Thursday, April 30, 2009


christian sex education program names

In God's Image
Created In Love
Sex! What's That?
Prayerful Bodies
Made 4 More
Tru Luv Waits
We Are Special
Sexuality Through Christ
We Will Wait!
Man, Woman, and God
Jesus Takes the Pressure Off!: Sex

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

You'll say things when I'm not ready to hear the sort, and slight smile creeping slow.
Keep it in your fist in your pocket, I ain't ready, no no no.
Maybe when I'm 26. Maybe when you're old enough to understand that all the shit
is pushing us to want to forget
more than anything.
Aww, but you won't let me. I'll beg you to stop on nights I'm too
drunk on wine and too high on drugs, but you wouldn't dare
keep that mouth shut
Like when you ask for something with only your eyes and my knees
collapse my legs collapse my whole body goes down hard
and I will give you anything and then you
will leave me
with trembling hands and darting looks around the room
like following a bat in a hot summer bedroom.
You're too much, too golden, too sour, too rough, too much, baby.
Too much.
But I take it all and take it in and hold my breath for fucking days.

Relation 5th among more and ones before.
You walk in slowly, arms pushed back further than i've ever seen
like a leering vulture, only gentle and simple.
Without the freedom of laughter and presupposed approval.
And yet with those lines cut out in front of you,
you smile like a child
when we all give you a pat on the back.
Been having premonitions of you in the backyard with a blanket
asking me to sit down next to you and
pull out grass
and put it over your bare chest and stomach and I marvel
at how lovely skin can be.
We're only teenagers now and When my Hand moves down past the
lines you and I have drawn during quieter days
you pull me on top of you and then there's nothing
no light no moon no dark no ground no blanket.
I don't want this to be the last time we are only young.
But you go, and then I go, and then we go somewhere else.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Every storm passes
We were taught
Properly trained
To have faith

It was simple
Believing in the absurd
Repeating the words
Feeling hope
Curbing frustration

Until the dusty shades
Were pulled viciously down
Over are chalky faces

I had already begun to stare
At the vastness
Outside the stained glass window

My love?
Well she was a different story

I watched as she held onto this faith
I saw her use it defensively in the ice cream parlor
And in the warehouse
By the harbour

I ignored her as she read
Seamlessly mouthed the words

I didn't want to know
Or be reassured
About death

I simply wanted to lay back
Hands extended on headboards
And wait for knowledge
To casually present itself

Without any stories
Or fables
Life lessons drafted
On lined paper
Or tired reiterations

I just wanted to feel safe
Without having to think about
Everything else

And it hasn't stopped hurting since

Monday, April 27, 2009

His name was Fred


Saturday, April 25, 2009

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I'm an unsettled child, waiting for circumstances and fate to present themselves. The suits surround me, unnaturally gawking at their wives' best friends and new sports watches. My mother has scolded me once already today, instructing me not to speak, simply because she is easily irritated by any sounds other than that of her fellow and highly contemporary neighbors.
They once discussed how cute I was, falling down on the living room carpet at the gentle and perplexing sight of me. Now it's all nuisances and cold sores; gratified weekend escapes and nihilistic backdrops to help them better understand where it's all going and what's happening or about to happen to them specifically.
I consider starting fires or throwing a fit so verbose and centered that those sipping cocktails on the balcony would rather propel themselves over towards the sidewalk than continue to listen to my gargling screams as mother gets her bold new beau to restrain me in a diligent manner.
However, I instead dart around their tall legs, standing firmly in their heightened positions as socialites. I say nonsensical things about their haircuts and the make-up of their faces. Her eyes are too thin. His head is shaped like three bananas, an orange and two apples, smashed onto a popular cartoon character plate that was purchased to spread joy around the table. I want to smash this smiling dogs face in with my bare hands and let him know that he has no control over my mood. There isn't any song he can sing that will make me sing along. I'm not falling into the trap like the other guilty demons, sleeping on their time-outs, away from what all the other kids are doing.
I am the leader of my own murder squad. We are fighting internally for the crown that can only fit on one prescribed head of hair, and I've just found the scissors.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

It was the way the grass looked in spring
The individual lines of the sundress

The leather jackets
Thrown ironically onto the branches
Forgotten about
And left to hang

