i’ve drawn you maybe fifteen hundred times now

i’ve drawn you naked
resting in the sandpaper palm
of my open hand

i’ve drawn you riddled with bullets
licking blood from your lips

i’ve sat and i’ve sketched
every singular ounce of your curves
onto the sisteen chapel ceiling
of my unholy skull

every fogged breath against
the window pane of my cornea
every scratch against my retinal walls

i’ve drawn you like a pair of scissors
drawn out then back together
sharp blades dancing against the friction
of one another

i’ve drawn you like the paper that they cut

i’ve drawn you like snow
falling onto cardboard boxes in some back alley
that doesn’t exist

i’ve drawn you like time
abstract and mechanically lost
graphite swirls extending across paper edges
onto tables like dust

i’ve drawn the forest
that runs through the spaces between my bones
and i’ve drawn the fires
that you ignite across my dried tinder
across my fallen leaves
the smoke that billows and fills the pages

i’ve drawn the tiger pacing the cage
the pendulum swinging across the body

i’ve drawn all the saints in heaven
all the angels arranged in chorus in rows
yellow suns blaring from their horns

i’ve drawn you in the dark
silent predator unseen but present
a constant reminder

i’ve drawn you in hoodie and leggings
i’ve drawn you in leather and lace
in time and space

i’ve drawn you tall like gods
like the chrysler building
like bodies falling to the ground

i’ve drawn you every which way i know how
upside down rightside up inside out
guts splayed widening across empty space
like the expansion of zero gravity

i’ve drawn you as an alien planet
one million clones in militant rows
saluting the flag of my heart

my wrist is breaking
bones grinding down from the ineffable pressure
of you

there has been nothing
that has left me feeling quite like this
a poet lost for words
forced to draw
and maybe shoot



and i woke up in the middle of a stampede of wild horses
hooves stomping against the dust i moved like the wind
and in the monstrous thunder of our unstoppable pack
i felt unstoppable

fifteen hundred heartbeats per second
we veered down the mountain passes beneath a sun god
that gave good reason just to be
just to be four heels clacking against the earth

we don’t always riot for some specific pamphlet
sometimes we just need to remind the earth
that we deserve to be heard

and i looked back
past the mass of wild horses behind me
and there past our great herd
was a looming shadow just past the horizon
and i had to take a second to ask myself

how long have we been doing this?
and what exactly are we running from?



i’m in the middle
of some terrible room of a
poem and you come
waltzing in

reeking of your own perfume
throwing your scarf back
heels clicking wooden floors
you hang your hat
on the hat rack

pinning up paintings
rearranging the furniture
making yourself comfortable
on my comfy couch

you’re opening the blinds
when i want them closed

for the love of humanity
can you please stop gnawing
at my table legs
you stomp around like temper tantrums
you turn the t.v. up
so god damn loud
in this terrible room
of a poem

of all the things
the worst of it is
when you kitten-eyed ask me
if i want to come to bed

my bed

the place i go to dream
of a room of a poem
where i pollack plaster the ceiling
with walls as tall as clyfford still
rothko windows with kooning awnings

and you come in
all militant alarm clock
black leather and lace
and curl up beside me
god dammit

i’m leaving my own apartment now
it’s thirty degrees and i am leaving
seeking couch, seeking strange angels
to replace your familiar monster
sweet and sincere and soft lips

you kissed like you were jumping off a bridge
into the atlantic of my ocean

god dammit!

you’re living in the couches –
all of the strange couches!

