there is a sourceless anger
eating at me
from inside here
and it’s providing me
with such lovely ways
to disappoint.
hard work is hard work, though
and
it’s not as though i closed my ears
and refused progression
it’s just that
i have a face full of honest weather
and I need
someone
to rub the sadness
right out of my shoulders,
neck
back and
feets.

attract-
	shun -tion
  to
  towards  emotionally awkward
		               chaotic
		               damaged
       individuals is ubiquitous
                   a song-thing that plays
 		 my heart strings
                 tenacious melodies!
		   without the timing or tact
          		   to consider the situation
	or surroundings
	or persons involved.
but
emotional extremists are
	E L E C T R I C !
		their over-sensitive
		            indulgent
                            selfish
		natures win them life
		over and over again
		while
	E X H A U S T I N G !
--or, worse yet: E X T I N G U I S H I N G! --
 	     those around them.

and what for?
excuses. excuses. excuses.

it's just that
	it's so easy to be emotional
		you know?
"you can always make a scene…
          highs and lows make you feel that things matter,
                            but they’re nothing."

let me keep warm that space
between your fingers and your face
follow the pragmatic pulse
as it moves along the vein
slowly from your fourth finger
on the lunar hand
directly to your loving
gravity;
the engine within your
upper cavity.
let me
make happy those big
brown eyes
keep our bodies close to spy
on our plutonic
compromise.
we do well to negate
the rush
the crush
the potential sex-crutch
because
consequence costs mindful
awareness
and keeping conscious of
coincidence means
making mistakes
is more
than just a metaphor
in the lessons which
implore
us to
love before we
leap

He’d bustle through her drawers
                          if she gave him half a chance,
                             she knows that.
    As it stands,
        the best he can do is grill her
      through the text message machine;
   ask her:
           where she’s going?
           with whom?
           what for?
After and straight, what’s
                              so search worthy?
                                  What’s she hiding
                        that he’s so eager to find—
         to find and
                      examine and
                      embrace or
                      tear to pieces or
                      lick or
                      kiss or
                      eat or
                     demolish?
   promises and secrets;
     bits of failed origami;
       the things she clips from that magazine she buys;
         designs and scratch;
           lively sense samples;
             personal photographs?
         Whatever it is he’s looking for,
      he is sifting through a torrid sea of none-of-his-business. 

Absolutely.

He’ll find something, eventually.
           Whether or not it means anything
                            is another argument
                          for another day.
  he’ll find something to misuse
                              and rouse in himself that
                scream demon.
She’ll stand by,
                   sure,
                   and listen intermittently
               between her berating irritation;
“just let me alone!” she hollers at him
            when he becomes opposed
                            to common sense. 

He’ll eventually be hysterical,
         down on the floor heaving and clutching his sides.
She’s made monster
             by his fitful response to
                         rejection everything
             by his wallowing
                       I-don’t-deserve-this!
                       I-don’t-matter-to-you!
     And she,
           being just as emotional,
                         temperamental, and
                         highly unpredictable,
               has her responsibilities:
                      she can’t hold back on someone
                               being so outrageous.
        sighing reassurances and slight hints
             don’t cut it:
                        it takes raised voices and
                                      honest,
                                      cruel words to calm such a
                     calamity creature. 

And it’s exhaustive.

I have sugars in the fuel lines.
Both of us do.

While hearing its machine
there ignites in the mechanics,
so unfamiliar to me,
a wrongly message:
a misfire.
It sends jerks to
the examination
the scrutiny
of the bulb that warns.
Such mechanical authority,
commanding
that the light take breath
in
and let out a
cruel redness.
An inclination color possibly
in addition to passion
because compassion keeps you fluid
it is also the color of
Halt.
Stop.
Wage attention.
What falls apart here?
Is it steel or skin?

I’ve got a cracked engine block.
Both of us do.

