artful suicide

an artful suicide
this . my revolving year
etched into a mashed
mental . unrest.
being here
before . not being.
mere sight or
sound my bones
rattle within . my place
is not inside
me . beyond
or through. surpassed.
this crowded arena
I burden . crammed thoughts
warring fraying
feelings. the victorious
historian lies
dead.

in no way is this an excuse.
not in these
words . symbolic lies.
all
words . hijacked
planes and the flaming
Tower of Babel.
an artful suicide
as this is spelled
out in poetic farce . force
of habit.
like revolving
around an indifferent
star . burning.
my heart?
it obeys
this physics.

serial monogamy

who is this I am
me to practice arts
like this
deception, a killing
silence to graves
of sorrow’s regret.
with this heart
the ego. who
leads whom? within
this season we
are all murderous
agnostics, climbing
skeletal ladders
the backs of fellow
enthusiastic
romantics, hopeless
the ones who believe
in this beauty.

what misinformed this
notion of the companion
but what can
the serial monogamist
attest to?
the everlasting struggle
of evol against
itself. way(back)ward
words painted to
dead lips. deaf
poetry of helplessness.
when do we begin?
the road to salvation
under
construction. but we live?
today or another day.
they all pass
with heavy luggage
the scorned
lover cannot un
pack.

I am only here.
already
silent.

meaning/less

I look to you
and see death
yesterday. hoping
for life tomorrow.
what time or place
I find my
self in. where all
I have is fancy
and these
thoughts or dreams
halfway to reality,
or not real,
or beyond truth.
this is an echo?
rebirth of something
cold and nearly
alive it kills
me. me with this
pathetic moonlit
restlessness.

why would I want
to think this,
love you
when love isn’t
my way but selfish.
in what terms not
uncertain
could I find
your unfound
skin touching
this heartful confusion?

I think, though feelings
are meaning/less,
meaning: I don’t
fucking know
anymore.

motion less

motion less
like movement
than
waves of crumbling
seas. this heart
mismatched
in its tattered wardrobe.
I don’t speak
those rosy thoughts.
only watch
petals shorn
with winter.
that you I
cannot speech
with unthought
reasons.
as of late.
we come and go
and I already
disappeared
from there,
wherever
you stand.

but with what
standard
is the future measured?
yesterday
didn’t happen
though
it bears my scar.
that
confused heap of fallen
sand.

every day I am
less.
sure of this.
certainly
more like a fatal acceptance.
warped reflection. yet
kindling a distant fire
in the bones of ashen
echoes. remembering
all that death
I am
brought back here
to this blood-
worn sea. tangled
rooted silent
driftwood, I pitch shelter
over those grave
yards I exhumed. to dance
with random bones. and talking
marrow til the sun come up.

Coffeeshop blues

Titular head of this charade,
ego parade on days wet with wind.
Salty spray and veins drowning in caffeine.
Who says I am this love, forlorn
weeping at the stones not knowing
which way the one-way street runs.
We last as long as any life,
dead the way we fear we can be.

But then guilt. Outlast memories
laid bare in the stretched out sun.
Seeing the same road. Where was it seen
before. If I lose my way. Truncated
body then falls apart to your masterpiece
misery. Karmic finale
a capella before the firing squad
filling me with blankness.
Me and my mind overloaded with judgment.
Spilling stained coffee the old women shun
for the rain-needled window.
Do you know what you’d like? As if
money can buy that kind of confidence,
that misleading self; my life choice
on the menu out of order.

As slow a meaninglessness this. This life
to eulogize these dreams.

If confusion then order got lost
in dead air. If cowardice then my heart
found comfortable prisons without walls.
This heavy darkness.
Self untold.
Not willing to know that feeling
wet waterless waves sharp stinging.
Still I live. In this shed skin.

Somewhere it’s fog. Those are mountains
ominous and belching out the sky.
Even the sea.
Murderous to reach my bones.