New Poems (Part 2)

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.