Up Behind The Clouds

Up behind the clouds,
me down beneath the ground,
eyes of stilted slits,
finding starry eyed stars,
just to stare down,
just to get even with

My big blind telescope in a world,
that’s a vandal’s braille,
i hear the clinks of glasses,
in my head i hear the wails,
siren songs, singing spelling wrong,
as always, the petty flesh will fail

Potted palm fronds, flitting about in gusts,
for all we’ve done that isn’t wrong,
a song written in dust

Add weight to my shoulders, break back and repeat,
release nothing until depletion, mixing iron into meat,
drink wine with dead soldiers’ clamors, pleading for the ink,
one pen left to write with and so we write until we’re weak

Leave the rest to the weary,
i’ll write so the half of me that thinks,
doesn’t have to think so scary,
for blessed is the one,
the one that surrenders nothing,
except the right to breathe until he decides he’s

done

You’re No Better (probably)

The Victor, a lion resting in my chest,
waiting to breed, to breathe,
waiting to feast on meat.

Bloodborne antonyms, can’t spell no no mo,
I got my little empty trinkets,
early onset, trying to forget,
all the things I remember, from so long ago.

Yes, the platinum in my eyes has dulled,
the dew on the web of the spider,
I sip into a lull, foregone conclusions,
doing things wrong, catching spiritual contusions.

Lord forgive me, all I am is the thinking thoughtless, a human being.

Claws for teeth and bullets for fingers,
gingerly testing for taste,
letting the brew simmer.

This road is long and filled with potholes that break axles,
taxidermies for friends, leaving no doubt,
about who is really the asshole,
unassailable vassal of things other than nice,
break myself off a crucible and go around pretending I’m Christ.

Rats into mice,
huge vicious bubonic rats from cute little, white mice.

I know nothing except the truth of pain,
spare me or sacrifice me, lacerate me,
just make up your fucking mind,
and have at me.

At Every End

At Every End

 

 

 

 

 

Defiled stop signs lying scattered across my mind,
A vandal ripping into the laughter of the sky,
I fell up into a star but it burned me,
Left me with all these cheap, pretty, happy star-shaped scars that I earned if you please.

Shrouded in a gauze of bittersweet insolence,
Trying to off the soul remaining witness,
Quite the incompetent assassin,
Loudly leaving a long trail of collateral victims like a broken vacuum.

Nothing is free, not even a scream,
All these mirrors keep staring at me,
Like some merciful attention,
That I didn’t get when I was the misanthropic child,
I needed parts fixed because people were troubled that I was troubled.

All so delicate.

Everyone threw stones,
Many others hurled bricks.

Like dying or fucking or going blind or insane,
Like falling in love or smelling flowers in the rain,
Like a scalpel crawling into my brain,
Every single day is recycled time spent in vain.

But that’s just how life works,
Remain calm and no one gets hurt.

Yes, calm and still as your teeth are eaten,
Consumed with garbled delusions of speaking some meaning.

Art Died Gasping For Air

Art Died Gasping For Air

 

 

 

 

 

Breathing throat’s softened, marred with blades’ razors replacing the honesty of nature

spitting faith into a jar built to hold the viscous little outcomes of the wicked, wistful labor

caught inside an act of love as it’s written before you exhale the words from your tongue

as if it was a sappy love note’s burning paper.

Fine Print

Fine Print

A stigmatized eyes, little slippery happiness-painted lies so that I might see better,
waving a feather daring oncoming traffic, breaking promises to myself,
reading an old letter letting me remember the memories,
the ones I haven’t yet surrendered

A semantical cemetery buried with all the things I try to dig up so that I can go back and
do them just a little bit better, exhuming heaps of glittering, worthless treasures,
and now it’s cold post-September, words’ ink staining the soft little pads
on the tips of my fingers

A big frozen chest filled with splintered ice chips and pressure,
and I have not forgotten the impracticality of pleasure,
nor how it smells and burns,
turns and yells at me,
“You never learn.”

My words talking to other words in one of my poems, paint talking to paint in a painting,
this life we had thought we had owned was merely an assassin in the shadows, waiting,
it burnt down leaving smoldering scaffolds in what once was your mother’s basement,
die like numbers with a cigarette handshake and a nice slice of the mustard,
a bandaged thumb-busted knife-burn to take home to the family so you
can show them what your life learned

Waiting patiently in the past like incubating gothic contagions, back beneath the silt,
lying very low until things stop changing the way they’re changing,
pointing my pen like a finger directing the hunters at heaven,
toward prey that has learned its lesson

Instead, time forgot to fly and landed on my eyelid and stayed there,
heavy and absolute

You can’t have the blues, you can just assume the mood.