Until some long since dead idles
Replenished their invisible skin
And decided to stroll around in the cold
Allowing themselves enough time to reflect
And rewind

They saw flashes of their expected futures
The bastard children
Thumbing the illusive currency
Before swallowing it whole

These tender offspring would grow up
And out of their bedrooms

They would stack bricks
And build excuses

They would let the liquid burn their tongues
Fires expanding higher than the satellite dishes
Charred on all aluminum rooftops

Circular spheres would then form
Around their eyelids

They would see Christ
And find lice in unseen locations
On their freshly cleansed bodies

Worship would occur daily
Before and after meals
Behind closed doors
On sofas
And hilltops

The grass would grow around their feet
And they would say what everyone wanted to hear

"Our mothers and fathers were somebodies once,
Upon a time
Before it was okay to be
The exact same"

ohhh yeaaa, that's embarrassing. it's pretend rock soup i guess.

Monday, April 20, 2009

speeding on by

Excerpt from "Linear Subtleties"

The glistening shine of the disinfected surfaces in your apartment reflecting the sunlight awoke me in my stale and sweaty state of being. My eyes were still playing a mastered amount of tricks on me; the individual dashes on the digital alarm clock appearing fractured. It was P:UE, your remaining presence apparent in the scattered trail of garbage you left behind.
The long black stockings you wore the previous eventing to one of your "best" friend's apartments. She was sloshed when we arrived commenting on the joy of sex with inanimate rubber objects, while her new Asian boyfriend giggled and shuffled the racy playing cards. My hands grazed the threadbare fabric of your legs, twice-bitten and jagged fingernails later leaving the passionate remains of pinkish red scratches on your elegant skin.
I saw you checking your neck and torso, naked in the bathroom mirror that morning in-between states of consciousness; my fumbling hands knocking over your over-priced products full of organic teasers and false promises. I gently cleaned the rim of the toilet seat of both our fluids and hairs, before opening your medicine cabinet and swallowing a rainbow dry. My head was uneasy from the French sauce with a distinguishably trashy name that sounded like a translated venereal disease. Its thick contents had stuck to the contours of both our throats; the taste lingering in my mouth even more so after I used your fluorescent orange toothbrush to scrub away the remaining maroon stains in and around the fire. My tongue was still singed from the fondue and your vicious guffaw occurring as planned every time your friend ruined an anecdote.
I thought of the both of you on ladies' night, drinking with vacant concerns for your livers and discussing the brutal truths, before you both settled in next to each other, in no condition for another long tomorrow of routines. I would place you in dozens of hypothetical situations that morning, as I smoked the last few cigarettes in my pack, and tried for better reception on your close-to-obsolete televising set. Part of me was glad that we hadn't succumbed to the bored remedial crawl of reality programming, and yet your systematically marked and dated audition tapes made me second guess previous actions made, and words said on later night when I wasn't so uninhibited.
Strangers noticed me with you; the individual lines on both our faces acting as a catalyst for suicide and city apartment depression. I wasn't exactly happy with the roaches and your affinity to feed them from the table, but nevertheless continued to grant you the benefit of the doubt, simply because I had convinced myself that most situations were love. I couldn't handle myself and the perpetual motion of my tainted thoughts as they rose and fell like straight-laced gages in a lazy piece of aged machinery. You were never necessarily there for me in anything but spirit; this concept becoming clearer as the morning ultimately faded, not one incoming all stirring me from the sofa that we had problems carrying upstairs.
The comfort of narrow hallways and the loose-lipped affection we couldn't keep to ourselves upon all returns home. It made me sentimental and dignified in my poor decisions. They kept me breathing fresh air, and making sure to check its consistencies as the molecules exited my body, wandering what else was possibly out there, just for me.
We had found each other, which made me wonder what new messes were waiting for me in the other small and expensive rooms of a city that would constantly lie through its teeth about sleeping. I would venture out towards the cracks after lunch.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

There's a still room in my house. The pieces sit carefully and each object holds some amount of grace. No matter what kind of situations occur within it--obvious heartaches, big bad mistakes, delerious suddens in the middle of the night, wind carrying dead leaves through windows, looks from across the room that everyone but you can decipher, deliberate sharing, the refusal to listen, head in hands--the room remains the same, free and clear.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Our heads were fluttery once
I was reserved
And you were well-mannered

