Jazz and Junk

  I once was lost in the woods as a child, soon a voice replied to me, “go that way”. It was a voice I did not question. It was a voice I did not know, but did not not know. I found my way back to camp. It was years before that voice returned. When I heard it again, I recognized it as my own.

If you want to feel good tickle the imaginary baby, tummy up- half in shadow half in lesser shadow.  The butterflies won't mind.

I'm a creep. I go out to the movies by myself. I sit in Denny's at three in the morning sipping stale coffee for no reason other than to exist. You only exist too, so there's no reason to judge.  Everything I tell you, everything that I say in, "When We Met" is true. But, please, lend me your salt. These are the stories of the people I meet in a grocery. The people I make interaction with once or maybe its the first time you and I ever spoke. These stories are those of the perfect strangers, the humankind I fall in love with or those who left me to soon. These are those who I may or may not have exchanged numbers or names with. Whatever the circumstance of "When We Met", remember...its all true.

Till Our Teeth Purple A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A…                                                 -The Names, Billy Collins My mouth gaping open- When you’ve tipped your chair, after teetering it on the edge- Over. And gravity drops you at dead weight, and the air you’re breathing pounces off the inside of your lungs, and the ocean of oxygen surrounding you hides… My fingers scurry, reaching in cannot grasp my sounds- The salt taste caught and carried in from my lips  p okes my gag reflex- (and if I could puke the words I would). The rape of the world has been dubbed [silent]  by consistent-repetitive-drilling pounding war,...

The Boy Who Now Calls Me Honey Bunny  When you and I first met, I am sure you were wearing a button down shirt. The red one I have come to fancy you hansom in. I am sure the sleeves were not rolled up. Blue jeans made it casual and those black boots seem to be the only shoes you own outside of the tennis shoes you wear to run in. A girlfriend of mine came with, very little was said at the table. We continued the evening to her place where we lounged (as artists usually do) and had a dark beer. This is when it clicked. I thought your conversation was more intriguing to me than my original, more primal intentions.  In the elevator, we had made friends and in the parking lot you played hard to get as I returned in a coy fashion.  Post Script We give each other kisses all the time now and say the grossest, cliche, and un-poetic saps constantly. Sometimes even over text messages. Post Post Script We don't talk anymore. I wonder if he still drinks. 

A beautiful body can send a women into ovulation- But good poetry, good poetry gets you wet.

Long story short, by putting less than life yet, "reality" on television, on the idiot box, my quality of entertainment dwindles. Women think reverse sexism is feminism, breast implants are no longer surgery, the Amish are now allowed to swear and have mafias, God is good-Jesus is better, but Dr. Oz knows best, and the educational channels like History and Discovery should really be renamed to something that implies the misuse of money and time to explore fictional ghost sightings with a bad filter.

Judas’s Jesus Feast             So after we took him off the cross, we severed his limbs and barbecued him for a late super. We used the robes he was dressed in as the table cloth. We scalped him in preparation and decided to give it to one of the lepers. We thought he’d want that. We skinned parts of his body to make a few nice coin sacks which would later contain some of the blood money we sold his life for.             You know, everybody said he was such a good guy, the Lord’s son even, but I swear to Christ he tasted just like chicken!

 The Lovers  Fingernails melt leaving White hands dripping slush Of skin and smudged bone He is burning of the canvas While eating make up off Her face The tub fills Up with bleach, They sip black ink breathing Words of yearn Smoke engulfs Bright eyes High brows And Lovers.

Used Crayons and Ripped Paper They converse, white teeth, enzymes diminishing pretty photo copied paper. Skeleton cream walls surrounds Old Yeller (her license barely printed horizontally) and me. 6 AM, day two: Acupuncture draws blood, All here are HIGH RISK. Porcelain lips crack ‘til Vaseline coats seep. Absent coffee morning, caffeine free and a gum free security. Old Yeller raises her quiet chin, ceiling glass taking motion pictures. Packrat contraband. An entire Lost and Found building dedicated to being an empty box. Feet pace in hurried clicks. Moans of distress inhale sipping paper cups, sample size disguise intoxicating helpers burns edges of neurons. Our maps drop globs of ash Burning our memories incomplete. Legs do not walk themselves anymore. I asked before she left , “May I borrow your crayon and paper?”   -rip, scribble.