In Diegesis

When the future’s just an idea

and you’ve got bad luck

and the past is all around you,

then you know you’re fucked.

I bet black holes suck

into God’s stomach.

Welcome, welcome, masturbation nations, to my imagination, another validation station from a humble mother’s creation. Don’t be hateful, let’s be playful, standing at the gates of friendship dancing in and out, never knowing when to begin or end this stance that’s full of doubt. Landing that hate-to-pretend shit, chancing sinful clouds grounded to clever whatevers ever flowing bends that tend to rescind or send missed answers all about never lending tender ends to pouty cowards who clout your proud powers for hours just to give you mine, me yours, and them ours. Don’t break up, kiss and make up this fantasy of love. Can’t you see above managing a bluff? Your panacea’s not enough to stand in the sea of tough love. Tough luck, mister trillion bucks, a fistful of Sicilian wives cuckolded your lives ‘n’ tucked ‘em into the blacks of God’s dilated eyes beholding lies insisting you exist. Didn’t we miss this shit when it twisted priests’ listless lips into our sleepless trysts? I think therefore I’m pissed. Can you join me in anointing noisy annoying toys with a spermy ointment, call it a Wormy Appointment, same as fucking, but I coined it. In the connection of loins I detect some enjoyment, pity the celibate brothers in deployment, wait, no I don’t. It’s all just a way to pass the time, my wit’s fall must today amass massive rhyming enzymes that chime with lemons and limes like slimy red war crimes. Denim dimes fill your failed heart with a whale tart and you’re still thinking how do I start? Jesus. Rene Descartes pleases a play-day twat; who threw the first stone? You do the worst stoned impression of mirth’s lone concession to the church’s tones meshing with worthless phone messages. Please hang up and buy forgotten friends. I mean try your call again when dying malls blend into the crying stalled ends of adolescent men suspended in breezy upended dreams, depending on teams to please sexy teases, ten years away from paying skeezy fees to ladies named Theresa. Mona Lisa moaning beneath a phony creeper playing follow the leader. Didn’t see me featured; I’m busy standing at the gates of friendship dancing in and out, never knowing when to pretend this stance is full of doubt. How about now? How about how, mister horny well endowed, dick like a trout? You can fuck a wide open cow mouth. I’m out.

I was nineteen years old when I wrote a short story called “Vainglory”.

At that time in my life I felt so tenderly individual that I didn’t think anyone could understand me. I talked to my closest friends about the need for a spiritual revolution in humanity’s consciousness. I used to say things like, “There is a connotative energy in every single thing, and so few connect to it. Most people just see the function of things, the denotation. There needs to be a revolution of the soul, something like in 2001: a Space Odyssey. We’ll become one with it and feel it.” My friends humored me, patronized me, changed the subject, joked around.

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In a Good Mood

What I see what I hear

individuates me my dear

reminds me of that healthy fear

makes me pull my power so, so near.

In a Bad Mood

What I see what I hear

means nothing

taunts my purposelessness

fuck rhyming.

In Wisdom

(knows better than to desire

transcends success and failure good and evil

doesn’t need to create or destroy

i don’t want to be wise

not really…)

Here’s a healthy distraction,

but only if you want one.

Otherwise, this means

absolutely nothing.

People have pleasure potential,

but I struggle to connect, so

instead I protect other means

for what’s in me that’s erect.

Have you ever felt a pen?

Can you imagine this tip -

my black liquid advice -

scribbling inside you?

You might be better off without it,

but hasn’t this been

undoubtedly different?

Just like everything around you

if you really care to sense it.

I meant that last poem

at the time.

I still think it’s OK.

For some confused, lonely soul, perhaps

amazing.

Just not for me.

I think this one is

much better.

Go ahead miss them and cry

and dream up how they all might die.

I bet they’d rather you do that

than realize your full potential.

A glass reflected, a love neglected

a belief in scorn, a song is born;

do you want to be a celebrity?

A cutting board romance, potatoes and carrots;

a slutty, bored dance, the rotation of parents;

sun-kissed children, some crazy magic wills them,

and then a simple

stillness.

Self-awareness, forgiveness,

a spiritually sexual, well-scented witness,

a mister or mistress

all don’t mean a thing

if she’s got nothing to sing.

I have an ambitious soul,

lascivious eyes,

and an uninhibited tongue.

These elements tend to make me

be perceived as rude.

Unless I’m giving pleasure,

in which case I am perceived as

quite the opposite.

I know that I’m not dead

because I bought a loaf of bread

as I said this in my head,

and now it can be read

just for you to consider

what you’d rather have done instead.

What hug does

exactly what you want it to?

What kiss lives

in an afterlife haunting you?

What you means

love all the time?

What sex feels

as simple as this rhyme?

Dancing’s not it.

Conversating isn’t it.

Fucking, making love isn’t it.

The beach the warm sun

family and friends

not even this right here.

None of it.

I can’t just tell you.

Nobody can.

You have to find it for yourself,

yada yada you know.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy

my future novel.

The tablecloth is bored,

so stop minding it, ’cause

it’d rather be ignored.

How many friends

do I need?

How validated, how

whole

can my spirit become?

Alone,

I want her

kiss. Kissing,

I want independence.

Might as well

write.