I assume that I cannot shake
the feeling, which I would like
need-needing someone to
adore. to
fuck.
constantly.
and all the time.
inevitably, though,
the tired starts
and these people crumble
as I cut and run.
and feel bad,
and believe myself
to be the bad one,
naturally.
thus in due time,
I terminate
mentioned maudlin
lovers;
leave, in order to
screw myself
over
and develop a bunch
of grueling
obsessions… which
I eventually process
and proceed with
and terminate, too.
rinses.
repetition.
serious height happens
in that perfect moment
in which you can feel
someone really wishes
to care for you and
love! love! love!
but then the glowing-verb
lets to ounce behind
the screen
and I realize the whole
damn
thing
is so predictable;
established
mechanical—
and then the height is just

gone.

don’t give up, okay?
do not fail
inside or upward,
please
mind the scaffolding
and the threads,
yes?
time remains yet to
be lowered
hips and haunches
into the sighting
of love
that first eyeing
in that dramatically
convenient moment
and there is still time
to woo
and be wooed
until the whole
damn
world
is woobegone.

so take this time
in which you’re to wait
to tell the ones you love
that you love them
and
show it to them
every chance you get.

love is the lightest thing,
the easiest thing in the world,
until it isn’t.
we must prevent ourselves from
warring each other strongly
in revolt
in defense,
in spite of the suppressing odds,
but let’s fight like hell
to stay afloat
in the romance.

decisions were made
are made
constantly
and friends and lovers
were lost
left
you:
left you.

you have everything, now.
I challenge you to keep it.

the poet claimed a bluebird,
but the painter:
he has another kind of muse
provided with feathers,
or springs,
in his heart.
a bird made of light stuff,
a canary, I think,
in a confliction cathouse,
wondering why his
energy
and
spirit
are so much
dependent
on everyone otherwise
and why
his personal paintings falter
with fingers which
can’t quite
let go.

a light bird—
a singing yellow prism—
establishes of the branches
in the upper sections
of his body;
a home;
perches on the things he says
because the things he is
are projections
and intangible, automatic
nonsense.

finally, the painter, he says to
his bird—to his heart:
“leave me my flight,
but try for yourself—
for me—
divide your rhythm
with the world.
I wish not to hide you
anymore.”

It didn’t leave.

when he forgets how to talk
he screams.

the grass doesn’t look any greener,
I confess,
	but I think I’ll hop fence
	       I think I’ll slow down
		    hide my face,
 		    muffle the complacent
		                 sounds.
	the scaffolding here can’t hold us
		now
          we’re fostering support
                     without preparing for the floor
                             to give out.
     and I’ll pace!
         and I’ll pace!
             and I’ll pace!
     and I’ll wear the spots where
		I want the wear;
	tear at the walls until
	they’re drywall-bare—

Sometimes life is so infuriating and it comes to haunt you in sidewalk playing cards and mid-morning poker chips
                                 and you’d think it might get easier with years to read the signs
                                                                             —between the lines—
                                 but it’s never any easier to relieve these suggestive fears.
The world, it’s tilting. It’s going too fast.
The days are too tiring, too uncomfortable.
Too tight. Too big. 

   and aren’t you insulted?
           aren’t you going to cry?
           aren’t you going to make a scene?

   and
   aren’t
   I
   ashamed?

A lot of things happened.
	Have happened.
	Are happening.
The goal is to find the good-enoughs, but when they’re all so far away it’s so easy to fall through the fingers of the--
       Coltish-young things keep cowed contact and still,
                       I’m remissive,
                              unconditional,
                                        and fully functional,
           though  admittedly somewhat rusted.
      It takes a real kick in the chest,
                    a not entirely literal
                        strike of the heart
         to instill the sort of distraught,
distrust, distaste for
you:
famished, forgiving, faithful:
	you are all my lions

          I’m pretty sure, I’m sure of it:
the grass doesn’t look any greener,
               but I think I’ll sleep with my truth
                              in the weeds.

Oh, manthings of Denver:
		dig deep within your crustaceous hearts,
     in the cockles of your love muscle.
HEAR. ME.
    I am a non-vegetarian seeking similar,
	   though my fridge is full of soystuff.
  I am afraid of my food
  I am afraid of my water bowl
             But I’m so hungry.
                    I’m so thirsty.
 I am not really sure I understand it myself
      and I am not really sure it matters.
   I am not at all fond of being touched
 			especially while holding milk.
   yesterday someone had the nerve
   	to throw a can of clam chowder
      at me while I was riding my bicycle
 the un-dietary-ness of the aforementioned
                  chowder
  offended my delicate
 		yet undoubtedly superior
        moral fiber.
DATE. ME.
          we’ll get steaks
          we'll cook 'em up and eat 'em with our
                       hands.
		the way real outlaws do.