Deliverance

Till now my child you've thought that might is right
And though you fight the tears of tainted youth
Please march, steadfast, and tread beyond that plight
To'a place where you might find a purer truth
Shout loud! Dear child do not forsake your past
Though demons gnawed your ankles as you walked
Shake free your legs as one shakes free their caste
Don't flinch or wince, give not a single balk
Fight back! Dear child, your time is growing near
Where truth will cede, while man disrupts nice dreams
Where heathens cry and angels dry their tears
Your job, dear child, is to go mend the seams
From devil's mouth and God's eternal might
Deliver child these men through day and night 

I want you to be, happy too, so I'll play the fool
For a time, perhaps a moment or two.
I know you're kind,  I was too
But we were too young to honestly choose.
And now I realize, One more time, I'd like to lose.

I'll lose this time, this time, I'll lose
I'll lose this time, this time, I'll lose.
And you know, it'll all be for you.

There were cute moments weren't there?
There were funny times we'd only share.
When you say you don't really care.
I just think you're trying to spare
Me of the what could have beens that were there.

I'll lose this time, this time, I'll lose
I'll lose this time, this time, I'll lose
And you know, it'll all be for you.

I remember cheese cake slices.
I can remember Italian ices.
Even before we were in crisis.
As we dealt with mounting gas prices
Living on a diet of honey and mixed rices
Waking to your smile was always the nicest
Thing that filled my writing with poetic license

I'll lose this time, this time, I'll lose
I'll lose time, this time, I'll lose
And you know, it'll all be for you

I regret nothing I ever gave
And even though these words just serve to stave
the dying light of your love that I hope will rave
But alas, I was stubborn, impossible to save.
A poor young fool, a broken naive.
Who only wanted to just pave.
The new world with you, the growing wave.
That'll sweep all our sadness away.

I lose this time, this time, I lose.
I lose this time. This time I lose
And you it is all because of you.

Getting up from bed

I know that somewhere there's the fingerlings waiting for my parched pores
They are shriveled and irritated with each attempt I make at using my own oils to moisturize them
Sometimes you need to dip your naked body in the remnants of a lake
Wait in them as nature dwindles their elevated state
I get more air, but my skin becomes arid with each foot shaved off.
By the time you find my body, I'm scabby and drowned.
Eyes closed as if heaven were merely constant replays of my dreams
My limbs are laid strewn on the silt, imprinting my figure into the basin.
Sometimes my lover sleeps in the imprint so that she may cuddle with me once more
Who is my lover?
Crustaceans who have feasted upon my flesh.
Vegetation that is preparing my particular finger for a valley.
And my first threesome, the sun and the moon who take turns illuminating my presence.
I do not hold a silent smile at death
No one has the muscle memory to smile at death.
Instead bugs canvas my insides and create subtle fascics that fool even the most cunning of mountain lions
Even animals do not eat the possessed
I remain there till finally a Lazarus like state strikes me like a misappropriated whimsy
I get up only to find myself fall apart with each step.
The bugs scurry out of my two entrances
And from there on I took three more steps
On the third step my delicate legs burst into debris.
The upper half of my body is dragged by first my fingers
Then my wrists
Finally my chin and chest.
A whimsical breeze blows away my face, completing the latest artistic installment I had to complete.

Transfiguration

Break the form for a minute. I think you'll find that the images will come to you in fragmentation
You ain't looking at this shit in a pixelated view. This shit is in 4-d to the point that if you tried touching the lyrics, they'd burn your skin and leave you branded. There'd only be initials of the specter who watches over me as I chirp. I'm one of the naive animals singing along with Snow White. Too bad she's singing an ode to every single man who has turned this earth into a perpetual hearse. Drowned in small bits of branches that are still lying astray from the ravage of winter. Spring flowers embroider around them in an effort to get them to conform. The worms slowly biodegrade the refuse of winter. I eat those worms. A second degree murderer in every sense of the term. People hold me in high regard for absolutely no reason. All of this is a regurgitated process but I'm not giving any of it to my children. Instead I keep them close to my breast, afraid that the stench is going to keep anyone from ever getting it. I suppose this has gone on long enough, I'm not a bird, I'm a bear. Sauntering around the hunting grounds with a serene frame of mind. Ragged mug and bearing teeth whenever I get the chance to do so. Hunting grounds are like zoos with an internal exhibit. In a few minutes I'll have a different attitude concerning the nature of hunting grounds. Buckshot shouldn't be used to shoot bears, so why I am bleeding from multiple entry points? I roar. I roar. I roar. I bleed. I bleed. bleed... Birds watch as I run in a frenzy, wondering how I might rid myself of this pain. "Be merciful," I can hear a young lad of 8 yell out to his pa. The man's man father spat out some phlegm and loaded up his rifle, hoping to put me out of my misery. The specter who watches over me is not satisfied so she turned me into wolf. Wolves hunt in packs, but love individually. The others can tell I'm not normal. They treat me like I'm Balto, a fucking coon who can't do anything but help their murderer. But you gotta understand in a past life, I was a bear and they nearly murdered me! Or perhaps they did. I chose fear over revenge. Foolish cub, listen up. I'm the specter who keeps you working./ I'm the one who keeps you going./ A god of sorts, but I'm not loving./ Instead I want to see you keep on tugging/ on the edges of the form, but don't rhyme like me. Instead you need to find us some peace.