Eventually my infatuation with your lofty soul
Was discontinued along with faulty baby carriages
And new wave soda pop

And bottled to the perfection
That only your brand of sugar-high could understand

I took multiple last gasps
And you planted cocktail umbrellas
On the forgotten dressers
And stagnant coffee tables
Of past lovers and mysterious foreigners

I attempted to compete with mixed results
There were the hipster twins
With their matching neck tattoos
And black lips

The British television actress
Who posed for various oversea publications
Before accidentally killing herself
On white wonders
And bad vibes

And finally your roommate
She was young and naive
And I was bored with our boxed-in conversations
On juxtapositions
And record sleeves

I remembered hearing scratches
And beats
Before the lights dimmed
And I turned my skin inside out
Attempting to save face

You forgave me
In the only fashion you knew how

It was at the next scheduled stoning
You wore red
And I hid upstairs
Until you forced me to come down and see

The way he looked at you that night alone
It tore me in half
Three times

Monday, April 13, 2009

You do not jump over any questionable gaping holes, as if you did have something to lose. Like face, or protected shame.
Would you have sat in front of my camera and and chose to "be yourself"
while I thought about kissing you, and biting your bottom lip?
I did not ask because without the film, you asked me to and I
sat stuck on the couch, not making room for you.
I used words to cover up my sacred fear. You didn't listen to them because
you only wanted the sensation of mouth on mouth moving.
Could have compromised with moans and small, but heavy breaths.
Now I watch your hips when you raise your arms and your shirt rides up a bit,
and think about pulling you over to me, where I am standing by the tree,
and you could be the enforcer, and I would be helpless and waiting for your
push, as well as your pull.
But I am the timid kid you only refer to as a singular gender. My given gender.
Your pout gives yours so much more depth and strangeness.
I'll be waiting on the wall, leaning, like I'm asking for it.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

highly recommended

Excerpt from "False Furniture"

My father lived in his childhood home for the six years before he died. There had been multiple marriages, bastard offspring, and elaborate manifestos on the cruelty of human experience prior to this period of time, all of which I was a vague breathy part of. We didn't bother to talk much even when, by some kind of internal obligation, both of us decided to meet up over fried foods and stiff drinks. The two of us always enjoyed getting drunk together, almost as if we had gotten good at forming the habit separately, before testing it out on each other with mixed and foamy results.
In that same vain, I didn't know what else to do other than solemnly gulp after winded toasts from my father's remaining connections at the wake. I was the only one of his children present, invited by his lawyer, a former high school track star named Yancy, who was also a known sex offender. Needless to say, the two of us didn't discuss much other than fees and signatures, before carrying on with our intended life purposes.
I was twenty-nine, single, and mindlessly at a loss back in my hometown. My parents had gotten divorced when I was fifteen, following an elaborate three-week period of fondling Holly Walden in her mother's office/gym. I couldn't help but express some visible signs of disappointment then when my mother screamed variations of abuse and mental rape, soon packing all of my bags for me. I thought about Holly for the subsequent three months of transitioning that followed, before meeting a long-haired brunette named Leona in my algebra class. I spent the next fourteen years of my life getting toned and stoned, working in claustrophobic spaces, finding gray shades of lust and inspiration. Nothing had much of a bearing on my life as I learned to sink deeper into crawl spaces and top dresser drawers.
However, despite all of my adapted perceptions, I couldn't help but lose myself upon opening the chipped yellow door to the house where my parents would stick me on weekends when swinging reached a plateau above cliche. The fixtures carried with them the same dusty screen, the familiar stale aroma of my dead grandparents now complimented by that of my father. Dad had left his imprint on the space; dirty dishes filling the sink and counter tops, glass ash trays and empty bottles reflecting low wattage. Bags of trash lied dormant in the kitchen amongst crusty pizza boxes from monthly coupon deals previously. The fridge was covered in clever post-it reminders all of which made no logical sense to me as I shuffled through phrases like "Glory be to J.D." and "Rocket fuel for the chronic soul."
I tried to pay such seemingly insignificant words no mind as I searched for unpaid bills and tiny keys to unlock aged keepsakes. There were bonds purchased for christenings and empty birthday cards with my name scribbled beneath the the fine print in lock boxes. I collected what meaning I could, taking multiple trips to offices and Goodwill, trying to decipher what it meant for such a man to be living, and deteriorating in that house for longer than necessary.
However, my questions remained pleasantly unanswered as I called off work for five days straight before deciding it wasn't worth the effort of dialing anymore. I lounged in the remaining filth, finishing off the last sips of bottles before lazily buying my own. I took staggered walks around town, watching a fresh generation of fuck-ups rewind and replay the same games in slow motion. I listened to scratchy vinyl and sorted letters to random faces that I had either met once and forgotten about, or who my father had saved me the pain and anguish of an introduction to.
I cleaned up messes before crafting my own. I closed blinds and lied to my mother, before turning my cellphone off completely. Fears of cancer and coughs filled my mind as I tried to decipher any sense of logical closure or composure from an individually placed list of material objects that offered little insights into the previous six years in both our lives.
It was on a Sunday when Yancy called me with the name of a realtor and some final paperwork. I told him to keep the business card of the bloodsucker safe and away from me. I would be staying indefinitely.

