boy’s heartless rebuff.
Usually the camera was fixed on a tripod or a firmly grounded laptop monitor.
Hardcore was for those of us who would only be satisfied by deeply gouged,
unassailable misery. The harder videos sometimes began with a staged scene, the
girl finding out that a relative had died. Another popular scenario had her
taking a call from a doctor announcing that a fatal illness had been diagnosed
somewhere inside the vessel of her body. In Hardcore, or “Gonzo” Crying videos,
the camera was handheld by a jockish webmaster, buzzing in her face as she wept in thick, biblical gushes. Mascara
staked double tombstones over her cheeks. Sometimes the cameraman would ask
them, “what’s wrong, bitch?” or shake the performer a little to dislodge any
remains from their overworked ducts.
In
all the videos they wore clothes, sweaters, as many layers as possible. Our
community wouldn’t have it any other way.
In
a recent study by Dr. Malik, the country’s leading specialist on our bent, it
was revealed that over 4% of Americans were (cursed?) sexually aroused by the
ostensibly nonsexual sight of young, attractive women in this vulnerable state.
No two of us were alike. Some were particular to a certain race, which created
demand for sites like Asian Teers and BlackBawlers. Others could only get off
to blondes crying, or brunettes, crew-cuts, redheads (my thing) etc. Some
wanted women crying together, embracing, comforting, sometimes trying to
comfort and being shrugged away-that particular action led to the popular “No
Shoulder To Cry On!” blog, which actually crashed on its first day.
For
twenty years I knew something was wrong terribly with me. I feared I was asexual.
I dated women and men and glided along with whatever they wanted, my bedroom actions
rote and executed with great joyless concentration. I became engaged to
“Portia” in the winter of ’99. I was resigned to fake my way through a life’s
arc with her. I reasoned that it was better than being alone. By then I had
sampled every sexual coupling and pornographic option. She was kind, that
suited me. Until the night she got a phone call from Huron with the news that
her younger brother was in a coma after being rear-ended by a drunk driver on a
highway at night. Her crying spurned me. Downstairs I mean.
Late Reversal
Have
to resist the urge
to
send a married woman
electronic
messages
telling
her all about His polluted airspace
The
red-spotted Bride
realized
a lily'd blemish
would
stain her special dress
All
she could do was avoid the stares
of
his infinite kin
and
find solace down trash’s tomb
She
rolled in the sand before
pouring
herself across the ocean
The
red-spotted Bride couldn’t move
as
she flew towards the rising sky
Swallowed
by a zeppelin whale
she
was Beast’s professional ocular iris for eight decades
where
she was exempt from aging
and
witnessed the curious double-takes of creeper species
Driftwood
going driftwood
Orange
rope was her, uncoiled
The
water purified by Mrs. Betrothed’s miraculous aquatic doubts
After
running to Copernicus and back
why
did she remember me?
I
should have been contextualized in her passage
as
nothing beyond a freeway
closed
indefinitely for cyclical repairs
why
did she remember me?
Now
she’s broken through other matters
like
a lucky Tetris cube
forcing
me to imagine
a
Wedding and a Woman
Please
leave me go
But
don’t too
2006
She
was a good ritualistic fuck.
Grabbing
her ass when he came.
Her
short hair (bottle-blonde, you know).
Her
roommate’s bed empty and cold.
She
told him her father was just learning to live without her mother.
Her
blowjobs were too eager and teethtainted.
Walking
to panties her ass flustered and finger smeared.
Weird
guy who didn’t get to have her standing outside in the horrid cold.
Came
up for air and went to town she wore sweaters from S. Army.
Barely
ate.
Without
a stitch she, her (Kelsey's) bald vagina fated forward.
He
ate her little asshole and she head immersed in pillow squeaked.
Invited
him home for Xmas to see that family and that father but No.
One
class together something about Movies and Culture.
Sketched
his face in her notebook where should have noted Taxi Driver.
He
was horny but she was perioding and let H. cum on her face.
Swathed
his hand through layers to her labia during a discussion on ?.
Brought
in other girl once with awesome tits but who was more into her.
Wouldn’t
even let him jerk off as she felinely licked her pussy had to go.
One
weekend his her couldn’t be found anywhere.
She
came back though soon and wanted to him in her again like before.
Her
breasts were minor he could fit one in his mouth soft.
Everything
about her was personal.
He
felt like owning her but she refused him that.
Accelerated
the distance between them, winter, singing Cat Stevens.
Next
semester she was gone.
Deleted
her Facebook page.
Changed
her number.
She
didn’t make many friends so he had no leads.
She
flew from their bed in reverse.
And
found the opposite side of a star.
And
now exists for him no more.
