She didn’t answer my text.
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?
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
When it cleared who was the cherished Ambassador?
There were too many roving birds
Across that awful sky.
I carried you.
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 prey on you?
Would there be a better option
The end of an elegy
Stokers tired of stoking
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?
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.
Have to resist the urge
to send a married woman
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
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.
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.