Singing in the Rain

the bells & the whistles...all i've got is my sleep, my enemy who knows only the worst parts of me, i'd like to strangle him, i squint my eyes and fire and dance as a flock of dead birds rain down upon me, uplifted from my roots i stab repeatedly at my dead foot (numb), fear of hypnosis, I pluck the feathers from my newly acquired wings to demonstrate that it's only a coverup. i reach down inside of myself to taste myself, but instead I break down and cry, watching each bird dart back into the night sky, i trace their departures, drawing a line, connecting the dots, carving a small cavity into my own torso—wrecked, defunct, ugly and beautiful by all means to me—the flesh is putrid. I cannot take it so i squint my eyes and fire again at the flock of birds above me. I don't know if what I'm doing is right, but the sun's in my heart and I'm ready for love.

Discoteque (and Mr. Sundown)

the heroes and the cyclops shake hands. they not only shake hands but they shake their asses. its a peculiar island hermaphadides island. the way they do things here are quite unlike how they do things in the city of angels as the angels prefer to glide and waltz gently departing the earth. it aint about flying for them for they've already got wings. they prefer to walk and dream and suffer and long like us. but they are not us, the heroes and the cyclops. they dont know how to shake their asses like us. they lack the beats. purple and scrumptious, shapes of teardrops, they thrive in harsher climates like hermphadides island. we harvest the shit out of them and then we shake our asses. long live the union between the heroes and the cyclops in hermphadides island. i pray that the angels will one day catch up to our asses.

I kill myself in my dreams so that I wake burning for life.

If Only I had Remembered Future Greatness

If only I had remembered future greatness, my days will be fluid, time wouldn't tick but spill gracefully onto my plate. I watch the songbirds relive my mornings as I grub on a plate of worms, the record player still spinning softly, my body feels the rhythm of external forces. The walls are tied to my skeletal structure for support and I figure out my own moves that fucks with the universe and the people smile back at me. I take their chips, munching away contentedly—my grimace expands. I realize that some deeds can't be undone and some songbirds do not ever remember their songs. I tug at my umbilical cord questioning if I'm ready for all this.

Odd Ideas

I will become a better me, I will be kinder, I will listen and I will talk less, I will do whatever they do to be liked, the wolf thought. He wondered how it felt to be liked, to be approached by the raccoon or the otter and to be asked, how his day was going. And the wolf thought, maybe, just maybe, if I care about them, if I have enough interest in them, if I were to ask the raccoon how his day was going (to pose such a question!) that that creature can experience that great feeling. (Maybe it wasn't only about the wolf...)

In a Glass of Ale

In a glass of ale,

my misery, sanity, asshole personalities, insecurities, faces, voices, life and its ridiculous details exaggerate the drama of day.

In a glass of ale,

All the shit I'd said

float lifelessly in a circular conundrum.

My anguish relaxes casually on foam.

In a glass of ale,

I am, for once, just me.

No more and no less.

Sadder Days

As I write in the children's section of the Pasadena City Library, the weight of their world presses against mine, introducing a desired levity. I discover we are alike and together we travel so that the odd ideas of society do not silence the whisperings in our hearts.