Well fuck it. Destiny confirmed. I guess I'll go back to being a bird. 

Supernova

Supernova, burning bright

There is no end to your great light 

In sight, your might, illuminates night 

And though I look away, it's hard to fight

The plight, it smites, my wrongs and rights 

so that I may indulge in sacred flight

from sights of every width and height 

Please do not loosen, hold on tight

Your warmth, as loose as an errant kite 

Yet I feel before you reach my sight

Your thermal presence fills me with fright 

Behold, you free fungi from their blight

And yet people try to emulate your state

Their blunders and scorched earth, all mistakes 

I fear they will think you can be replaced 

To recreate god's mysteries is a fool's fate. 

And I guess I am the fool tonight

for your majestic presence did beknight 

upon me, an oath, perhaps a sacred right 

With you, I am golden, alone, a mite 

Supernova, burning bright 

I know an end to your light 

With might, through night, remain in my sight

I won't look away during your final fight. 

Ellipses

Ya know it doesn't matter how many times you say it doesn't matter
because if you're wasting your time talking about it, then it clearly does.
Still, I like the sound of the needle ripping across the vinyl.
Its glossy surface can sometimes reflect my face
and you are the needle that's scribbling all over it.
But that's how music is made and we don't think one bit about the violence.
Even I can't feel what isn't being done to me.
Your needle is weathered, with a sharp edge that stings at first touch
but eventually smooths out like the needle of a tattoo artist.
Instead of my sigil you brand me with an ellipses in swift staccato strokes
Each time reintroduces the needle to my skin, giving reprieve with each period being completed
I bleed so that infinity may be captured. Or perhaps it's just a moment.
Nobody knows what ellipses signify. They're the Schrodinger's cat of punctuation.
But sometimes I like to imagine. So I use my ellipses as full moons.
My ellipses can sometimes be pendulums in stasis.
Or perhaps they are tree stumps, freshly murdered, bearing their age for all to see.
Do not mistake this exercise for idolatry. I did not want to learn quantum physics.
You hold my ellipses over me and I just want the entire thing to come crashing down.
So I take a deep breath, grab the needle and then...

Coqui Lullaby

I lay plainly in my hammock

counting the coqui as they sing 

the wind begins swaying me back and forth

while humidity blankets over me

the sea gently crashes in the distance

providing percussion to the amphibian lullaby 

in the house, Spanish is spoken amidst the hum of the air conditioning

As I begin waiting for the San Sebastian rain to fall

Each moment is anticipatory, I can hear from afar the cars jettisoning 

but never so fast as to disrupt the melody of the coqui

My hammock is tied to two trees

Both bear flowers with vibrant colors: red and blue 

Some petals gently fall atop of me due to the rustling wind 

I lay lifeless, animated only by the mosquitoes 

a slight muscle twinge scares them off. 

How can my island be poor?

The sun and the sea cradles us. 

As I begin to drift away I can hear the waterfalls in Yunque 

While I lose consciousness, I hear the fritura crackle in oil. 

I hope that every time I die, I am put in this hammock. 

So that I may dance on this island one last time. 

