Autobiography of Total Frustration


I am as much a mouth as
some deep curvature for longing
which tries to articulate a suppressed appetite
like mud soup in tree knots.

The dirt doesn¹t scare me because
my variegated skin has a numbness
of drowning while my shadow becomes
a jackknife blade in a jackknife; probing
the hungry dirt.

I was a different story years ago. Flourished
years ago.

Now, inside me
is the story I cannot bring
to surface beyond peach.

Like posturing a walk,
I leave messes behind, bring
oranges and secrets
in combat arms.

Cool, hot, relentless and clear
I am a question of steam.
A self-indulgent imagist
inspired by aesthetics or
some anonymous space
left by my father.

The Origin of Restricted Breathing

My Fondness for Pale

Even the danger of going beyond pale
flesh and mouth flung akimbo
shriveled like a malnourished vein under
the vitality of her innocence.

Yet, there I was probing her onto the island
of confetti marble, forgetting
danger. going beyond our pale
reflections bouncing off refrigerator doors.

Our faint heads woven in wheat,
the vitality of her innocence persisted me.
But, beyond laughter I could hear machines closing in-
to our unbreakable blindness.

The walls would begin to gush
over the chipping paint and splintering wood.
She’d begin to loose her vitality, her innocence;
all the danger of going beyond pale.