let's be expressive

m m m monterrey
in sylvie bay
we fritter time in
apple fritter time away.

hahaha you said to me
but all i heard was "you
are not enough"

it's like a book elegantly bound but
hey honey, you've won everything
they said you would. i'm crouched
inside your windowpane and the
cuts get deeper all the time. fff
your yellow skin and your slowing
heartbeat, they slow my heartbeat
and whither my waxed over smile.
i clamor for your heightened squeals
and the corners of your mouth--
they get me down.
in a language that you can't read

stretching limbs and wandering wandering
i'm expanding perhaps. the alpine heights
were supposed to communicate the chill
and permeate the silence--but ralston
echoes in my ears even if that terrible day
happened only in utah (what would we do
about the mormons?),;',;',;'this terrible day
happens only in my head: you can have your
heart back, oh temporary fix, you were
my lazy summer day.

waterworks and sandstorms and random
words that jump into my head unbidden.

no. no se puede vivir con tanto veneno.

and it feels good to tell you things.
and remember the flow of the words
that sink sweetly out of my fingertips
the sink and swell of meaningless clicks
of a plastic watch--what am i waiting for?

the art of un-freaking out (this will get messy)

above all, between the organ
notes and the perfect-centered
pitches that lie between us
those perfectly measured lines
separating the coming and
going of the freeway--the far
and the near, but much less
near. kamikaze waterfalls
pouring, jumping, begging to
be let go from those fragile
angry tear ducts that claim
residence on my face. my b
ody is a cage, followed by
the dramatic the most drama
tic organ chords you could think
up for yourself or for anyone.
it's a cage, and i fight myself
with the words i hide and
suddenly let go--as if living
in an age could improve the
cage. does my mind actually
hold the key? i fight, but i
mostly give up. i can't find the
key but all i wish is that you'd
set my spirit free.

if you wanted a good example of bad poetry... well there it is. excuse me while i go kick myself in the face for being a freaking moron.

the lost eggleston

moldy yellow curtain,

falling in loose

regiments. wide archs

and its little crinkles

in your heavy antiquated

fabric. You are stretched

sand dunes, vertical,

catching the lamplight

to the left and basking

in rightly shadows. your

faint, unobtrusive red and

blue speckles break

your sandy monotony

and the slim dark

cave of the outside world

struggles to peer past

your billowing clothes.