artificial wind blowing on artificial lovers making artificial love beneath an artificial tree

i do believe that violet is the color of your breathing and escape is the notion of your ribcage and the right three notes in succession will melt your tender body into a pool on the hardwood floor.  there are fists and broken things sitting and staring at each other inside fleabag apartments.  the trunks of cars are sitting glumly beside a highway, waiting to wrap metal arms around something.  and you, what are you waiting for my love?  is it the quilted death dangling beneath the soft skin of the forest?  or quiet love in a wooden bedroom with white curtains billowing?  we are warped creatures, you and i, we drag our claws along the concrete and breathe our moans like sea lions, we stitch up our chests with fishing line and burn good mahogany to cook scraps of rot, it is a junkyard pile of dust that we crave, to lie upon a soiled mattress beneath cities of trash, scrape our flesh clean and wear new costumes for a day, we are not bad, we human beasts, we are just lonely and we don't know how to show it.  we just want to dream a little, without being scolded for it.  

i believe in the existence of strawberries

there are ugly things here.  messy things.  things that drip and smell.  ugly the way no one wants to see, but everybody has felt.  it is not pretty.  (its ugly).  (i already said that).  (pay attention).

honey raincoat

it is a soft croon, the way he sings it.  the music is like surgery, opening us up, fixing something, and putting us back down gently, our bodies different, aching a bit, but better somehow.  fill my veins with pollen, buzz the honeybees around me, teach me to stand like a flower.  pour that stuff into me like i am a pitcher.  all the houses are going to start sneezing soon.  you better be careful.  they say a sneeze can have a force up to 100mph.  and nobody wants to get slammed by a couch going 100mph out the front door of a sneezing house.

my father, on the eve of his birth, 57 years to the day

whiskey drunk, we stumble onto the dock and watch the sea crawl toward us on its belly, somehow whispering and screaming at the same time.  he speaks as though he is a forest burning down.  i am mostly silent.  he says "a birthday is just another day."  i think "i am glad you were born."

flowerpot

my eyelids are turning into raindrops.  wash me with sandpaper and put me to sleep.  the nights are football field long, and i find myself in the middle of them, walking.  

never talk to strangers

as i am walking down the street, there is a man in a third floor window.  i look up and smile.  he says: "what the fuck are you looking at, dude?"  i keep walking.  people are good, deep down.

obituary

i hope they say i was a crazy sumbitch who never listened to anybody, but loved people like the way mountains speak, and was one hellof a dancer.