i sit

at a bar

in the breath of denver

and the coffee tastes like your comfort
the music
is full of your blood pressure
the way everyone is yelling kind banter
is the opposite of our silent guernica
it is the opposite of our deaf separation

where i find myself

painting pictures of you
to pin to the paper thin walls
of this terrible room
of a poem



i am searching for something
and i don’t know that i yet know
what that something is
but still i search
in the gardens of the city
in the concrete streets of nature
i lift up the grass like a rug
or a skirt
and i tuck my head under
in search for something

so gallantly i draw my long dagger
and i rush into battle
the knight of swords
the king of recklessness
i wear my thorn crown
around my neck
like a noose

and i wear the stars
like eyelids

the sun like an hourglass
the moon like a pill
stuck under my tongue
and swallowed

one thousand arduous years
in the den with the lions
a fifth of my life
weighing the weight
of a pound of gold
against my jellyfish soul

against the current
the frequency
i paddle my canoe
through the backyards
of suburbia

that’s right motherfuckers

and i’m not pulling this thing over
until i get to the something
that i search for

and yeah
and hallelujah
ring the gong

we are all
so tiny small
inside of this overpriced
a marble
in the pocket
of some shithead kid
who doesn’t realize
how damn busy we’ve come
to be

so sweet dreams
my dear lost nation
we’ve traveled the world
east to west
but we left our damn hearts
on ice in a cooler
on a train
somewhere in india

and we’re searching for something
i’m searching for something
and i have a strong feeling
it’s somewhere in india
it just might be
and if not
oh well i guess?



he takes the manuscript. he paces. he paces around the room
with the manuscript. he doesn’t know what the manuscript is
anymore. it’s paper. it’s just a bunch of paper. what is paper?
what is that noise of feet against the floor? he sets down the
manuscript. he bites his nails. he paces. he bites his nails while
he paces. he daydreams. he is superman. he is superman in
some weird fetish dungeon. there are german women crawling
all over him. he daydreams. he digresses. he grabs his glass.
he fills his glass in the bathroom sink with water. he sips the
water. he looks in the mirror. he’s not there. he stares but
he is not there. he leaves the bathroom. forgets his water. he
paces some more. he bites his nails. he bites the tips of his
fingers. he eats the skin right of his fingers. he chews on the
bone like a dog. he takes the manuscript. blood on the manuscript.
he sits down sips whiskey sitting in his oversized chair and he
reads over the manuscript. what did i even write? he thinks.
what is it here that i even did? did i write this? i can’t remember
a word that i wrote. who am i? who were my parents? why am
i looking through this paper? ooh ooh that’s pretty good, he
thinks, as he looks at a line here and there. pretty good

pretty good he continues. this is not too bad. i think this
is pretty good. he rearranges the poems. he rearranges the
order of the poems. he thinks to himself what is the proper order
of the poems? in what way can i arrange the clear glass
slides of my heart to best show up on the projector? how do i trick
them into loving me? how do they do it? how did they trick them? how did
they get them to fall for them? how did they get them to fall in love?
what flowers did they buy for society? where did they take her?
how far did they drive just to be with her? what did they do? what
is it that they did? his bone dry finger drips red blood on the
manuscript and again he’s pacing. he’s pacing across the living room
barefeet sliding against the grime of the wood floors. what barking
in my skull? what incessant noise? what remainder of the division
that i was able to equate to paper. what to throw out. what to keep?
what to tuck away for after i die? did the others do it? did they tuck

away for after they die? are we just robbing the cat from the
sarcophagus? why this pacing? he takes the manuscript. he sets the
manuscript on the window sill. a slight breeze picks up. the pages
dance. he cringes. runs for the window. saves his darlings. feels the
white ash on the tips of his fingers. he falls to his knees. a bird in
the window. he says back bird! away bird! this is not your manuscript
bird! this is my manuscript bird! you can’t have it! it’s mine! i wrote
it! plagiarist! fraud! wolf in sheep’s clothing! the bird just wants to
read it. can’t i just read it? says the bird. no! back devil! back you
devil bird! the bird shits. resumes to the sky. flies the fuck off. the
man looks at the manuscript. looks at the fire. looks at the manuscript
looks at the fire. manuscript. fire. manuscript fire. he paces. he eats
the pages. he takes page one and crinkles it into his mouth. he takes
page two. eats it. page three page four. every single page now gone.
tumbling inside of his sickly stomach. he looks to the fire. he thinks
i am the fire. now i am the fire. what have i done? he vomits up the
manuscript but just scattered letters come out. o’s and k’s and x’s.
he assembles them like a puzzle. the shadow of the sun moves
across his wood floors. he finishes the puzzle. he packs the manuscript
into a manila envelope and he stumbles out the doorway down the
stairwell to the mailbox he puts the manuscript in the mailbox he closes
the door. he sits down. he sips the whiskey. he walks into the fire.
he starts to burn. a little more each minute as the flames lick his fingers.
he paces. he paces around the fire. his ankles turned to ash. his shins
turned to ash. his knees ash his hips ash his shoulders ash. dear editor,
attached is a copy of my manuscript for your consideration. thank
you for your time. sincerely me. p.s. i am a big fan of everything that
you guys do and to be a part of it would just mean the world to me.



