Written on the forty is a birthday wish from “Lauren R.”

A short poem written earlier this evening.

Not knowing the true curses of this second country,

I took the streets to claim: “I have buried her! My midnight girl I have buried!”

…with an unclaimed manuscript…

And the correspondance stopped altogether. 

Waiting, with an unclaimed manuscript, it came to pass over me, as though it were never mentioned: the Angel was merely a hallucination; the voice behind the telegrams, which I hold bound in my hands, is something much uglier.

An excerpt from a yet-titled pome.

“…It was upon a calm morning, far from Fairfax, in the
air scented of foreign liquors that I met Denda first.
But, of course, we were young, and my name was different,
and she approached me snakeless and led me on.

They have said the dragon queen can never truly be killed,
but if this were true, I would have seen her on the battlefield,
beside the Commadorio, striking. This house at the end
of the street, this phantom lived road, is not her birthplace…”

It always takes me awhile to wake up. 

But there are hardly ghosts anymore. There is no reason for ghosts,

“Is there any of that vodka left,” I imagine her saying. 

And I worried about leprosy today, but

after that forty and the hash rock, I just want to slink away to the alley house. 

…it was good to be eighteen…

weekendblues:

Walkin’ around town pickin’ up packs of cigarettes—
it was good to be eighteen.
Camel Unfiltereds, Dunhills, Nat Shermans—
it was good to be eighteen.
Jacket filled with cellophane wrappers,
    crumpled dollar bills,
a shiny new state ID, finally cool for once—
it was easy to feel good then.

Ante Maquina: “I need to dream to dream longer instead:”

If I were a Jesus God supplant 

brain bugs in my cereal

golden three legged dogs with white teeth crossing side streets

and chinese women with big breasts

are seen saturated lime green

through a relocated russian doorway

young men

are discussing real estate

coke-addicts aren’t allowed

this close to the mountain

and I need to stop 

toying with my dread.

Ante Maquina: “Cliffs”

She didn’t pick up.

Hellions of white shields and bare breasts forsake me. 

What fool would dine on plate of hot ashes.

She saw me in the forest, trekked down from the road. She took me and pervaded me. 

So much the fool, I was.

No zeroes, no numbers even, all I needed was her soft caramel flesh pressed upon mine, and the soft whisper of her fears in my ear, telling me I was alright, and that she was ready for me.

Better men have been pushed off cliffs.

Ante Maquina: “I Suppose it’s Better not to be Thor…”

Great circles
I am a weak man
with no shoes
and beastly rage.
Go away…
great circles
are all that come to me
numbers in the night
and ants.
I never existed
so I think that means:
the joke’s on you.

-July 12th, 2010