Monday, April 6, 2009

a couple weeks ago

this happened to me in quick succession.

i forgot about this picture... i thought it was funny. in the denver airport.

The Good Christian Girl Finds Sin

She first found sin in the bathroom stall, scribbled in dirty blue and black ink. The words were familiar although not overwhelming enough to turn her attention away from the printed pages and imitated stained glass. She had her prayers memorized, asking for a bigger bedroom and a baby brother routinely every night before bed. Sometimes she would talk to Jesus out loud as if he were sitting in the rocking chair next to her dresser, or tiredly scrubbing the dust and dead mosquitoes from her windowsill.
They were more than just imaginary best friends with priceless little secrets resting on their tongues like communal wafers. She felt his overwhelming presence on every sunny and rainy day, and it made her feel more than just happy to be alive. The girl was a beacon of joy and wonder.
By the age of thirteen shifts occurred, first with her collared father's nicotine habits, and then her mother's spending. The thirty-six-year-old wife with long slender legs and cherry hair started buying various pieces of fine art, scaled down to size and tacked with inspirational and highly irrelevant bible quotes. The girl began to notice the blankness in all of the saints' eyes as she passed them in her upstairs hallway. They were either too excited over being martyred or too vacant from long walks around in circles, pretending to listen. She asked Christ what was lacking in these well-respected artists' renderings, but he claimed to be too busy. "Ask again later" he would sigh, like a runny magic eight ball.
The girl started to become irritated with his lack of concern. Jesus was acting far too human and less than divine. She soon began to drift like her grinning classmates, folding their hands and kneeling out of habit instead of purpose. Genuflecting became like walking the dog around the block every morning, carrying plastic bags for the brown remains. She was coming to the realization of how utterly dulled down each and every one of her movements were. They were no longer solely for her humbled piece of mind, but rather some understated good that the girl was no longer seeing any benefits from. Self-preservation soon descended into the spectrum of her thoughts as both her parents argued over scheduled details and fine print.
It was at this time, amongst the overwhelming catcalls and gossipy entrails of her fellow students, that the girl bought her first set of headphones. Drowning out the sound of her own thoughts as well as the audio larceny of others was the sanest act the girl could think of doing, soon using her father's personal computer to illegally download translucent hymns to fill the void. Love became an exaggerated concept, but nevertheless one that the girl could still find some vague understanding of, as pop music readily consumed her free moments.
An addiction then started to grow for sparkly publications full of airbrushed pin-ups with toothy smiles. The girl was particularly fond of a young heartthrob named Fin. His rebellious glare and fuck-all attitude made her want to touch herself; an act that systematically worked itself out every Wednesday evening when her parents left for couple's therapy. The girl would usually feel seasick following her hourly dabs in impurity, and yet couldn't bring herself to stop. She would anxiously wait each and every week for the rumbling click of the garage door; her father's exhaust pipe releasing smoke that rivaled the knowledge of a thousand modern Edens.
And she would feel smart and centered by the end, before casually apologizing to the ghostlike remains of her faith, and completing her final arithmetic problems. The first few stains would be heartfelt, before their subtle accumulation made the girl wonder. Was anyone even bothering to notice her mistakes anymore?