and where is it that the door moves you to?

to swing wide open like a gust of wind
announcing itself to the party guests
like a blonde bombshell like the atom bomb
it yells for its authority
desperate for you to realize that it exists
and on the other side of it, there is something
a door, a question mark on the very tip
of an unsuspecting sentence?

and where is it that the door moves you to?

to madness? to acres of green anxiety
lying across the grass back breaking
in the ultraviolet sunlight?
to decay? to some strange triumph?
a queen moved gracefully into a
bishop’s territory?
a murder of ugly, unappreciative
ideals? is it just a factory of clay
ideologies thrown into
the fire? is it worth it? where are we
in time?

i came here to tell you to be careful of doors.

i know i sound like i don’t know
what i’m talking about
but that is just because maybe
you have never crossed through a door.
the respectable type who pays taxes
and doesn’t cross fences.

burst forth from
what you’ve been taught
like cubism.

take every ounce
of knowledge you’ve acquired
and throw it
out the window
like a schizophrenic cat.

this is defenestration.
the act of throwing something
out the window.

to defenestrate.

this is revolution.
not some temper tantrum
on the nightly news.
not some child
yelling at the television set.
but to actively seek

to see
that the eyes
are not at fault
but the mind
for misinterpreting them.

and where is it that the door moves you to?

where does east start
and west end?
if you say california
i will scream.

the door moves you
to the other side of the railroad track.

could be a love note
or a notice of eviction.

but the point isn’t the room:
the point
is the door.



i was sitting around my house, cooking dinner for myself, while i was working on some writing, and meanwhile i was in the other room taking a nap – when i was done with my nap i asked myself to sit still.
what are you doing? i asked myself, i’m gonna paint a portrait of you, i said to myself, so sit still. i am very fidgety though, this i know about myself, so the portrait came out a little bit off.
when it was done, i took a break from cooking, me and my self just looked on at the painting, trying to figure it out.
the eyebrows are a little off, i said. i think you’re right, i said. there’s just something about it that doesn’t quite capture the nature of me. i abandoned the painting and went back into the kitchen to continue working on dinner.
i asked my self what i was making from the other room and i yelled back homemade soup! it feels like a soup kind of day. yeah it does, i said, shuffling through my dirty clothes, scattered on my bedroom floor.
hey, i said to my self. don’t get too down about that self portrait. it’s pretty good. i think i had this strange look on my face.
when the soup was done i poured a bowl for my self and i sat around the living room watching documentaries on dead artists. frida’s my favorite, i said. she’s so good at looking internally and finding something external therein. what the hell are you talking about? i asked my self. nevermind, i said.
i slurped my soup so loudly. it drove me nuts. the lack of consideration. i tried to consider that some people have had habits for years and they’re not so easy to break.
when i was done with dinner i offered to do the dishes as a thank you for cooking dinner. i threw them in some hot water with soap and then i came back to the living room.
i just sat there in silence. i tried a couple times for conversation, but i already knew what i was going to say. i’d known my self for so long.
i looked across the room at the self portrait of my self and i thought to my self, i can do better than that. this is boring. i gotta get out more, but i didn’t say that out loud. some things are best kept from your self.