A Frigid Oven

All this concrete in my veins, replete with an obelisk for a heart,

Looking, staring, ice inside every part of my caring,

Cracked into pieces like the toy of a child,

Left in a vacant parking lot,

For the wolves to gorge,

For the sun to rot.

 

There isn’t anything inside me anymore,

Empty tin can that slices your fingers,

And the blood runs dry as bad dust,

No lust, no nothing,

Just a frigid oven.

 

If There Was A God

If There Was A God

Alexander Ziperovich

.

If there was a god would my scars still ache, reach into me and find things to break?

Would it be too much to ask to wake up without not wanting to wake up,

ready to claw my eyes out for all the beauty people can’t see,

because of the space I take up.

.

If there was a god would monsters be so wonderful, taste bitterer then tears,

always nothing to run to, something to be afraid of, a little sun for you to do,

the heat cascading and scathing like desert storms and alone,

you are left to plead with your one master, your captor.

.

If there was a god why is there heroin? If there is heroin why is there a god?

Ventilator compassionate nurse ratchet playing games with what he hatches,

or a soft, effulgent joy that resonates deep within everything,

that I cannot see.

The Death Throes of Marionettes

The Death Throes of Marionettes

Books of sand written by a mathematician with an abacus made from broken hands,
watering broken plants that look away from the waning light of the sun scissored into a wavering, wilted strand inside of a styrofoam box inside of a rock that recoils and cracks whenever it’s touched and all blooming flowers renounced their blossoms and crawled back down into the dust, their innocence hacked away by the axe handles of love, a sunset that forever fell filled with dead stars scrawled in paint that never dries captive in a canvas carved out of the sky by dull, rusty, heartbroken knives spitting hot blood at your eyes but only concealing the lens’ of the glasses art wears when it’s blind, the moment before it quivers, withers and silently 
dies.

The Sound of Sirens

The Sound of Sirens

Acutely aware of the boys and their fare; they’re everywhere and in everything and when they come screaming down the avenue with their metal encased death machines they tend to unintentionally threaten me.

I was in the bathroom shower, more blue suits coming to cut the stems of flowers.

I slapped the soap on and off wishing I had instructed my girlfriend to check the locks, instructed my girlfriend to grab my pills, instructed my girlfriend to write my will.

I need a cigarette but I won’t get it and I’ll be sent to a place where life exists as a physical restriction and there will be no poetry and no more love and everything stops living inside of a lock.

I ran out of the water and into the sand, the police had stopped arriving and I was naked and sad. Memories of bad bologna and mustard packets and teflon-rubber jackets and racial tension and I decided that detention had left me in a permanent semi-suspension where I would stay put like frozen jello – sitting in a fishbowl with forty men waiting to be let go into a place where your screams become echoes.

Incarceration is part and parcel of my participation so I wait for the cops like a child with his stomach growling from hunger suffering from chronic constipation and I wait patient like a patient with a tumor and I just hope and pray that they don’t hurt me bad as I remember being choked to death by five cops on a University District bicycle rack.

And it gets worse than that when VIGILANTE is tattooed on a man and he drops a razor when they shake you down and you don’t know why the alzheimer man has to go down for the hooch the boys in the tank were cooking down and when he comes back he has no idea… he thinks he went to the hole for something to do with ordering glasses on commissary and everyone vomited from the sugar packets and fruit with the worms and I want no part of any of the shit on this earth that makes people into animals and I am horrified at the rattlesnakes with their BLUE and RED rattles and they bite and they sting and they kill and they maim and I don’t think I will ever, ever, ever be the same.

If you hear the cops and you feel safer just remember that in jail you can’t shave your face unless you remove the razor from the razor.

On One

On One

Smitten in the desert, a cold shouldered devil able to be present so I present him my presence,

balanced on the church steeple with my heart encased in pedaling petals.

Addicted to the white so I am post-acute; sickness follows me when I don’t use the pen on the paper, abuse, I need my fix and I don’t give a damn who knows or knew.

A finely ground composite of particular interest, through the sun in a pinnacle on business. I can go ahead and meet your maker, discuss my fate later when the sun shines sharp and white like the blood dripping off the teeth of a gator.

