"a free verse poem about [my] greatest fear", as requested by anon on Tumblr.

how absurd

the blameless absurdity

of the absurd

conditional healing

for a man

with hope

"for a better tomorrow"

but giving that up

for a neutral today

HOWEVER

today is helpless

(or hopeless?)

and so is he

feeling around

fooling around

fucking around

turning himself (and everything) AROUND

inside-out

which not everyone sees

but then again

not everyone's looking

painful explanations

he hates giving

positing understanding

against apathy

in this cruel, cruel world

(of his)

fruitless attempts

misunderstandings thrive

overcoming spatial

and mobile indifference

in flux

forever

or never

and ever

Goodness Gracious.

O’ holy ghost!

Do you hear the celestial heavens sing?

Do you see the skyline give life to the city?

Do you smell the firewood ablaze?

O’ sacred worshipper!

Do you believe in me, your God?

Do you feel that bolt of lightning

swell inside your chest?

O’ ignorant human!

Do you think

of yourself

as anything more

than

your flesh,

your blood,

your judgement?

O’ holy man!

Answer my inquiry.

My lord,

thou hast beseeched much of me,

relieve me of this sin.

Hand

So soft

is the hand which I stroke

that

when turned over

is dry and cracked

on the inside.

Objectification #1, Law and Morality

He is wearing a t-shirt today,

flesh shining unusually bright

(to my eyes).

Usually,

he is hiding under unnecessary layers

but today is different

(not really).

The fabric keeping me from you

is not only the fabric of your shirt

but the fabric of my life

and yours too.

Take it off,

or no.

It will only relieve me

for a moment.

See to Sea (for Princeton).

I.

and he says

"you are beautiful

and talented

and amazing"

but my disagreement

is simple

these adjectives

do not describe me

in the slightest

and you laugh

and say

"it don't mean no thing"

and I agree

but that

just

won't

do

II.

there's light skittering on the surface

and I don't know who I am

but I do know what I am

this flesh and blood

that I bleed

there is always someone out there

physical presence

do not be deceived

it is just a mirage

III.

the railing holds me back

but not from

the breadth of feeling

and the immensity

and the vastness

IV.

Looking over this sea of darkness,

I see now

that this is a conscious dream,

one in which I can only wake up from

by dying.

a la Mexicana.

Waiting for my Spanish mistress,

I begin to pace around the room

analyzing the space which I occupy.

She is late, as per usual,

and probably missed the bus.

I hear screams coming from another room,

high-pitched, a woman.

I pour myself a brandy,

as the disorder in the other room intensifies.

I search for a flame to light my fag,

soon finding a book of matches.

I take a drag,

ponder my mere existence,

and exhale.

A cloud of smoke rises.

And then my Spanish mistress arrives,

naked, exposed to the world.

The great phallus revealed,

I jump on the bed,

and welcome a night that will cure me.

If only.

The moon sits low,

as we do our dance,

until the morning light shines.

A la Mexicana.

beautiful bodies.

his beautiful body

dancing

in the last rays of the sun

he is not dancing

but his body is

mosquitus interruptus

biggest fucker i have ever seen

his body lacks the definition

of a statue

of a Greek youth

but is so much more

the outline of his form

is living

and a dog

is running

across the grass

I gravitate towards this rock

because it is closest to the 69th Street entrance.

But that is not the only reason.

If he knew I was admiring him

he might hate me

but that might only be out of fear.

Why did

that man

put

broccoli

and carrots

in my lamb gyro?

it changes every day.

shirt back on

and back to work

but i have seen

the battle and the bruises

and i am blessed

to have had the opportunity

to do so

and now i am only sure

of the light hitting my body

and this notebook

and him

sitting beside me.

i never did see his face...

The Invention of Comics, Amiri Baraka.

I am a soul in the world: in

the world of my soul the whirled

light from the day

the sacked land

of my father.

In the world, the sad

nature of

myself. In myself

nature is sad. Small

prints of the day. Its

small dull fires. Its

sun, like a greyness

smeared on the dark.

The day of my soul, is

the nature of that

place. It is a landscape. Seen

from the top of a hill. A

grey expanse; dull fires

throbbing on its seas.

The man's soul, the complexion

of his life. The menace

of its greyness. The

fire, throbs, the sea

moves. Birds shoot

from the dark. The edge

of the waters lit

darkly for the moon.

And the moon, from the soul. Is

the world, of the man. The man

and his sea, and its moon, and

the soft fire throbbing. Kind

death. O

my dark and sultry

love.

Steps, Frank O'Hara.

oh god it's wonderful

to get out of bed

and drink too much coffee

and smoke too many cigarettes

and love you so much

Erratical, Fanatical

you keep repeating

the same phrase

over

and

over

like I’m not

“getting it”

you keep denying

as I keep providing

a reasonable escape

a kaleidoscopic phase

break that down

beat beat beat

breakdown

know your place

do not step out of line

outline

follow those unwritten rules

tell him STOP

Oops, too late

rape rape rape

chk chk chk

!!!

modern malaise

heartbroken days

every day

under

stand

M

E

“it’s not easy”

“it’s too easy”