Ghosting

Edit 1
Dear Darla,
       I hope this letter finds you in good spirits
I know that we seem to have really hit it off these past few months
And to be honest,my family adores you.
You always seem to know what to say to make the people around you happy.
especially me.
I am so grateful.
But remember when you asked me what state my life was in?
I have an answer for you now.
I am fresh magma expunged from the earth and still in conflict with my outer temperament
I cool, slowly, hardening to become igneous rock.
But not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week
Every time you tell me I've let you down or encourage me to be more reliable and I fail, I realize I am doing a disservice to you.
So I don't think we should see each other anymore. Or at least not until I've sorted out my life.
I hope this doesn't upset you, that's a stupid thing to say, of course it will upset you. But it needs to be this way.
I'm still a manchild and you're an adult. You deserve another adult to be with.
I'll always care about you and I want you to be happy. I just don't think I'm the one to be happy with.
Maybe a time will come, but you don't deserve to wait.

Love,
Mark

Edit 2
Dear Darla,
    I hope this letter finds you in good spirits
The past few months have been great.
I am so grateful.
But remember when you asked me what state my life was in?
My life is fresh magma expunged from the earth and still in conflict with my outer temperament.
So I don't think we should see each other anymore. Or at least not until I've sorted out my life.
I hope this doesn't upset you, that's a stupid thing to say, of course it will upset you. But it needs to be this way.
I'll always care about you and I want you to be happy. I just don't think I'm the one to be happy with.
Truly,
Mark

Edit 3
Dear Darla,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits.
The past few months have been great.
But my life is complicated and I'm still in conflict with it.
So I don't think we should see each other anymore.
I hope this doesn't upset you.
I'll always care about you and I want you to be happy.
Sincerely, Mark

Edit 4
Hello Darla,
The past few months have been great.
But my life is complicated.
I don't think we should see each other anymore.
I wish you the best.
Mark

Edit 5
 Darla,
I don't think we should see each other anymore.
I wish you the best.
Mark.

Edit 6
Darla

Edit 7

Patchwork Pockets

The same thing I would want today
I will want again tomorrow- Bob Dylan

Saying goodbye to my patchwork pockets!
Finer fabrics are not too hard to find
I'll find my shears and then I'll chop it.

Trade traps and tariffs can't seem to stop it
And plain regular folk don't seem to mind
Saying goodbye to my patchwork pockets

And adorned around my neck, a golden locket
 My dear poor conscience it does remind
To find my shears and then I'll chop it.

A convertible, a yacht, a jet, a rocket
all dreams, so that I may bide my time
Till I say goodbye to my patchwork pockets

The price was fine, I had to lock it
In golden print with script like twine
I got my shears and began to chop it

And you! Yes you, how dare you knock it.
As I leave my old life clear behind
Saying goodbye to my patchwork pockets
I'll find my shears and then I'll chop it.

Fuckboy

I guess there's only so many cave etchings I can make before you believe in evolution
French and untouched, no displacement, I know that each etch was hacked
The stick figures jagged and uneven, but in a deliberate manner. Yet you still ignore it.
I even used red clay from the river bank to make you remember what it means to bleed.
The art snob in you saw it as Baudrillardian nonsense. But I predated him, artificially.
God, I feel like an idiot. Blisters on my fingers and callous that's whiter than the chalk marks in the              cave.
Fuck.
Masterpiece of Dali clocks that are all working on broken tablets. I'll scatter them around so you can           excavate them .
 And then you can tell the world about how you're a great archaeologist, while you continue to tell me         about that dashing engineer.
I'll delay the carbon dating till you're published, then let you be found as a fraud. Then when you're             crying and distraught, I'll come.
I'm conflicted by a sick affliction. My artifice is a lie within  a lie. But if I write you a love poem will         it be true or is it just another excuse to self sabotage?
That's not to say I'm not fulfilling some sort of prescription. Male tiers are rarely seen, but we're all in a secret competition to see who can be the sickest.
Let's just go back to that cave. If you read the symbols you'd realize there was a hieroglyphic                      message for you.
Encumbered by the onus of interpretation, you'll fall to your knees and let it soak in. And the only              way you'll experience my art is tactile because the next piece is going to be submerged.
 Ocean deep, misgivings of a prolonged sob, I remain in a statuesque stasis. When you retrieve me, you'll find me encrusted in reefs and fungi.
But it's too dark to see, so all you'll do is scrape your gloved hands on my cheeks. And even though I     had died many months ago, my heart will jump at the thought that you might come into contact           with my skin.
The synthetic material simulates you caressing me. Verify my symptoms with the undertaker. Does Davy Jones have a place for a relic?
No, I'm broken. Only history to you, but to no one else. I'm not even worth the afterthought, a footnote in a collection.