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Friday, April 3, 2009


I was free for months, but I still always kept you as on option. Because I had a choice, there have been three other males I've given physical affection for after and between you. Filling a void that entered me when I was suddenly sleeping alone every night, these petty crushes did just that, and that's where I feel like a lovefool. It took me knowing I was tangibly losing you to really realize why I never wanted to in the first place.

I acknowledged my overwhelming care for you when you came back to dance to non-Star Wars music at the price of a drink on me. You know I was offering more, but it was you who grabbed my face out of nowhere and kissed me. Maybe it was the fact that the one I started spending time with in your absence was behind the bar guarding my wallet. But jealousy doesn't result in what was one of the sexiest, intense and passionate kisses I've ever had the pleasure of receiving. Walking out under your jacket, I knew it was mutual.

I was slapped with the possibility of you not around when you told me you would no longer be a few blocks down working at the place I, at two points in my life, have collected paychecks from. I was floored when you told me you were actually leaving.

It was moody winter, and now I'm going to have to cruise cruise right through April, May, June, July and beyond without you and without her, a loss that still brings me sadness and comfort knowing you were lying next to me on the floor when I found out there was bad news. I longed for you when I found out the brunt of the bad news, and I longed for you that entire week I stayed east of town with my family.

But things are starting to resemble a sense of normalcy, not only in the neighborhood, but also in my life. This place feels like home 75 percent of the time -- less than it did when I left, but a huge jump from how it did when I came back.

This small city has started to feel like a small town again, where familiar faces are once again familiar and the routine Sunday stop at the supermarket is lengthened because of idle chit chat. The husband of my former baby sitter looking at my tits and telling me that purple is definitely my color as he touches my cardigan. My neighbor, whose band mate cousin I fool around with, tells me they're back in town and hanging out at his place tonight, so I should consider stopping over. I think about it because you're not around, but I decide against it because there was a possibility you would be. He's second best anyway.

Because it was a particular Sunday that I showered shaved and applied your favorite lotion expecting you to come back to the place that's become whole because of you, but instead it turned into me reaching toward Interstate 81 south and doing three days worth of crossword puzzles by myself while listening to Mirah. You wouldn't be coming back until Monday, a luxury your unemployed self can finally afford.

When Thomas Putnam opened up the box of jarred jellies, he didn't expect to find any of them broken. Yet all of them were broken! What could he do? Take them out and tell no one and toss the hammered wooden box into the woods? Lick between the glass bits and get all that good jelly from some state he didn't know about yet?

I'll tell you what he did. He raised his hands up and gave the empty space a big yelp of a "yes! thank youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

It is broken glass! It is the unmaking of something made in the past. This is a history in an empty Smuckers warehouse. You don't know of it, but it is still there.

Thomas spoke to himself, "tell our president he has nothing to worry about. he is no more responsible than you or I."

Then, could you believe it? Some jelly beans rolled toward him and he cast them into the corner, with his good throwing arm. "I DON'T LIKE JELLY BEANS! YOU HEAR ME, WORLD? I DON'T LIKE THEM AT ALL!"

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Had someone been forced to forget that they still had themselves?
Did you watch that happen and just not know, or did you know and just watch it happen?
You and I watched something happen with bells and whistles--how could we have missed it?
We didn't. You know we didn't. But we let it go, all "oh it will be okay"s.
Someone persuaded us with a mad affection.
Both rushed and totally insane. We walked so fast with the others to some supposed piece of land.
We were standin stuck to that somebody.
It was not until I was by myself in the attic up the street where it broke.
The stained glass was cracked at the top, I noticed. They left the window unattended up there. All of the other ones were busted out and replaced with standard plastic frames and lightweight glass. Meaningless.
In a corner, I sat between huge cardboard boxes at looked out the crack.
Saw some kind of love I'm not a part of. Watched it fly right on by.
Things growing new today startled me, the magnolia tree.
The half-blooms.