(DrEAmiNg) PAReNthEticaLLy

Like Helium

this feeling is rising inside me
like helium
affecting my speech
my breathing
I think it’s gone to my brain
contagious
your laughter

as I rise, I take you with me
if only by the pinky
and our weightlessness propels us
to lift off the surface
toes kissing the earth

and for a moment we hang
in transcendent exuberance
like artwork
above their heads
our every movement entrancing

until one of us whispers
don’t look down
classic cartoon mistake
and our iron anvil hearts
hammer to the ground

I know it’s hard to pick yourself up
impossible really
so allow me, you’re not heavy
let’s get back in the air where we
belong

I don’t want a parachute
I want a partner in crime
I can only lift us both
if you provide the helium

At First

the mirror appeared
dirty, like lost beach trash
cracked and forgotten
with the sand it once was 
clinging to its face in mockery.
But the mirror was clean, rather
it was my own face
cracked and dirty
that appeared lost
and myself 
forgotten.

A Sheep in Poet’s Clothing

indulge
the slow, silent assassination of success
masqueraded as transcendental depth
acknowledge failure
to celebrate deviance;
aggrandize shortcomings
to find laziness defiant

in the amber light of poetry
even justification looks sexy
like the emaciated body
of the wanna-be model
an almost admirable pity

a sheep in poet’s clothing
listens to plebs discuss 
bad art with shallow diction
as if, given the chance,
he’d rip down the entire wall
as an exhibition on malapropism

the horror of the rubble beneath him
his words like zombie children
familiar and disgusting
like some plagiarized nightmare revision

red ink spills;
a form of violence on screen
unseen by the mainstream media

the critic falls victim to criticism
a casualty of the machine,
of fiction, of the machine gun.

Colored Blocks

I’m sitting on the floor staring at colored blocks
numbered 1 through 22, and another one, blue,
onto which I’m scrawling 23 in big bold sharpie.
I pause and raise my head to peek into the big bin
of unnumbered blocks that still await me. Daunting.
The bright primary colors that surround me do nothing
but accent the absurdity, and I laugh to myself at how pointless,
and yet how enjoyable, numbering blocks can be.
How many, I wonder, are left in my bin? And which do I fear more:
running out too soon, or that numbering so many blocks
will become a seemingly endless chore? But wait. There’s more.
Billboards of every sort display images of “blocks well built”,
and the people around me claim that if I just keep on numbering,
it will all work out. Doubtful. Their own piles crumble at their feet.
And still, I know others, who spend their sweet time on each
savory illustration, displaying their blocks as a statement. Some even
take to the magic of the marker, getting high off the scent, but their
numbering never gets too far. There’s no one way to do it,
that’s for sure. Everything else is debated. I need to find some distance.
Separate myself a bit. Like anyone else, I like to think I contribute.
For better or worse, I’ve left permanent marks on more than a block or two.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing. All this talk of colors and blocks
is pretty confusing. I get caught up in the details and think my own work is amazing,
while missing out on methods, mantras, and elaborate mine crafting.
No matter, I’m trying, I’m building, working, re-working, and emerging
not victorious, but a more cultivated person. Maybe there is no best way.
I vow not to be one who claims to have it all figured it out.

Actuarial Exam

The ceiling is caving at a constant rate
and my screams cannot reverse it.
Survival instinct alone cannot concoct
a silver lining, or silver bullet.
I am wearing failure like a party hat
and in dreams my friends become angry clowns
publicizing my humiliation, tearing off my nose
to reveal a worm; the fraudulent parasidic corpse.
I’ve been clinging to the rug beneathe me
for fear of looking down, to find the floor transformed
to clouds, feel my heart stop before I hit ground.
My mind is filled with ticking, typing, and tapping,
as a nervous twitch becomes a habit, and if I blink,
I’ll see too late that I’m standing on the train tracks,
and my frail and tiny body will be smashed out of this fiction,
these tales I tell myself about my drive and my conviction,
spoiled beneathe the soil, smell like rotting narcissism.
But now my neck’s in place, there’s no escaping the guillotine,
come to slice me into truth, decapitating fantasies.
And as my severed head is buried,
the last glimpse of light will be
my gravestone, etched with the words
“Nothing Special - R.I.P.”

End

How, now,
can I write
in the harsh light of specificity
when even pen on paper
seems violent
how can I be calmed
by the buzz of the amplifier
with you tapping at the back of my mind
your laugh like a splinter
and your shadow on the moon
if I had time, I would have said I was sorry
if I had time, I might even have stayed
if I could swim in your eyes like jacuzzis
I’d wait until the last bubble floated away
but we do not live in subjunctive
we live in the aftermath of good intention
where even poems have to end.

Your Porcelain Outline

your porcelain outline
against the baby blue sky
burned the moment
onto the back of my eye
outside of time, and now
if you turn out the lights
I’ll see your negative image
motioning closer
breathing in that you want this
but our eyes become stop signs
in a stalemate intersection
where neither of us can move
and perhaps the beauty is
that when the time isn’t right
we can turn all the clocks
to face the wall
to face each other
as we really are
as we really could be
I think we both know
at least, I know we both think
there’s a labyrinth between us
but until we’re ready
I’ll meet you on the outside.

Black Liquid

This black liquid is so deeply
suppressed
I feel it leaking from my fingernails
as I dig them into the
desk
trying desperately to get a grip
on why my cravings are
endless and without outlet.
Will the feeling ever subside?
The obsessive yearning
for the next best
fix
to a nameless addiction. Am I
a mad dog let loose
in the forest
with only a scent to guide me?
along with a crippling fear
that I’ll never find the body,
only my own
blotched soggy face
stretched across a log to dry
floating in the old lake.

Etiquette

Break my measuring stick. I want to feel tall. Hold on to my memories for a minute, I need to put on my façade. How many
calories is that? Hold on. Let me take my eyes out before I return your call. Know your role. Did you see the game last night?
Check your stock price. What is our business tragedy?  Clever logo. Cluttered Legos. It’s all the same to me. Painful to my toes.
Sneak a dream at the soda machine. These files are out of order. This machine is out of order. Excuse me sir, you’re on the
wrong floor. Can I show you the door?

Dotted Line

The pen isn’t mightier than the sword. It’s just more immediate. More modern.
Swords are messy; heavy. Too real and made of steel. Pens are so common they blend
into the background. We forget about them. Forget when we sign on the dotted line
that the sword is implied. Hidden behind bars.