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Ripped Open

What in the fuck is going on man Seriously I’m quite confounded Up and down and up and down, back n forth and again   and again and again and again I swing my mind to and fro   as I stumble into myself, words hang from me like   trinkets I adorned myself like cracks on a broken   pane of glass, once fully transparent now abject – a spider’s web; a hideous grace   momentary astigmatism, ouch.   followed by silence cut short like the hair on my head   and every drop of magic has evaporated from…

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What Strange Times We Live In

  where “fuck you” is synonymous with “fuck me,”   when “you” is a reflection of the self and “me” is lost, rarely seen or mentioned – being too informal or perhaps not fashionable enough.   So “me” is used when necessary and never indulgently, (we do enough of that as it is) – indulgence, I mean – oh yes. Oh, yes…   yet “ego” fra(mes)(&)(its)elf, hiding between prefix and suffix, rooting a canopy of an idea in your mind.   It’s not really applicable, or compatible or even, odd, et al – and you realize that “me” is kind…

In this Vacant Room

The setting of the sun, The rising of the moon; How I want to hold you in my arms             And look upon you as you swoon.

Life as System: the Macro represented in the Micro

On the corner of Panola and Burdette there lies a quaint cafe by the name of Riccobono’s. Charging 8 bucks for a meager “two, two, three,” they run a steep risk and what’s more interesting, I’ve yet to ever see a black person working in the front of house. Upon entering I was met by the cold eyes of a murderous grip of elderly waitresses. As they peered into me over their wireframe spectacles, I greeted them with a hearty, somewhat biding “Hel-looo” and let it ring out across the dining hall. I strolled up to the register, proceeded to…

Names to Nicknames (Respectively Ordered)

First, I was Cole then I became Cher, Her little sack ‘a puhtaytuhs.   First I was Cole, then I became Cola, my Father’s Bubba.   First I was Cole then I became Coley Oley Oley, Mama’s infinitely expanding Roley Poley Oley.   First I was Cole, then I became Mole, Mecca’s best mate, (Halo at Brandon’s).   First I was Cole, then I became Chaos,  Darcie’s Umbral Knight; her tween scion… of her battle, for her husband, that Aidan be her memory. (I grieve)   First I was Cole, then I became Lil Moco,  (Bats in the Cave), blurred line between…

Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2 usually consist of reflections on “you” the subject of the self – the unlaced shoe –   I smack my little soldier of death hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray and lock it’s smoke into limerick   stealing the key away as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla” a subtle trick, child’s play   and I hope this dread ceases to curl up into my face, its wispy kisses stinking,   the cat whiskers fresh in my mind, the old memory uncorked to breathe   and though it was just this morning, I can’t shake this…

Poem #77

Originally posted on Luna:
You are one sin, one vice short to be perfect. Can I be one of those for you tonight? If you have a wonderful flaw it will make you seem so much more real. Let me show you the wild side of this night filled with stars. Grab a bottle from the bar, it should be enough. Dance, yell, kiss me like we are alone. Don’t think about tomorrow, don’t hold yourself back. I’m by your side, the night will hide us in its arms.

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I Lurk Late, Futon Dreams

And so the raven peers perched atop my head into my perception, bores with its beak a bolt– hole through my eyes   and the hands descend fanning out behind my skull, each enladen with an eye in the palm   and it all fell into place when I traversed the hallway of consciousness, looking down that corridor of books, realizing just how much I’d gotten myself into.   So now I recount this dream on the backs of poems while my three black cats sit idly by– one of them now jumping for the paper hanging from the nail…

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When the Pretentious are Confused

the people sit in circles eating small meals while recounting what came before   when they open their mouths they speak as if they’ve got “it” all figured out and direct their limbs so elegantly one might mistake them for some prominent conductor or maybe even an old Greek statue — how they hold their arms outstretched — their fingertips extensions of their minds   but then the moment passes and they’re no longer paused because they don’t know anymore than anyone else does, lost just the same, mesmerized by freedom’s haunt