the jazz pianist

the jazz pianist's eyes are closed and
fortified behind the veil of black shades.
a pounce and leap create staccatos
that spin his audience
like tiny planets,
like springs that launch but never land,
and bridges built on mortared sand,
like silk scraping the living stumps of the pubic.

inside scratched heads

it's the post-valentine apocalypse.
so drown in pain,
or drown in bliss;
both to drown in cupid's piss.

thistle bristle gently scraped

playground skyline

In our akin-ed addictions
and small-world location
we became friends.

Still weekdays in,
we'd go outside
and laugh at coughs
and lie to cops
and lick the cush
to seal the joints
we'd come to smoke.

Knowing destinations
to toke, eat cheap, and chill,
we drove around
and around until
we'd emptied our fascinations.

Then in morning
we'd drive cale home,
passed signs of warning--
cautioning the route to rome.

protocol conversation

crazy but cautious.
and the pile of past
still stalemates five senses
idealized in heiarchy.
the people on mind
make haste to procreate,
yet please do not involve me.
smartly i've done much
to fuck myself up.

fall asleep in a mist
and wake in a fog.
i can touch the painted wall,
and it will not redeem me.