#cgsdgsxc

Oh Lord,
we praise You from this distance--
Your righteous eye in Jupiter,
Your peaceful halo around Saturn,
Your beard in the nostalgic stars.

Oh Lord,
we thank You for gifts--
this imperfect circle of dark tissue
hiding behind every heart,

its surface colored by the ink
of a million black holes, connected.

Oh Lord,
we kneel at Your holy gesture,
your Hand of Fate sweeping across
the landscape as a five-fingered tornado.

Oh Lord,
I thank you for the strength you have bestowed,
stripping me of everything
but a fight,

even if I have to use it against You.

#bsdsdlj

Eyes open in kinetoscope
upon a curtain, thick red

stage curtain at the end
of a hallway with no doors.

Behind it, you know there is
the grand reveal, the truth

you cover in metaphor because
you don't have the balls to just say it.

Water rolls out beneath the curtain,
overflowing from behind--

and in it, a black liquid ribbon
snakes out, circles your ankle--

as the water rises further,
a dark cloud in your step--

and the water is rising,
the curtain sways as if in wind--

you still cannot speak the name.

#hbsdghs

A mermaid circled by a ring of jellyfish,
light dotting the water as if a prism shattered
on the waves. I can nearly reach her.

Soot-smudges for eyes, but she senses me--
around her neck, my heart on a string,
a leather pocket in suspended breath.

I inhale water, exhale black ink.

And when her mouth opens, it reveals
a whirlpool, a black hole, a vacuumed riptide--
water pulling away from me in all directions.

I reach out to touch her, and she is gone.

Waking in the middle of a desert, slate rock
beneath my knees as I look up, blinded by the sun,
tentacles draped over my shoulders.

There may be nothing for miles and miles,
but I have survived drowning at the bottom of a trench,
and I am here to tell you about it.

#ahdgfsbv

The suburbs at night, like the other side of a painting.

A home under construction, wooden beams exposed
to the windy night, an owl squatting in the open attic.

The dogwood in the yard covered entirely by a tarp,
the tree looks like a clenched fist shot from the ground.

Leaning against the back door, a man hunches over,
pouring paint thinner through a piece of white bread
and into a mason jar under the shadow of a shadow.

A gust of wind brings a sudden sound, an ambulance
blaring down the silent street in one canvas of time,
a neon tube of red against the squares of darkness.

A piece of wet, doughy bread alone next to a door without a handle.
The night's hand lifts the tarp, it settling against the skeleton house,

loosing a hundred bats, hidden in the tree.

#gdvba

The lights of the suburban windows hugging
San Gabriel mountains glow from a distance,
hiding the homes that surround them, letting
the hillside appear to be lit from within.

And even though, somewhere consciously,
you know that they're merely the side effects
of overbuilding the city, there's something comforting
in their presence--a star is a star is a star

when it reaches your vision.

You used to believe the center of the earth
was a churning sphere of skinless biceps,
flexing their muscles to keep the core rotating,
their heat keeping the world rolling.

And, of course, the time comes when
is is more than clear that the center of the earth
is a hollow globe, filled with turkey feathers
and arsenic. And there's nothing to do but deal with it.

In the end, though, it doesn't matter a bit--
it's going to keep spinning whether there's nobility,
hostility, or inevitability. You're going to drive away
from the snowy TV screen echoing across the valley,

or toward it, but it's not going anywhere, either way,
and you've got to choose.

#921

Skyscrapers give us the finger
from the freeway, their shining mouths
laugh at us as our arms fall off
and we try frantically to pick them up again.

A gargoyle hangs upside down, incognito
on the municipal building
while the Virgin Mother sobs through
the alabaster walls of the nearby cathedral.

You have seriously considered buying
a sandwich board to wear on the corner,
and charge folks to write whatever they like
on its surface, becoming your Bible.

Here's a start:
Stop playing ventriloquist
with your stigmata, magician,
something we can all get behind.

A lone string of Day of the Dead
flags is caught on a lamp post,
wind-lifted, it marks our meeting spot,
where I can read blueprints on your hands.

#752

I'm too tired, too exhausted by
the constant attempt to present
myself subtly, with some sort of restraint,
and now I find myself,
hair matted and eyes ablaze
walking the sidewalkless streets of North Hollywood--

and I declare, in all sincerity,
that I am done--that I will proclaim
from this abandoned parking lot
with weeds growing from cracks
in the pavement, waiting to be pulled
to unzip the crusty face of the Valley--

I've pinned two cloth swatches to my shirt--
one that says
it doesn't matter what you think,
but what you do--
and one that says
it doesn't matter what you do,
but what you feel--
and then take off my shirt completely
and stand there,
knowing things aren't that easy,
that you've got to carry it around
like a goddamn barbell over your shoulders

and I proclaim it from this lot,
under a square of sunlight
through a cloud, here, in the lot
across from the Chevron, on Victory, north
of the carnicería, accepting that

I've now got to move forward,
with these lead bones, but a root
shaken loose from the pavement.

#34

Shadowboxing in an alley with the late afternoon
sun-curtain of North Hollywood draped just to my left.

Across town, an old-timer takes a hit in the jaw
falls to the ground, groceries rolling against the curb.

Look, give me something to bow before,
and I'll be the first one on my knees.

I see you want to tear off my arms--
go ahead, they're nothing more than grenade pins.

I'll take directions, follow the sound of a chorus
dialed directly from that canyon in the moon.

Until then, though, take that Sword of Damocles
away from my head--

I swear to God I'll grab it, blade-first
and beat you senseless with its handle while I bleed.