I’m very determined, a young Jew orphaned in Warsaw organizing SS abortions switching vials of morphine to save the ghetto Savior. The council all has a say, so don’t perjure yourself or get murdered into the curdling earth.

The war is not real? The war is agent orange leaking from this taxi cab into my lab causing exhalations of tinted gas out of my girlfriend’s lungs; a demon here, a demon there, they come in the same beautiful cloth but they just want your face off-white numb and your heart beating their special brand of blood called tragic.

Can’t have it so it’s automatics and cluster bombs and Cold War politics that are worn out like old nuns’ habits and so I ask this, are you ready to go out and fire? Your social media implies something like a desire for recognition but when the air behind your eyes is hissing and the gunshots aren’t missing and the legs of your little brother are in the bushes blistering then the sun comes out and the truth is revealed and your little lying propaganda can’t save you but might I suggest you become REAL.

Real is a noun, depending on how you see it. It’s something or nothing, a roulette dare or candy cotton add a bullet to a cop’s Glock’s clip to remove someone’s hair and the government doesn’t like you and it certainly doesn’t like me – go get a political science degree and avoid surveillance: the black plague of academic slaves waiting for an armed messiah on a list for plastic surgery before your bail’s set.

But when the sun goes down and the gun is in the ground let them shed ten tears and ten more rounds and let the circus play and let the children find God and let God hunt them down and let the world be as it was the day I came up out of this ground.

Don’t panic or pray, don’t let this be this way, don’t run, don’t fight, just look down the sharp edge of the knife as your origin tries to kill herself on your kitchen floor, serrated so it is sparing blood like bad drills drilling in bad holes missing all the ore.

Back to Babylon for more and more and more.

Bye The Bayou

Bye The Bayou

Dirt-slicked sleeves with all places to be, the sun shining furiously.

Furiously.

A Chrysanthemum in my teeth, the bit of the horse and my spit-shined teeth are going out to bore in to this town. One brown, the other yellow leopard, pants frayed and stained spectacles for sight.

All people a graveyard, all silence, all night.

When the sun goes down, the little lepers climb over their mother’s bosom, they come screaming like freight trains through kegs, chewing on graphite chicken legs lookin’ to reach a bottom. I just smile and flick cigarettes, the glare of the sun all over these brand new marionettes with their truncheons in my cheeks, flecks of dirty dirt in their shadows.

“Look around, son. What do you see?”

I paused and glanced, “Nothing.”

He shook his head, tipped his hat, and that seemed to be that.

In the forest, every tree my rifle, every fire is mine and to be mine there must be a recital; let those shots go in every direction. Just make sure they find the one that’s up there looking down on us, seconding our guessing.

Bye the bayou, O beautiful one, have this Rose, I’ll hold your Chrysanthemum.

O, by the bayou, wavering banner, take me in your arms and explain how nothing’s not ever the matter and I’ll swing for the stars and shake the hornets, grab onto slivers and shimmy down bitter – there’s no cold season when your pneumonia’s pneumonic but I’ll give you a taste of a caliber days and we can just pray and pretend that it’s clay and that we are not it but of it and we might allow ourselves to be molded and told of the covenant.

If not, so be it, a thousand tons of satin inside my valves and the car drives but it is very loud and all these people are making a raucous and I don’t know if they took the liquor off my shelf or if the liquor got up and walked out.

Bye the bayou, O glamor, O fame, take this Chrysanthemum from me and let it not take away your days.

Yes, Bye the bayou, in so many ways.

TANGO & CASH

TANGO & CASH

$

$

$

$

$

IN A PRETZEL SHAPE LEANING ON PINE NEEDLES,

YOU CHILDREN WEREN’T CHILDREN, YOU WERE STEPPING ON BEETLES.

FEED THE NEEDY, GREEDILY,

ANSWER JUSTICE & FALL INTO A PIT FILLED WITH SEEDLINGS.

BURNT CALLS & PHONE STALLS WHERE YOU MAKE FALLS,

FALLING AS LEAVES & DEAD BUTTERFLIES, SEPARATE YOUR WINGS TO FLY.

SHY KNIVES IN MY SIDE, STINGING & BEEPING, SOMETHING’S SLEEPING,

WAITING, IT WANTS ME, IT WANTS TO DEVOUR & I WILL NOT COWER, I WILL EAT IT’S FLOWER.

NO BOTHER, WASTE OF TIME, STICKS AND STONES,

ALL ALONE,

ALL ALONE,

ALL THE WAY HOME,

ALL ALONE.

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